Likely Story!

by David Levithan

  “You think Richard left this for you?” she asked. “He doesn’t even know which room is yours. I slipped that under your door, not him.”

  I looked at the passage again, this time through a haze.

  Mallory Hayden is a fresh, courageous voice in the world of soaps. Her ideas are original and her characters are bold—and Real.

  “And what about me and Keith?” I persisted. “How does siccing LikelyWhorey on us translate to you having to make a sacrifice for me?”

  “Do you think I would stoop so low as to conspire with anonymous cloggers?”

  “I think you mean ‘bloggers,’” said Gina.

  “Whatever. I may have suggested the story in People, but I did so only after you made it clear you were longing for Dallas. You’re the one who aligned yourself with those trolls on the computer, Mallory. Not me.”

  Cleaned out of ammo, I turned to the only buddy I had in this foxhole and begged for a reload. “Do you buy this?” I asked Gina.

  “Leave her out of this,” my mother said sharply. “Unless you want to force our friend to choose sides. In which case, I shouldn’t be surprised. You’ve already thrown your own mother to the wolves. Why stop there?”

  “God, I am sick to death of the both of you!” Gina suddenly cried. “You,” she shot at Mom, “should know better than to play the long-suffering type in front of me. I know all your dirty little secrets. And you”—she turned to me—”can afford to give your mother the benefit of the doubt this once. She doesn’t even have an e-mail address. You think she’d know the first thing about getting in touch with a couple of evil bloggers and giving them the lowdown on your love life?”

  The outburst shut us up long enough for the red carpet arrival show to register in our ears once more. Joy Behar was interviewing Alexis. I wouldn’t have paid any attention if I didn’t then notice her date:

  Jake …

  “We met at my charity softball game,” she gushed. “Jake’s my fan club president’s brother. She’s around here somewhere.”

  Joy turned the conversation to LikelyWhorey.

  “Likely Story’s been the talk of the red carpet this year, and not just because of all its nominations. There’s been a lot of gossip buzzing around the Internet about your co-stars and head writer. Has it been distracting?”

  “Mallory’s a great girl,” Alexis said with her trademark sad eyes. “I feel really awful for her. She gets a bad rap. Just this morning, there was something else on that ugly Web site.” The picture cut to Keith’s mug shot, beneath which ran a block of text. Joy narrated.

  “‘Keith headed for juvie? Duno with Mallory?’”

  “I’ll never understand your generation’s slang,” said Mom. “What does duno mean?”

  “It’s dunzo. With a z, “I said.

  With a z.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  With a z.

  Jake had his arm around Alexis. She was saying something, but I was too busy cataloging all of LikelyWhorey’s entries in my head….

  “Oh God,” I whispered.

  The intercom crackled to life. “We’re here,” said the chauffeur. We pulled to a stop, and I suddenly noticed the din pressing against the limo.

  “Mallory? What is it?” asked Gina.

  “I know who’s behind LikelyWhorey.” How could I not have known?

  Mom perked up. “Who?”

  The chauffeur opened the door, and the roar battered us. Before us was the red carpet, a long, crimson tongue stretching all the way to the maw of the Kodak Theatre. And on it, right in front of us, was Joy Behar, a camera crew, and Alexis, Amelia, and Jake—LikelyWhorey’s masterminds.

  The cameraman swung in our direction. I heard Joy say, “And here they are now!” I locked eyes with Alexis first, and then Amelia.

  Then I closed my fist. And lunged.

  Two against one is not a fair fight. But I had four things working in my favor. One: the element of surprise. Two: blind rage. Three: the willingness to fight dirty. Four: the sound of Scooter egging me on from the spectator stands.

  I reenacted Alexis’s pillow fight with my mother—oh, she must have loved setting that one up—only this time I was the one doing the slinging, and I was using a purse full of MAC makeup and discarded speeches. Down she went. Amelia screamed bloody murder and bolted, forgetting she was dressed in floor-length silk and three-inch heels. She went down all on her own. Jake didn’t know what to do: get out the smelling salts for Alexis or get in my way. He chose wisely.

  I caught a fistful of Amelia’s hair before she could crawl to the safety of the shocked crowd, and I pulled her to her feet, breaking one of my heels in the struggle. She was mine, but she was far from helpless. I had to make this count. Especially since I could see security bearing down on us from a Rosie O’Donnell–related altercation not far up-carpet. She keened as I dragged her past the cast of Tropical Hospital and right up to Joy Behar, to whom I offered my handshake.

  “Nice to meet you, Joy. My name’s Mallory Hayden. I write Likely Story. And this classy young lady is my ex–best friend, Amelia. She’s got something to say to your audience. Go on, Amelia. Tell the nice lady how you and Alexis and Jake know all about what it’s like to run LikelyWhorey.”

  The stream of swears that Amelia let loose later cost the network twenty million dollars in FCC fines. I told the network president, Stu Eisenhorn, to take it out of my salary.

