“Do you really think Francis is going to allow his show to be decided by a bunch of kids, like us?”
“Yes. I do.”
“It sounds like you’re the one who’s being naïve, Cease.” He comes over beside me, takes a seat in the wobbly, wicker chair.
“I know it sounds crazy, but it’s true,” I say. “Francis hates the studios. He always has. He would gladly have a bunch of fans decide this show than some bean-counting studio exec.”
Brad eyes me skeptically and I continue.
“The people who really want to know the difference between love and sex are going to be watching and then voting, and they won’t vote for you or Eve because they’ll be disturbed. Not freaked out. Because we both know that they’ve probably seen it all already.”
I watch a twitch flitter across Brad’s boyish face.
“Well, I do admit some of my lines are a little weird. I mean, I’m talking about my mom and thinking—”
“Do you say anything about having to protect your royal bloodline?”
“How do you know all this?”
“Brad. Don’t you get it? They just want to see you have sex with Eve. They want to look on with all the sick envy that gives these shows their wild popularity. And then after you’re done, Francis will bring in that star and have him shame us both for all our sins. Then, they’ll walk off into the sunset with that Stephanie and we’ll spend the rest of our careers labeled as the ones who got duped.”
“I don’t know. What about Eve?”
Brad tries to look sincere but I can read his whole inner monologue. No lovemaking. No portal. No red carpet. No future. I look at his hands and imagine them caressing Eve’s breasts, those long, gorgeous thumbs and forefingers nimbly undoing her bra. I fight the rage that I feel rise in my chest. I smell cheap perfume and then like a bubble rising from the murky depths of memory a name: Cherise.
“Your whole face lights up when you smile, Brad.” He turns from the sink. I watch his tongue dart across his lower lip. “Maybe I am being a little too naïve.” I take another step. I take his delicate fingers and place them on my hips. “But—who do you think your fans would rather see you with—a bad girl or another virgin?”
“Well,” he gives me a sheepish look. “I think you’ve got my back—”
We kiss. It isn’t the kind of kiss I’ve been trained to deliver in a love scene. I feel his hands find the small of my back… all the ways I’d rehearsed how to kiss a boy on camera suddenly feel strange. I think he’ll go for my zipper, tug the way Rex had, but unlike Rex, Brad is a real gentleman. His fingers linger on my belt loop but go no farther down. This made me even more excited. I start to unbutton my shirt. Isn’t this the way boys like it? To grab for your breasts and start sucking—but he stops me. He guides my hand to the back pocket of his jeans.
“If they want real love let’s give them real love, because that’s the way I’m feeling right now,” he says. I trace his bottom lip with my tongue as my thumb and forefinger tug on his turtleneck.
Slow down, Cease. He’s a boy, not your dinner. You’re a virgin saint, not a vampire. Falling in love feels like falling backward in time. Brad’s strong hands stopping the hours and gently pushing them back, making a space where I can see things clearly for the first time in my life.
I feel a lump rise in my throat. I pull back. “Brad. Susan’s a trick. She’ll try to seduce you the same way Rex tried to seduce me.”
Brad cocks his head, looks at me with the same incredulity he had when I told him about my past. His awe-shucks demeanor has been replaced in a flash by that of a cunning street fighter, a clever boy who is good at catching enemies off guard.
“My character has to grow,” Brad says, defensively.
“Just don’t be tricked.” I wish I could put that combustible elixir called chemistry back into its bottle. That’s what I’d felt with him—I take another breath, step back from our kiss—a chemistry that tastes like hunger, tastes like I could finally be satisfied after starving myself. I hold both his hands.
“Just ask yourself how you’re going to feel when Francis says cut and you find yourself naked for the entire world to see.” I give him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks for a great first date.”
Back in my trailer I open the email from Esme, the social worker. I’m glad I’m sitting down.
Dear Cease,
How are you doing? I’m concerned. Could you please call me. I need to talk to you and Nina about a police report regarding a missing person.
