Likely Story!

by David Levithan

  “Did, sir.”

  “Then I suggest you get a racquet and get to work!”

  I pulled an envelope from my bag and used the too-close-for-comfort distance to conceal the handoff to Coach. “Maybe you should read my note, first.” Hint, hint.

  Coach glanced at the enclosed glamour shot of my mom circa 1991, forged by yours truly: To Coach—love is all! XOXO.

  Suddenly cuddly, he whispered, “Sweet. Sorry for the yelling. I have to make it look good, right?”

  “You were very convincing.”

  “Really? I’ve been taking classes at the Actors Studio.”

  “It shows. Keep it up and maybe there’s a walk-on for you in the future. Just try not to take my head off with the shuttlecock next time, okay?”

  “It got away from me, I swear. Don’t be late next time, okay? We’re starting a new block, and everyone’s expected to participate.”

  I gave him my word, because I knew the administration’s smackdown was no joke. I’d managed to get decent grades since production of Likely Story began, and I’d thought no one would care if I ignored the daily jumping jacks requirement as long as I had some Dance Dance Revolution tournaments with Tamika in the privacy of the writers’ room. But the Powers That Be were paying closer attention than I’d thought. It was one thing for me to juggle school and a show, quite another to juggle school, a show, and wacky hijinks, which I’d totally and very publicly done just a few months ago. And in this age of Girl Actresses Gone Bad, the school was not going to chance its reputation on me. That meant no free passes—and no way out of badminton.

  It also meant Amelia.

  “Hey, Mal,” she trilled, spinning her racquet. Ignore her, I thought. “Wanna play?” Be the bigger person. “I feel like whacking at something ugly.”

  Oh, forget it. Just slam her. Resistance is futile.

  “Well, Amelia, I wonder if your brother thinks the same thing every time he sees you in a bikini.”

  That ought to have shut her up, but my former best friend was scrappier than she used to be, and I had the scratches to prove it. She stuck out her racquet, barring my way.

  “I can tell you one thing—he’s sure not thinking about your skanky self.” Obviously Amelia was unaware of Jake’s clunky attempts to get his flirt on with me. File that under Save for a Rainy Day.

  “That actually warms my heart,” I responded. “Because every time Jake thinks about me, I feel like someone stepped on my grave.”

  “Like that would bother you. You won’t stop until you have a guy wrapped around each of your grubby little fingers.”

  A gentle hand snaked around my waist, pulled me close, and said with authority, “She’s happy with just one, I promise.” One lips-to-neck graze, and then, “Hey, Daisy.”

  “Hey, Gatsby,” I beamed.

  Keith had superheroic timing. It wasn’t like I needed rescuing, but it was nice to know he was always around should I find myself tied to some train tracks. Or just too exhausted to fight every single one of my own battles. I wondered if that made me a sorry excuse for a girl of the newish millennium.

  Amelia dug in her heels. “I can’t believe you still buy her act, Keith.”

  Keith shrugged. “What can I say? She puts on a good show.”

  “Kind of makes you wonder if anyone else is getting tickets, doesn’t it?”

  My inner prompter signaled: Exit stage right, right the hell now.

  “Do us all a favor and leave the extended metaphors to us professionals, okay?” I said, tugging at Keith.

  But Amelia was just warming up. Like all best-of-friends-turned-enemies, she knew my sore spots, and because I used to tell her all my dirty little secrets, she knew Keith’s, too. “Seriously, Keith. How long before you think Mallory takes a page from your book and starts seeing someone like, oh I don’t know, Dallas on the side? Maybe she already is. Why don’t you ask your crazy ex-girlfriend, Erika, for pointers? I bet she knows all the signs of a cheater by heart.”

  Keith pulled free of me and turned on Amelia. “Do you have to be so hateful?”

  The big doof thought he could shame her. But Amelia and I had thrown both food and punches. Neither one of us had much dignity left.

