Likely Story!

by David Levithan

  rocketboy: it doesn’t matter

  rocketboy: I just want to know

  what’s up

  rocketboy: hello?

  malcontent: I’m here

  malcontent: I feel like I

  could ask you the same

  thing

  rocketboy: fine

  malcontent: there’s dallas

  malcontent: I don’t know

  how to explain it

  malcontent: I can’t tell

  what’s going on

  GinaBeana: Really?

  malcontent: what?

  GinaBeana: Mallory

  GinaBeana: He likes you.

  GinaBeana: A lot.

  malcontent: so what do I do about it?

  GinaBeana: Depends.

  GinaBeana: Do you like him?

  malcontent: of course I like him

  malcontent: he’s my friend

  GinaBeana: And that’s all?

  malcontent: well

  malcontent: I mean

  malcontent: I’ve thought

  about it before

  malcontent: dallas and me

  malcontent: who wouldn’t?

  GinaBeana: No argument here.

  GinaBeana: But how much do you think about it?

  rocketboy: it’s dallas

  rocketboy: he’s into you

  malcontent: that’s not true

  rocketboy: oh come on

  malcontent: what?

  rocketboy: don’t kid yourself

  rocketboy: he’s into you

  rocketboy: way into you

  malcontent: ok

  malcontent: so what?

  rocketboy: so are you into him?

  malcontent: I care

  about him

  malcontent: he’s my

  friend

  rocketboy: that’s not how it

  seems to me

  rocketboy: you’re like a different person around him

  rocketboy: and let’s face it

  rocketboy: it’s been a while since you were you and I was me and we were “us”

  malcontent: enough that it’s a problem

  GinaBeana: It is possible to

  fall for two people at once.

  GinaBeana: That’s what soaps

  are made of.

  GinaBeana: And real life, too.

  GinaBeana: Just try to keep in

  mind where one ends and the other begins.

  GinaBeana: Unless you want to

  turn into Jacqueline or Sarah.

  malcontent: or Vienna

  GinaBeana: You could never

  be like Vienna.

  malcontent: I know

  rocketboy: so?

  malcontent: thanks Gina

  GinaBeana: Anytime, Mal.

  malcontent: night

  GinaBeana: Sleep tight.

  malcontent: I do like him

  malcontent: the way you think

 
  malcontent: but that doesn’t mean I don’t like you

  malcontent: there was a long time when you liked me

  and Erika

  malcontent: and you were with me and Erika at the

  same time

  rocketboy: is that what you want?

  malcontent: no

  malcontent: I just want you to be patient with me

  malcontent: the same way I had to be

  malcontent: I want to try to work things out

  malcontent: with you malcontent: you

  rocketboy: what about dallas?

  malcontent: I have to figure that out

  malcontent: I’m not sure how to deal with it

  malcontent: it’s so complicated

  malcontent: but I don’t want to break up

  rocketboy: neither do I

  rocketboy: I’m sorry I was a jerk today

  malcontent: it’s okay

  malcontent: I’m sorry I was late

  malcontent: I really need to get to bed

  rocketboy: me too

  rocketboy: talk to you tomorrow?

  malcontent: sure thing

  rocketboy: night, bonnie

  malcontent: night, clyde

 
  malcontent: hey

  malcontent: I know you’re there

  malcontent: I know you blocked me

  malcontent: yeah, I created a second sn just to check

  malcontent: yeah, it’s just as you guessed, I’m that

  crazy

  malcontent: if you don’t want to respond, fine, just

  read

  malcontent: I am going to write this just once

  malcontent: I’ll say it to your face, too, in case you’ve

  become illiterate

  malcontent: leave keith the hell alone

  chAMELIAn: bad day? go cry on dallas’s shoulder

  malcontent: not kidding

  malcontent: blood will be spilled

  chAMELIAn: you’re cray

  malcontent: consider yourself warned

  “Mallory Hayden must die,” said Kimberly, unaware I’d just been conferenced in.

  “Don’t I know it,” I said to dead silence. “So how do we do it? Poison pen seems apt.”

  Richard had invited me to his office for a call with the network brass. “Emmy business,” he’d called it.

  “Kimberly’s a little on edge,” announced Trip from the speaker. “You’re really making her work for her money these days.”

  “Apparently. Has someone taken out a hit on me?”

  “Marilyn Kinsey of Soap Opera Summary,” said Kimberly. “She won’t take my calls anymore. None of the soap rags will. They think we’re trying to make fools out of them, giving our scoops to LikelyWhorey. And the fewer features they throw our way, the worse our chances come Emmy night.”

  “This is a game of chicken,” I insisted. “The only reason people buy those magazines is to find out what’s happening next week so they can decide whether to watch. They’ll come crawling back two issues from now when the best they can manage for a cover story is ‘Black Hole Eats Tropical Hospital.’”

  “The lady’s got a point. Now, enough of the bad news,” said Trip. “Give them the good news, Kimberly.”

  “People is doing a piece on Mallory and Dallas.”

  “That’ll more than make up for a dry spell at the grocery store checkout line,” said Trip. There was a clink in the background, like two champagne flutes coming together.

