Likely Story!

by David Levithan

  “Mallory!” he called out. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I have something important to tell you.”

  I glanced over at Keith, who was oddly oblivious to all this as he continued to do ever-more-complicated yoga poses. Wow. Keith was good. But I returned my gaze to Dallas. I held my hand up above my eyes to shield them from the sun. The eerie sun made Dallas’s hair shine. My heart was beating fast.

  “What are you doing in Mexico?” I asked.

  “I came for you, Mallory. I love you.”

  As if in a trance, I rose up. Dallas took my face in his hands and drew it close.

  Beep beep beep beep beep

  It was like my conscience had an alarm. Only in this case, it was really my clock that had the alarm.

  Normally, I don’t waste much time on dream analysis. But I didn’t need Sigmund Freud to tell me this one meant something.

  Six a.m. had arrived much too soon. I was discovering a hard truth: There’s no way to catch up on sleep. When it’s gone, it’s gone, and the best you can hope for is to have better luck next time.

  I groggily stumbled to the kitchen in my pajamas and poured a massive cup of coffee. My mother was already up and dressed.

  “The car will be here in about twenty-five minutes, so you’d better shower and get dressed pronto,” she said without looking up from the LA Times Calendar section. “You should wear that new outfit I got you from Marc Jacobs—you know, the jacket and skirt with the black velvet trim.”

  “I don’t know, Mom—it’s not really my style.”

  “That’s your first problem—you have no style. If you want to keep the crew’s respect, you have to look like you deserve it. Marc Jacobs says, ‘I enjoy simplicity but I still have exquisite taste.’”

  I stared at my mother blankly. I needed more coffee.

  ————

  Twenty-three minutes later I was in the Marc Jacobs suit with my hair pulled up into a twist. It looked better than I expected—like I was playing a game of Celebrity Court Date with my friends.

  The black sedan honked from outside the gate. My mother was waiting by the door, and I followed her out into the bright and crisp morning sun, her heels clacking on the cobblestone driveway. The Mercedes gleamed, and I must admit it was a step up from the school bus.

  I scooted into the backseat with my bag full of scripts, notebooks, and a travel cup of coffee. Did I bring my laptop? Yes. Check.

  As we drove down the winding streets of the hills above LA, I looked through my to-do list:

  Production Meeting

  Writers’ Meeting

  Meeting with Richard

  Photo Shoot

  Come Up with a New Week of Storylines

  Pull My Hair Out

  Buy Valentine’s Day Present for Keith

  The third thing on my list became number one with a silver bullet when I saw Richard waiting at the parking spot when we pulled in.

  “Mallory! You’re late,” he chastised as soon as I got within chastising range.

  He was in his usual black designer shirt and slacks, capped by shiny leather loafers on one end and small, razor-thin sunglasses on the other. His slicked-and-gelled hair glistened like a shellacked bathing cap.

  “Traffic,” I explained. It’s the go-to excuse for everything in LA.

  “Morning, darling,” my mother called to him as she was helped out of the car by the driver.

  “Beautiful day, isn’t it?” he responded with a smile.

  “It’s why we live here,” she said back as she sauntered away toward makeup, leaving me to stand in front of the anger train.

  I looked at my watch. “The meeting with the network is in ten minutes. I’m not late.”

  “Maybe if you had been here at sunrise, we would have been able to discuss things.”

  “Discuss what?” I said cautiously.

  “It’s too late. You’ll just have to find out in real time.”

  Real time. Right. The set of a TV show is like high school … but worse because everyone is getting paid a lot of money to be there. That much money at stake makes everyone nervous, so the backstabbing is done with machetes, not butter knives; the double-crossing becomes quadruple-crossing; and the rumors fly like foam from a rabid dog’s mouth.

  “Fine,” I said in huff. Richard was always pulling this passive-aggressive act. Like he was totally trying to do me a favor but my ineptitude prevented his every effort. I wanted to tell him to stop treating me like his spoiled niece—but I knew that would only make me sound like I was his spoiled niece. The key to working with Richard was proving that I could be just as professional as he was. Whatever that meant.

