by Jen Wilde
The radio plays the latest Bleachers hit, and the sun is already turning up the heat even though it’s not even 8:00 A.M. yet. I feel like a bowl of Jell-O, jiggling and shaking as the car rumbles through the traffic. I’m so nervous for my first day that I couldn’t eat breakfast, and now I’m sweating through the navy button-up shirt that I so carefully picked out just for today.
Parker catches me sniffing myself and pops open his glove box. “I got you.” He pulls out a spray-on deodorant and I quickly stuff it under my shirt and apply it.
“Thanks, man,” I say.
Soon, we’re pulling up at the entrance to the studio lot, and my heart is pounding out of my chest. A tall bronzed arch towers over the entry, with Rosemount Studios engraved into it. To think that some of the most legendary performers, writers, and directors have passed through these gates over the decades, and I get to follow in their footsteps. I snap a photo and send it to my mom and my best friend, Gabby, while Parker pulls into the line of cars waiting to pass security at the gate.
My phone buzzes with a text from Gabby.
Gabby: GOOD LUCK TODAY BABE
Gabby: send me tons of pics! xo
Gabby is pretty much my only IRL friend. We went to high school together and basically started hanging out because we were the kids the bullies picked on most. We bonded over fanfic and music and spent most of our time reposting each other’s Tumblrs. We’re like sisters, but even she doesn’t know I’m gay.
Bex: so nervous. Gonna die.
Gabby: lol wanna trade? Summer just started and I’m already bored out of my mind.
Bex: I’ll take it
Gabby: stfu! This is everything for you.
I feel like a traitor to my own dreams for this, but I honestly would trade with Gabby right now. She’s got the summer off before college. Days of sleeping in, sitting in front of the television, and doing nothing sounds pretty damn appealing as I sit here in a hot car, so anxious it feels like my heart is about to explode. I squeeze my eyes shut and imagine I’m home, in my bed, safe under my covers. No responsibilities, no pressure, no way to fail. But when I open my eyes again, I’m still here. And I’m terrified.
“I can’t do this,” I say.
Parker smirks like he was waiting for me to say that. “Yeah. You can.”
I shake my head. “Nope. This was a bad idea. I’m not ready for this. I’m just a child!”
He bursts into laughter. “Bex, you’re eighteen. You’re grown. You can do this.”
“Nope,” I say again. “Nuh-uh. Turn around. I wanna go back to Westmill. I’m not ready to be grown.”
He stops laughing and turns to look at me. “Honey, this is all you’ve been dreaming of since you were seven and I took you to see Twilight. I’m not letting you leave.”
I fold my arms over my chest. “Okay, firstly, bringing up my Twilight phase is a low move. Secondly, maybe I’m not ready to achieve my dream just yet. I’ll try again next year.”
The guard lets one of the cars ahead of us in and we move forward in the line.
“What are you gonna do in Westmill for a year?” Parker asks. “Work at Sonic with your ma every day and go home and write Silver Falls fanfic all night?”
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask, offended.
“Nothing!” he says, his voice a couple of octaves higher. “If that’s what you really want. But that’s not what you want. You want to go into that studio and be the best fucking intern in the history of interns. You want to schmooze the higher-ups and hustle your way into a job writing about hunky werewolves.”
My stomach does flips and I wrap my arms tighter around myself. “I’m gonna barf.”
He shrugs. “So barf. You wouldn’t be the first one to puke in this car. But then you’re still going to march into that writers’ room and do the job you fought so hard for.”
He’s right. I did fight hard for this opportunity. I worked almost every day after school and on weekends for nearly two years to save up enough money to come to LA. I stalked all the social media of television studios and signed up for every newsletter and joined every Facebook group to find writing internships. I filled out dozens of applications. All while trying to pass my classes and graduate high school. I promised myself that it would all be worth it once I made it through these gates.
Another car is let through. There’s only one car ahead of us now.
I let out a sigh. “I hate you.”
“Awww,” Parker says teasingly. “I hate you, too, sweetie.”