  I twisted my hand, and Amelia crumpled. “We don’t have all day, Amelia,” I said. Among the many heads bobbing for a better look were Gina’s, Mom’s, Javier’s, Francesca’s, Luc Franklin’s, Marilyn Kinsey’s … and Dallas’s. I took a split second to worry that he’d lost all respect for me, and then I got over it. I’d lose all respect for myself if I didn’t extract a confession from Amelia. “Spill it now. Or start investing in hats.”

  “Fine! Yes, we started LikelyWhorey! Happy now?!”

  I let her go. And no, I wasn’t happy.

  “You act like it’s something we should be ashamed of. I’m glad we did it! Somebody needed to teach you a lesson! And everything we said was true, wasn’t it?”

  The cameras were again turned on me, but the only gaze I felt was Dallas’s.

  “Deny it, Mallory. Tell us you aren’t the kind of girl who steals another girl’s boyfriend. You’d never choose your own success before your friends, right? And you’re too good a person to string along your boyfriend while you figure out if the star of your show is into you. Tell us we’re wrong.”

  I could push my way out of the cage of microphones surrounding me, but my silence would speak louder than anything I said. Sixteen years of growing up in LA and watching my mother manipulate the media had trained me for this moment. I knew how to satisfy them and craft my image at the same time. With a single sound bite I could mute Amelia and render her a fool. No one would expect anything less. It would just be the latest salvo in a war we’d been fighting since I’d turned my back on her … the ever-widening conflict that had claimed victims not just of the two of us, but of Keith, Dallas, and my mom, too.

  Any number of possible answers would have satisfied Joy Behar. But only one would satisfy me.

  “I’m sorry I hurt you, Amelia.”

  She took a breath to retort, but stopped, unprepared for the blow I’d landed.

  “I should’ve stuck by you. I made a bad decision. I was wrong. I wish I hadn’t learned that lesson at your expense. And I hope you’ll forgive me.”

  Now it was Amelia’s turn under the spotlight, an opportunity she’d been seeking her whole life. She could either seize the moment or squander it. There was never really any doubt how she’d play it. She always folded under pressure.

  “Forget it.”

  Joy turned to her camera. “You heard it here first, folks. Immaturity is alive and well in the American teenager.” She nodded at me before adding, “But not all of them.”

  I didn’t bother to correct her. I had miles of apologies and more news to make.
<
br />   I stepped over a woozy Alexis and then lobbed my last grenade.

  “And just for the record … I don’t have a boyfriend anymore, thanks to you.”

  The throng of reporters exploded behind me. Dallas called out my name. I wanted to stop and tell him everything. I owed him, big—but I owed my mother more. So I made my way up the steps to the theater alone, stopping just once to survey the carnage I’d wrought. Jake was helping Alexis into a car. Amelia was gone, and my mother was mobbed by reporters, no doubt once again answering questions that were all about me.

  But this time she was beaming. Truly beaming.

  I was her girl, after all.

  My newly acquired reputation for violence preceded me all the way to the ladies’ restroom, which cleared out as soon as I hobbled in. I took it as a compliment.

  The door swung open behind me, and Tamika came in. “I’m unarmed,” she said, hoping for a smile.

  “How’d you find me?” I asked.

  “Easy. Everyone was running in the other direction. How’s your smacking arm?”

  “It hurts.”

  “I should think so. You know you practically broke Alexis’s jaw, right? You look hot, by the way.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes to both. Don’t worry about it. She’ll be thanking you when she loses ten pounds on a liquid diet. And we get to turn Sarah mute!”

  “What have I done?” I asked my reflection.

  “Exactly what you and I and half the cast have wanted to do for months. Did you know there was a pool? The First Person to Slug Alexis pool. My money was on Francesca.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  “Let’s just say it’ll be another six months before I get my new Mercedes.”

  Now I was smiling. But just a little.

  “It’s not just Alexis,” I said, sniffling.

  “I know,” Tamika said, squeezing my hand. “It’s the talk of Hollywood and Highland. What can I do to help? Name it.”

  “Please stop being so nice to me. I don’t deserve it.”

  Tamika squeezed my hand tighter. “I know you don’t. You were supposed to return the compliment and tell me how I’m rocking this dress, but you know what? It’s Emmy day. And everyone gets a clean slate on Emmy day. Besides, you’re not only my friend, you’re my boss, and I need this job.”

  I squeezed back. “I can’t fire you. You keep me sane. And nobody writes Vienna like you do.”

  “That’s more like it. Keep that praise coming and I’ll have your back forever,” she said. The voice of the telecast’s director boomed over the loudspeaker in the lobby outside. “Please take your seats, the ceremony is about to begin.”

  “Do you think you’re ready to face your public?” Tamika asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t care what they say about me. Let me ask you something, though. Where do you think they keep the envelopes with the winners?”

  “Why?” she asked, alerted.

  “I wonder how hard it would be to switch one of them out.”

  She rolled her eyes and pulled me toward the door. “I’m going to pretend I didn’t just hear that.”

  My only idea, shot down. My mom’s Emmy fate was now out of my hands.

  I entered the theater right before the show went live. The cast of Tropical Hospital pointed and whispered as I did my perp walk down the aisle, shoes in hand. I caught the eye of Luc Franklin as I passed by.

  “Hope you’re ready to go home empty-handed, Hayden,” he called.