  “I’m going to grab a danish from craft services, since there’s no way I’m facing the network on an empty stomach,” I told him. “Then I’ll see you upstairs.”

  “Avoid the apple this morning,” Richard told me. “The cherry isn’t nearly as stale.”

  This was perhaps the most frustrating thing about Richard—after giving me grief, he’d dollop out a small dose of friendly help, leaving me completely confounded.

  I walked over to craft services and found all four of my lead actors shuffling around, in costume but not yet needed on the set. I walked over to the table and took my place next to Javier Sabato, who played Marco, our bad boy with a heart of gold. He was wearing tattered jeans that clearly were hand-distressed in some third-world sweatshop, a perfectly vintage Bob Dylan Blonde on Blonde T-shirt, and cowboy boots. The red-wine scent of his dark brooding wafted over to me from across the juice selection.

  “Wow—the costume department did a great job. You look like such a tragic hipster,” I said.

  Javier looked up from his breakfast of danish and Fritos and leveled a glance my way. “Don’t even get me started, girl. Those witches of wardrobe don’t know Marco like I do. I spent hours searching through racks at Crossroads to get these clothes. The one on Ventura, not the one in West Hollywood—even though the WeHo one has some better stuff sometimes ’cause it’s less picked over. You know, WeHo boys hate used things.”

  I felt Javier was much better suited to say what West Hollywood boys loved or hated than I was, so I just nodded. Luckily, Marco’s tale of wardrobe dysfunction was interrupted by Alexis, who played the female lead, Sarah, on the show.

  “Be careful of the apple danish this morning,” she warned. Unlike the rest of us, she seemed fully awake—even though, freakishly, she never drank any caffeine. It was awkward for me at first with Alexis, because she had the part I’d written for Amelia. But I had to admit: Alexis was a super-good actress. She also had a really pushy stage mom (who Richard had barred from the set). It seemed like Alexis’s way of rebelling was not to rebel—so far, she’d been the kind of actress who bakes cookies for the crew … and doesn’t stay around for compliments about them. If anything, I found her a little boring. But with so many other large personalities around, I was grateful for a little boredom.

  “I love your outfit,” she said to me now. “Aren’t you excited for photo day?”

  “I’ll put the ‘polar’ in Polaroid,” I mumbled.

  Alexis giggled. “You’re so funny,” she said, taking a nectarine and heading to her dressing room.

  Javier had run off the moment the center of attention had shifted away from him, so I made my way to the other two stars of the show, Francesca and Dallas. They had been together at Juilliard before coming out to California for Likely Story, and I was never really certain what their particular togetherness involved. I wanted to think they were benefitless friends, but every now and then they’d lean into each other or hold hands and I’d feel like Nancy Drew on the Case of the Completely Confusing Couple. This was why I wanted all couples to wear rings, not just married ones. Different colors for different stages—baby blue for we’re just starting out, yellow for cautiously figuring it out, red for making out but not making future plans, green for happy together, and then the usual gold and/or silver for voluntarily shackled to each oth
er for eternity. It would just make life easier.

  Their heads were practically touching over the table as they talked, the crumbs of their breakfast the only things within hearing range. When they saw me coming, they pulled back a little and stopped talking. Francesca shot Dallas a glance. Dallas shot a glance back at her.

  When I finally got over to them, Francesca stood up. She was naturally thin, naturally tall, and not naturally friendly—we were never going to be sleepover sisters. It was going to be work just to get her to thaw to basic human kindness.

  “The camera calls,” she said with a sigh.

  “Good morning!” I called out a second too late.

  I didn’t want to sit down at the table if Dallas was going to leave, so instead I teetered awkwardly until he said, “Join me for a sec.”