Esme Strang
I feel the room begin to spin.
You know what happens to anyone who gets between you and your brother.
The smell of cheap perfume again. Senses are the doors you bolt from your past…they always find a way in. Cherise…That was her name, that smell; her perfume….
I lie down, close my eyes. This drama that’s supposed to be make-believe feels awfully real, and my real life feels like a bad dream. I wake to the sound of hail hammering the corrugated roof. I dream it was snowing and Brad was holding me in a virgin forest. Elves were spying on us and a beautiful damsel was waiting in the courtyard of a cottage. I look out the window to find the electronic billboard Francis posts in the center of the corralled trailers.
MOS MASTER SHOT—Jeanne and Susan, the electronic board says. It’s a master shot, which means there won’t be any sound, mostly just blocking. After a moment of flashing, it adds: Weather Delay. But all I can see through the dreamy haze is: only one of you will be progressing to the next round.
The snow looks pretty convincing. Francis should be happy about that. It’s almost midnight. The trucks rumble to life and I get a text that we’re headed to a new location. I’ve got to warn the others about how real things are going to get…Petit Fleur’s line is running in my head as I stuff my tablet and the scene into my backpack and get into the car.
“Where are we going, Yousef?”
“Top secret, Miss Cease.” Snow’s slanting through the yellowing lights on a turnpike.
“C’mon, Yousef. How can you keep the location of ten trucks and a hundred people secret?” We drive on. I’m fine.
But I’m not fine. This scene isn’t going to end with me being held by Brad in a forest filled with dwarfs and love birds.
An hour later the snow has stopped and I can see a sliver of the moon through the dense forest. The Pine Barrens? Maybe, but as we snake our way down a gravel drive to where the road bottoms out I can’t see any sign of civilization. Francis wants it real. The Middle Ages. No light but the moon and the fires that are already going as we corral with the other trucks. I can see the fightmaster with an assistant, but the paramedics that usually attend every fight scene are missing. I look out beyond the circle of trailers to find the ambulance that always accompanies us. It’s gone, too.
I come out of makeup wearing my armor and stand in a clearing beside the edge of a forest visible only through the moonlit haze. The fightmaster hands me my broadsword.
“Cease. Francis wants to see the sparks fly on the master shot, so be careful. This is as real as real can get. I’ve sharpened it.” And then he grabs my wrist and pulls it toward his face.
“Cease, wake up,” he shouts. “You could easily take off a man’s arm with this sword. Remember—you’ll only be raising it over your head and then we’ll switch to the replicas.” I take it. My hand grows warm in the sword’s handle. I switch hands and there’s no denying the warmth. I hold the sword overhead as Eve approaches from a rock in a clearing. I feel what I’ve felt so many times as I advanced over the battlefields; the rage—all that mindless punching and kicking that got me through the first rounds. But then I take a deep breath and see, in a glimpse as fleeting as a brilliant shaft of light on the blade, a real forest, real snow, and real fighters with crossbows and armor. Real wounds.
So this is what it really looked like…and I am there; at least, it feels like I am.
I gaze down at the hilt that glistens and understand
the simple message I’d gotten in my free-fall.
My life isn’t an accident…all the bad things that happened to me, happened for a reason. The clouds didn’t part and the hand of God didn’t appear, but someone was there—a hand pulling back a veil on my personal life and all the hurt of my past suddenly made sense.
I’m going to win. I’m going to be the last girl standing.
“Nice sword,” Eve says. “Maybe someone should teach you how to use it.”
I step toward her. She lifts the broadsword overhead and makes a slow arc a few inches from my face; she’s a lefty but leads with her right foot, so she’s probably pretty well-balanced, but when she raises her right hand I can see she’s weak on the right side, and I’ve got a quick left jab. I lower the sword and feel the same strange warmth but not in my hands, it’s in my chest now and growing, radiating outward to my arms.