  I couldn’t blame her for holding a grudge. Just last year I’d done the unthinkable: promised her the lead role in Likely Story, only to turn around and give it to Alexis (who was a bitch, but at least was a bitch with talent). When Amelia lost the part, she also felt she’d lost her standing. One minute she was leaving high school behind; the next, I was leaving her in my dust. When it had come down to my show or my friend, I’d chosen my show and had hoped Amelia would understand.

  No such luck. Amelia saw no silver lining, just Hurricane Mallory tearing the roof off her life. There would be no more IM’ing, no more Jack in the Box runs, no more ripping on my mother. Just the resentment that stays when everything else goes.

  I could see the next line of attack forming on her face, but she was interrupted by my soapfan sidekick Scooter, who ran in and tackled me, landing us both on the floor.

  “I AM SO PSYCHED!” he shouted. “ARE YOU?!”

  “I’m sure I will be, once I can breathe again,” I gasped.

  Scooter rolled off and helped Keith pull me up. “I guess I don’t know my own strength,” he said, vibrating with excitement. “I can’t believe you even came to class today. Shouldn’t you be giving interviews and strategizing and stuff?”

  Keith looked puzzled. “What am I missing?” he asked. Meanwhile, Amelia pursed her lips like she was offended at having her reaming upstaged, instead of dying to know what Scooter was bouncing about.

  Coach stormed up. “Why do I see dillydallying instead of driving and smashing?”

  Scooter took my hand and thrust it forward. “Because,” he uttered triumphantly, “this is the hand of Daytime Royalty, and it is far too delicate to risk getting all callused playing Ping-Pong.”

  “Badminton,” Coach corrected.

  “Whatever,” said Scooter. “The point is, Mallory can’t accept Emmys with gnarled cuticles, right?”

  Keith and Amelia swung looks at me. Coach dropped all pretense.

  “No way! You’re nominated?!”

  “Yeah,” I squeaked. “Weird, huh?”

  “It doesn’t stop there,” chimed my one-man PR machine. “So’s her mom!”

  Coach was staggered. “It’s about time! I thought she was a shoo-in the year Geneva gave herself an emergency appendectomy with a butter knife.”

  “Or when her plane crashed in the veldt and she faced down a pride of lions with nothing but a plunger and her sense of self-worth!” topped Scooter.

  “Or when she drove the hydrofoil through Bruce and Penelope’s wedding to stop Cruiser from stopping it himself!”

  I knew this could go on forever.

  I wanted it to stop.

  I turned away from Coach and Scooter’s bonding moment and sized up Keith, wondering what sort of apology was in order for not calling him right away with the news. Or for neglecting, in the first place, to tell him the nominations were happening today. Or for just being a sucky girlfriend, which covered the first two and whatever else I might do wrong before the day was done.

  “What about Alexis?” Amelia demanded to know.

  “What about her?”

  “Did she get nominated or what?”

  “I’m afraid she didn’t. That totally alien, warm, and tingly feeling creeping up your bones is called vindication. So get it out of your system. Tell me how everything would’ve been different if only you’d been playing Sarah instead of her.”

  Amelia hadn’t held her tongue once so far and wasn’t going to start now. “If you really need me to tell you that, then we were never friends in the first place.” She turned on her heel and sped off like she’d been called to arms. I hated surrendering the last word to Amelia, but Keith was waiting for an explanation. He’d have to wait a little longer, because Coach blew his whistle and hollered at the cl
ass to bring it in.

  “Listen up! Today marks the end of our badminton unit. Come next class we’ll be starting something new.”

  “Coed mud wrestling?” hooted one football player. A blind person could have seen the collective eyes rolling.

  “Nope, don’t even bother changing into your uniforms. We’re going to be square-dancing,” responded Coach.

  No one said a word. I raised my hand.

  “I think I speak for all of us when I ask, what’s so wrong with coed mud wrestling?”

  Coach told the angry mob to settle down. “It wasn’t my decision. The ladies on the school board are wrinkling as we speak, worried about all the bumping and grinding observed at the Valentine’s Day dance. They’re out to teach you kids there are other ways to show affection, not to mention some manners. I could have told them you’re a lost cause, but nobody listens to me. Now hit the showers.”