  Dallas played Ryan, the hero of Likely Story. Both were handsome, decent, conflicted—in other words, that undeniably flawed guy that every girl wants. The weird thing was, I’d created Ryan before I even knew Dallas existed. Then Dallas showed up and it was like I’d been writing him all along.

  This was one of many reasons I felt awkward around him. Right now was a special kind of awkward, the kind reserved for when you have an intense dream about someone and then you see him the next morning. You know it’s completely impossible for him to know that you dreamed about him … and at the same time, the dream was so intense that you feel he must know.

  He was staring at me, and for a second I truly thought he was going to say, “Mexico? Why Mexico?”

  But instead he said, “New look for you?”

  Damn you, Marc Jacobs. Damn you!

  “I like it,” he added.

  Thank you, Marc Jacobs. Thank you!

  “It’s my disguise,” I explained. “For when I have to play a grown-up.”

  “We’ve all heard about the network meeting,” he said as I dug into my coffee cake.

  “Yeah, well …,” I said between bites. I didn’t want him to know I was completely clueless about the meeting. I wanted him to think I was on top of everything.

  “Just don’t give in, okay?” His gaze was so strong on me that I had to look down at my paper plate.

  “Is that what you and Francesca were talking about?” I dared to ask.

  “That, and other things. She thinks we’ll all be forced to compromise. But I told her you wouldn’t. She said I was too optimistic. I told her that wasn’t always a bad thing.”

  “Don’t worry,” I assured him. “The whole reason I got this show was because I wanted to do something different. Something meaningful. They can’t change that.”

  He smiled, relieved. “I feel better already,” he said. “And I promise, it isn’t just the clothes you’re wearing.”

  It was almost beautiful, how he trusted me.

  Now I’d just have to deserve it.

  I made my way toward the bungalows that housed the network honchos’ offices. They were at the center of the studio lot, nestled around a tranquil green that masked the “creative minds” working their TV magic in cauldrons hidden discreetly behind French doors and latticework.

  Richard met me in the hallway.

  “Trip’s meeting with the execs in New York,” he told me. “So this is Webster’s meeting.”

  I tried not to groan. Trip Carver was the Daytime president at the network … and also my mother’s latest ex-husband. He was about as fake as a plastic flamingo, but at least I knew how to deal with him. Webster Strong, the Vice President of Daytime Strategy, was much worse. He made the grim reaper seem like a character from Sesame Street. I always dreaded meetings with him, not only because he was old and hideous, but because his office smelled vaguely of the antiseptic in an ICU. Probably because of all the promising careers of writers, actors, and general-purpose dreamers that had flatlined after failing him. His big nighttime show had been Borderline, about an all-female squad of Border Patrol agents who hunted illegal aliens as dangerous as the squad members were sexy. It had lasted four mind-numbingly bad episodes, and he’d been switched to daytime soon thereafter.

  “You ready?” Richard asked me, his hand on the doorknob.

  Just once in my life, I’d like to be able to answer that question with a “yes” I really meant.

  But this was not going to be that time.

  We walked into the conference room. Webster Strong sat at the head of the table, the morning sun shining and bouncing off his bald head.

  “There’s our little wunderkind!” he shouted. “How’s my favorite genius?”

  I smiled nervously. Around the room was a motley crew of high-powered execs who did such exciting things as branding! marketing! advertising! and sales! I sat between the young woman who had some title like Director of Television Futures and another, grayer woman who I knew to be Vice President of Brand Management. I didn’t know what either of them actually did besides get paid and wear expensive Italian shoes.

  As was my habit in network meetings, I looked immediately to my one unquestionable ally: Trip Carver’s assistant, Greg. Luckily, he was still in the room, taking notes, even though Trip was off on the other coast. As usual, he looked like he was playing dress-up in his suit and tie. We were the sneaker kids stuck in a loafer-and-heels world. Normally, Greg would send me a big smile over the table. This time, though, he looked worried. Which made me worried.

