by Jen Wilde
“Right,” Malcolm says as he shifts in his chair. “I knew that.” He looks at his watch and closes his laptop. “Okay, let’s break for lunch.”
I pack up my laptop as everyone starts to leave. I feel someone watching me, and when I look up Malcolm is glaring at me.
“Don’t ever interrupt our meetings again.”
I swallow hard. “Okay. Sorry.”
“You completely threw me off track,” he adds.
“Sorry,” I say again. My heart sits in my stomach, like it’s trying to hide.
Malcolm throws his stuff into his bag and storms out of the room. I fight back tears as I gather my things, feeling like all the progress I made this morning has just been washed away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“Are you okay?” Jane asks in the hallway.
I put on a smile. “Yeah. Totally. I’m just gonna go to the bathroom. I’ll meet you on set.”
I’m overwhelmed and frustrated and need to take a minute alone. The second I lock the stall door, I feel relieved. My breathing slows. I let a tear or two fall down my cheeks.
I thought my days of eating lunch alone on a toilet were over the day I graduated. But every time I start to gain even just a little confidence in this place, it gets crushed all over again.
My phone buzzes and I find it at the bottom of my bag. My mom and Gabby have both texted me more than once to ask how I am. I leave Mom’s unread, figuring I’ll reply to it later. I don’t want to tell her I’m hiding in the bathroom.
Gabby: ok I need you to tell me if you’re dead or not because you never called to tell me what happened on your first day
Bex: I’m alive.
Gabby: having fun?!
Bex: that’s a very complicated question
Gabby: uh oh. What happened?
Bex: I don’t think I’m cut out for this life
Gabby: which life?
Bex: adult life. Those memes are right. Adulting is hard.
Gabby: Dude. It’s only your second day!
Bex: don’t remind me
Gabby: wtf happened.
Bex: Parts of it are amazing and I saw the set and the cast and I love so much of it. But my boss is a dick.
Gabby: Okay #1: everyone’s boss is a dick. #2: YOU SAW THE SET AND THE CAST?! Hello!!!
Bex: yeah that was awesome
Gabby: do I need to come all the way down there and slap you until you realize how lucky you are?!
Bex: I said it was awesome!
Gabby: okay. what did the dick boss do?
Bex: he just embarrassed me in front of everyone. I suggested an idea for a story line and he was like “interns are supposed to be quiet, becky.”
Gabby: wait who’s becky?
Bex: I am
Gabby: you’re not becky!
Bex: I KNOW I’M NOT BECKY
Gabby: I’m so confused. FT?
I dab my tears on some torn-off toilet paper, then call her on FaceTime.
“Hey,” I whisper when she answers.
“Aww,” she says. “Are you in the bathroom?”
“Yep,” I say, popping my mouth on the p.
“Damn, Bex,” she says. “You’re a bit of a hot mess.”
“This is what I’m saying.”
She sighs into the phone. “You can’t do this to yourself, babe. If you let people walk all over you, it’s gonna be just like high school again. It’s all new and scary, I get that. But you can’t let everything get you down. You need to stand up for yourself.”
“But he’s my boss!” I say.
“Yeah,” she says. “But that doesn’t give him the right to embarrass you, or ignore you, or call you by the wrong name.”
I shrug. “I could be Becky.”
She glares at me through the phone. “No. You go back out there and tell him you are Bex Phillips and you will not be talked down to.”
I roll my eyes. “Okay. Or I could just stop fooling myself and come back to Westmill.” I say it as a joke … sort of.
“Hey!” she yells, making me jump. “Listen to me, dude. You have fought hard to be there. You have every right to be there. And you need to stand your ground on this. Don’t give up.”
A stray tear runs down my cheek, and I dab at it with the toilet paper. “Thanks, Gabs.”
The door to the bathroom creaks open, and I hurry to end the call.
“Sorry, gotta go,” I whisper. “I’ll text you later, bye.”
I end the call and throw the phone back into my bag like it’s about to explode. Then I drop my head into my hands and close my eyes. I could really use a nap right now. But instead, I leave the stall and stand over the sink to splash my face.