  I turned toward Keith, but he was already retreating toward the guys’ locker room.

  “Meet you outside” was all he said.

  I made a descent into the heart of darkness—the girls’ locker room. I sequestered myself in a dank little corner and changed out of my hideous gym clothes. I was tying my shoes when Amelia’s voice wafted over the din of gossip. I didn’t want to listen. I tried not to. But the more she spoke, the less everyone else did. If she’d fallen from grace since we’d de-friended, she’d since climbed back up even higher than she’d been before.

  “Mallory was always that way,” she pontificated. “Self-righteous and full of herself. I just never saw it, because she never directed any of it at me. She was that girl who would sit around and make fun of what people wore to school. And her attitude’s only going to get worse now that she’s up for that stupid award. If only those people who voted for her knew what she was really like.”

  I double-, triple-, and quadruple-knotted my shoelaces, just to give myself time enough to listen to Amelia talk smack. Any more and I’d cut off circulation to my feet. I got up to go.

  “And the thing is,” she went on, safe behind a bank of lockers but totally aware I was hearing all of it, “she doesn’t even know why they chose her. She thinks it’s because she’s a good writer. As if. It wasn’t even her idea to put her mom on the show, and that was, like, the best move she could have made. The only reason she’s nominated is because they couldn’t afford to ignore her. She’s the most famous thing soaps have going for them. But no way will she win. What would look better on camera? A sixteen-year-old nerd getting an award and jumping up and down onstage … or the look on her face when she loses to a story about a killer mime?”

  The sheep laughed in unison. So did I, actually, as I walked out. It was funny. And then I started to feel a lump in my throat. Because it was also true.

  Keith was waiting for me at his Mustang, wiping down the fender of the car he’d spent ages painstakingly restoring. I used to wonder how anyone could spend that much time on one project without going crazy. You’d think that with Likely Story in my life, I’d have stopped wondering. But I was as curious as ever.

  I’d donned shades hoping to avoid the “Is something wrong?” conversation. It worked, mostly.

  “You’re all puffy, Minneapolis.”

  “Let’s just go, St. Paul.”

  If it had been Likely Story, and I was Jacqueline, and Keith was Ryan, he wouldn’t have let me get in the car. He would’ve asked me what was wrong and wouldn’t have taken “allergies” or some other lamery for an answer. I’d have poured out my heart in fits and starts, and he’d say the perfect thing and I’d feel revived. At least until the next episode.

  But Keith wasn’t Ryan. He was my high school boyfriend, and despite all of the awesome qualities that made him the greatest catch at Cloverdale, he was still just a boy. And like all boys, he had no idea how to handle a girl who’d been crying. I might as well have sat him down in front of a sewing machine and told him to make me a Dior.

  He parked the car in front of my house, and as the engine wound down, we had a relationship first: a moment when neither one of us knew what to say.

  “So what exactly is an Emmy?” Keith asked.

  “A winged muse carrying an atom.” I hated that I knew that.

  “Art and science coming together. Sounds pretty cool.” He sighed heavily.

  “Are you pissed at me?” I asked, unable to stand it.

  “Of course not—I thought you were pissed at me! I was waiting all day to hear the news, and then when you didn’t call me, I figured I’d backed up over your dog or something.”

  “But you don’t even know what an Emmy is,” I said, mystified.

  “But I’d have to be an extremely incompetent boyfriend not to know they were happening today … even if you didn’t want me to know.” He reached into the backseat and produced a bouquet of flowers. “Congratulations,” he said with a smile.

  Roses, the mark of an expert. Now for the sorry, the mark of an amateur.

  “Thank you. And I’m a jerk,” I moaned. “I just didn’t think you’d appreciate me calling with more news about Likely Story while you were stuck in class.”

  Keith admitted with no hesitation that the show was not his favorite subject. “But you are,” he said. “So I don’t mind hearing about it, even if it means having to talk about your mom or Amelia or Richard. Or even Dallas.” I was going to kill Amelia. We’d gone a good two months without a Dallas mention, but her sniping had obviously gotten to Keith. She could aggravate a Zen master right into a screaming fit.