  Webster continued, “We’ve all had a chance to watch a handful of your shows, and let me be the first to tell you how excited we are.” The minions all nodded in agreement. “We absolutely love it,” he continued. Again the minions nodded. “Trip wanted me to tell you that, too.”

  “I can’t tell you what a relief that is,” I said. “We’re really proud of the work we’ve been doing, aren’t we, Richard?”

  I met Richard’s eyes, but he didn’t automatically respond. “Aren’t we, Richard?” I repeated.

  “Yes, we’re very proud,” Richard finally said.

  “It’s because this project is so great that we wanted to give you just a few notes on how we could make it even better,” Webster said.

  I gulped. I’d already been through enough with the network to know that “just a few notes” never meant “just a few notes.” It’s like when the dentist says, “This will only hurt for a second,” and you end up sore for days.

  Webster turned to the very blond woman at his left. “Holly, why don’t you handle this?” he commanded.

  Immediately Holly Hughes, VP of Daytime Development, sat up at attention and began shuffling through some papers in front of her. “Let me just reiterate how much we love this project. But we were wondering if there might be a way to spice things up.”

  “Oka-a-ay,” I said, feeling like I was walking into a trap. “How spicy are you thinking? Mild? Medium? Hot? Fire Sauce?”

  “I couldn’t help but notice,” Holly went on, “that even after five episodes, none of the characters are having sex. Why aren’t they having sex?”

  “That’s not what this show is about,” I explained. “The characters will have sex when it would make sense for them to have sex—that’s not where they are in their relationships right now.”

  “My niece lost her virginity at fourteen,” one of the execs chimed in.

  “Fourteen?” another threw in. “My son was twelve.”

  “Problems and danger are the currency of this genre, Mallory,” Holly said condescendingly. “Soaps are about romance—and nothing causes more problems in romance than sex. I just think that even if you are afraid of sex, your characters shouldn’t be.”

  “I am not afraid of sex,” I said. “Although I am afraid of middle-aged women who love the idea of teenagers doing it.”

  It was at this point that Greg knocked over his water glass and Richard started choking on what could have only been the remnants of the morning’s apple danish.

  I gathered my thoughts. Even though I’d scored a point against her, it was also two points against me for rising to the bait and throwing her comment back
in her face like a resentful teenager. I took a long breath and said, “If we start them out at level ten, there’s nowhere to go. I mean, shouldn’t we work up to them having sex? We have a lot of stories to tell—it seems foolish to work too fast.”

  “Point taken,” Webster said, leaning back in his chair and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “But that doesn’t solve the problem.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said. “What’s the problem?”

  Holly barked, “The show is BORING, Mallory. No one cares about watching people do algebra homework. They want excitement, sizzle—all the things that are lacking in their own lives. They won’t tune in to watch people doing things just like them.”

  “But this show is supposed to be real. It’s supposed to be like life. And I don’t have people doing algebra homework.”

  “There’s a fine line between real and dull,” Webster said in his dead monotone. “Like the reality shows on MTV are real, but they’re still sexy.”

  “There’s nothing real about those shows on MTV! Who has a Jacuzzi in the middle of their kitchen?” I asked rhetorically. However, my point was lost because four hands around the table shot up. Oy.

  Frieda Weiner (pronounced “whiner”), one of the network’s “consultants,” spoke up. “We’re just spitballing ideas here,” she cawed. “For instance, I was thinking that maybe one of the boys could get involved with your mom’s character. You know, one of those sexy student-teacher relationships. Don’t tell me that’s not real. I’ve seen Dateline.”

  I felt like someone had dipped me in honey and thrown me into a pit of bees and bears. I was not about to write scenes where my mother had sex with Dallas. Or kissed him. Or even passed him a note. Not a chance.

  “These are just suggestions,” Webster said calmly, but I could see he was starting to itch from his own gangrene.

  Stay calm, I reminded myself. Stay calm.

  “I just think that you could give us a chance to be real before you start throwing in the affairs,” I said. “Next you’ll want alien babies and amnesia.”