  I stared at the speakerphone, and not at Richard, lest I be tempted to smack the smirk right off his face. “Kill it,” I said.

  “No can do,” said Trip. “They’re gung ho on this story. They’ve already got quotes, too, from a couple of well-placed insiders.”

  “Like who?”

  “They won’t say,” Kimberly told us. “They’re protecting their sources.”

  “Offer them something else. Me and Mom, guns at dawn.”

  “Not sexy enough,” said Kimberly. “Besides, I already tried. You know what they said about your mother when I floated it? ‘We don’t have an airbrush big enough to smooth out her lines.’”

  “I won’t cooperate. And neither will Dallas.”

  “Mallory,” said Trip with his voice of reason, “they’re moving ahead with or without you. Either you tell your side, or they tell the most gossipy story that their quotes and pictures suggest.”

  “So this is about my well-being all of a sudden?”

  “Your well-being and that of Likely Story are interchangeable,” said Richard.

  “I seriously doubt Academy voters are going to look down their noses at the show because Dallas and I refuse to pimp out a nonexistent relationship to the Hollywood-Industrial Complex.”

  “Then you’re seriously overestimating the Academy,” said Trip. “This is a no-brainer.”

  “Exactly. I’d have to be brainless and boyfriendless to pimp out a nonexistent relationship just to publicize the show.
All it would do is prove to LikelyWhorey that I’m exactly the opportunist they say I am. No thanks.”

  “I may have to add Kimberly to my enemies list,” I told Tamika in the writers’ room. “You know she’s one of their ‘insiders.’ She’s probably telling People that Dallas and I are always meeting behind closed doors to talk about his ‘motivation’ or whatever.”

  “You have an enemies list?” she asked in disbelief.

  “Only in my head.”

  “What else is ‘only’ in your head?” she mumbled from behind her laptop.

  I pretended I wasn’t listening. But I heard it over and over again for the rest of the day.

  Richard was not above blackmail. Fortunately, he had nothing on me. But he’d already used Dallas’s contract to make him jump on command. So as soon as my meeting with the writers was over, I made it my business to warn Dallas that Richard might try to rope him into the People interview. By the time I tracked Dallas down, he was already on the studio floor preparing to tape. I slipped into the control room and hunkered down with a copy of the shooting script. Dallas stood before my mother in Ryan’s signature leather motorcycle jacket. Mom was wearing the fake tortoiseshell eyeglasses she’d insisted Vienna would wear. (“So she looks smarter?” I’d asked her at the time. “As a disguise,” she said, “from the mafiosi chasing her.”)

  The director, a fearsome perfectionist by the name of Shelly, was about to give the go sign when she realized I’d joined them. She asked if I’d be staying to observe.

  “You bet. This is a big scene.”

  I wasn’t expecting a warm welcome. The directors resented my presence in the control room, afraid I’d take issue with their choices—which I often did. It’s amazing how a director could translate JACQUELINE SIPS HER MARTINI into JACQUELINE CARTWHEELS ACROSS THE BAR DOING BODY SHOTS. Somebody had to keep them in line. Especially with the delicate material about to tape. A meth-hungry Ryan was about to tear into Vienna, neither aware that they’d later turn out to be son and mother.

  Shelly pursed her lips and gave the word. The stage manager, Janet, cued the actors from the floor.

  RYAN

  I’m quitting school.

  VIENNA

  Have you already staked out

  your panhandling corner?

  RYAN

  (HE TURNS TO GO) Think what

  you want. I don’t care.

  VIENNA

  But you hope I care. (RYAN

  STOPS) I’ve never had a

  dropout actually inform me of

  his intentions. They just

  stop coming to school.

  RYAN

  That would be impolite.

  VIENNA

  Your father raised you to

  value manners. At least you

  have that going for you. I

  don’t meet many drug-

  addicted bums with good

  etiquette.

  RYAN

  You’re a guidance counselor!

  You don’t know anything about

  me beyond my GPA.

  VIENNA

  I know you’re scared and at

  the mercy of an addiction

  you’re a long way from

  admitting you have, much less

  dealing with. That’s three

  things.

  RYAN

  I know a few things about

  you, too, just by looking.

  You drink rosé wine by the

  boxful. Your TV is preset to

  Lifetime on Demand. You try

  to flirt with Mr. Vallarta in

  the English department, but

  part of you worries he’s gay

  and doesn’t get it—or worse,

  he’s gay and does get it.

  You’re lonely. Washed up. And

  you’ve made a career out of

  involving yourself in the

  lives of kids because they’re

  a captive audience. Because

  you know deep down that no

  man will ever invite you to

  involve yourself in his life.

  (RYAN STORMS OUT. ON VIENNA,

  SHATTERED)

  Shelly called cut and gave the order to move on to the next item. But I spoke up.

  “You call that ‘shattered’?”

  Shelly held her tongue. I could see Mom and Dallas on the monitor, wondering whether we were going ahead or doing another take.

  “Vienna’s reaction in this scene sets up the next three months of her story,” I said. “What Ryan says here forces her to take a good, hard look at her life and make some changes. Right now she might as well be taking a good, hard look at her credit card bill.”

