Likely Story!

by David Levithan

  “It was totally innocent, Scooter. That picture was taken completely out of context.”

  “Phew. I mean, that’s what I assumed. Sure, it looks all romantic, but photos can be doctored. Just look at what happened to Geneva in 2002….” Scooter’s voice faded as I scanned the gym for signs of Keith. It was Friday, and Friday tended to mean his red vintage New Coke T-shirt. He liked to start the weekend off with a bang. I finally saw him sitting on the floor with part of our square, chatting it up with some girl.

  Only it wasn’t just some girl. It was Amelia.

  “Oh, hell no,” I muttered.

  Scooter nipped at my heels as I made a beeline for my boyfriend.

  “Oh, hi, Mallory,” Amelia purred. “We were just talking about you. How’s Dallas?”

  I was itching to scratch a comeback into her, but this was not the time to put Amelia in her place, at least not until I knew what was up with her and Keith. He couldn’t look me in the eye. A sign of embarrassment, I hoped (embarrassment beat anger)—but was he embarrassed to be seen with Amelia or embarrassed to be seen with me? It was a toss-up.

  “Can we talk?”

  The screech of feedback drowned out Keith’s answer. Coach Samson tested a mic and told the class to square up—it was time to hoe down.

  Keith took up his place on my left and bowed to my curtsy as the first banjo twangs of “Billy’s Hornpipe” bounced off the bleachers.

  “So what’s up with you and Amelia?” I asked. “Are you two friends all of a sudden?” It was a roll of the dice, but I had to know.

  “Seriously? You’re seriously asking me that?” Snake eyes.

  “Allemande left your partner!” Coach called out.

  Keith took my hand, but his grasp was limp. “Before I even get to ask you about your night with Dallas?”

  “Nothing happened, Keith,” I swore.

  “Grand right and left!”

  Keith and I joined right hands. “You believe me, right?” I asked. But he pulled by me, heading straight toward Amelia. I threaded between guys as I kept a watchful eye on my boyfriend. So much so that I nearly ran smack into Scooter.

  “Promenade your partner home!”

  Keith took my clammy hands and escorted me back to base.

  “Maybe this isn’t the best time to talk,” I said.

  “When is it a good time, Mallory? Not yesterday, when I wanted to take you out to celebrate and you told me you were too busy with a ‘work thing’”—he gave it air quotes—“conveniently forgetting to mention that Dallas was going to be there. And it wasn’t a good time when I gave you a chance to come clean this morning.”

  I wanted to call him on this—on testing me instead of coming out and asking me about it when he’d found out Dallas had been over—but there were degrees of wrong in this situation, and I knew that mine was much greater.

  “I just mean that it’s hard to have a conversation when we’re dancing around to fiddle music.”

  “Grand Square!”

  “I want to explain. And I want to say I’m sorry. Can we get out of here? Please.”

  His moment’s hesitation caused a pileup as Amelia, Scooter, and the other two couples, expecting room where there was none, jostled and cramped each other. Our square folded in on itself, and Amelia leveled us with a disapproving look. “Come on,” I told Keith. “They can make do with a triangle for a while.”

  The nearest empty space was the boys’ locker room. Not the stuff of fantasies—at least, not mine—but there was some privacy, and no immediate threat of patrolling teachers.

  Keith sat on a bench, then leaned against a locker. We’d had our share of confrontations, but it never got any easier.

  “I should have told you what the situation was last night,” I said flat out. “I thought you’d get mad.”

  “You thought right.”

  “I guess I was going to lose either way.”

  “Maybe. Only, the other way doesn’t end in you and Dallas doing whatever it was you were doing at the end of your driveway last night.”

  “It was nothing! It wasn’t even a hug. He was just being nice. After my mom and Richard were total jerks.”

  “I’m the boyfriend! It’s my job to be nice. I feel like an idiot standing here arguing with you about whether it’s okay for another guy to be your friend, but it’s not the first time we’ve had this conversation about the same thing, with the same guy.”

