cease and desist

by stephen david hurley

  And before I can say anything, before I can tell Francis I’m on to his little games and have a few secrets of my own, he holds the tablet to my face like a crossing guard holding a stop sign to a jaywalker. I recognize the website—FANSCAN. Nina must checks it every day—it tabulates all the votes from the viewers, the demographic trends on each character. We watch the numbers in real time. Young adult. Adult; by geography. Major cities, two coasts and the heartland.

  1. Jeanne d’Arc (Cease de Menich)—3,475,981

  I’m on top. The numbers swim in my head like a solution to a problem my brain’s been trying to solve for months. I’ve beaten out not only Susan B. Anthony but, for the first time, Great Cate, who came in second with a scene of her taking out three armed men in a dark alley. I watch her moves in a window on the bottom of his tablet screen that plays beside my scene with Susan and Brad. Cate’s hands slice through the air in seamless blur; it looks like a real fight without any choreography, rehearsal, or blocking.

  It looks like a real fight, because it is a real fight.

  There’s the flash of a streetlight across her dagger as she drove it into an attacker’s ribs. It was real, unflinchingly real, and so was the cool, furious rage that flitted across great Cate’s beautiful face as she killed two men.

  “I could quit, Francis.” I raise my hand to the cold morning air blowing through the great expanse of the hangar door. “I could walk right now—and who could blame me?”

  “But you won’t,” he says, turning back to a clipboard beside the crane’s controls. “Because if you leave now, your fans will never forgive you.” He’s right. I think about all those fans who shared their secrets with me, who need me. Maybe I really do have a message to share with the world, or at least a bunch of teenagers as lost as I am. But they’ll forget. Fame is short-lived.

  But your agent wouldn’t forget, Cease. He’ll call you a lightweight, or worse. You’ll be cast back into the sea of wannabes. Remember all those early morning calls at the equity lounge? All those “generals” for parts already cast? Some assistant to an assistant with her stopwatch to make sure your monologue doesn’t go over a measly two minutes? Remember all those casting directors with their stupid lines and groping hands? And there’d be no one to hold your hand except Nina, and truth is she wants you out of this business in the worst way.

  I remember the photograph on the wall of Francis’ trailer; his big smile holding two golden trophies in the crooks of his arms like they were newborns. Two Clicks from Abu Ghraib—his cinematic masterpiece. One of the extras died from heat stroke on location in Jordan, and when the lead actor (a big name) had a heart attack during a scene Francis kept filming.

  Now, that’s the God I’d grown-up believing in.

  “Francis. You’re heading way off course. I know. My character’s telling me.”

  I catch my breath.

  Don’t start talking about hearing voices, Cease—or reading famous people in your bloodline. No one wants to work with a nut job.

  “Um—I mean—my character’s telling me not to go there.”

  He sits up, reaches for a small bottle of club soda. “Pick a boy. Make love. Confess. Save the world,” Francis says, and it sounds like he’s reading the final instructions on a model he’s sick of building. “It’s happy. It’s Hollywood. And you might be just the right girl.”

  “Since when are you Hollywood?” I counter. Money may mean nothing to him, but fame—that’s another story. Nina’s right. Francis will never be happy until he’s outdone every reality concept ever hatched by Hollywood, and the only way he can do that is by making it all so real that none of the critics could turn away.

  “Stop calling me a girl. I wasn’t a girl when I nearly did a face-plant when the crane broke—” I steal another glance at his tablet. I know what he’s thinking. There’s something going on here that goes deeper than any of that crap his writers are putting on paper. A lot deeper. And then I think, why not just tell him how I really feel?

  “Francis,” I say growing bolder with each word. “Do you even know the plot of this reality show? We are three historic figures who are supposed to find the right boy, fall in love, and save the universe? Do you know how stupid that sounds to girls and boys my age? Why don’t you just drop all this nonsense about riddles and codes and secret crosses on Jeanne’s sword? It’s so Dan Brown.” I wait for his reaction, but Francis stares me down. “If you want to show a bunch of fame-hungry girls try to kill each other and then go all the way with the boys, then just do it. Don’t try to make it part of some epic drama.” I take a step and raise my fist as defiantly as my character did to the clergy—“but that’s not what boys and girls my age want to see.”

