Likely Story!

by David Levithan

  I sat in on a focus group.

  We almost kissed.

  I had a fitting for the Emmys.

  That’s what was written in my schedule.

  But all I could think was: Can they tell? Do they know? Is it written all over my face that we almost kissed?

  “What happened to you?” Mom asked when I came home.

  She knows!

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look … guilty.” She said it and went back to clipping her press over the kitchen counter.

  “Oh.” I hadn’t told anyone. “Well.” Not Gina, on whom I had already leaned for advice. “The thing is …” Not Tamika, who seemed to be souring to my personal dramas. “You’re right.” Not Greg. I couldn’t afford for Trip to trip him up.

  Mom looked back at me, thrown by the bizarre implication that I might want to talk to her. What am I supposed to do now? she must have thought. Ask her what’s wrong?

  But it would take more than a nuanced performance for the camera to knock her off the top of my no-tell list. “I had some ice cream at lunch and it showed at my gown fitting.”

  Mom grunted, “Dairy is the Enemy,” and went back to her magazines.

  I wondered: If I’d waited her out, stayed silent, and forced her to respond, would she have asked me what’s wrong? Dallas was of the firm belief that she wasn’t all bad. Maybe I should have given her the chance to prove me wrong.

  “Good job today,” I blurted.

  Nothing.

  “You did a good job today, Mom,” I said, a little louder. “Your scenes with Dallas were great.”

  She flipped to the end of the magazine and threw it away. “It wasn’t easy, with those lines,” she breathed. “But we found a way to make it work.”

  Her comment about the writing wasn’t even a backhanded compliment. It was just backhanded. But I was undaunted.

  “You and Dallas work well together.”

  “You’re only noticing that now?”

  “I’m trying to be nice.”

  “I taught you better than that.”

  “I try not to learn from your example.”

  “So you say.”

  And there we were, once again on the verge of the knockdown, drag-out brawl that capped our every run-in.

  “I don’t know why I try,” I said, flinging my bag over my shoulder and making for my room.

  “Thank you,” she said, sharp enough to stop me dead in my tracks, as if the words themselves weren’t enough. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “The only goal I ever have in mind when we talk is to not get into a pitched battle. I don’t understand why you have to turn a kind word into an opportunity to tear me down.”

  “Oh please. You didn’t tell me ‘good job’ because you believed it. You said it because you want me to say it back to you. You want me to tell you what an engaging script you’d handed us from on high, how lucky we are to have such a wonderful writer crafting such beautiful stories. You were fishing for a compliment of your own, Mallory. Go ahead and dump all the chum in the water you want. I won’t bite.”

  “What would you have said if I’d told you I hated it?”

  “I wouldn’t have believed you then, either. Because we were as good as two sunsets seen from a Tuscan Italian veranda. Dallas’s connection to me is second only to his connection to you.” (This gave me pause.) “Together we’re as good as gold, but you’re too committed to your own agenda to conceive of it.”

  I could have told her right then what I’d told Dallas. But that would have been generous, and I didn’t have a shred of patience to spare. “You think you know me pretty well, don’t you?” I asked.

  “I know you better than you know yourself. You’re a pale imitation of me.”

  Amelia had said something to that effect once before, and I’d filled two journals debunking the idea. Now I could feel another trip to the stationery store coming on.

  “Take that back!” I huffed.

  “It was difficult for me to accept, too,” she said, inspecting her reflection in the toaster. “But like I said, it isn’t a perfect likeness. Like me, you have keen artistic senses. Unlike me, you choose to ignore them in favor of listening to your ego. You’re as smart as a well-tailored tuxedo, but not smart enough to play by the rules that have kept soaps alive for seventy years.”

  “Soaps like Good As Gold?” Zing!

  It barely dinged her. “Worst of all, you have talent but lack the ruthlessness to truly make the most of it.”

  “Meaning, I don’t hurt the people I care about in order to get what I want.”

  “I wonder if Amelia and Kurt would disagree.” So that’s what whiplash feels like, I thought. “What do you think?”