I can beat you but I don’t have to become you to do it…
Francis orders all the electricity turned off. The generators are shut down and we stand helpless in the clearing as more torches are lighted and placed on the perimeter by the crew. He’s crouched down behind the camera as a grip slowly pushes him on a trolley. A band of extras leads Susan and me through the darkness.
Francis tells me to lie on the ground. I hesitate but don’t dare disobey. Eve holds the tip of the sword a few inches from my face and I wonder if I will get the same opportunity or if Francis has already made up his mind about me. Maybe I’m too much of a risk…too much of a drama queen to survive the next round. He hasn’t yelled cut but I think the shot is over because the camera has panned away from us. Then I feel Eve’s boot come down on my ankle.
I let out a yell and try to rise. She jabs my chest with the hilt of the sword. I fall back and hit my head on a rock.
“Oh. Sorry. I must have slipped.”
“You fucking bitch,” I hiss. “I’m going to kill you.”
You’re becoming her, Cease. Not a good idea.
“That’s enough!” Francis shouts. “You’re supposed to be professionals.”
One of the techies helps me up. Molly runs back to a trailer to fetch me an ice pack. Eve backs away when she sees the look on my face.
“Take it easy, sister. It was just an accident.”
I stare her down. She’s got a defiant, wild look, but her pumped-up lips tremble and that tells me she’s probably on drugs. I step back. I know how Francis wants this scene to end—with real blood on real snow. I close my eyes, feel the weight of the real sword the fightmaster’s given me. I will fight Eve. One of us will die, and if I kill her Francis will probably offer up some made-up story from my past as justification that I’m crazy and have a history of violence. I’m not going to do it. I’ll defend myself—I know Eve’s weak spots…but as I look down at my armored boots I can feel the rage rise in my chest. I’m not letting some rich bitch take my love interest away. Art imitates life only so much. I’m putting my foot down. Phil and Serena helped destroy my brother. Their kind isn’t going to destroy me.
I check my email. A message from Francis to the entire cast and crew:
Attention. All generators will be turned off in fifteen minutes. Please turn off all electronic devices now. Electronic devices will be collected at 7:30 p.m.
I rush through my messages. Nina sent me an article from The Spotlight, an online L.A. entertainment weekly.
HAS REALITY-DRAMA GONE TOO FAR?
Five months ago, the renegade director Francis MacDonald, fresh off an Oscar victory for his docudrama feature about ISIS, announced he’d be turning reality TV upside down by introducing real historical figures into fantasy settings—a genre he’s calling “Reality-Drama.”
“I think our young people need better role models than the cyborgs and sexpots we currently offer them as an answer to real-life issues,” he said at the Beverly Wilshire press conference. His transformation of the genre was applauded by parents and youth organizations tired of the sex and violence masquerading as art.
Pretty heady stuff. Well, have you seen what Francis has done with these so-called role models? The three characters he’s chosen to cast were Joan of Arc, a virgin saint (played by Cease de Menich); Sunsan B. Anthony, the American suffragette (played by Eve Lonnia); and a Russian tsarina, Catherine the Great (played by Stephanie Coombs), all fighting for the rights of young people. At least, that’s what we were told until three weeks ago, when super-secret Francis started releasing advanced scenes on WebTV.
Wholesome? The first scene that aired depicts Susan Anthony trying to seduce a young man whose father is a powerful leader in a future world. Eve isn’t much of an actress (the cast is made up of unknowns with varying acting abilities), but she certainly has the body of a sexpot. The official scene, according to Francis’ people, shows Eve stripping down to her panties and fondling Rex, a hunk from down under whose violent moves on the battlefield have come under investigation. A few hours after the scene aired, another version appeared on You Tube with her groping and stroking Rex’s erect penis—a snippet that Francis claims was photo-shopped by hackers.
Needless to say, History’s Superheroes. A Teenage Reality-Drama—the working title—spiked amid the controversy. So, is he a visionary or a master manipulator?
