Likely Story!

by David Levithan

  With that, Richard turned on his Prada-loafered heel and walked away.

  Dallas and I just stood there, stunned. I had never seen this side of Richard before, not full throttle. But I guess I’d never seen a star threaten to quit before, either.

  Finally, I sighed, turned to Dallas, and said, “It’s times like these I wish I drank whiskey.”

  “Ah hear ya, pardner.”

  A swish of periwinkle came into view, calling, “Romeo, O Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?” Then Francesca saw us and said, “This is the ten-minute call.”

  “Francesca, don’t,” Dallas said, his whole body tensed.

  “Don’t what?” she asked.

  “It’s not the time.”

  “Not the time for what, Romeo?”

  “STOP IT!” he yelled. Then he turned it on himself. “I. can’t. deal. with. this. right. now.”

  Before Francesca could say another word, he was up and away, leaving the two of us in his wake.

  We looked at each other awkwardly.

  “I’ll go and see what’s wrong,” I said.

  I left before she could stop me.

  Dallas wasn’t hard to find. My first guess was that he’d be in his dressing room. And, sure enough, there he was.

  It was barely a room—more like a closet. But the simple fact that he didn’t have to share meant the network was expecting big things from him. He was sitting in the room’s only chair, with his back to the big mirror on the wall. The door wasn’t even closed. I found him staring off into space. When I walked in, he glanced at me, then turned back away. I closed the door.

  “Talk to me,” I said.

  He shook his head. “I can’t.”

  I looked at all the photos he’d hung up around the mirror—all his New York friends, gathered around fountains or performing on the stage. He looked so happy with them.

  I pulled over a crate and sat across from him.

  “Come on, Dallas. This isn’t just about the script, is it?”

  He looked at me like I’d just come up with a brilliant insight. He looked at me, and I couldn’t tell how he was seeing me. As the boss? As the writer? As a friend? As a girl?

  There was no way to know.

  I wanted to put my hand on his shoulder. I wanted to tousle his hair. I wanted to touch his cheek and say everything was going to be okay.

  But I couldn’t. Because I wasn’t just seeing him as a friend. I was also seeing him as an actor on my show. I was seeing him as someone on the verge of quitting. And, yes, I was seeing him as a boy. A boy I wanted to like me.

  “What just happened with Francesca? What was that about?”

  Dallas shook his head again. “It wasn’t fair. I shouldn’t have snapped at her like that. I just couldn’t take it anymore.”

  “Take what?”

  When he didn’t say anything, I took a guess and said, “It’s the Romeo thing, isn’t it?”

  He nodded sadly. I was treading on heartbroken ground here.

  The next words had to be chosen very carefully.

  “So … is she … your Juliet, then?”

  Now Dallas looked confused. “What do you mean?” he asked.

  “I mean … are you her Romeo?”

  Dallas finally got what I was getting at. And he laughed.

  “No! I mean, we used to be together. And there’s always a chance we’ll get back together again—we tend to do that. But that’s not what this is about.”

  “What is it about, then?” I pressed.

  And just like that, he shut down again.

  “I can’t tell you,” he said.

  “Why not?”

  “I can’t even tell you that.”

  “Dallas … please. We have to talk about this.”

  And suddenly there was a voice in my head. A completely unhelpful voice, saying, He’s in love with you. Francesca called him Romeo when I was around. Was she saying that I was his Juliet?!?

  My heart started to beat faster. I could see Dallas struggling with it in his head. Knowing he had to say something. Wanting not to say it. But really wanting to say it. Deciding to say it.

  What had I gotten myself into? Was I ready for this?

  “Mallory …,” he said quietly.

  “Yes,” I whispered back.

  “You can’t let this change anything.”

  “It won’t.”

  “It’s just that I …”

  “Yes?”

  “This is so hard to tell you.”

  “Tell me.”

  “It’s like … do you know Shakespeare in the Park?”

  Now it was my turn to look confused. Was this a metaphor?

  He went on. “Shakespeare in the Park? In New York? Joe Papp started it?”

  “Yes?” Mental note: Find out who on earth Joe Papp is.

  “Well … before I left Juilliard, I did this, uh, showcase. And the director of this year’s production was there. He really liked me. And they’re doing Romeo and Juliet.”

  I still wasn’t getting it entirely, but mostly it was my disappointment blocking my comprehension.

  “They asked me to be Romeo,” he blurted out. “Even after I took this show. He says I’m the perfect Romeo. They think Meryl Streep might be Juliet’s nurse and Kevin Kline might be the friar.”

  He looked so excited for a moment. Then his expression shut down again.

  “But of course I can’t do it,” he said. “I have to be here.”

  Now the voice inside my head was saying, He is not in love with you, and, How silly of you to think that, and, You’re holding him back.

  “Look,” he said, reaching out and taking my hand. “I want to be here. Truly. I knew what I was getting into when I signed that contract. Your show. I’m willing to stay for that. It’s the rest of it that’s confusing me.”

  “It’s confusing me, too,” I confided.

  There was suddenly a knock on the door.

  “They need you at the photo shoot, Dallas!” one of the PAs yelled.