“I’m Bex Phillips,” I whisper to myself. “And I will not be talked down to.”
I say it again. And again. Then once more. Each time I repeat it, I feel stronger, bolder, prouder.
I just hope Malcolm takes it as well as the bathroom mirror is. I dab my puffy eyes with a paper towel, straighten the collar of my shirt, then march out the door.
“I’m Bex Phillips, dammit,” I say as I walk down the hall to Malcolm’s office. “My name isn’t Becky. Or ‘doll.’ Or ‘intern.’ It’s Bex fucking Phillips.”
By the time I reach his door I’m so riled up, I could burst through it like the Kool-Aid guy. I knock on the door, repeating my name over and over again in my mind.
“Hey, Bex,” a voice says from behind me. I turn to see Jane leaving her office. “Whatcha doin’?”
“I just need to talk to Malcolm,” I say, then knock again.
“Oh,” she says. “He’s gone for the day. Probably to work on the script for 612.”
Fuckity.
She must see the disappointment on my face, because she frowns. “Is there anything I can help you with?”
I shake my head. All the boldness I had running through my veins starts to fade.
“Come on,” she says. “Let’s head to the set. We’re filming a fun new scene today.”
Just like that, I perk up again. Spending a whole day in Silver Falls is exactly what I need right now. At least there I can be useful. And I get to hang out with actors and directors and help make Jane’s script come to life.
“For what it’s worth,” Jane says as we walk through the lot, “I thought you had great input this morning. Don’t give up.”
My heart grows twice its size. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it,” she adds. “This is a hard business. There’s a lot of rejection, and I don’t want you to let that get you down. Sometimes you need to fight to be heard, especially when you’re the only woman in a room full of men.”
Her words echo in my mind. Sometimes you need to fight to be heard. But I’m not a fighter. In fact, all evidence points to the exact opposite. When faced with confrontation, I crumble. I cower. I cry. How am I supposed to fight to be heard if my voice buries itself in my chest like a startled rabbit whenever I need it? Hell, one of the reasons I started writing was to release everything I’d ever wanted to say out loud but couldn’t.
Wait. That’s it. I’ll fight to be heard using the most valuable weapon I have in my arsenal: writing.
I’m going to write a killer script for episode 612. If I can’t tell Malcolm who I am, I’m going to show him. I’m going to make sure he remembers my name.
When we get to set, I start writing down ideas on my phone in between taking scene notes for Jane and fetching green juices for Archer. The only thing I’m sure of for the episode is this: The hunter will be a girl. She will be queer. And she and Alyssa’s character, Sasha, will fall in love.
CHAPTER EIGHT
EXT. SILVER FALLS WOODS—NIGHT
We open on Sasha’s boots as she runs through the woods. The sound of motorbikes echoes in the distance. The hunters are on her tail. The camera pans out to show Jonah, Sasha, and Tom running together. They’re sweaty, dirty, out of breath.
MALE HUNTER
(Offscreen)
We’re comin’
for you, dogs!
Jonah trips and falls. Tom keeps running, but Sasha stops to help him up.
SASHA
Get up!
TOM
(Breathing heavily)
We can’t outrun them like this. We have to turn.
SASHA
So let’s turn.
They both transform into their wolf selves, then keep running through the woods. A shot fires from behind, hitting a tree ahead. Branches fall in front of Sasha, blocking her path and separating her from the others. She runs around it but gets caught in a net. She tries chewing her way through it, but it’s electrified. A bike skids to a stop nearby. Boots hit the ground as one of the hunters slowly approaches the net. The hunter stands in the light of the moon and takes her helmet off, revealing her identity as Lyla. Sasha growls, baring her teeth.
LYLA
Shh. It’s okay. I’m Lyla.
Lyla crouches in front of the net. Sasha growls more but stops when she cuts her free.
LYLA
Go. Hurry.
Sasha runs. Lyla watches her.
END TEASER.
