Cynthia couldn’t believe it. “Why? He’s got more abs than an Olympic swim team. He must be dying to flaunt ’em.”
True about the abs, but false about the flaunting.
“What’s the story with him and Francesca?” my makeup artist asked, taking aim with an eyeliner pencil. “They’re so hot on screen. Are they dating in real life, too?”
“No, thank God!” I exclaimed. God? Smooth move, Mallory. Beneath the MAC, I was blushing a three-alarm blaze.
“You know how it is,” I spun. “Two leads hooking up sounds good on paper, makes for buzz and some punch in the ratings. But then there’s the inevitable break up and make up and break up again, followed by temper tantrums and thrown chairs. All of which is hilarious for reporters but total purgatory for anyone else on the set.”
“Is Dallas the type to hissy-fit, though? I mean, you work with him…. What’s he really like?”
Teen Vogue, Defamer, and Soap Opera Digest had all endeavored to solve that riddle. “Breathes life back into soaps,” wrote SOD. Teen Vogue called him “a witchy brew of Jake Gyllenhaal’s sensitivity, Ryan Phillippe’s focus, and Johnny Depp’s charisma … only much younger.” Defamer was a tad less circumspect. “Inspires feminists everywhere to show up at his door bearing homemade baked goods,” it proclaimed.
Nobody had it exactly right.
Sure, he deserved to crack People’s Sexiest Men Alive top ten. Damn straight, TV Guide, his acting was nothing short of “inspiring.” And who was going to question Dog Fancy’s claim that he doted on his pug, Muggles?
But where were the quotes about his loyalty or his friendship? About that effect he had—it could be the most awful, rainy, deadly Monday morning, and you could be waking up to the worst song ever on your alarm, and just the thought that you were going to see him suddenly made it worth getting out of bed. Was there a word for that? I wanted to invent one, but the best I could come up with was Dallas.
I might’ve done the gushing myself—if I were his publicist. Or his agent. Or his girlfriend. But he refused a publicist, shunned his agent, and (apparently) didn’t want a girlfriend. I was his boss—just his boss—and it was my job to write his character, not his press releases.
Plus, I already had a boyfriend. A very good boyfriend, Keith. Whose loyalty and friendship I also valued.
“Dallas is … great,” I said. “Very professional.”
Not the kind of dirt my makeup artist was hoping for. She let me know with a roundhouse powder puff to the face. I was done.
I coughed my way through the cloud and over to the watercooler to wash down the particles. Behind me someone sniped, “Way to be a cheerleader.” I looked up and instantly wished I hadn’t. It was Mom’s disciple and my Judas, Alexis Randall, one of the two teen female leads on the show. “I hope you talk about me with the same enthusiasm you have for Dallas,” she said, fluffing her hair.
“I love all my cast members equally, Alexis.” It’s just the loathing I reserve for you. “You look nice.” I’m thinking of writing you off my show. “Ready for the big announcement?” You will die in a hippopotamus mauling. “I bet you get nominated.”
And just like that, my name was love. “Do you really think so?” she squealed. “I spent weeks studying all my material to figure out what to submit to the judges. It’s so hard when you have so much to choose from.”
Barf. “You went with the scenes where Ryan and Sarah wait for the results of her pregnancy test, right? That stuff’s gold.”
“No,” she said, surprised. “Everybody said the judges wouldn’t pay much attention to me if I sent in scenes with Dallas. They said he’s too distracting.”
I looked at her cockeyed. “That episode was the most heartfelt we’ve ever seen Sarah. You went through a kajillion emotions in the course of five minutes, and Dallas did nothing but hold your hand.”
Alexis shot me a glance. “You know as well as I do that he doesn’t need lines to steal a scene.”
Fair enough, I thought. “So what did you settle on?”
“My scenes with your mother. Where she counsels Sarah to convert to Wicca.”
I laughed.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. It’s just a bold choice, that’s all. Academy voters tend to favor drama over comedy.” Judging by the look on Alexis’s face, she found nothing funny about those scenes. “Plus,” I scrambled, “if you’re worried about getting overshadowed by anyone, it ought to be my mother. She makes a meal out of all her material. Even when her character’s comatose.”
