Likely Story!

by David Levithan

  “Which means she’s coming back,” Francesca insisted. “She’s probably just hiding out somewhere, dreaming up new stories to tell or ways to torture her mother. Why aren’t you out looking for her, if you’re so worried?”

  “Because if she knew I was trying to find her, she’d probably just run farther away. Ever since our square dance, she can hardly stand to be in the same room with me. If I’d known my do-si-dos were that bad, I’d never have set foot in that gym.”

  “I don’t think it’s your dance moves, or lack thereof, that are putting the distance between you two.” Francesca chuckled.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You told me not to go there.” She sighed. “So I won’t. Just try not to worry so much about Mallory, okay? Look at this place. If it wasn’t for her, there would be a studio audience on this set watching the network’s answer to The View. Everybody here has a job because of her. You and I are members of SAG because of her. You have an Emmy nomination because of her. People have mortgages because of her. She’s taking care of herself and everybody else at this show. She knows what she’s doing.”

  It was nice to hear someone else say that, especially because it wasn’t said to my face. The fact that it was anything but true was an afterthought.

  “I know she does,” said Dallas. “I just wish she knew that she doesn’t have to do it alone.”

  I’d finally found what I was looking for. I just couldn’t face him.

  Not yet.

  Dallas seemed to think I was drowning, but I was intent on proving him wrong. Even if it meant swimming with my Great White Mother.

  Nobody knew how the Twenty-Year Gap would affect Mom’s chances. Some women (and more than a few gay men) were rallying behind her, saying sixty was the new forty, anyway.

  As the day got closer, Mom started eating less and less. Not out of a desire to fit into her dress, but out of sheer nervousness.

  If it had been bad before, when she hadn’t been nominated at all, now it was even worse. Because now it was about having a shot—and losing anyway.

  I really didn’t think about my own chances.

  Like everything else, this was all about my mother.

  The big day arrived, and there was no way for me to stop it. I got into my Calvin Klein sea foam sheath dress and was ready to take a look at the whole product, finally put together. I hesitated before facing the mirror. Dressing up these days often left me cold. It hadn’t always been that way. There was a time I’d loved exploring my mom’s closet, especially sifting through the section reserved for “never agains.” These were items she kept on hand to remind herself of the bad old days, when sequins and shoulder pads ruled. “Those who forget history are doomed to repeat it,” she’d say, shuddering. I’d mix and match the plaidest blazer I could find with a polka-dot skirt, then pose for the mirror, reciting Good As Gold dialogue by heart. Once, Mom caught me doing one of her juicier speeches.

  “I own Shadow Canyon Hospital now,” I proclaimed in my best Geneva voice. “And that means I get to pull the plug on anyone I want. So sayonara, Mr. Secretary-General!”

  Mom was not impressed.

  “More attitude,” she directed impatiently. “Geneva thinks the United Nations is a joke.”

  I tried, but Mom had a knack for arrogance that I’d yet to match.

  “We can’t all be performers, can we?” she said, relieved. “I’m sure there are other things you can do with your life.”

  I was seven.

  I’d since discovered that she was right—there were other things I could do with my life … things that could get me Emmy-nominated. I didn’t need pretend reasons to get dressed up. I had perfectly legitimate ones. Pep talk concluded, I stepped in front of the mirror and was not displeased with what I saw. Maybe someone, somewhere would think I looked like a winner.

  “Greetings from 1979,” said Keith when he arrived not long after. He was wearing his father’s powder-blue tux. Between school and work and court dates, we’d never gotten around to returning to the mall. He said he’d take care of it himself. “But I took another look at this one and decided it was too funky to pass up. Plus, we match! Almost.”

  Now was not the time to dwell on the fact that sea foam and powder blue are a total mismatch. We were the Clash, and not in a cool way.

  “So are you nervous?” he asked.

  “I’m keeping a brown paper bag in my clutch in case I feel the sudden need to vomit. What does that tell you?”

  Keith rubbed my shoulders. It occurred to me that this was the first time we’d touched since the car accident. “Do you want to practice your acceptance speech on me?”