  He let go of my hand and stood up. I stood up, too.

  “Hey,” he said, gesturing to our ridiculous clothes, “we match!”

  “Yeah,” I said, looking him in the eye, “we match.”

  And that awful, unhelpful voice in my head said, Maybe …

  Needless to say, the photo shoot that followed was anything but fun. The minute Dallas saw Richard there, he became totally withdrawn, his mood ranging from suppressed fury to abject despair. Tai loved the drama, and I was sure the photos would probably be better for it.

  After an hour and a half of plastering on smiles, I went upstairs to the writing office. I avoided the set because I didn’t want to face the truth. Since I couldn’t effect change there without throwing a huge fit, I decided to passive-aggressively chastise Tamika for her lackluster writing.

  But even that was disappointing, because Tamika claimed she had only barely sketched out the scenes before Frieda Weiner grabbed them and then rewrote them on the network’s behalf. Frankly, this worried me even more, because it meant the network was quietly usurping everyone’s duties, not just mine. Richard’s role (and allegiance) was still unclear.

  It was six o’clock by now. Usually I sat around until eight or so, catching up on my work, but not today—it was time to get out of here. I could do my work at home, even if it meant busting open that packet of school homework and seeing what fresh Leo Tolstoy hell awaited me.

  I wandered past the stage on my way to the parking lot and decided to poke my head in. In one corner of the massive hangar that was our soundstage were all the indoor sets—like Marco’s cabin and the French brasserie where Sarah worked. They were all queerly shallow, but with lighting and camera tricks, they would look much bigger.

  The biggest set we had built was of the bridge that spans the literal Deception Pass—the rocky gorge with its black-sand riverbanks and evergreens. Of course, our tree-covered mountains were merely a backdrop and the evergreens in our forest all had their tops m
issing. Keith had nicknamed this set “the Bridge Over Troubled Water” when I’d shown him the sketches. It wasn’t that clever, but I’d laughed like it was.

  “That’s a wrap for Jacqueline,” bellowed the AD.

  Francesca walked off the bridge and toward me while the crew quickly prepared to film another setup.

  “How’s our creator?” she asked me with a toothy Crest-Whitestripped smile.

  “Cuttin’ out early today,” I said. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Need a ride?” she offered. “Your mom still has a few scenes left.”

  The way she said it, I felt like a fourth grader waiting for her mommy to pick her up from school.

  “Um, sure, thanks.”

  “Super. Just give me two minutes and I’ll be ready to go.”

  Fifteen minutes later, we climbed into Francesca’s Prius and drove off the lot, heading toward the smoggy orange and purple sunset. It wasn’t long before we ran out of chitchat about the upcoming Barneys sale and whether or not Ryan Seacrest was hot or just sort of cute.

  After a silence that lasted through three lights while we waited to make a left onto Santa Monica Boulevard, Francesca said, “Look, can I make a suggestion?”

  Uh-oh, I thought. I’d known there was something motivating her act of chauffeur kindness.

  “Of course,” I replied.

  “Dallas told me about the showdown with Richard. He’s upset.”

  “I don’t blame him. I am, too.”

  “I think we need to do something.”

  We? Hmmm. What precisely did we need to do? I didn’t like being treated as a co-conspirator. But instead of saying this, I said, “About what?”

  “Dallas is the core of this show. He’s what’s going to get people tuning in.”

  “That’s not true—it’s an ensemble.”

  “Right. Look, Mallory, you don’t have to sugarcoat it for me. I can objectively see my place in the hierarchy. There’s Dallas, then Alexis, then Javier and me, and then the Professor and Mary Ann. But my point is this: Dallas is at his best when he’s happy. You should have seen the half-assed performance he was delivering during today’s reshoots. Phoning it in would have been an improvement. He was texting it in from God knows where. And if he feels trapped, it’s only going to get worse. We need Dallas to be at his best if we have any prayer of making this show a hit. Don’t you think?”

  Yes, I did think. In particular, I was thinking that it was clear that Dallas hadn’t told Francesca about the talk we’d had. She didn’t know that I knew about Shakespeare in the Park. She thought she was my only source of Dallas news. But I wasn’t about to admit this.

  “What do you suggest we do?” I asked.

  “I think that one of the reasons he wants off the show is that he misses his life back in New York. He doesn’t really have any friends out here besides me. So I thought maybe we could all go out for dinner tomorrow. Dallas, you, me, and your boyfriend—what’s his name? Heath?”

  This smelled like a trap to me. Why bring Keith into it?

  And then I thought, why not bring Keith into it? It would probably be good for Dallas to see that I had a boyfriend, and for me to see Dallas seeing that I had a boyfriend, and for Keith to see that even though I spent the day with beautiful actors, he was still the one I came back to.

  “You think it would help?” I asked Francesca, without specifying who it would help.

  “I really do,” Francesca said, also not specifying.

  “Okay.”

  “So it’s a date? Yay!” Then she kissed her hand and touched it to the roof as we sped through a yellow light.