Wait, it gets worse. One of the extras—a local teenager from Trenton, New Jersey, whose name is being withheld pending an investigation—was beaten so severely in a battlefield by Rex that he died. His death was originally attributed by his parents to a fight he’d gotten into at school, but they’ve changed their story, prompting some to believe there was a cover-up. The district attorney for Passaic County, New Jersey, where the battle scene was filmed, gave this statement yesterday: “Any assaults staged as dramatic events that result in real injury will be prosecuted. We are currently investigating the accidental death of a young man employed by MacDonald Productions. The producers have been cooperating with the investigation.”
So much for wholesome.
“We do our best to insure the safety of all our actors,” Francis said. “But with young people who are this ambitious about being the last boy and girl standing, there are bound to be accidents. That’s life, that’s the reality of reality-drama.”
Is this how an American role model, Susan B. Anthony, is honored for her service to our country? It’s the sad question posed by The Parent Advisory, a lobby in Hollywood. But a spokesperson for the producers was quick to answer.
“Don’t forget this is a show about teenagers who are playing themselves and playing roles…not actors who are trying to embody historic characters,” the spokesperson stated. “These risky choices have been made for a reason that will be resolved as the audience is allowed to vote on how they want the show to develop. The viewers will decide what’s acceptable. That’s the beauty of reality-drama.”
And what of the virgin saint played by Juilliard grad Cease de Menich? So far she’s stayed true to her character; and Rex, the hunk from down under, had to pay the price after he tried to rape her on camera in a scene that looked remarkably real. Cease de Menich said NO to his advances, and when Cease says NO she means it. She broke the hunk’s nose and he was eliminated from the show.
So what are the viewers thinking now? Love him or hate him, the new messiah has hit pay dirt. The soft opening last week had a spike of 2.3 million viewers according to FANSCAN, an independent source for demographics on digital broadcasts. So what’s the wholesome message these New Age superheroes have to offer? Kids will take as much sex and violence as Hollywood can dish out.
I look down and see I’ve got another message from Petit Fleur.
Dear Cease,
The lights are about to go green and then things are going to get real. Real blood on all that virgin snow. What are you going to do?
Petit Fleur,
I don’t really know. I’ll fight. Isn’t that what you did in the real world?
C,
You’re afraid, just admit it.
Dear Petit w
hoever-you-are,
No. I’m not. How did you know about my brother?
C,
There’s only one answer to that: he believed in me. Not in any way that makes sense to you now—but he did.
PF,
So what can a girl I don’t believe in possibly do for me?
C,
OK…just give me a chance. Back in my day…wait. I don’t want to start like that. It sounds as if I’m talking down to you…like a grown-up would say: things were tougher back in my day, and that’s not entirely true.
Let me start again…I know you’re scared. I felt the same way when I was your age, just sixteen years old—the exact same way on the morning of May 9th in the year 1429 as I stood on the bank of the Loire River in Orleans, France and looked across the river to the fortress the English occupied. We were outnumbered. The deposed king I wanted back on the throne didn’t really believe I was sent by God. I was your age. Could you blame him? Who’d believe an illiterate girl who says she’s heard voices from angels? Same way most people don’t believe that an unknown like you has made it this far in this so-called reality-drama. Anyway, He gave me only a hundred men for the fight that morning.
I knew if we marched up the road to the fort we’d be massacred. I found a boat but there was no wind…I bowed my head and said, I need to cross this river. I need to take back France. Many times during my short life, I heard the voices of angels. Archangel Michael, Saint Catherine, and Saint Margaret spoke to me. I know that makes me sound crazy to you, but just try to imagine that there was an age before all the noise and filth of the internet when people could actually hear the saints and have visions—anyway, on that morning beside the river, I didn’t hear any of them. No clouds parted, and I begged for advice.
Nothing.
I was all alone with my thoughts—just as you are right now. I felt abandoned. I was scared. I wanted to run home to my parents; then it happened. The wind miraculously rose; we crossed the river, surprised the Burgundians, and took the town. It was my first victory. After I died, the church called this a miracle—one of three I performed—and made me a saint.
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