Likely Story!

by David Levithan

I wanted him to come back down the steps. I wanted to eject the seat filler and have him sit down next to me.

  I wanted to say I loathed him, too.

  But that’s not how award shows work. Dallas did not come back down to his seat, or to me. He was escorted off the side of the stage, to go celebrate his win with enquiring reporters.

  I looked over to Dallas’s empty seat. Francesca and Javier were both watching me. Seeing how I was taking it.

  They knew.

  Everyone knew.

  But really the only thing that mattered was that Dallas knew.

  And I was starting to know, too.

  A lot happened after Dallas was escorted offstage, little of it given much notice by me. The theme of the evening seemed to be “Which of These Things Is Not Like the Other?” Like the hosts, there was an incongruous pair of presenters for every award doled out: undersea explorer/Playboy bunny; lion tamer/gourmet chef; ex–NFL star/rhythmic gymnast. A ventriloquist from public television did a bit with a puppet, though I later learned I’d confused the puppet with Barbara Walters. (In my defense, it could be very hard to tell with Barbara.) There was a song-and-dance medley, too: “Daytime Stars Salute Branson, Missouri!” And between all of this, commercial breaks, during which everyone got up and milled around or gossiped or stepped behind curtains to commit lewd acts.

  I barely saw any of it.

  I was busy replaying in my head the moment Dallas stood above me on the stage, announcing to the world that he loathed me. And if I wasn’t seeing Dallas, I was imagining Keith hitching his way back to Tarzana, the half of my heart he’d taken with him squashed in his pocket.

  But mostly I was wondering when Dallas would emerge from the labyrinth of press pens, gifting suites, and greenrooms the Emmy handlers were no doubt parading him through. It would be soon. And then the long wait would be over. He’d expect a response. And I’d have to give it to him. It was Emmy day for some and D-day for others. For me it was both.

  For Mom it was all that and Memorial Day, too. Or so I realized when she glided onstage to much fanfare and introduced a Good As Gold retrospective. I hadn’t even noticed her get up from her seat. Her appearance rated a solid ovation, instigated by none other than Richard.

  I stared at her during the applause. And for once, I was seeing all these genuine emotions flash across her face—elation at being recognized, fear of being forgotten, comfort because part of her knew she belonged up there, and anxiety because the other part of her felt she wasn’t good enough, and that even though she loved daytime—no one could argue with that—she never entirely knew whether daytime loved her back.

  When the applause quieted, Mom looked to the teleprompter and began her scripted introduction.

  “For forty years, Good As Gold was the standard-bearer for high drama, grand adventure, and big romance in daytime television. Viewers lived and died by what mysterious artifacts the Colonel would unearth in his mine; wept at the travails of poor beleaguered Hester and her trusty Saint Bernard, François; and thrilled to the exploits of my character, Geneva—sometime mayor, occasional fashion magazine editor, fulltime dame. But all ‘good’ things must come to an end. And so this year we bid farewell to the cast and town that will always stay ‘gold.’”

  That should have been it. But my mother, as always, couldn’t stick to the script.

  “When you’re old as I am,” she began—and that one line got her even louder applause than before, nearly a standing ovation. Because this is what people wanted from my mother—a head-on collision, a brave reckoning. She smiled, then started over again.

  “When you’re as old as I am, you have seen all of the changes that have happened to daytime. You might wonder if we still have a place in this world. Well, I’m here to tell you—we do still have stories to tell. We do still matter in the lives of our viewers. We give them that essential daily dose of make-believe … and you know what it does? It makes them believe. Over and over. It makes them believe.”

  The big screen lit up once more, and Good As Gold’s theme music, a jangle of country western and Copland-inspired strings, filled the theater. We saw the iconic image, Good As Gold’s slowly rotating safe, filled with gold bars and shimmering jewelry. As the longtime star, Mom was heavily featured in the montage. I recognized several clips from Geneva’s iconic search for Shangri-la and the story that brought Mom closest to Emmy recognition, her daughter Diamond’s courageous battle with rabies. With the fits and foaming at the mouth that Mom brought to the table, it might have appeared to the casual observer that the bat had attacked Geneva, not Diamond.