When it’s our turn, I introduce myself to the guard, an older gentleman with glasses and thinning white hair, and tell him I’m here for my internship and show him all my IDs and paperwork. The pages tremble in my hands, and the guard gives me a warm smile. His name badge says PETER, but he tells me I can call him Pete as he welcomes me to the studio. I like him already.
The gates slide open, and we drive into the lot. I feel like I’m entering a lost city of magic and wonder, like when Thor took Jane to Asgard for the first time in The Dark World.
Parker pulls into the visitors’ parking lot and gives me a hug. “Now, get out and have a blast.”
“Thanks, P,” I say.
My fingers shake as I open the car door and step out. The phrase “fake it till you make it” repeats in my head, and I try my best to play it cool. I hold my head high as I enter the building, but the door makes an awful creaking noise that makes everyone in the reception area stare at me. Totally thrown off my game, I bypass the front desk, hurry as casually as I can into the gender-neutral bathroom, and lock myself in a stall. I’m sweating again, so I tear some toilet paper off and wipe my armpits with it. Stains are already forming on my shirt. Note to self: Do not lift arms at all today.
After a minute or two of deep breathing and fanning my sweaty spots with my hands, I swing the door open and step back out, taking what Parker said to heart: If I need to barf, I’ll barf, but then I’m going to get back up and keep going.
I’ve got a dream to chase.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Room 121. Room 121. Room…,” I mutter to myself as I walk down the hallway, checking the numbers on all the doors. My new official lanyard hangs around my neck, swinging slightly with each step I take. I reach the corner boardroom, with a sign on the door that says ROOM 121: SILVER FALLS WRITERS’ ROOM. Just like Angela, the cute girl at reception, described.
I take a moment to compose myself. Deep breath in, slow breath out.
Time to go for what you want, Bex.
I knock on the door, but all I get in response is silence. Someone walks out of the office behind me and down the hallway. I try to smile at them, but they don’t even notice me. I knock again. Still no answer.
Do I knock for a third time? Maybe they’re saying come in but I’m just not hearing it. Should I just go in? Ugh, I feel like such a loser. I touch my fingers to the door handle, turn it an inch, and wait, listening. Still nothing.
“Um, hello?” I open the door, hoping I’m not interrupting anything.
I’m greeted by an empty room.
“Hello?” I say again for good measure.
Weird. Angela said they would all be here. I take one last look down the empty hallway and step inside the room. A long table sits in the middle of the room with eight office chairs around it and a tin of whiteboard markers in the middle of it. A couch sits along the far wall, under a window that overlooks the staff parking lot. But the thing I can’t take my eyes off is the whiteboard on the wall behind the table. It’s covered in Post-it notes and paragraphs of dialogue and ideas for the latest episode. I step farther into the room and see the wall to the right of that plastered with headshots of the cast, along with their character names and more Post-it notes. A long timeline is pinned above them, listing all the pivotal moments from season one to season six—the current season. There’s the episode when Jonah’s girlfriend, Katie, died. Ugh, I cried so hard that night. And the episode when Tom led the other werewolves into war with
the vamps. That was one of the best episodes to date, in my opinion.
“Can I help you?” a voice asks from the doorway. I jump out of my skin like I’ve been caught doing something I shouldn’t be.
The guy stares at me, waiting for my answer.
“Hi,” I say with a smile. “I’m Bex, the new intern.”
He cocks his head to the side. “I wasn’t aware we were getting a new intern this season.”
I hold up my lanyard. “Oh, well. I’m supposed to be working in the writers’ room with Malcolm Butler.”
He makes a face, like he just got a whiff of something bad. “I’m Malcolm Butler.”
I narrow my eyes at him. He doesn’t look like Malcolm Butler, at least not like the photo on his Twitter profile. But the longer I search his face for the resemblance, the more I see him. He looks older, with more lines around his eyes and gray in his hair, and a scruffy beard.
Shit. I can’t believe I didn’t recognize the Malcolm Butler. He’s been the showrunner since season four and a leader in the industry since before I was born. My cheeks warm in embarrassment.