  “As jinxes go, I think that’s probably the jinxiest.”

  “Suit yourself. I just thought you might like someone to bounce ideas off of. Have you got one written or are you going to wing it?”

  I saw my earrings on the side table—a good reason to wriggle from his touch. “You act like it’s a sure thing.”

  “That’s because you act like you can’t win.”

  “I just don’t want to act like we ought to win. My mom’s done that her whole life. And look at what that’s gotten her.”

  “Fame, fortune, and an ungrateful daughter,” Mom said, having heard just enough as she made her entrance at the top of the stairs. “What else could a star want?”

  “An Emmy?” Keith asked, and not in a whisper, either.

  Mom ignored Keith as she swanned down the steps, dripping diamonds. Gina was right behind her.

  “Mallory, you look radiant,” Gina said, genuinely thrilled for me. “Am I right or am I right?”

  Mom looked me up and down, but the best she could muster was “Mmhm. All right, everyone, it’s time to go.”

  Keith scowled. “We’re all going together?”

  “The network only sent one limo,” I apologized.

  “Feel free to walk,” said Mom, “or even stay behind.”

  “But then I’d throw off the seating arrangement,” said Keith, his jaw clenched.

  “Oh, that’s silly. The people who plan these ceremonies are ready for any contingency. They’ll just move people around. I’m sure Dallas wouldn’t mind sitting next to Mallory,” said Mom, breathing frost.

  Keith tensed. I stepped in. “Shall we? I think the driver’s ready for us.”

  But Keith wasn’t letting go. “Shouldn’t we wait for Richard? Or has he made other arrangements?”

  “I’m not worried about Richard,” said Mom. “However, I do worry about you, Kasper, especially on that red carpet. Will you be able to behave yourself among all the paparazzi?”

  “Gee, I really hope so, Ms. Hayden. How about if I make you a deal? If you help me keep my temper in check, I’ll help you do the same. ’Cause all those reporters are bound to want to know more about how it feels to be twenty years closer to the grave than you were a week ago.”

  All of a sudden, getting into that limo with Mom and Keith seemed like getting into a death trap. I prayed to God we wouldn’t hit traffic.

  God was not on my side that day. The traffic on every freeway from Santa Barbara to Sunset Beach moved with all the urgency of a stoner to a drug test. Things were quiet at first, thanks to Gina’s efforts to keep the peace. Whenever my mom asked how she looked, Gina would distract her with a crinkled brow, and poof, out came the hand mirror. Mom stopped asking after her third lipstick adjustment. There came a point when even she could find no wrong with her reflection.

  “Relax, Mom,” I said. “Nobody’s going to call you out on the red carpet.”

  “It does help that the walking robin’s egg on your arm is a lock for the top of all the worst-dressed lists,” she sneered.

  “Bring it on,” said Keith, despite the squeezing I was giving his wrist. “I’ll consider it a badge of honor.”

  “Way to think ahead, Krispin. I hope Mallory considers your street cred a fair trade for her good name. After all, every picture of you mugging for the camera in your
Mod Squad uniform will be captioned with her name first: Mallory Hayden, seen here with date, sometime juvenile delinquent, Kieran So-and-so.”

  Keith let her statement hang in the air for a moment. “Anybody know what the Mod Squad is? Is that from, like, the fifties?”

  Mom bit her lip hard, smearing her tooth with lipstick. Or was it blood? Gina tried to get her attention, but Keith’s attitude was ringing in Mom’s ears. “So these are the qualities you value in a boyfriend? Insolence? Superiority?”

  “Can we all just not talk?” I pleaded, shielding my eyes. “Does anyone here want to have frown lines in their first picture on the red carpet?”

  Keith looked at me sharply. “Before we do that, I’d appreciate it if we heard more about the qualities you value in a boyfriend. Specifically, is there anything more to me besides insolence and superiority?”

  I looked at Keith. Mom looked at me. Gina looked out the window.

  “Of course there is,” I said, hoping my telepathy would kick in and he’d hear me screaming LEAVE IT ALONE.

  “How about if I get you rolling? I’m loyal.”

  Mom tsked. “And presumptuous.”