Alexis squinted, revealing a flash of doubt. But it was just a flash. “I think your mother’s presence in the scenes only elevates my game. We talked it over, and everyone agrees, even my fan club president. That stuff is my best shot.”
I shrugged. What did I know? The only award I’d ever been nominated for was Most Likely to Punch a Girl.
Alexis’s five-minute call was announced over the PA. She tossed her hair with renewed confidence and told me she wasn’t worried. “Funny or not, you wrote it. And you’re a shoo-in for a nomination, too.”
I didn’t think so, but kept it to myself. My team of whippersnappers was pitted against an industry full of writers who were seven times our age. Not one of them was going to vote for the kid whose upstart show had run off with the top spot in the ratings.
“I don’t need any award to tell me I done good,” I murmured, well after Alexis had left for the studio floor.
Hmm … then why did I feel the need to tell myself that? Out loud?
The nominations came fast and furious. Talk shows went first (Blabbermouth failed to nab a nom; its British ex-pat host was particularly put out when two minutes later he had to announce the cut for Best Home Plumbing Show).
I spent the commercial break gnawing on my fingernails and was seconds from an emergency manicure when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
“Look at you, you’re all nervous.”
That voice. Like the sound of Christmas presents unwrapping. I caught my breath and turned.
“Nervous? Moi? This is just another day in the life, Dallas. Looking good, by the way.”
Cynthia had lost the war (he was wearing clothes, after all) but had won a few battles. “Ya think?” Dallas asked. He did a 360 in his yellow tee and shredded stonewashed jeans. I nearly combusted at the 180 mark: One rip was right on the southern border of his butt. “It seems more like Javier’s style, but the costumer says it’s the new look. If I’d known, I would have worn boxers.”
If he was aware of my reaction, he made no sign of it.
“Come on,” he ribbed. “Look at that.” Up on the stage flanking the podium were two human-size replicas of an Emmy. “You can’t tell me you don’t want one of those things for your bookshelf.”
“My bookshelf is a place of dignity—of Dickinson, Blume, von Ziegesar. It sets a tone for my room that a gold-plated statuette would seriously tarnish.”
Dallas crossed his arms in front of him, hitched up a satisfied smile, and sprung a trap. “So you do want one. It’s just a matter of feng shui.”
He’s an actor, I kept trying to remind myself. He’s not supposed to have interests beyond self-promotion and self-absorption, much less an understanding of ancient Chinese design concepts. Why must he prove me wrong? “My noninterest in awards season has less to do with furniture placement than it does with the Hayden family’s sanity. You’d know that if you’d seen my mother this morning.”
“I did, back at the studio … but I’m not sure she saw me. Or anyone else around her, for that matter. She looked like she’d been into Richard’s Xanax.”
“And the Vicodin and the Ativan,” I said. “She has one thing on her mind, and one thing only: seeing her name among the nominated. Mom gets Emmy fever every year—and every year, when she doesn’t get picked, it nearly kills her, not to mention innocent bystanders like me.”
“But you aren’t your mother.”
“Thank you for saying so, b
ut I could become her if I’m not careful. And so could you, if you buy into all this nonsense.”
Somewhere the stage manager was calling places for the next segment, but Dallas made no move to leave. “It’s always nice to be recognized,” he suggested.
“Except by photographers when without makeup. Or going into rehab. Or coming out of a police station.” I could have gone on, but Dallas put up his hands in mock surrender.
“Or onstage with your peers, who’re applauding your incredible achievement,” he said. “The horror, right?”
Dallas was called again.
“Maybe you should take your place,” I said, growing uneasy with the attention.
“I get it,” he said, backing away. “Some people don’t like the limelight. And who wants an award when it’ll only raise expectations? Being a sixteen-year-old head writer’s hard enough, but an Emmy Award–winning sixteen-year-old head writer? Talk about pressure. You’d only be the most sought-after writer in LA. Worst thing ever.” He stopped for a second, then added with a twinkle, “How about if I just want one for you?” He smiled a crooked smile and walked off.