  “I think Amelia hates me, and Keith is pretty iffy. Maybe we’re both wrong. Maybe I’m actually more you than you.”

  Mom waved her hand dismissively. “Let’s not get crazy. You need to make a decision. Do you want Amelia and Kwame and everyone and everything associated with your life as a happy-go-lucky teenager? Or do you want to write your show? You must know by now that you can’t live in both worlds. You have to choose eventually.”

  Richard and Tamika and Gina and Trip and probably a dozen other people had been saying that for months, ever since Likely Story got the green light. I still didn’t believe them. With choices like those, who would?

  “You’ll realize it eventually,” said Mom. “Maybe once the article in People hits, with the glut of quotes from sources at the show attesting to your flirtation with Dallas.”

  “How do you know about that article? Did Richard tell you?”

  “Richard? Please. It was my idea.”

  I stopped.

  “You?!”

  “Don’t look so appalled. They won’t be writing anything that hasn’t already been written on that awful Web site. They’ll simply be adding some class and an air of authenticity to it.”

  I couldn’t believe her. “How could you do this to me?”

  “I’m trying to help you. You want to break up with your boyfriend, but you can’t handle the dirty work. So let me be a mother and do it for you. Trust me. You and Keith will be happier in the end.”

  It was the first time ever she’d gotten his name right.

  Keith didn’t sign on to IM that night. Neither did Kevin, Karl, or Kurt. I would have called him if I didn’t think the quiver in my voice would totally give me away for the almost kisser I was. Even though, technically, there was nothing to give away. An almost kiss isn’t a kiss. Nobody’s lips touched. No spit was swapped. A (thin) slice of air had remained between me and Dallas at all times.

  Suddenly I found myself identifying with the characters on Good As Gold I’d always rolled my eyes at. The ones whose tiny white lies, told to protect the ones they loved, snowballed into life destroyers. Why couldn’t they just tell the truth from the start?

  DENIM

  Thank God you survived that

  avalanche.

  DIAMOND

  The truth is, God had nothing

  to do with it. Ripper and I

  were forced to take off our

  clothes and huddle together

  all night long. It was the

  only way to stay warm. It

  meant nothing, and I’m sure

  that’s the angle People will

  take when they do their

  write-up.

  DENIM

  As in, the magazine??

  DIAMOND

  You understand, right?

  DENIM

  Of course. Thanks for telling

  me. Now get away from me, I

  never want to see you again.

  In other words: there was no way Keith would understand.

  I was allowed to skip gym the next afternoon to play in the First Annual Alexis Randall Charity Softball Game. Mom and Richard left a few hours early (in separate cars) for the preparatory spa visit requisite for any public appearance. Richard lobbied hard for me to
accompany them. “It’ll be great blended family bonding time,” he said.

  I was no fool. “Tamika’s picking me up. Besides, you just want me there so she has someone else to yell at.”

  “How long am I in the doghouse with her? Be honest.”

  “Until she wins an Emmy or you convince me to give her the story she wants, whichever comes first.”

  “And what do I have to do to get you to—”

  “Get People to back off.”

  Richard shook his head. “You know I can’t do that. And I wouldn’t even if I could.”

  “Have fun getting your roots done,” I answered.

  He shut up after that, and they drove off a few minutes later, leaving me alone in the house with just enough time to gather the raw material for my final assault.

  Tamika nearly ran us off the 101 when I told her about my mother’s latest move against me. “She’s trying to break you and Keith up?!”

  “She actually had the gall to say she was doing me a favor. Like I’ll be a better person for having my personal life play out on supermarket checkout stands everywhere. Personally, I think she just wants to get a contact high off my publicity.”

  “So what are you going to do?”

  “Oh good—you think I should do something. I was beginning to think you wanted me to declare a truce.”

  “I’m sorry I ever doubted you. Your mother is as nutty as they come, and you’re allowed to defend yourself.”

  “I’m glad you agree.”

  “But I was talking about Keith and Dallas,” she said. “What did Keith say when you told him what’s going on?”