  Keith started the car. “Let’s celebrate. Picnic at Malibu.”

  “That sounds fantastic … but I can’t. I’ve got this dinner thing with Mom and Richard.” His eyes started to glaze over. Obviously he didn’t mind hearing about Likely Story, just so long as he didn’t have to listen. “Work and Emmys and all that.” And Dallas. But now was definitely not the time to put that name back into play. “How about if I see you one picnic and raise you a black-tie awards ceremony?”

  Keith agreed, but only if he didn’t have to wear a bow tie. And only if he got a Hollywood kiss, to boot. The guy had no future in show business. The only things he ever asked of me were things I’d freely give.

  An hour later I sat down in front of my computer, freshly showered, changed, and scented. Hours-old IMs peppered my screen from friends long since signed off. GinaBeana wrote: Good for you! You’re going to win it! Can I do your makeup? BruinBoy, my one true ally at the network, Greg, had this: You’re so rocking these awards. My e-mail overflowed with congratulatory notes from my agent and all manner of network execs (delete, delete, delete), not to mention a few conspicuous messages from cast members who hadn’t had a lot of airplay lately. (“Hey, good for you with the Emmys. I’ve got tons of ideas for [insert my character name here]. Let’s talk about it over lunch!”)

  Nestled among the usual stuff was this:

  TO: MALLORY HAYDEN (malcontent@likelystory.com)

  FROM: FAN CLUB PRESIDENT (fanclub@alexisrandall.com)

  SUBJECT: A New Direction

  This, I had to read.

  Ms. Hayden,

  Why do you hate Alexis? You must have a grudge against her to write so much bad story so she doesn’t get a nomination. Her work has been amaing, even when she did not have the best writing to work with. We in the fan club have a few suggestions we’d like to share for future story. How about putting her back with Ryan? Alexis and Dallas have great chemistry. A psycho cray person could kill off Jacqueline, and Sarah could help him get over her. Maybe you are not the right person to write for Alexis’s talent. Maybe

  Delete. If this was Tamika’s idea of a practical joke, she deserved a raise. If it wasn’t, I needed to change my e-mail address.

  My cell rang. It was my mother … calling from downstairs.

  “Dallas is here,” she said with her patented brew of perturbed confusion. “Did you invite him over for dinner?”

  “Tell him I’ll be right down.”

 
“You know I don’t like surprises, Mallory.”

  “That’s strange. You sure love surprising me. Like when, surprise surprise, you secretly got a job on my show. And when, surprise surprise SURPRISE, you got engaged to my boss. And when—”

  “I’ll set another place.”

  “Try to be polite, Mom. And if that’s too big a stretch, just leave us alone.”

  “I always mind my manners, Mallory. I sent him upstairs a moment ago.”

  “Mallory?” I heard from down the hall. I hung up on my mom and poked my head out the door as a bewildered Dallas walked out of the recital room (used briefly during my mother’s ill-fated foray into classical guitar). “How many rooms are there in this place?”

  “One for each of my mother’s foul moods. As you can imagine, we’re still adding on. The next room’s either a meat smoker or a Pilates studio—I can’t remember which.”

  Dallas stood at the threshold of my bedroom. “So this is your lair. Gonna give me the tour?”

  I let him in, against my better judgment. It wasn’t that the place was a war zone; I kept it immaculate (a tidy bedroom is the sign of a procrastinating writer). I worried a glimpse at my room might tell him too much about me. See, this is my desk, where I IM you from. And here’s my nightstand, where I keep notepads in case I wake up in the middle of the night with inspiration for a story for you. Oh, and this is my bed, where I have that recurring dream about you.

  Any of those things would’ve been easier to talk about than the contents of my bookshelf, which is what he zeroed in on. “I see plenty of room here for awards. Just relocate the Hello Kitty alarm clock and you’re golden.”

  “Nobody messes with Hello Kitty.”

  “My bad,” he said, backing off with a sly smile … onto my bed. “So, would now be a good time to go over my script questions with you?”

  I groaned. “I thought you were joking before.”