Dallas wanted an award for me. That was kind of an award all by itself.
Stop knowing me so well, I thought.
It could only lead to a place neither of us could go.
As it turned out, Dallas was nominated for a Daytime Emmy of his own. The pool of candidates for Best Younger Actor was kiddie-pool shallow these days. Most guys his age swaggered into LA aiming for a lead in Gus Van Sant’s latest, but ended up in a Gossip Girl spin-off as Frat Boy ##. Few bothered with soaps, which left the field wide open for Juilliard-trained Dallas. His closest competition was a towheaded eight-year-old who played a jive-talking leprechaun. If it bothered Dallas that his work would be judged against a second grader’s, he had the class not to show it—he was all smiles when he bounded out a minute later to present the nominations for the next set of awards. Alexis, already out there, didn’t share his enthusiasm, and it showed. Her dream had just been murdered. Brutally.
For Best Younger Actress, the nominees were: a hermaphrodite, a leper, a mermaid, and a pregnant teenager … but not Alexis’s dramatic turn as a lapsed Catholic turned moon goddess. Her mic boosted the sound of her grinding teeth for all the studio audience to cringe at.
I tried hard not to enjoy it.
“Congratulations, Dallas,” she eked out before perking up for the task at hand.
“Thank you very much, Alexis. And now for Best Actress in a Leading Role. The nominees are … Georgina Devereaux, Travels of the Heart “(surprise, surprise—she’d been nominated every year since 1952); “Anastasia Driscoll, Wherefore Art Thou, Love? “(another year, another broken heart, another nomination); “Westerly Easton, The Dreaming and the Damned “(for the moving tale of One Woman’s Battle against shopping addiction); “and …”
The final name swung at me like a slap, and connected like a wrecking ball.
My mother. Likely Story.
“Congratulations to all the nominees,” I heard Dallas say. At least I think that’s what he said. I’m not sure. His words were muffled by the leather of my bag, into which I was dry-heaving.
My mother was at long last an Emmy nominee, after decades of snubbery.
Was it right to feel sick? Should I have been happy for her? Would the daughterly thing to do have been to stand up and cheer?
The pat on my back said, What’s good for Mom is good for all of us. I wiped the drool from my mouth and looked up at Likely Story’s publicist, a feathery woman by the name of Kimberly Winters.
“Oh my God!” she exclaimed amidst the thrum of the applause and Blabbermouth’s closing credits. “This is fantastic! Are you excited?”
“Sure,” I managed. “Mom deserves everything she’s got coming to her.” And then some.
“I’m not talking about your mom—I’m talking about you!”
I followed her sight line to the monitors hanging from the lighting grid above the stage. On them rolled the list of all this year’s nominees. I’d been too busy keeping my lunch down to listen up for the announcement of “Best Writing: All My Affairs, Between Heaven and Hell, Likely Story, and Tropical Hospital.”
My jaw dropped, providing clearance enough for a jumbo jet. And then … “Best Show: Good As Gold, Likely Story, Mason-Dixon, and The Walking Wounded.”
My name.
My show.
Twice.
This had to be a conspiracy. It made no sense. We’d only been on the air for a couple of months. We barely made the cutoff for the nominating period! But we’d tallied four huge nominations. Was someone at the accounting agency stuffing the ballot boxes? Were the UN’s election observers needed in Hollywood?
Then, a blur. A Night on Bald Mountain sounding on my cell phone, and Richard’s name on the display. Kimberly tugging at my sleeve. Shoved into the press pen. Bombarded with questions. How do you feel? Do you deserve it? What do you think about your mother? What will you wear? Do you deserve it? Richard again. Alexis’s evil eye, searing me from her Entertainment Tonight interview all the way across the floor. Collapsing into a chair in the greenroom, my head between my legs. Deep breaths. A sudden whiff of Tom Ford. Dallas.
“Congrats on the nomination,” I groaned.
“Thank you. And my condolences to you.”
“Since when are you smug?”
“Since I got to tell Access Hollywood that you have it in the bag.” He handed me a bottle of Voss. “Sip.”
I swigged. “You didn’t.”
