by Zoey Dean
I'd made a list of Good Things and Bad Things, but of course it didn't make me feel any better.
How could it?
BAD THINGS
Kylie and Cici clearly talking about/laughing at me.
Iris's eyes like in that Foreigner song: cold as ice.
Broke copier again.
Cried twice. Blamed red nose on allergies.
Forced to admit had never heard phrase "lock picture." Can't they just say "finished movie"?
GOOD THINGS
Soup lady in commissary friendly to me. (Obviously she doesn't know any better.)
I put away the rest of the clothes I'd sent myself, hardly even bothering to fold them, and
tucked the cute new pillows high on a bookshelf, just in case Garbage learned how to jump up
on my bed. Because honestly, he looked like the kind of dog that would try to mate with my
bolsters.
Then there was the box marked DVDs. I thought about how happy I'd been when I was
packing them up. There I'd been, addressing this package to myself, so excited, so hopeful, so
unbelievably naïve. I'd actually imagined driving down Sunset Boulevard in a convertible with
the wind blowing through my hair. How unbelievably stupid was that? It's like I thought I was
going to be living in a movie instead of trying to learn how to make one.
I unwrapped the few movies I'd deemed essential. The rest--there were hundreds--would gather
dust in my old bedroom in Cleveland, where I'd shipped the rest of my belongings. There was
Say Anything... (because I love that movie, cheesy Peter Gabriel song and all), You Can Count
on Me (because not all love stories are romances), Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind
(because not all romances make sense), Some Like It Hot (because who doesn't love Marilyn
Monroe and men in drag?), and of course there was Journal Girl. I had a beat-up poster of that
too--though not a very big one--and I taped it up over the faded peach paint of my very first
apartment, my junior year, on Warren Street.
Needless to say, Quinn hadn't called. Of course it had only been a day, but couldn't she see
how desperate I was? I felt like I was back in high school, waiting for my sophomore crush to
call me after we'd been assigned partners on a history project. (He never did. But we did get an
A, no thanks to him.) Really, how pathetic was I, waiting for a spoiled sixteen-year-old to
come rescue me?
Irony of ironies, I was supposed to meet with Dana McCafferty on Monday morning. How
was I supposed to give her advice when I obviously didn't know the first thing about anything?
How was it that I'd managed to screw up everything in a single week?
I stared for a while at the Journal Girl poster. Michael Deming had had a vision, and he hadn't
let anything stop him from realizing it, I told myself. I tried to let that cheer me up. This meant I
had to ignore the latter part of Michael's story, the one where he goes crazy and runs off to
become Grizzly Adams in the Pacific Northwest.
"Whatcha watching?" Magnolia asked a little while later, as she walked out of the bathroom
with Garbage wrapped in a towel.
" Journal Girl," I said. I was deep into a pint of chocolate mint ice cream.
"I should have known," Magnolia said with a wan smile as she plopped down on the sofa next
to me. "The girl writes an imaginary person so many letters that she brings him to life, right?"
I nodded. I'd watched it so many times freshman year, it was a miracle Magnolia didn't have it
memorized by now. She began to towel off the dog, rubbing him so hard, his fur stood on end.
It looked like he'd stuck his nose in a light socket.
"I kind of did the same thing with the director," I admitted. I'd never told anyone about it in
high school or college, worrying I'd sound lame, but really, what did I have to lose at this
point? "Or tried to. Michael Deming. He was sort of my pen pal." Minus the pal part, I thought
but didn't say. "Back when I still had illusions that I'd have a career." I'd mailed him that first
postcard with the Hollywood sign on it, but after that, nothing. I'd just imagined writing Dear
Michael, I had no idea I could be so clueless.
"Stop being so hard on yourself," Magnolia said, squeezing the dog with the towel until his
eyes began to look even more buggy. "That screenwriter thing wasn't your fault. Kylie set you
up."
"I just wish I knew how to make it different." I went on excavating in my pint for more
chocolate. "All day long I watch this girl pretend to be this amazing assistant, when I know
she's in this for all the wrong reasons."
"What's she in it for?"
I thought about this. "I can't tell. But I think she's totally soulless. I think she just wants to
gossip with the other assistants and suck up to Iris and go to parties and meet famous people
and wear cute shoes. I don't even think she likes movies that much."
Magnolia patted my knee. "It's going to get better. Just remember: calm and assertive. Positive
reinforcement for desirable behaviors. Right, Cabbage?"
The dog licked Magnolia's nose, then eyeballed mine. I shook my head at him. "No way,
Trashcan," I said.
Magnolia sniffed. "He's much cleaner now," she said. "And now I'm going to take him for a
walk."
After Magnolia and her beast trotted out of the apartment, the latter rubbing his electrified fur
against one of my unopened boxes, I went back to my movie and let its familiar lines lull me
into a kind of pleasant stupor. Sure, it was going to take a miracle to help me succeed in
Hollywood, but I'd worry about it tomorrow. Right now I was going to worry about getting
every last molecule of ice cream out of this tub.