  I thought this was particularly unfair, seeing as how I’d patiently acted as “the other woman” when Keith and I first started going out. His ex-girlfriend—the one he’d cheated on with me for months—was probably a big fan of LikelyWhorey.com.

  “And now I’m getting e-mails from all kinds of people I’ve never heard of who want to know if we broke up or if I’m dumping you or if I’m going to fight Dallas. This isn’t what I signed up for.”

  “Right. You signed up for a pushover who didn’t mind being second best while you canoodled with another girl.” I couldn’t help it—the irony of the situation had to be pointed out.

  “So you get a free pass to play around with Dallas because of everything with Erika?”

  “For the last time, I’m not playing around with Dallas. Unlike how you were playing around with me when Erika was still calling you her boyfriend. What I’m saying is, you don’t get a free pass to make all kinds of assumptions just because the shoe is now on the other foot. If you feel guilty and paranoid, it’s because you cheated on Erika, not me.”

  Keith was trembling, pissed. “It takes two people to cheat, Mallory. If you didn’t like the situation, you didn’t have to be a part of it.”

  “Well, what about the situation we’re in right now? Do you want out of this one?”

  “Do you think I’d be standing here yelling if I did?”

  It was as true as it was startling. Keith was the model of serenity, but here he was, testing out the limits of his larynx. And so was I. I tried to remember a time before Likely Story that I yelled, and I came up short. I wondered how much of the rest of my life could be divided up that way: Before Likely Story and After.

  “I’m sorry,” I said again, this time with new meaning. Or real meaning. “I feel like I’ve been making one mistake after another for the past two days. I can’t get anything right. And now I have some anonymous Web site calling me a slut.”

  “It’s okay. And you’re not,” he told me, pulling me into an embrace. I usually settled so comfortably into a nook against his chest. But the fit now felt off.

  “I should’ve been more understanding,” said Keith.

  “I should’ve been honest with you,” I said.

  “I should’ve broken up with Erika right from the start.”

  “I should’ve tried harder to make you and Dallas friends.”

  “Let’s not get crazy, okay?”

  We heard the sound of a flush from around a couple of corners. We flinched, realizing we’d had a spectator. And not just any spectator. The kind that got off on misery.

  “You guys sure have a flair for the dramatic,” Amelia’s brother, Jake, said as he appeared around the corner. “Why don’t you give Keith a part on your show, Mallory? Oops, silly me, I already know why. ’Cause then you’d have to take it away from him and give it to someone else.”

  “Do you just sit on the can all day hoping for the chance to eavesdrop on people?”

  “No, but if there’s a chance I’ll ever hear something as spicy as what I just heard, maybe I will. I would’ve cleared my throat or farted extra loud or something, but I didn’t want to interrupt. I’m glad I didn’t, either. You two put on a good show. Is there more to come? Or is it over?”

  Keith put his arm around me and we walked out together, but Jake’s question rang in my ears. I wasn’t sure I knew the answer. I wasn’t sure Keith knew, either.

  Keith tried to get out of his shift at California Pizza Kitchen, but nobody was willing to give up a free Friday night. We made a point of agreeing about how much it
sucked to be us, but I was secretly relieved and wouldn’t have been surprised if he was, too. I’d been sapped by the events of the day. Being around Keith for much longer might have been work when it should have been play.

  I had my studio-provided driver stop my car half in, half out of the driveway. I could see the spot where Dallas and I talked the night before. I thought about my mother. It would have been easy to blame her for the picture and the Web site but impossible to explain it. I couldn’t see how humiliating me and Dallas and Keith would benefit her. Any stalker fan or desperate paparazzo could have been lurking in the rosebushes, waiting for just the right moment to snap just the wrong picture. It didn’t matter who’d done it, just that it was done. I’d officially joined the ranks of the fair game.

  The intercom at the gate crackled to life, and Mom’s voice yanked me from my reverie. “Mallory, don’t just sit there brooding. Come inside.”