  When the reel concluded, there was another round of applause. Mom returned to her seat, and the next presenter stepped into her place, announcing the nominees for Best Leading Actress.

  I stole a look in Mom’s direction. Richard had her hand in his. He’d moved out of the house, had barely said two words to her outside of work, but was still able to make some show of affection. Had I missed something? Had one apologized to the other right next to me without my hearing it? Was it an unspoken understanding that they’d had their fight and gotten over it? Was I wrong about them? Did they really loathe each other, too, in spite of everything? Or was it all for show?

  The answers to these questions were vital. Somehow, the truth about my mom’s relationship with Richard held the keys to my future with Dallas … or Keith. Or neither. All of a sudden I felt an incredible yearning to ask my mother for her advice … something I hadn’t done since I needed to know the best color Crayola for Princess Ariel’s hair.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” she’d answered before leaving for a date with a local news anchor.

  It was too late to ask her for anything now. If she lost this award, it would be my fault. And if she won it, it would be in spite of me. I was on my own, and she was with Richard.

  “… Hayden’s seasoned portrayal of a guidance counselor on the edge, and perhaps in need of a little guidance herself. Here she is in Likely Story!”

  VIENNA

  (WEARY) I’m tired of this

  job, Principal Fine. I’m

  tired of being shrugged at by

  students. I’m tired of trying

  to motivate them to take

  their future in their hands

  when they can’t see beyond

  the next weekend.

  FINE

  You’re tired because you

  care. You won’t stop caring

  if you quit.

  VIENNA

  (TREMBLING) Then fire me. If

  I care any more than I do

  now, I’ll never get out of

  this place.

  FINE

  Would that be so bad? (ON

  VIENNA, FADE)

  The big screen dissolved to a shot of the presenter, surrounded by live images of each of the four nominees perched in their seats, awaiting judgment.

  I was stunned. I had no idea Mom had submitted material so low-key. Her performance was subtle. There was none of the hand-wringing or scenery gorging that was typical of Emmy submissions. And I’d made sure she’d had scenes of just that variety last year, had been instructed to write her “an Emmy show.” But she’d chosen something else altogether, and I could see the thinking behind it. Every year in the past, she’d submitted the same tape of weeping/railing/blaspheming/accusing/screeching that every other actress submitted, and every year she’d come up wanting.

  So this year she’d used something real.

  I turned to her then. I wanted to put my hand on top of hers and Richard’s. Like a family would do.

  “And the winner is …”

  The presenter fumbled with the envelope.

  Mom drew a deep breath.

  “Anastasia Driscoll!”

  There was a slight tremor in Mom as her body made an instinctive move to get up. It assumed she was going to win. And then she blinked. She mastered the impulse to take the stage. She stayed in her seat and did as she’d long trained herself to d
o in this moment, just in case. She set her face to a tight smile, stared straight ahead, removed her hand from Richard’s, and applauded.

  Anastasia’s self-assured speech made no mention of the pressure she, Westerly, and Georgina had brought to exclude my mother from the running. But she did acknowledge the honor it was to have been nominated alongside two powerful performances.

  Just two.

  The camera still on her, my mother smiled graciously.

  Every actress has her defenses.

  And my mother was using them all right now.

  Mom said nothing as the hosts returned to present the award for Best Writing Team. Richard tried to engage her. I don’t know what he whispered in her ear, but it wasn’t enough to even warrant her full attention. Tunnel vision was the only thing keeping her together at the moment. I tried to get her attention, tried to tell her I was sorry. But she kept looking straight ahead.

  Her heart, I thought, was broken.