I was half asleep when the doorbell buzzed. I jumped up, my heart in my throat and the empty
pint of ice cream still in my hand, and made my way to the door. I threw it open, hoping it
wasn't a serial killer. But then again, serial killers probably didn't ring the bell.
In a zebra-print tunic, black skinny jeans, and peep-toe suede stacked heels, Quinn stood on the
doorstep, hand perched on her hip. Beside her on the floor was a gigantic Hefty bag.
Oh my God, I thought groggily. I am trash and she is bringing me more trash.
"Am I interrupting a binge?" Quinn asked, disdainfully eyeing my spoon and the spot of
chocolate on my tank top.
"No, no, no," I said. "Come in." I wondered how bad my hair looked but figured there was
nothing to be done about it now.
Quinn stepped carefully over the threshold, as if my apartment contained a toxic spill. "You
were on my way to Hyde," she explained, dragging the Hefty bag behind her. "So I thought I'd
drop some stuff off."
"Would you, um, like something to drink?" I opened the fridge. In the door was only half a
quart of skim milk and a bottle of Arizona iced tea. I saw a barrette on the counter, though, and
I clipped my hair back, hoping it made me look more presentable.
Quinn waved off the ridiculous suggestion that she would actually linger. "I'm not here to hang
out," she said. "My friends are waiting downstairs."
Reaching into the garbage bag, she pulled out a leopard print tunic. I read the label: Cavalli.
Next she pulled out one black Manolo wedge, and then a crushed velvet halter top in a deep
burgundy, which she set on top of the TV. Finally she just overturned the bag, and filmy
dresses, dark-w
ashed skinny jeans, glittery handbags, and strappy gold sandals tumbled onto
the couch. It was like Quinn was a tanned and skinny Santa Claus, but instead of toys, she was
bringing me style.
"Oh my God." I leaned down to touch a gunmetal-gray Stella McCartney dress with fringe. "Is
this stuff--"
"Mine," Quinn said, standing over the pile with her hands on her hips. "And some are my
friends'. These are just all too last year."
I was trying not to dive right into the pile of clothes and kiss them. I fingered a Doo.Ri
shirtdress, hardly able to speak. "Are you sure?"
Quinn shook the lustrous coppery hair out of her eyes, already glancing at the clock on the
wall. "First lesson," she announced. "Fake it till you make it."
I looked up at her, still too fashion-shocked to parse her meaning.
She sighed, exasperated. " Clothes equal attitude. I know people are always saying that, but it's
absolutely true. And there's no way you can have attitude in clothes from the Gap or whatever
mall store you shop in." She pointed to the Stella McCartney dress. "Try that on."
Dumbly I obeyed, shimmying it up over my tank top and shorts. It was a little tight across the
chest, but otherwise it was a perfect fit. I glanced at myself in the hall mirror and almost
gasped. Already I looked like a different person. Put together. Decisive. Maybe even--if it
weren't for the chocolate that was not just on my tank top but also on my chin--sexy. You
know how when Julia Roberts gets a makeover in Pretty Woman? I felt like that, but maybe
even better.
"Not bad," Quinn mused, walking up beside me. She adjusted one of my straps. "You'll have
to go through it all, though. You might find something even better." She squeezed a tube of
bubble gum-colored lip gloss over her lips. "All right, I have to go," she said. "But don't forget:
fake it till you make it," she repeated.
"Thank you," I whispered, still awestruck. I ran my hands down the silky bodice of the Stella
dress and sighed.
"Give me a couple months, and you'll be a new person," she said. "Oh, and here." She pulled a
shiny black iPhone out of her purse and handed it to me. "We had an extra one lying around the
house. From now on I'm going to be texting you, and I'm sure the phone you have is from,
like, 2001 or something."
I didn't want Quinn to know how right she was--my old Nokia, now retired, was sitting in a
shoebox under my bed--so I pulled my BlackBerry proudly out of my purse. "Actually, I
have--," I began, but Quinn cut me off with a hand wave.
"No, I don't want you trying to contact me and accidentally contacting my mom. This needs to
be OTR. Off the record? " She raised her eyebrows at my perplexed look.
Quinn stepped gingerly back toward the hallway, avoiding my boxes and trying her best not to
touch anything. "You do know it smells like a homeless person lives in here, right?" I opened
my mouth to explain about the wet dog, but she'd already closed the door behind her.
I surveyed the pile of clothes on the couch and then the sleek iPhone in my hand. I felt like
Cinderella herself. Already the playing field between me and my wicked stepsister had leveled
a little.
CHAPTER TEN
Morning," I called brightly to Shara, the Metronome receptionist, as she bent over her Us
Weekly. "Happy Monday!"
Shara pushed back her shiny ebony hair and looked at me for a long time. "Morning," she
finally said, but she sounded confused.
That gave me pause. Had I spilled my triple nonfat latte no whip on myself? Was the Stella
dress too tight across my chest? Did I look absurd, like a bear in a tutu? I rushed down the hall
to my desk, threw my purse into a drawer, and ran into the bathroom.