  “What for? Have you got some of your typically jaded advice to dole out? How to survive a sex scandal?” I felt like I was at a drive-thru, getting my licks in to go.

  “Leave the soap at the studio, darling. I just want to make sure you’re all right.” Suddenly I could see how Trip would have found Vienna’s voice-over appealing. There was something almost human in my mother’s choice of words, and vaguely sensitive in her tone. Had she been saying this in person, though, her facial expression would have given away just how little she really cared. “Look on the bright side—it was a very good picture.”

  “My boyfriend would disagree.”

  “Well, what do you expect? Kevin’s not showbiz. You should be proud of yourself. Your very first nasty gossip item is a rite of passage. We’ll commemorate it with a party, just the two of us.” I wasn’t sure, but what she was suggesting sounded a little like bonding. Then she added, “And we can talk about your new story for Ryan and Vienna.”

  Sucker punched, I asked the driver to put the car in reverse. “Sorry, Mom. I’m not in the mood to celebrate.”

  Trekking the 405 over the hill through Friday night traffic would test the patience of Job, but I had KCRW to keep me company in the backseat, and the promise that my destination was worth the wait. Things always seemed a little less life-or-death after a visit to Gina’s house in Tarzana.

  A clot of cars was parked in front. I didn’t want to intrude when she had company, and I was all but resigned to facing the music at home, when a glint of chrome beckoned from between two cars. When the driver pulled up a bit farther, I saw it: a gleaming motorcycle leaning against its kickstand all sultry-like, its handlebars cocked like arms crossed in front of itself. If this thing could talk, it would have said, He’s inside. Got a light?

  Before, I’d been seeking refuge. Now I was seeking answers. What was Dallas doing at Gina’s? And who else did she have over?

  Whoever it was, they were having a good time. When Gina answered the door, she let the sound of laughter rush out behind her.

  “Mallory!” The great thing about Gina was that she was always happy to see me.

  “Hi, Gina.”

  “You’re here!”

  “I am.”

  “I thought you were the pizza guy.”

  “I get that a lot.”

  Usually by this point in my visit, I’d be halfway down the hall on my way to the fridge, but Gina made no move to invite me in.

  “It’s a bad time, isn’t it? I should’ve called.”

  This snapped her out of whatever trance my surprise arrival had put her in.

  “Nonsense, it’s never a bad time for you,” she said, welcoming me in. “I heard all about that nasty Web site. You must be livid.”

  “It hasn’t been a fun forty-eight hours.”

  “Come on in and put your feet up—we’ll have you forgetting all about that in no time. Hey, guys, Mallory’s here.”

  The mix of voices went silent as Gina escorted me inside. Dallas, Francesca, Javier, and Greg were all seated around the table, which was piled with poker chips, cards, and (for those who were drinking age) beer. They couldn’t have looked more frightened if I’d found them all in the buff.

  “Relax, guys,” I said. “I totally couldn’t hear you talking about me.”

  Javier and Greg tittered nervously as Francesca hugged me. “We’ve been sitting here worrying up a storm about you.”

  “And figuring out how to avenge you,” Javier added.

  “Let me know if you have any ideas,” I told them.

  Dallas had gotten up but was keeping his distance. Francesca chided him. “Nobody’s taking pictures in here, Dallas—it’s okay to hug her.”

  Still, he didn’t approach. “I wanted to call you but thought you’d be out with Keith tonight. I figured the last thing you two needed was my popping up on your caller ID.”

  “Good thinking. We’re okay, by the way. Keith and me.” I could feel the rest of the room wondering whether they should wait us out or talk among themselves.

  “I knew you would be. Keith’s a good guy. I bet he brushed the whole thing off.”

  “Close. I hope your mother didn’t call and say ‘Don’t you wish you were in gross anatomy class right now?’”

  “She didn’t, but if she does, I’ll just nod my head and tell her she was right all along.” He smiled. I did, too.