  His eyes look tired as he asks, “Just what do boys and girls your age want to see?”

  I see the faces of all those wannabes at Manny’s studio, remember all those emails with questions about love that I didn’t know how to answer. How much I want Brad. How much I hate Susan. But last night when I was forced to let go of all those emotions—when I put aside the want and the hate, I felt swept away with emotions I’d never felt before…And then I get a Big Adult Thought—that’s what I call it because the moment it pops into my head it makes absolutely no sense—which means to me either it’s stupid or something only an adult could come up with (or both); someone—or something other than Francis and his writers—has helped create this drama. Francis isn’t in control—and this thought scares me because it tells me whoever is in control knows all my secrets.

  This leads to a thought I first got when Claude told me what I had to do to be the last girl standing; if I want to win I must share a part of my life I’ve kept secret—

  Don’t go there. It’s just too real…tell him he’s got to stop with the violence because we’re just kids getting a taste of this drug called fame and we want more…

  “Francis. Girls want more than incredible sex and over-the-top fame. Or maybe they realize watching other people having sex and being famous isn’t going to help them find love. They don’t need to see me win a catfight with Eve just to claim Brad like some prize steak. They want us to fall in love, not rip off each other’s bloodstained clothes and have sex. Love is real—I’ve felt it. And it’s dangerous—I’ve felt that, too. Real love is more than friendship. It’s more than lovemaking. Listen, my character has grown, matured, and the reason everyone wants me back is because Jeanne has a message she needs to share. A message we all need to hear.” I look at the ground between us and actually believe I’ll see the gauntlet I’ve just thrown down. Francis gives a sigh of utter incomprehension.

  “I honestly don’t know what to make of it. All the focus groups we used—” He sips from his club soda and wipes his face with his sleeve.

  “Admit it. You wanted me to kill her last night, didn’t you?”

  Francis fumbles for his glasses, picks up his tablet, pretends to read. I stare him down. He scratches his thigh and after an awkward beat finally says, “So where exactly have you been told to take your character?” There’s a touch of his old sarcasm, but is God actually asking me for advice?

  “I don’t know, exactly. But I definitely think my character’s got a message she needs to share with young people.” I take a step back and trace my Big Adult Thoughts again, step by step, as if I’m slowly reeling in a fish. I feel taller as I look up to him; Francis—The Great Dictator—is little more than Charlie Chaplin in that silly highchair.

  “I want Brad,” I say, “but not in the way I wanted him before. Not in the way you wanted to see. I know you want to see sex and violence, Francis—I guess everyone does, but it’s the hunger all young people feel when they first think about these things that you should be showing—a hunger you’ve found before in your masterpiece—Two Clicks From Abu Ghraib.”

  Great, Cease. Appeal to his ego. Directors love that.

  “Yes,” Francis nods. “I think that’s just the kind of choice I can work with.” He holds out his hand. I don’t thin
k he’s listening. I reach up and it feels like I’ve been cast in some religious fresco with God reaching down from the heavens to touch a mortal’s hand, only this God doesn’t have the power he thinks he has.

  “I know you want things real, Francis. But you’d better watch out. Be careful what you wish for.”

  He stares me down. “What do you want, Cease?”

  I feel an answer rise in my chest like a fist. I know it’s not love. I know it won’t unlock that bolt of grief that’s been tightening since my first day on the set, but I can’t resist it.

  “Put me in the final round against Catherine the Great and you’ll get numbers you never dreamed of,” I say.

  “Yes. But first you have to kill Susan.”

  Did he just say what I thought he said?

  “You mean Eve, don’t you? Not a character. A real person.” Francis looks to his tablet, fumbles with his club soda. I study the concrete floor. It feels as if we’re both on the edge of an abyss and just can’t turn back.