And there, in the cold, blue, unflattering light, I saw what Shara had seen: the gunmetal gray
dress made my eyes an intriguing blue gray rather than their usual light blue; the dress's clean
lines hugged my curves perfectly; I looked classy, polished, and stylish. I looked so good, I
almost didn't look like myself. I breathed a great sigh of relief and offered a silent thank-you to
Quinn. I might have even texted her, but I didn't want to push my luck. And besides, I really
hadn't gotten the hang of typing on my iPhone's tiny touch screen and would probably write
tgsnk tui by accident.
At eight o'clock sharp, Shara called from the lobby to say that Dana McCafferty had arrived,
and a few moments later the writer herself came hurrying toward my desk, all smiles and
gratitude. She was short and what most people would call plain: her hair was cut in a straight
brown bob, and wire-framed glasses somewhat enlarged her already sizable brown eyes.
"Thank you so much," she said to me, not even waiting for an introduction. "Really, it's such a
relief just to know that someone has even read my work."
"Have a seat," I said, motioning to the chair I'd situated next to my desk.
She sank gratefully into it, crossed her ankles, and slid her Converse under her chair. Her feet
barely touched the floor. "Nice offices," she said. "I like the whole pulsing colored wall
business."
I smiled--it had impressed me too. "I really liked your script," I said, getting down to business.
I'd brought it to bed with me last night, thinking I'd just read the first act, but had enjoyed it so
much, I stayed up late to finish. "More than I thought I would." I flipped through the pages. "It
reminded me of Cameron Crowe with a little Diablo Cody thrown in."
Dana flushed at the compliment but opened her spiral notebook and readied her pen. She
looked like an eager student on the first day of school.
"The premise is great," I continued. "Guy needs to help his parents break away from him
before he can break away from them. And you've got great dialogue. But you've got to focus
the story. Right now I don't know who I'm supposed to identify with: the parents or the son."
I sipped my latte while she wrote, enjoying the quiet of the office early in the morning. I
wondered if, among the piles of unread, unrepresented scripts on the bookshelf, there were any
others as good as Dana's.
"And your second act kind of tapers off," I went on. "But that's always the hardest part.
Raising the stakes as we get to know the characters. You know, like in Juno? She had to keep
getting to know the couple a little better each time before the final scene when they break up?"
Dana nodded eagerly. Sitting there, her Converse sneakers dangling off the floor, she looked
like an earnest ten-year-old--the Curious George T-shirt put her over the edge--trying
desperately to get an A. Sometimes she interrupted me to ask questions, but mostly she just
listened and wrote. The more I talked, the more confident I became--it was a relief to be able to
talk movies with someone who was actually listening. It brought me back to the warm comfort
of hours spent in small classrooms at Wesleyan, hashing out details of our favorite movies
rather than breaking down complicated film theory. I told Dana that the meet-cute didn't quite
work, the best friend character wasn't that interesting, and the dream sequence was a little too
Being John Malkovich. All the while, she scribbled furiously.
Finally she looked up and pushed her glasses up her tiny nose. "Wow," she said. "This is so
amazing. I can't thank you enou
gh for taking the time to meet with me. I'm sure you must be
extremely busy."
"You've got something good," I told her, meaning it. "I think you can have something great."
She blushed and ducked her head. It occurred to me then that she thought I was someone far
more important than I was. Oh my God, I said to myself, Fake it till you make it was working!
I was feeling pretty pleased with myself until I heard the sound of Iris and Kylie's voices
coming down the hall. Suddenly it seemed prudent to send Dana away as quickly as possible.
"Actually, Dana, I do need to get going," I said, nodding toward my computer. "Lots of e-mails
to go through..."
Iris and Kylie breezed into the room. They came to a dead stop at the sight of Dana
McCafferty, who blushed a deep scarlet.
"Hello," Iris said. She turned to look at me, and her expression was suspiciously cheerful. "Are
we interrupting something?"
"Iris, this is Dana," I said politely, as if I were the host of an impromptu cocktail party. "She
sent in a script, and I was just giving her some notes."
"Oh," Iris said, staring once again at Dana. "How nice."
I could see Dana swallowing, maybe trying to work up the courage to pitch Iris. I fervently
hoped she wouldn't--really, we were both on thin ice--but whether or not she meant to, she lost
her chance when Iris turned and ducked into her office. Kylie plopped down at her desk and
booted up her computer, but I could feel her staring at the back of my neck.
Dana watched Iris's closed door for a moment and then reached for her JanSport. "So can I
send you another draft?" she asked. "Incorporating your notes?"
"Sure," I said. With Kylie there, I was suddenly afraid to say more.
"Okay, great," Dana said, hitching her backpack over both her shoulders. "Thanks again."
The moment Dana was gone, Iris came out of her office again. Kylie was giving me that special
frown she seemed to reserve for me, but Iris's face was blank.
"I'm sorry about that," I said. "She called last week, I didn't really know what to say--"
"I told you to get her off the phone," Kylie supplied, adjusting the low gold belt she wore over
a draped jersey dress.
"I tried, but she was kind of persistent, and I really didn't mind--"
Iris held up her hand. "Taylor, you know we're not here to give notes on spec scripts. This isn't