  I heard my name read aloud in tandem with Likely Story as one of the nominees. Up until this point, I’d genuinely forgotten I stood a chance at winning anything. But as soon as I remembered, it all came rushing back. How ugly the Emmy-loss hangover was. How it sent my mother into a depression every year. How I’d never been interested in the Emmys in the first place. How I’d somehow got caught up in the race and somehow become my mother in the process.

  Suddenly there was a roar. Every mouth in the theater opened simultaneously and let loose a cheer that could have shaken the walls. Everyone was on their feet. Even Richard. I was the only one left sitting. Richard took my hand and pulled me to my feet. I had no idea what was happening, had zoned out completely, couldn’t make sense of what Richard was saying until he pointed my gaze in the direction of the screen.

  We’d won.

  “Go!” Richard nudged me toward the steps to the stage, where Tamika and Ronald and Anna were waiting with the rest of the team, bouncing up and down, high on Emmy. I stumbled on my way up the steps, and as I regained my footing, I realized this one little trip would be forever available on YouTube. When I arrived at the top of the steps, a silky young model handed me the Emmy. It was heavier than I’d imagined. And shinier. I could feel its seductive siren power in my hands; it sang strong.

  The standing ovation lasted until I reached the microphone. I looked across the room, the ceiling vaulted so high and the balcony expanding so far back that I understood the totemic power this moment held for actors. Standing there, before so many people, it almost felt like I had the world’s ear.

  I didn’t know what I was going to say. I couldn’t remember the network excutives’ names from meeting to meeting—how was I supposed to do it live on camera? The applause died down, and I stepped toward the microphone, poised to speak. That’s when I saw it: The last person standing was my mother.

  And she looked proud. Very proud.

  Maybe it was acting.

  But I didn’t think it was.

  And that’s when I knew exactly what I had to say.

  The thirty-second acceptance speech clock, visible over the cameras in front of me, began to tick.

  “I want to thank the Academy for honoring the team of writers standing up here with me tonight. This is a team award,” I began. “It’s for all the people behind me, who work tirelessly to keep Likely Story true to the goal we set out for ourselves on day one: to write a different kind of soap opera. I think that when you honor us here tonight, you honor that vision.” There was a smattering of applause.

  Relish it, Mallory…. It might be the last you get.

  “I’m glad they’ll all get their own statues backstage; otherwise I couldn’t give this one up.” The applause gave way to murmuring. “Because I don’t want this. I never did. I was made to believe it was important. That the recognition of my peers meant something. But after the display I’ve seen here tonight, I have to question your sanity. How anyone could award Anastasia Driscoll”—now there were gasps—”she of the alien shoplifting plot”—people were really paying attention—“over my mother …” Now the music was rolling, ten seconds ahead of schedule. “It’s a crime against taste, and just goes to show you’ll all be canceled in five years, but we’ll still be here, I’ll still be here, and my mother will still be here, sixty-five years of age and still acting circles around the rest of you dinosaurs!”

  They cut off my microphone then. But I didn’t care. I shouted my last line as loud as I could.

  “This isn’t my Emmy. It’s yours, Mom!”

  “Marilyn Kinsey wants a piece of you,” Kimberly the Publicist warned me. After our rude dismissal, we’d been deposited backstage and into the hands of the network’s handlers, which in this case meant Kimberly and Greg. Kimberly had informed me a few days before that the post-win press conference was normally a sedate affair. I’d been prepped for the usual array of questions: Who are you wearing? How does it feel to win? What’s next for Vienna/Ryan/Jacqueline? But the pack of sheep had turned into a pack of wolves, and they were clearly out for blood. My blood, specifically. Word travels fast in Hollywood, especially when delivered live, on television, and in the form of a verbal bitch slap in the face of the industry.

  Greg pulled me aside before we were thrust onto the dais. “Can I just say,” he giddily whispered into my ear, “that you were before, are now, and always will be my hero?”

  “Tell me again when this is all over,” I responded. “Assuming you can put me back together again.”