  “I’m not sure your mother’s got another performance in her today,” said Shelly. “She’s a little … raw.”

  “Which is perfect for the scene. I’d be happy to give the note if it makes you uncomfortable.” It was one thing for me to assert myself in the control room, but horn in on a director’s relationship with an actor? Sacrilege. Shelly hupped to and marched back out onto the floor. The AD closed the boom in anticipation of obscenities … but strangely, no fur flew.

  First Shelly gave the note. Then Mom rolled her eyes and asked a question. Shelly replied, shaping her answer with her hands, like throwing a clay pot. Mom looked at Dallas, as if Shelly were speaking Swahili. Dallas nodded at Shelly and drew Mom aside … and began whispering in her ear.

  It was then that my mother transformed. Once an Untouch able Hardhearticon, she was now a Human Feelingbot, all shiny eyes and crinkled brow and completely alien. Dallas’s smooth talking continued for a few more seconds before he turned away and resumed his place. My mother put a palm over her eyes as though the sun was beating down on her, but then I saw it: a trickle of tears escaping between her fingers. She was crying.

  Shelly burst into the control room and ignored me when I asked what the hell just happened. “Roll tape and cue ’em, before she loses it!”

  Mom brushed away her tears and flung her hair to one side but otherwise did nothing to halt the scene, despite a set of vanity-killing puffy eyes. Dallas began. My jaw remained anchored to the floor for the duration of the scene.

  Mom nailed it. One might even say she was Emmy-worthy.

  I wound my way to Dallas’s dressing room in a stupor. What had he done to tame the beast? He hadn’t told her off. He hadn’t questioned her ability, like Bob had all those years ago on Good As Gold. What were the magic words he’d uttered? And how much would it cost me to learn them?

  I found him hunched over the sink, washing off a layer of base. “Dallas Grant: Bitch Whisperer. Who knew?”

  Dallas looked up. “Oh. That. It was no big.”

  “No big?! I feel like I just saw Helen Keller learn to communicate. What did you say to her?”

  “Trade secret. Throw me that towel?” I picked up the towel hung on the back of the door and handed it to him. “The scene turned out okay?”

  “I don’t think either one of you will be overlooked come nomination time next year.” There was a smudge of makeup left on his temple. “You’re really not going to tell me? It’s a matter of national security.”

  “It isn’t my place to say. You’ll have to ask your mom.” He tossed the towel on the counter and started to stuff his duffel bag.

  “Then I guess I’ll never know.”

  “Starting to regret not writing us that romance?”

  I picked up the towel again. “C’mere, you’re all blotchy.”

  Dallas stepped toward me, and I began to rub the remaining makeup from his pores.

  “You do have a pretty profound effect on her,” I admitted. “The only other time I saw my mom get pushed like that, somebody got fired.”

  “I’m not worried. She likes me.”

  “Runs in the family.”

  There was a streak of color left along his neckline. Or was that the border of a tan? Only one way to be sure. I kept rubbing.

&nb
sp; “Say I did write that story,” I suggested, noncommittal. “What happens to your fan base? All those people who love Ryan and Jacqueline?”

  “Before there was Ryan and Jacqueline, there was Ryan and Sarah. People loved them, too. People love a good story and good actors. And believe it or not,” he said, leaning into my touch, “your mom’s the best there is on Likely Story.”

  I stopped, but didn’t back off. In his presence, there was security. And certainty. He was as sure of the potential in the pairing as I was afraid of it. But he’d taken one leap of faith for me after another. I owed him.

  “Okay.”

  Dallas started to argue, then stopped. “Did I hear that right?”

  “We’ll try it out. But let’s keep it between the two of us until I work out the kinks. And I reserve the right to scuttle it the minute Mom lets it go to her head.”

  He stared at me for a second longer before whooping, wrapping me up in his arms, and spinning me around. I may have been only inches off the floor, but it felt like forty thousand feet. It felt like flying. And then I was back down, toes on the ground but still floating on air. He hadn’t let go of me. I hadn’t let go of him. We weren’t letting go of each other. It was the edge of a kiss, and we were about to tumble over.

  “You in there, Dallas?”

  We sprang away from each other just as Alexis opened the door behind us.

  “Bad time?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “I saw your scenes on the feed just now, Dallas. Fantastic job.”

  Dallas turned away, but not fast enough for me to catch the white-hot look of murder he was firing at her. “Thanks.”

  A monosyllabic response did not appear to be hint enough for Alexis. “I wish I could get scenes like that.”

  “Don’t look at me, I just write the show,” I said with all the subtlety of a blunt instrument. Alexis left, pouting. The moment with Dallas was shot, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. I couldn’t remember what I’d come for. All I could remember was that I had a boyfriend. But his name escaped me.

  “Maybe we should talk,” said Dallas.

  There was no maybe about it.

  “I have a story to write.” I scrambled out, nearly tripping over his towel. It wasn’t until I got all the way back to the writers’ room that I remembered.

  Keith.

  I went to a production meeting.

  We almost kissed.