  “You want me to kill a real girl—in real life. For everyone to see…”

  He pushes a button on the tablet, holds it up to my face. There are windows three down and four across, each with a close-up of my face. I’m wearing all the outfits for past and future—ancient armor in one shot, streamlined future-wear designed by Claude in another. I look anxious, stoic, valiant, but common, almost self-effacing—the mask I wear in everyday life, before I gently touch my fingers to my upper lip and magically transform. I study each shot. The two index fingers of my left hand are all in exactly the same place, gently resting on that cleft I have on my upper lip. Francis waits for this to sink in, then pushes another key and I see the transformation—presto! Almost another girl appears—as if a magician has snapped his fingers, pulled back a veil to reveal an electrified version of my old self. My eyes are transformed. My cheekbones—even under Molly’s ruddy hues—become luminescent. I cock my head and wonder what Francis is thinking. That I’m some kind of freak? But he doesn’t look surprised. Why should he? He’s in the star-search business. Finding girls and boys with this gift is his job.

  “Be careful what you wish for,” he says.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He presses another key. Another twelve windows cascade down, only these are stills of Stephanie. She looks beautiful, but so what? Then he presses another key and I see it—the after-Stephanie; her face lights up like a Roman candle. She’s beyond gorgeous; she positively glows. I transform from plain to comely. Stephanie transforms from beautiful to ethereal.

  “If I told you the names of some of the others I’ve seen with your gift, you’d probably be impressed,” Francis says. He’s talking but I’m frozen, angry for not having seen that Stephanie has it too. And she probably already knows where it came from. Nina’s strange warning suddenly makes sense: You weren’t the first girl to play the game. Other girls have what I have. Plenty of them do. Stephanie and I are just a couple of promising upstarts among the thousands he’s seen. I’m lost—I can feel the Big Adult Thoughts slipping away…

  “Well, it looks like we’re gonna let the sparks fly in the final round,” I say, hopefully.

  But I still know something you don’t…at least I think I do.

  “Yes,” he says, but I can still see that haunting look he had when he said I have to kill Eve. “You’re lucky to have been born with such a beautiful gift, Cease.” Francis raises his club soda. “But there are others, too. Not so lucky…” he lets out a sigh, “not so well-adjusted.” His scrutinizing look is a body-scan and makes me feel naked. I’m wearing my brother’s baggy letter-sweater. His jeans, too. What was I thinking when I got dressed this morning?

  “Have you ever heard of Janet Hodgkins?” he asks.

  I shake my head.

  “Janet was at the final callbacks with you. Nearly beat you out, too.” Now I remember a girl who stood near me while we listened to Francis’ final instructions. Petite. Pert smile. Long arms. Francis’ sick smile tells me something terrible must’ve happened to her.

  “She had the gift. Unstable, though. Of course, that’s what I see a lot of in young talent. The night before I made my final decision, Janet told me she was dying to play this role, dying to become Jeanne d’Arc. Then she went home and stabbed her mother with a knife. Dead.” Francis pushes a button and begins a slow descent. “It’s a tough business,” he says with a creepy smile.

  Be careful what you wish for, Cease.

  I nod and shrug. “Yeah. Lucky I’ve got my Nina.”

  “I didn’t have time to include you in a scene this morning, Jeanne,” Francis says, but feel free to watch and talk to your friend Claude. Get ready for a big climax, young lady,” he says, and hands me the card key to my trailer. I may have nailed my monologue, but Francis won the battle—the only line I hear as I pass beneath the long barrel of a tank is: all you have to do is kill a girl who hates you and would gladly kill you first.

  “What happened to those men—the ones who attacked Catherine?” I ask.

  “You mean, Stephanie?” Francis says with a wry smirk “They got sloppy.” It comes out in the same deadpan way he said, but first you have to kill Eve.

  No they didn’t—and I bet there’s some news on what really happened waiting for me…You paid them. Probably told them to really hurt her—but that’s not what really scares you, Cease…That’s not going to happen to you. You’re not going to get sloppy. And I’m not going to kill Susan…

  I mean, Eve.

  She doesn’t just have the gift, she knows how to control it.