  Keith leaned forward. “Patient!”

  “Egotistical!”

  “Tolerant!”

  “Infantile!”

  “Feel free to chime in anytime, Mallory! At this point I’ll take hot, or drives stick, or bathes!”

  “Even a dog bathes,” muttered Mom.

  “Would you two listen to yourselves?” I said. “Amelia and I get along better than this!”

  Keith flicked the intercom switch and told the driver to pull over.

  “That’ll be a minute, sir—we’re at a standstill and I’m in the center lane.”

  “Forget it,” Keith said. He opened the door and stepped out. I sat there in shock for two seconds, and Gina blurted, “What are you waiting for, Mallory?! Go get him!”

  I hitched up my gown and scrambled into the shimmering LA heat. Keith had already stalked three car lengths down the median. Lying on the pavement was his bow tie, the one I told him he didn’t have to wear, the one he wore anyway, just to make me happy.

  “Keith, you’re gonna get hit by a car. Come back!”

  He spun around, his arms open wide. “Why should I? I can think of a million reasons not to get back in that car. Your Mom. Your cast. Your show. Your priorities. Can you give me one good reason why I should?”

  “Come on, princess,” belched a voice above me. A mutton-chopped big rigger leered down from his truck’s cab. “Tell him you love him!”

  Keith stood waiting.

  “Because I want you to be there.”

  Keith stood waiting.

  “Isn’t that good enough?”

  “How about if you tell me once more, with feeling this time?”

  Muttonchops cleared his throat and ducked back inside. I could hear Likely Story playing from his portable TV.

  Keith went on. “I just don’t believe you, Mallory. And I don’t think you believe you, either.”

  “Miss?” It was our chauffeur, calling me. “Traffic’s clearing up ahead. You’ll want to get back in.”

  I turned to Keith, blinking back tears. “Please get back in the car, Keith.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not Keith,” he said. “I’m not Kal or Kanye or Kellan. And we’re not George and Gracie or Nick and Nora or Sid and Nancy. I’m Erika. And you’re me. And the show’s you.”

  “Mallory,” my mother yelled, window down. “Let’s go!”

  Keith’s eyes glistened. “And your mom’s still your mom.”

  I took a deep breath. Suddenly I felt like I’d been here before, and it hit me: episode eighty-eight. Ryan and Jacqueline confront each other as a mighty spring gale plucks shingles from her roof. This was Act VI-D. The end of the show. The cliff-hanger. The prelude to the slam bang of a May sweeps Friday. This was Jacqueline’s big speech, raw and real and revealing. She made her case, and we tightened on Ryan to leave the audience wondering…. Would he stay? Or would he really turn around and walk away into the rain and night?

  I’d written that speech. I knew it by heart. I knew it was a winner. It was on the tip of my tongue.

  But that’s where I left it. Those weren’t my words anymore. I wasn’t Jacqueline, and Keith wasn’t Ryan. I could write their dialogue with ease but was unable to write my own.

  “Go to the Emmys,” Keith said. “Have a good time. Bring home the gold. I’ll still root for you. But I’ll be doing it from home.” And he walked off, not looking back.

  When I climbed into the limo, Mom had the television turned on and tuned to the red carpet arrivals.

  “Where’s Keith?” asked Gina.

  I couldn’t look at her. “We’re good to go,” I spoke into the intercom. The car sprang forward.

  “Oh, honey …” Gina shook her head. “Look at you, you’re a mess.” She dug around in her purse, but the first person to offer me a tissue was my mother.

  “Clean yourself up. We’ll be there shortly.”

  I batted the tissue from her hand.

  “What is the matter with you?!” she spat.

  “Keith dumped me. You won.”

  Mom said nothing, preferring to feign interest in Tyra Banks’s Emmy gown.

  “Go on, Mom. This is your big moment. Give me your victory speech. You know you’ve been rehearsing it for months. Lay it on me.”

  “I haven’t won anything, yet.”

  “I’m sorry you think so, because you’re not going to win anything else tonight. I made sure of that.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  Savor this moment, Mallory. Forevermore you shall associate the intoxicating smell of Armor All with your mother’s utter annihilation.