For some reason, I wave. “Hi! It’s so nice to meet you! I’m a huge fan!”
He does a cool kind of chin nod and drops his satchel on the table. “We’re about to have a meeting to go over the next script.”
Oh my god. I’m about to listen to the writers of Silver Falls talk about the latest script.
OhmygodOhmygodOhmyfreakinggod.
“Cool,” I say, trying to seem as casual as possible. But I can’t stop grinning. I sit on one of the chairs at the table but instantly realize I’ve fucked up when he looks at me like I’ve offended him.
“No,” he says. “The writers sit at the table.”
I stand up so fast I push the chair into the wall, and one of the cast photos falls off.
“Oh my god, I’m so sorry!” I gasp. I scramble to pick up the headshot and pin it back where it was, all while he watches and sighs and very definitely starts to loathe me already. Then I walk to the other side of the room and stand there sheepishly.
We wait in unbearable silence for a little while. I look everywhere but at him. Nervous sweat runs down my back.
“You look young for an intern,” he says, narrowing his eyes.
It’s not a question, but the suspicion in his voice pushes me to give an answer. “I’m getting college credit.”
He nods. “UCLA?”
I rub the back of my neck. “Community college.”
“Look,” he finally says. “I don’t normally allow interns in the room. But Ruby—the new network head—wants us to…” He pauses and does air quotes with his fingers. “‘Lift as we climb,’ like this is some diversity outreach program instead of a business. Anyway, she’s the boss, and lucky for you that means you can stay.”
“Thanks,” I say, even though I’m a little offended.
“Before everyone else gets here,” he continues, “tell me, do you have any relatives in the business?”
“No,” I say. “My family is small. Just me, my mom, aunt, and cousin. Oh, wait, actually, my cousin is a makeup artist.”
“Oh,” he says, like he’s finally interested. “Which studio does she work for?”
“He,” I say. “And he’s freelance. Mostly makeup and hair for photo shoots.”
He lowers an eyebrow. “So no one in the film or television business, then.”
I shake my head. “I guess not.”
He opens his laptop but keeps asking questions.
“Do you have any interest in writing?” he asks.
My eyes light up. “Oh, yes.”
“Do you intend to have a career in television writing?”
“Yes,” I say. “That’s always been my dream.”
He chuckles. “Dream. You’re one of those. Well, I hope you’re serious about this. I don’t want to waste anyone’s time here,” he says. “If I’m going to let my writers take time out of their own jobs for you, I need to know that you’re going to work hard. I’m not interested in giving you an ‘epic fangirl experience.’” He uses air quotes again. “You have to take initiative and prove that you’re in this for the long haul.”
I stop smiling and put on my serious face. “I’m very serious. I want this more than anything.”
He taps his pen on the table a few times. “Well, good. Do you have any writing experience?”
I tug on the sleeves of my shirt. “I’ve been writing on FanFic.com for years. My most popular story there has over two million reads.”
“FanFic.com.” He says it with a judgmental tone, then turns his attention back to his laptop.
I feel myself getting defensive but rein it back in. “I’ve also written scripts, and obviously I had to write scenes and episodes for my internship applications.”
“Obviously.” There’s a pause as he starts typing on his laptop. “You didn’t submit to any scriptwriting contests or fellowships?”
I deflate a little. “No.” I don’t want to tell him that I couldn’t afford any of the entry fees, so I leave it at that.
“Hmm,” he says. “Well, I expect you to be here five days a week. Lunch breaks are thirty minutes.”
“Yes, sir,” I say quietly. My stomach turns uneasily. The application said this was supposed to be a Monday-to-Wednesday gig. I was planning to get a part-time job, so I’d be earning some money, seeing as this is an unpaid internship. But he’s my boss, and if he says I need to be here Monday to Friday, that’s what I have to do. I’ll just have to stretch my savings and go over my budget again. Ugh. My chest tightens with panic just thinking about it.
Just then, a short guy with spiked-up hair and a laptop walks in. He walks by me and takes a seat on the couch.