  Francis pushes a button on his console. The giant hangar doors slide open like an iron curtain. In the morning light stands Craig Sterling being bathed in flashes from a throng of reporters. Francis watches me take in the scene—Great Cate making her way toward Craig, on a real red carpet. He’s wearing a white shirt with epaulets, blue jeans, and a pair of suede cowboy boots. The crowd of paparazzi parting as Craig gives Cate a courtly bow. She gives him a peck on the cheek, and lowers an imaginary sword upon his shoulder as he kneels. He’s not as muscular as Rex, not as tall as Brad, but he positively glows in the light like an Aztec God. Seeing him feels like opening the email of my acceptance to Juilliard. Craig Sterling isn’t just a star; he’s a man—twenty-six years old—and already playing young-dad roles. I wonder what it will feel like kissing a man. He turns in my direction and I duck behind a huddle of techies.

  Imagine catching Craig’s eye through the crowd. He’ll take me aside to share a secret. We’ll retreat to a bedroom…Then what? We’ll talk about the virtues of being a virgin?

  Wake up, Cease. He’s a man and isn’t going to settle for talk or a peck on the cheek. As if you’re going to win on your own terms? Wake up, little girl. If you don’t put out for Brad or Craig you’ll lose the sick adult vote. If you don’t kill Susan you’ll lose the votes of everyone who isn’t that interested in watching a virgin lose it for all the world to see…these are the only tabulations running in sick-fuck Francis’ head. A cameo with Craig could really make a girl’s career.

  What about the girls and boys who write me online? Aren’t they the only reason I’m standing here now? Still standing because I did something every decent girl or boy would like to do: I stood up to the bully without becoming the bully…I know what Francis wants me to feel right now; in awe of a star, afraid that my adversary is going to take him away. But I don’t. My shoulders relax. I’m not afraid, or jealous. I feel the same strange tingle through my legs when I picked up the sword before being beaten by Susan.

  Why aren’t you jealous, Cease?

  Because I’m starting to believe I’m meant to be here. I was chosen for a reason that goes a whole lot deeper than mere good luck.

  Jeanne d’Arc Is Back By Popular Demand

  I laugh when I see the sign hanging on my trailer door. I might be afraid of Francis but can’t stay mad at him for long. I check my email; there are girls who feel empowered, and girls who f
eel dispossessed. Emails from boys who call me a tease and others who need a shoulder to cry on.

  I’m fat and want to be thin…

  I’m beautiful and sick of being groped…

  What will I tell Nina when I get home? What will she do when she reads this? She’ll call Francis and do what she wanted to do when things started to get a little too real on the set—might as well pack up my things now. But then I open an email Jenny Goode forwarded that I need to destroy. It’s from RHI.

  LOOK WHO’S PUTTING THE REAL IN REALITY-DRAMA

  The body count is up to three people for the latest time-traveling biopic directed by Francis MacDonald—at least that’s what a website called Over The Top is telling us. The first to fall was a thirteen-year-old boy, who died during a battle scene shot in Passaic, New Jersey—his foster parent claimed his son died in a real fight after the filming took place, but has since recanted and said he was coerced by the production company to make up the story. “My son was beaten to death by Rex, who was kicked off the show after trying to rape Joan of Arc (Cease de Menich).”

  Boys will be boys, only the next two to die were killed by a girl. Did the scene that aired last week of Great Cate fending off two attackers in an alley look real? Well, according to OTT it was, and there are two dead players to prove it. Two men were killed on the set by Catherine the Great (Stephanie Coombs) during a fight scene in which “things got out of hand,” according to local police who were called to the scene after Stephanie reported an attempted rape. Both were parolees who had served six years for assault and attempted rape.

  What does Francis say to all this? “We have on-camera interviews with both actors who attacked Stephanie Coombs, the actress cast as Catherine the Great. The men knew they were-shooting a mock fight that was carefully blocked by an experienced fightmaster. The footage shows they ignored the blocking and inflicted bodily harm on one of our lead actors. She had no choice but to defend herself. They crossed a line and broke the law. They paid the ultimate price.”