  “He doesn’t know. Eyes on the road!”

  Tamika listened patiently as I explained that things between Keith and me were pretty shaky already without him learning my mother was trying to play unmatchmaker. It was bad enough that I’d told him there was something between me and Dallas, even if I didn’t want to act on it. “She’s probably been behind it from the start, you know,” I said. “All that stuff on LikelyWhorey? The picture of Dallas and me at the end of the driveway had to be her work.”

  “I don’t get it. What does your mother gain from messing around with your love life?”

  “Who knows? Who cares? I just want it to stop. The only person who gets to make decisions about my relationships is me.”

  “Is there a decision to be made?” Tamika asked, receiving silence in return. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  I braced myself. “I like Dallas.”

  Tamika didn’t flinch.

  “And?”

  “And shouldn’t we be in a ten-car pileup by now? Isn’t this big news?”

  Tamika sighed. “Everybody knows you like Dallas. Everybody knows Dallas likes you. The only people who aren’t saying so are you and Dallas.”

  “How do you know Dallas likes me?” Outside confirmation was invaluable.

  “It’s not like he confided in me over tea and scones. Let’s just say it’s the consensus around the studio.”

  “I just wish I knew what to do about it,” I said as we turned into Griffith Park beneath a canopy of slate clouds. “Keith and I are nicknames. We’re the prom and road trips to Laguna. He’s my boyfriend. I don’t want to hurt him.”

  That was a trap Tamika would not be caught in. “Then don’t. But just so you know, for a couple of months now, you’ve had the look of someone who’s in exquisite anguish. What ever you decide, try to take your own happiness into account, too.” She looked at the field in front of us. “Now, take all that anguish and hurtle it into your meanest underarm pitch.”

  The cast and crew of Tropical Hospital showed up in force that day, the better to show us up. Luc (formerly Luke) Franklin, one of the A&F Quarterly models cast in TH, was already bragging to Marilyn Kinsey. “Consider this a dress rehearsal for Emmy night,” he said, flexing a pec as Tamika and I passed by. (Some actors have to be bribed to take off their shirts. Others can’t be paid enough to keep them on.) “We made plenty of room on our mantels for trophies.”

  “Bet that took you all of two seconds,” I tossed over my shoulder, dragging my bat behind me like a Neanderthal’s club. Marilyn and Luc were left speechless. No one ever expects a girl to trash talk.

  They also never expect one to pitch. TH’s Teamsters assembled at the fence, scratching their heads (and other parts) as I took the mound to warm up. If only they knew …

  My catcher bounded out to greet me and flipped up his helmet.

  “Scooter?!” I gasped.

  “I told Coach I had lice,” he said, fluttering, “like when Trapper faked a brain lesion to dodge the draft on Good As Gold. How could I miss this?! We’re gonna kick some Tropical butt! Is your mom around?”

  I told Scooter she’d probably only make it in time for the seventh-inning stretch. Then, casually, I added, “Have you seen Dallas?”

  If Scooter was suspicious, he didn’t show it. “He’s around here somewhere. I think Alexis had him manning the pregame barbeque with Amelia.”

  “Say what?”

  “I know, can you believe it? Alexis thought of everything. She’s got all the stars dishing out hot dogs, signing autographs, playing catch with fans—do you know how many stalkers are going to show up for this softball game? I mean that in a good way.”

  “Go back to the part about Amelia being here,” I said. “Don’t tell me she’s got lice, too.” I thought about that for a second. “Or do,” I added.

  “I thought you knew. She’s the one who invited me. This whole thing was her brainstorm when she started a charitable events committee for the Alexis Randall Fan Club. See?” He handed me a flyer.

  Come one, come all, to the biggest Soap Opera Softball Extravagana this side of WeHo! Your favorite stars from Likely Story and Tropical Hospital will duke it out….

  Scanning scanning scanning, cancer cancer cancer, batting practice, raffles, blah blah blah … here it was….