“Dirk,” Malcolm says. “You’re late.”
“I know, I know,” he says. “I’ve been searching everywhere for the fountain pen you wanted, but it’s sold out everywhere. Even online.”
“Don’t whine to me,” Malcolm says, rolling his eyes. “Just do your job. And fix that attitude. You’re dropping the ball lately.”
Dirk just nods, and then they sit in awkward silence, with me standing near the door and wondering if I should leave the room.
Finally, other people arrive. Some make eye contact with me and nod; others don’t seem to even notice I’m there. I’m disappointed, but not surprised, to see that there’s only one woman at the table, and everyone is white. I hope I’m not the only queer person, but I’m not going to hold my breath. I wait for Malcolm to introduce me, but he just starts the meeting.
“Happy Monday, folks,” he says. “Let’s get straight to it. Andy, what have you got for us?”
A guy wearing a gray hoodie and black-rimmed glasses hands copies of his script around the table. He glances at me, then at the last script in his hands, then looks at Malcolm like he’s unsure of whether to give me one.
“Oh, right,” Malcolm says. “This is our new intern.”
Everyone in the room turns to look at me, and I rub the tips of my sneakers together nervously. I wonder how I must look to them. Broad-shouldered girl with orange curls, thick glasses on the edge of her nose, sweat-stained shirt, and black jeans. I try to muster a few ounces of confidence, but it’s not enough to even make eye contact with anyone.
“Hi,” I say to my shoes. “I’m Bex.”
Everyone smiles and says hi, and Andy hands me a copy of the script. “Just FYI,” he says. “That’s top secret, so don’t, like, take any selfies with it or anything.”
I nod. “I won’t. It’s safe with me.”
My fingers trace over the paper. I want to cry. This must be how Gollum felt when he held the ring.
“Oh, Becky,” Malcom says. I consider correcting him about my name, but I’m so intimidated that my words get stuck.
I guess my name is Becky now.
“I’d love a coffee,” he says. “Run over to the café, would you? Anyone else want one?”
Others in the room start list
ing their orders, and I frantically type them out on my phone.
“Got it,” I say. “Be right back.”
“Thanks, doll,” Malcolm says as I walk out the door.
Doll? Ugh. I’d prefer Becky.
CHAPTER FIVE
By the time I return with their orders, the meeting is wrapping up.
“Oh,” Malcolm says when he sees me. “I was wondering where you’d gone.”
“Sorry,” I say as he takes his cup off the tray in my hands. “The line was out the door.” And also I got seriously lost. This studio is bigger than all of Westmill.
The other writers take their cups off the tray as they walk out the door. They all thank me, which is nice. My phone vibrates in my back pocket, and I strategically fish it out while still holding the drink tray. It’s my mom. Ugh. She knows how important this day is for me; why is she calling now? Doesn’t she know how embarrassed I’d feel, taking a call from my mother on my first day at my important new job? I hit the ignore button and slide it back into my pocket, making a mental note to call her back later.
Then it’s just me and the female writer left in the room, and I have no idea what I’m supposed to do next.
She smiles at me as she hangs her laptop bag over her shoulder. I smile back, still holding the empty tray.
“So,” she says. “Did Malcolm give you something to do today? Or a writer to shadow?”
“Um, no,” I say slowly. “Was he supposed to?”
She smiles like she feels sorry for me but doesn’t answer my question. “It’s okay! You can hang with me if you like. I can find plenty of things for you to do.”
“Cool!” I lift my index and middle fingers to my temple and salute … because that’s a thing I do now, I guess. “I am at your service.”
She laughs, and we head out the door and down the hallway.
“I’m Jane,” she says, reaching out to shake my hand. Her emerald green eyes sparkle behind dark lashes, and her brows are perfectly arched. She’s probably the first person I’ve come across in LA who is even paler than I am. “I’m an EP—executive producer. I started as a staff writer on season one and worked my way up, so if you have any questions or need anything while you’re here, I’m happy to help.”