“I most certainly did. And you do.”
His conviction was positively priestly. But now I’d have to deliver a miracle.
“How can you be so sure?” I asked.
“You know what? You’re totally right. When they asked me to handicap the race, I should have said, ‘What are you, nuts? Tropical Hospital’s totally going to win for the monkey brain virus outbreak story.’”
I wanted to smile, but it was kind of an ace for TH. Half their cast spent all of May sweeps picking at each other’s scalps in search of ticks.
“Some things you just get a feeling about.”
“Let me know if you ever get a feeling about lotto numbers or tsunamis, Nostradamus.”
“Prediction: You and your mom take home matching Emmys.”
“You’re so far off base you’re in a hockey rink.”
“Bet me,” he dared.
“I don’t think that would be appropriate for a head writer and one of her cast—”
“Chicken.”
“Teach me to ride your hog,” I blurted.
“Wha-at?”
“Your motorcycle, sicko. Don’t bother denying it—I know you have one, in flagrant violation of the personal risk clause in your contract. Francesca gave you up months ago in exchange for wardrobe approval.”
Dallas’s smile glinted off the lights. “She is so dead.”
“If either Mom or I lose the Emmy, you have to teach me.”
“And if you both win, Ryan has no pool scenes all summer. I’ve got gym fatigue—I need to give my body a rest without worrying about going shirtless for the camera.”
I took that bet without a moment’s thought. There were plenty of ways of getting Dallas shirtless without writing a pool scene. He figured that out one handshake too late. I told him not to worry.
“I can’t imagine her winning. She’s going to be absolutely insufferable with just a nomination.” My cell rang. Richard again. “He’s probably already planning the press conference.” I sighed.
“For once, I can say I don’t blame him.”
I was not looking forward to the Mom/Richard double-team treatment tonight over dinner. No way were they going to let me take my curry to my room, not when they could discuss how to use me to secure my mother’s win. I turned to Dallas.
“You free for dinner tonight?”
He grinned. “As long as I get to talk to the head writer about my dialogue for tomorrow. I�
�d like to make some changes.”
No doubt about it, Dallas had shed any reservations he once had about joking around with me. I wondered if I was giving him those cues, or if he was taking them from me.
I answered the phone and rolled my eyes for Dallas. “Great news, right, Richard?”
“Yeah yeah yeah, I’m thrilled for you. You know who I just got a call from, Mallory?”
Again with the guessing games. “The Dalai Lama. He read Soap Opera Digest and he’s pissed we’re pairing Ryan with Jacqueline.”
“Your principal.”
Crap.
“You’re late for gym.”
A shuttlecock is a lethal weapon.
This I learned when I burst into my school’s gym crying “Here I am!” as if I’d be greeted like a conquering hero instead of a fink. Fortunately, growing up with Mom, I had plenty of experience dodging vases. I ducked the birdie and it dented the bleachers instead of my exceptionally thick skull.
“You’re late, Hayden!” Coach Samson barked, swinging a regulation racquet.
“Yes, sir, Coach Samson, sir!”
“Let me ask you something, Hayden: Do you smell scented candles?”
Snickering from the peanut gallery. Guys and girls in Cloverdale uniforms stopped batting at each other and gawked, egged on by one familiar, odious voice in particular.
“She ought to, Coach,” my ex–best friend, Amelia, cooed, in that pervily flirtatious voice that some girls use to get what they want from gym teachers. “She’s got her nose up high enough in the air to smell ozone.”
I kept my head held high, sure, but that was ridiculous. “Just sweat and floor wax, sir,” I told Coach.
“Do you see massage tables or hot stones or waiters carrying wheatgrass juice?” he barked.
“Sir?”
“Does it look like I’m running a day spa?!”
“No, sir. It looks like you’re running a Soviet prison camp.”
This was just the excuse Coach needed to get right up in my face. “This is gym, my gym, and you do not get to stroll in whenever it suits you. Did or did not the principal send you a letter stating you were on the brink of flunking for missed classes? And did or did not that letter state that if your fancy-schmancy teevee show continued to interfere with your physical education, your work permit would be revoked?”
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