  “You play poker, Mallory?” asked Greg, right on time.

  “Texas hold ’em. Amelia taught me.”

  Everyone booed Amelia’s name as Dallas told me I’d just happened on their supersecret monthly poker game. “And by ‘secret,’ we mean ‘Don’t tell Alexis,’” said Francesca.

  “She won’t hear about it from me.”

  “Good.” Francesca pushed the bowl of pretzels my way. “Pull up a chair.”

  “What’s the ante? I’ve got all of five dollars and a coupon for a free Jamba Juice.”

  Javier leaned in. “We don’t play for money, babe. We play for secrets.”

  This could be trouble.

  But it was the kind of trouble I could get into.

  It was quickly explained to me that Dallas and Francesca had first come up with Blurt Poker as a team-building exercise back in New York at Juilliard. There had been some tension over the non-traditional casting of their third-year production of Suddenly, Last Summer (Francesca as Dr. Cukrowicz and Dallas as Mrs. Violet Venable). Francesca suggested that it might be harder to resent each other if they were privy to each other’s dirty little secrets—all the terrible little things that made them who they were. I wasn’t sure the logic behind this was that sound. But factor in that actors are, as a rule, over-sharers, and it made more sense. Their rules had apparently been working for a while, so I kept my reservations to myself … even when I was asked to cough up something to ante in.

  “How do I know if my secret is on par with everyone else’s?”

  “You don’t have to break the bank on the first round,” said Gina. “You’ll pick it up as we go.”

  “Okay …” I went with the first thing that came to mind. “I’m a homewrecker. Is that enough to start?”

  “Girl means business,” Francesca marveled.

  Greg dealt.

  Things I learned that night (mostly because I was a severely underestimated poker player):

  Gina’s in night school, getting a degree in psychology.

  Greg’s film school friends call him a sellout.

  Javier kept his job as an assistant manager at Urban Outfitters for two months into production of Likely Story. “Who here didn’t think we were going to flop?”

  Francesca told Richard about Dallas’s motorcycle in exchange for her pick of dressing rooms.

  Richard told Dallas he could keep his motorcycle if he promised to attend my mom’s wedding. “Do any of us really see that wedding happening?”

  Gina turned down a makeup job in 1976 because she thought it was a little “out-there.” In 1977 that project hit theaters: Star Wars.

  Greg’s okay with being called a sellout, but it scares him
that that doesn’t scare him. “In five years, when my friends are still waiting tables in Silverlake, I’ll be VP of Programming. If that makes me a bad person, I’ll leave—but I don’t think the job in itself will make me a bad person.”

  Javier had taken to anonymously posting raves of his performance on his own fan Web site. “That makes me a worse person than Greg.”

  Francesca wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t been nominated for an Emmy … but she did want one. However, she wanted Alexis’s failure to be nominated even more. “So I consider that a win.”

  Dallas has an Emmy speech already written, and it mortifies him that he does. “It’s the same for the Obies and the Tonys, with a few tweaks,” he said.

  Gina has no one to take to the ceremony.

  Neither does Greg.

  Francesca hasn’t had one date since she moved to LA. In fact, she’s had negative-one dates. “We get to my door, but instead of trying to kiss me good night, he asks if I can get his head shot to the casting director.”

  Javier had a —1 date with the same guy.

  Dallas won that hand.

  Things I divulged:

  Richard had taken to wearing a smoking jacket around the house. No, he hadn’t started smoking.

  I cheated every year on the President’s Physical Fitness Test.

  The last time she was at my house, Amelia left her favorite vintage purse. I kicked it under my bed after our big fight and it hadn’t moved from there since.

  Amelia’s brother, Jake, kissed me.

  Thing I was interested in learning: Who was Dallas bringing to the Emmys? Things I was not interested in divulging: anything involving Keith.

  Everybody folded but me and Dallas. “Look at the size of that pot,” said Javier. A mound of red chips was spread over the table. “Whoever loses has got to give up something juicy,” he singsonged.