  “It means I’m the one who leaked your birth certificate to LikelyWhorey.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Gina covered her mouth. I wondered if she was going to scream or throw up.

  “I broke into the safe, took out your birth certificate, scanned it, and passed it along to the fine folks at LikelyWhorey.”

  “You wouldn’t—”

  “What, out-scheme you? Meddle in your life, butt into your affairs, mess with your job, undermine your relationship with your boss, take away your fiancé? Need I go on?”

  “No.” She paused long enough to pour herself several swigs of something clear from the minibar and for me to realize I was holding my breath. “I don’t need you to recount all the ways you think I’ve wronged you.”

  “Because they’re your greatest hits, right? You know them by heart.” I was frenzied, slicing away at her with the scorn I’d honed for years. But she just sat there and took it. Not a single counterattack for what I’d pulled. Not even a word to defend herself. She just sat there and took it. Naturally, I thought she’d been replaced with an evil twin.

  “This is it?” I asked, so tired of it all, but having to go through it anyway. “I out your real age and all you can muster is a shrug?”

  “Shall I open a vein?” she asked, licking her teeth clean of alcohol. “Would that satisfy you?”

  “Why don’t you start with an apology? We’ll work up to the bloodletting.”

  She laughed bitterly.

  “You put far too much stock in the power of words, Mallory. How writerly of you. But it takes a performance to give life to dialogue, and I’m just not a good enough actress to sell you on an apology I don’t mean. I’ve done nothing to be sorry for. Unless making sacrifices for my daughter is something to be ashamed of, in which case I’m the sorriest woman alive.”

  I was stunned speechless. This was supposed to be my moment. This was supposed to be—

  “I abandoned the show that made me a star—and why? For you and Likely Story. I accepted a role as a”—here she paused to brace herself—”guidance counselor, and a wardrobe that’s fifty percent tweed, and I did it for you. Every interview I sit down for begins with the question ‘How does it feel to ta
ke orders from your teenage daughter?’ I smile and shake my head and give you the credit you’re due…. It feels like it takes hours! But do I get the same consideration from you? Never. On the odd occasion you deign to speak to the press, it’s always Dallas this and Francesca that. After a career spanning decades, I’ve been reduced to playing your cheerleader. If I’d known that being on your side was a sin worthy of betrayal, I’d have destroyed Likely Story before the network ever signed off on it. Don’t think I couldn’t have. But it’s not in my nature to sabotage your dreams, Mallory. No matter what you think I may have done, I’d never stand in your way.”

  She was on some new medication. That had to be it. It had made her completely forget the past.

  “You jumped ship on Good As Gold because it was dead last in the ratings and about to be canceled,” I reminded her. “More people were watching a test of the Emergency Broadcasting System than Geneva’s latest hysterical pregnancy. So don’t tell me it was your blessing that got Likely Story off the ground. I’ve gotten more support from Richard, and that’s saying a lot.”

  “Richard is not your friend,” she said. “He’d write the show himself if he had his way. He’s still intent on punishing Dallas for his insubordination when the show was just getting off the ground—he was planning to sell the network on a story in which Ryan starts a dogfighting ring. If I hadn’t suggested a pairing with me, your muse would be spending the next six months of tape dates in a hospital set, recovering from an onscreen mauling, and you would be writing public-service announcements for PETA.”

  “I—I don’t believe you,” I stammered as I groped around in my purse. “Richard and I may butt heads, but he believes in me.” I found what I was looking for and thrust it at her. “At least he wants me to succeed—and finds a way to say so.”

  Mom took one look at the worn piece of paper I held in my hand and tsked. It was the press release the network had put out after the nominations were announced … the one with the following passage underlined in red pen:

  When asked to comment on Likely Story’s accomplishment, Marilyn Kinsey of Soap Opera Summary said this: “Story. Plain and simple. Mallory Hayden is a fresh, courageous voice in the world of soaps. Her ideas are original and her characters are bold—and Real. She’s bringing people back to daytime, and for once the Academy is rewarding fine work and not the same old drivel that we’ve all become accustomed to.”