  Marilyn Kinsey set the tone with her first question. “Where do you get off insulting all of daytime?”

  It was downhill from there. Kimberly tried to keep things civil, but I didn’t make her job easy. “You do it on a weekly basis with your column, Marilyn. I’m just trying to keep up.”

  Us Weekly and People were more interested in the beat down I’d administered on the red carpet. “Have you been informed whether Alexis and Amelia intend to press charges?” one reporter asked.

  “On the advice of my lawyer—the one I’ve yet to hire—I’m going to have to decline comment on that subject.”

  “Where’s Keith?” another reporter asked.

  I paused for a second. “He decided not to come. Other than that, Keith is off-limits. Next question? Maybe someone would like to ask Tamika how she likes her new place in Santa Monica?”

  “Do you and Dallas really have that bad a relationship? Why does he loathe you?”

  Kimberly really knew her stuff, because she took that question as her cue to immediately wrap things up.

  “Sorry to cut this short, but the award for Best Show is coming up and we need to get these guys back to their seats. Let’s hear it for the Emmy-winning writers of Likely Story!”

  Nobody clapped.

  We didn’t care.

  Kimberly led us through the back halls of the Kodak and out into the main lobby for nominees and their guests, which was cordoned off, but not out of view of the general public. Our emergence rated a mixed bag of cheers and boos from among the ranks of the groundlings. I recognized a few of Likely Story’s fans from Alexis’s softball game, and a sizable contingent of Good As Gold fans, all of whom came to our defense when Anastasia’s minions hissed.

  I wrote a mental note to myself to never forget to thank the fans, even when taking a stand against Emmy injustice.

  Kimberly shunted us off toward the entrance to the theater, but I stopped short. Sitting there cross-legged next to the double doors was Dallas, his Emmy in his lap. Our eyes met, and he scrambled to his feet.

  “Go on without me,” I murmured to Kimberly.

  “But Best Show …,” she protested.

  “We’ll represent,” Tamika promised her before bumping fists with me. “Ya done good, boss.” Glancing at Dallas, who was slowly approaching, she added, “And I expect details at the after-party.”

  Then they were gone, and then it was just the two of us. And a horde of fans, cursing my name and begging Dallas to unbutton his top two buttons.
/>   I tuned them out.

  “Congratulations,” Dallas said when he was close enough.

  “You, too.”

  Something had changed. And we were still wearing the awkwardness of that change.

  “Gold is your color,” he said, nodding at the statue in my hand. “I guess this means I’m going to be shirtless all summer.”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about. “Excuse me?” I said.

  “Our bet?” he reminded me. “I guess I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  Our bet. It seemed like years ago. A lifetime ago.

  Everything was happening so fast.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I thought we were just playing around. I wouldn’t hold you to it.”

  “You can do whatever you want, but I have every intention of teaching you how to ride my motorcycle. A deal’s a deal.”

  A lock of Dallas’s hair swooped over his eyes, the way it always did whenever we stood close together and he looked down at me. And like always, I resisted the urge to brush it away. This time it was harder than ever. I wondered why I was still bothering to fight.

  “So,” he began, “have any thoughts on my speech?”

  “It was brief,” I said, closing what little gap there was left between us.

  “Brief,” he repeated. His hand touching my arm.

  “I think you may have finally convinced your mom you made the right decision,” I added, looking up at him, leaning in.

  “I was referring more to the other part of the speech.”

  Leaning in.

  “The part when you quoted me?”

  Reaching up.

  “Yeah. That part.”

  Brushing his hair from his eyes.

  “What about it?”

  Moving my hand over his ear, onto his neck.

  “Do you have … anything to say about it?”

  I hesitated for a moment as the music began to play from within the theater, seeping from the double doors. The nominees for Best Show were being announced. I was unfazed. “There’s not much to say, really. To paraphrase someone else, I put too much stock in the power of words. Sometimes it takes a performance instead.”