I look up from my laptop just as the bus pulls up to my stop. I throw it into my bag and jump up from my seat just in time. My mind races as I speed-walk to Parker’s building. Scenes play on a projector screen in my mind. Lines of dialogue repeat over and over. I can’t wait to write the moment Sasha and the hunter meet again. I know Parker’s home, so I knock instead of wrestling with the door again. There’s no time for that when I’m on such a roll.
“Hey, girl!” he says with a smile. He’s wearing an apron over jeans and a T-shirt that says LET BOYS BE FEMININE. “I made pasta! That’s dinner sorted for the week.”
The whole apartment smells like vodka sauce. My stomach rumbles. “Great, thank you! I’ll eat while I work.”
“Oooh!” he says, raising an eyebrow. “A project! Is it top secret?”
I sit cross-legged on the couch and set up my laptop again. “Um, kinda? As in, no one really knows I’m doing it. My boss is a disrespectful jerk, so I’m writing a killer episode to prove him wrong about me.”
“A spite script,” he says as he stirs the pasta. “I love it.”
“Thanks! So, how was your day?”
He fixes a plate for me and leaves it on the counter. “Hectic. I did a charity fashion show in Beverly Hills. So many pretty people there.”
Parker’s phone alarm goes off on the coffee table, and he lights up. “That’s my cue! Wish me luck!
“You’re going out?” I ask, confused.
He unties his apron and swings it around his neck like it’s a cape, then stands in a superhero pose with his hands on his hips. “I have a date!”
I close my laptop. “A date? Since when?”
“Since this morning,” he says. “I met a very cute model at the fashion show. His name is Dante, and we flirted a little while I did his makeup. Anywho, he asked me out for drinks at Bar 161.”
I clap my hands. “Yay! That’s so exciting!”
He hangs the apron on the magnet hook on the fridge, and I notice his fingers trembling. “I’ve never been so nervous about a boy before. He’s just so pretty.”
“Hey,” I say, standing up from the couch. “You’re just as pretty as any model.” I’m not lying; Parker has magnificent blue eyes and perfectly arched brows, and he isn’t afraid to rock a bit of highlighter.
“Oh, I know,” he says, flipping his head back like he has long, luscious locks. “But Dante…,” he swoons.
“Okay,” I say. “I need to see a pic of this dude, obviously.”
He picks up his phone and googles him. Dozens of professional photos appear on the screen. Dante Smith is his name, and good lord is he pretty. He has dark brown skin, dreads in a topknot with a fade, a dazzling smile, and striking hazel eyes. Parker taps on a black-and-white shirtless photo, with Dante posing casually against a raindrop-adorned window.
“Holy fuck,” I say.
“This is what I’m saying,” Parker says, swooning again.
“He has a six-pack,” I say.
Parker closes the screen and fans himself with his hand. “Stop! I’m nervous enough already.”
I place a hand on his shoulder. “P. You’ll be fine. Now go, or you’ll be late.”
He grabs his keys and his wallet and opens the door, then turns to me. “You’ll be okay here?”
I nod. “I’ve got a script to write.”
* * *
“ILY” by the Brightsiders is blasting through my headphones when the front door is kicked open at 2:00 A.M. Parker waltzes in, smiling like he’s either drunk or in love—or both.
“You’re still awake!” he says, then shushes himself for being too loud. Yep, definitely drunk. “How much Ritalin have you had?”
“Don’t worry,” I say. “I’ve had the recommended daily amount. I’m just in the zone.”
I have to keep going. It’s just the way my mind works. There’s no way I’ll be able to sleep or shower or even think of anything else until this is finished. It would crawl under my skin and eat away at me. “How was your date?”
His grin gets even wider, then he closes the door and leans against it, sighing. “Heavenly.” He peels himself away from the door and sashays into the kitchen, humming to himself. “We talked, we drank, we danced, we made out like the world was ending.”
I giggle, getting high off his lovestruck fumes. He takes some leftover chocolate cake out of the fridge and starts digging into it like a zombie into guts.
“He invited me to a pool party on Saturday,” he says before popping some into his mouth. “It’s at his friend Chloe’s place. As in Mix Chloe, the singer.”