  … barbeque and more! Brought to you by the Official Alexis Randall Fan Club. Please contact President Amelia for more details!

  How had I missed this? “President Amelia?! Amelia is president of Alexis’s fan club?!” I seethed. “That makes no sense!”

  “I thought it was weird, too,” said Scooter. “I mean, if it was up to her, every channel would air Judge Judy reruns all afternoon.”

  I crumpled the flyer in anger, hoping too late that Scooter didn’t want it for his scrapbook. “Amelia lost the lead role on Likely Story to Alexis. What business do they have hanging out together?”

  “Well, if this was a soap opera and I was writing it, right now I’d cut to a scene with Alexis and Amelia conspiring to destroy you.”

  This isn’t a soap opera, I told myself. It’s my life.

  When I finally caught a glimpse of Alexis, she was right where Scooter said she’d be … with Amelia, who happened to be standing by the grill, sliding Dallas’s hot dogs into her buns.

  Scooter recommended an immediate confrontation. “Break out the brass knuckles, Mal.” I might have agreed with him, if there’d been a dark alley conveniently located in the middle of the diamond. But open fields are not conducive to beat downs—and besides, I told him, a big scene might have been just what they wanted. I knew it sounded paranoid. But a gossip Web site had targeted me for destruction. My mother was trying to break up me and Keith. Richard was gunning for my job. I didn’t know what I was going to wear to the Emmys. And now my two worst enemies were teaming up to fight cancer.

  It couldn’t get any worse.

  And then the game started.

  I should’ve known the game would go badly when my mother showed up relatively on time and Alexis invited her to kick things off with her rendition of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Alexis must have known Mom would never pass up an opportunity to perform, even though she’d unofficially given up singing five years ago, when her self-financed production of Cats flopped at La Jolla. Mom’s Grizabella “couldn’t carry a flea, much less a tune,” wrote t
he Times. At least this event was only being covered by fan club newsletters.

  For further distraction, there was Dallas. We did a bad job of pretending nothing was going on between us. Watercooler run-ins were fraught with drama masquerading as small talk. When I insisted he refill his bottle first, what I really meant to say was, We almost kiss one day and you’re hanging out with Amelia and Alexis the next? What’s going on? And when he still deferred to me, I’m pretty sure he was trying to say, I’ll hang out with you once you’re done avoiding me.

  Amelia declined to play (her sport of choice was the Barney’s Warehouse Sale Raid), instead sitting on the bleachers taking pictures for posterity. The distance she kept was of no comfort to me. I wanted her close by, the better to figure out her plan.

  But my first priority was establishing my dominance over the strike zone. Mom, Dallas, and Gina covered the outfield while Tamika, Javier, Francesca, and Richard kept the infield tidy. We weren’t too shabby at the plate, either. “Pretty powerful for a weasel,” I whispered to Javier after Richard hit a fly deep to right. “It’s all in the Wii,” he responded. “He’s been practicing behind closed doors in his office every chance he gets.”

  As the innings piled on, I began to grudgingly give Alexis and Amelia a little credit for putting the event together (though not to their faces). For the first time in forever, the entire cast and crew were all in one place, working toward a common goal. No sniping or undermining. It felt good. Like how I’d imagined working on a show would be. I didn’t mind cheering Richard on, and I loved smoking Luc Franklin and all his centerfold co-stars with my fastball.

  “That’ll show him to clear off his mantel,” I said to Tamika as we trotted back to the dugout after a three-up, three-down inning, Dallas trailing us.

  “What am I missing?” he asked.

  “Mallory’s competitive streak,” remarked Tamika. “It’s been resurrected.”

  “Just in time for the Emmys, huh, Mal?” Dallas smiled.

  Technically, the Emmys were still a few weeks away. But he was right.

  Everything went south during the seventh-inning stretch. We weren’t even playing and it nose-dived. Mom took to the field for her curtain call (“Take Me Out to the Ball Game”), and I took to the concession stand, claiming we were running dangerously low on Big League Chew. Scooter had warned me he was going to request an encore, so I took my time. Big mistake.