  I’ve learned from my many years watching soaps that spontaneity is one of the most surefire ways to ruin a relationship (despite what dating columnists might preach). Every time a guy cuts out of work early and decides to bring his honey some flowers and a bottle of wine, she is inevitably either in bed with another man or burying a body in her azalea garden. But I threw caution to the wind and had Francesca drop me at Keith’s. I didn’t even know if he was home, but I was pretty sure he wouldn’t be in bed with another girl. And if he was burying a body, I hoped it was Frieda Weiner’s. Or my mother’s. Or Amelia’s. Heck, if it was Amelia’s, I’d help dig the grave.

  Keith lived with his mom and two younger sisters in Culver City. I walked across the crabgrass-filled lawn to his doorway. A sad strand of Christmas lights was still strung above the porch, collecting cobwebs. Usually their bungalow was charming and pretty well maintained, but Keith hadn’t had much time to help with the upkeep since he’d upped his hours at CPK.

  Keith’s mom answered the door with the cordless phone pressed against her ear. She was yelling at the contractor, who was adding a bathroom. Their one-bathroom bungalow was shrinking by the second with Vicki and Connie about to turn thirteen and ten, respectively. A new bathroom was his mom’s only option in preventing daily nuclear meltdowns at 7:30 a.m., when everyone was already ten minutes late.

  With her hair pulled back into a quick ponytail, her tan complexion, and her kickin’ figure, Keith’s mom looked more like a girl in search of the perfect wave than a harried mother of three who worked as a nurse (and occasional backup singer). She mouthed “hello” and waved me inside, pointing toward Keith’s room while she harangued the contractor for having shown up three hours late and with the wrong sink.

  I made my way through the living room and saw Connie sprawled out across the floor with her hand in a box of organic cereal and watching some sort of beach party on MTV. She waved her foot at me as I passed by.

  “Happy almost birthday,” I said.

  “Thanks,” she said without much interest.

  “Pretty soon, you’ll be in the double digits. Ten’s a big one.”

  Connie shrugged, but then turned to me. A serious look settled on her face as she swept a bit of her long, dark hair out of her eye, and she asked, “Do you ever think that maybe you’re missing out on the best part of your life? Like, sometimes I think that maybe I didn’t really appreciate second grade. And now here I am staring down ten like it’s a loaded gun and I’m thinking that I should have spent more time riding ponies.”

  “There will be plenty more time for ponies,” I said reassuringly.

  She furrowed her brow. “Eh. I never cared much for horses, anyway. They just smell and poo everywhere.”

  I guessed this girl wasn’t a My Little Pony fan.

  “He’s back there, by the way,” she said, gesturing to the backyard.

  She returned her attention to the television and the problems of being nine going on ten. I made my way through the screen door and crossed the concrete patio toward the little structure that was once a one-car garage, then was Keith’s father’s recording studio, and now was Keith’s bedroom.

  Keith’s dad had been one of innumerable rockers who prowled The Rainbow and sired kids with more than one girlfriend. Roxanne, Keith’s mom, had been the only one he’d married, but it ended shortly after Connie’s birth. Last I heard, he was holed up in Oregon somewhere with a new girlfriend and a new baby. The child support checks came about as frequently as winning lottery tickets.

  Keith was sitting at his desk in boxers and a T-shirt that had seen better days. He was bent over a textbook, distractedly chewing on his thumbnail. I knocked at the door and he turned around, revealing the super-cute reading glasses that he never let me see him wear.

  “Look who it is, Puddles,” he said to the fluffy gray cat curled in his lap. He lifted her off and got up to kiss me.

  Puddles darted through my calves as Keith brushed his lips across mine and whispered a hello. His breath smelled of crunchy peanut butter. Strangely, it was kind of sexy. I hoped my own wild cherry lip gloss tasted like jelly.

  “Yum,” he said, pulling back and smacking his lips. “Tasty.”

  He took off his glasses, mussed his hair with an eye on his reflection in the window, and asked, “What brings you to my neck of the woods, Little Red Riding Hood?” />
  “I was on my way to Grandma’s, but I just felt spontaneous and decided instead to come see my wolf,” I said.

  Keith growled a long Grrrrrrrr and pawed at me. I shrieked and giggled.

  “Looks like you got a haircut,” he said.

  In all the hoopla, I’d totally forgotten. I reflexively touched my head just to confirm that my hair was indeed short now.

  “What do you think? Do you like it?”

  “Does this answer your question?”

  He pulled me down onto the bed and we rolled around while he told me in kisses just how much he liked my new ’do. Mental note: Get your hair cut more often.

  After we passed some time confirming how much we liked each other’s hair, I started telling him about my day. About half an hour into my detailed play-by-play of the photo shoot debacle with Richard and Dallas, I noticed that Keith was dozing off. I suppose my one-woman Japanese Noh play about an afternoon in the life of me was not as captivating as I’d hoped.

  “Am I boring you?” I asked, pretty sure of the answer.

  Keith stifled a yawn. “No, not at all, babe.”

  I cocked my eyebrow to indicate Yeah, right. But I appreciated the lie nonetheless.

  I realized I hadn’t really bothered to ask Keith about his day. In fact, I hadn’t asked him anything at all beyond whether he liked my hair.