I move my laptop off me and stand up. “Wait. Mix Chloe?! I love them! I was just listening to their song with the Brightsiders!”
Chloe is a black nonbinary femme YouTuber and musician. I’ve been watching their videos since middle school.
“You wanna come with?” he asks. “Dante said I could bring friends.”
I gasp. “Fuck yes!”
Parker claps excitedly, sending cake crumbs flying all over the kitchen from his fingers. “Oops.”
“Okay,” I say, taking the massacred cake plate away from him. “I think it’s time for bed. We both have work in the morning.”
Parker gives me a crooked smile. “Okeydokey, Loki.”
* * *
On Friday morning, I walk into the writers’ room with my usual tray of coffees and my finished script in my bag. I’ve had a total of five hours sleep since Wednesday, but I have enough adrenaline and Ritalin in me to last the day. I hope.
Everyone sits around the table. Dirk is ready to take notes on his laptop, and I sit in an empty chair in the corner of the room to listen quietly.
“Mal,” Jane says just before we wrap up. “Can you update us on episode 612? Just so we all know what we’re doing.”
He’s been oddly MIA the last couple of days, and when he has shown up, he’s been very quiet. Puffy bags sit under his eyes, salt-and-pepper stubble lines his jaw, and his hair is a mess. He looks like he hasn’t slept in months.
“It’s fine,” he says. “It’ll be ready to table at Monday’s meeting.”
“Great!” Jane says. “Can’t wait to see how you introduced the new hunter.”
“Well,” he says, sounding kind of annoyed. “Like I just said, you’ll find out on Monday.” He stands up and leaves then, and all the writers exchange looks. But once again, no one says anything.
I really want to give Malcolm my script before he leaves, so I hurry out of the room and chase him down the hall.
“Mr. Butler!” I call. His head turns slightly, but he keeps walking. “Can I talk to you for a sec?”
He sighs and turns around. “Whatever it is, ask Dirk.”
“It’s important,” I say as I hold my script out to him. “I wrote my own version of episode 612.” My heart is beating so hard I feel like I can hear it in my voice. “Just to show
you what I can do.”
He looks at me like I’ve asked him for a kidney. “Look, Becky, you’ve been here, what, five days? So I guess I can let your naivety slide just this once. I have an entire production to run here; do you think I have time to read the work of an intern? Dirk has been my writing assistant for a year and he’s never asked me to read a spec.”
My heart drops into my stomach. I’m so embarrassed. Instead of proving my initiative to him, all I’ve done is show him how ignorant I am about how things work here.
“I’m so sorry,” I say, not even able to look at him. I turn to walk away.
“Wait,” he says. “Did you say you wrote a spec for 612?”
I nod. “I know you’ve already written it, but—”
“Right, yeah,” he says. Then he takes a step closer, his gaze on the script in my hands. “Can I see it?”
My eyebrows shoot up, and he gives me a small smile. I hand it to him and wait with bated breath as he flips through it.
“Hmm.” He looks up and down the hall, which is empty besides the two of us, then closes the script and tucks it under his arm. “Listen, I’m not promising anything. But if I have time over the weekend, I’ll take a look at it.”
I’m so happy I could do a backflip, but I keep my composure. “Thank you so much, Malcolm. Wow.”
He shrugs. “I can be nice when I want to be. Just don’t tell Dirk about this, okay?”
I slide my index finger and thumb over my lips in the zipping motion. “Deal.”
Then he turns and walks away, leaving me standing there, stunned. A big part of me never thought he would actually take it, but I guess Jane was right: Sometimes you have to fight to be heard.
CHAPTER NINE
Parker walks into Chloe’s party like he’s strutting down a catwalk. I push my glasses higher up on my nose, trailing behind him like his shadow. I figure if I stay close to him, no one will realize I don’t really belong here.
Loud pop music bounces off the cool gray walls, making hips swing and voices sing. Drinks are flowing, famous faces are mingling, and here I am, a closeted intern from Westmill. I feel so out of place, and yet there’s a secret part of me that knows this is where I’m meant to be. So I’m going to try to act like it.