  “I’d rather go home empty-handed than go home with you, Luc.”

  I heard a few titters from the All My Affairs section.

  “From what I hear about you, you’re not going anywhere with anybody,” he returned.

  “Hey, Luc,” said a voice. I looked down the aisle to see Dallas approaching fast. “How’s your batting average these days?”

  This was met with general snickering from casts and crews of the three shows seated in the area. Luc sank into his seat.

  “May I show you to your seat?” Dallas asked.

  I took his arm but averted my eyes for fear I’d melt.

  “What happened to your shoes?” he asked.

  “I broke a heel breaking Amelia’s will to live. Small price to pay, really.”

  The director’s voice sounded once more. “Please take your seats, we are thirty seconds from air.”

  Dallas delivered me front row center and leaned in close as I sat down, so close I could feel his breath warm my ear.

  “Good luck,” he whispered.

  I shivered.

  “You, too,” I said. He started to walk away.

  “Dallas!” I called to him. He turned to me. There were so many things to say. But all I could get out was “Have you got your speech?”

  “I scrapped it,” he said. “I decided I needed something that applied more to the situation at hand.”

  He walked to his seat across the aisle. “What a gentleman,” said the woman next to me, an older lady in a spectacularly frilly gown. It was then that I realized she was in the seat reserved for Keith. “I’m a seat filler,” she said, reading my mind. I told her to settle in for a long night.

  Richard sat on the other side of me, and Mom next to him. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought they were strangers to each other. As the lights dimmed and the generic canned Emmy music blared, I noticed that all of our nominees were positioned with unobstructed paths to the stage. Mom was perfectly positioned for a short trip to the center podium. Maybe this is a good sign, I thought.

  Richard leaned over to me. “You know the show paid for Alexis’s Emmy ticket, don’t you?”

  “I’ll write you a check. Was it really your idea to turn Ryan into a dog abuser?”

  Richard paled as the hosts walked out onstage to applause and introduction.

  “He brought the soul patch to daytime television; she’s roller derby’s greatest star! Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome …”

  We were under way.

  ————

  Last year’s winner of the Emmy for Best Younger Actress presented the award for this year’s Best Younger Actor. She was Camilla Cortez, and had been so honored for her daring portrayal of a young girl who went through life color-blind. Imagine … never knowing the difference between a green apple … and a red delicious….

  I checked in with Dallas, who appeared to be making a meal of his fingernails. Next to him was Francesca, who exposed a flask she kept hidden in her purse and offered him a sip. Dallas shook his head violently and pushed it away, just as five roving cameramen appeared and took their places in front of each of the nominees.

  “… proved that not all leprechauns were lucky,” Camilla continued. “Our final nominee spent the year trying to make it work with the girl he loved, only to discover that sometimes love just isn’t enough. Here’s Dallas Grant playing Ryan, the young hero of Likely Story.”

  The big screen above the stage lit up. Dallas and Francesca were on Jacqueline’s front porch as the storm worsened, weighing down on them. It was the same scene I’d imagined reenacting with Keith just hours ago on the freeway. It didn’t end well for anybody.

  Jacqueline had just made her final pitch for her and Ryan to stay together, only to have him turn around and walk away.

  JACQUELINE

  Ryan, forget about me—

  RYAN

  Already done.

  JACQUELINE

  Just stay! It’s dangerous

  out there.

  RYAN

  My chances of getting hurt

  are worse here. (SEE

  JACQUELINE, RAVAGED) I

  changed for you, Jackie. But

  it was a mistake. I don’t

  like who I became.

  JACQUELINE Don’t go.

  RYAN

  (IN TEARS) Don’t you get it?

  I’m already gone.

  The lights came up as I wondered if everything I’d ever written for Likely Story had been a
reflection of something I’d experienced myself … or was rehearsing for. All this time, I thought of my characters as living their own lives inside my head, and I was the one who had to draw them out and put them on the screen. But was it my life they had been living? Had I been sending signals through them all along? Not just signals to Dallas or Keith or my mother, but signals to myself?

  Camilla tore into the envelope. “And the winner is … Dallas Grant!”

  Likely Story’s theme music descended on the audience, but I could hardly hear it above my own cheers. Dallas was sandwiched between Francesca and Javier in a bear hug, and then he spun toward the steps. He shook his head in disbelief at the golden statuette, then leaned toward the microphone.

  “Wow. First, I can’t get off this stage without telling my mom to please forget about med school. It’s not gonna happen.” He got a few laughs with this, most of them from me.

  “There were other things I was going to say and a lot of people I was going to thank, but I can only think of one of them right now.” He looked down at me. “She’s the one who taught me to speak in code. I hope you know how important you are to me. I’ve tried to make you see that. But I’ve always done better with other people’s words than with my own, so I just want to conclude this by quoting some of yours … and hopefully you remember the translation.”

  He swallowed and took a big breath.

  “Mallory Hayden … I loathe you.”

  And there it was.

  Right in front of me.

  There it was.

  Some people were confused.

  ”Did he just say loathe?” the seat filler next to me murmured.

  ”Yes,” I told her.

  He loathes me.

  Which meant …

  He loathes me not.