Going Off Script

by Jen Wilde

  “Dante should be here somewhere,” P says to me. I nod and look around while twisting one of the buttons on my shirt.

  I didn’t like any of my clothes this morning, so Parker let me wear one of his shirts that I’ve been lusting after since I got to LA. It’s a white button-down with an adorable pug print all over it. It’s masculine and quirky and I love it. And for some reason that I haven’t quite figured out yet, wearing Parker’s shirt makes me stand a little taller. I may not be totally comfortable at this party, but I’m feeling comfortable in my skin. I matched it with my old skinny jeans that have holes in the knees from being worn so often—they’re my only pair. Thank the fashion gods that ripped jeans are on trend right now. I can’t wait until I have money so I can start buying clothes that actually feel like me, but for now I’m happy to raid P’s wardrobe as long as he lets me.

  “There he is,” Parker says in my ear. I follow his gaze across the crowded room. Dante is sitting on the arm of a couch, wearing geek glasses, a white tee, and ripped jeans. A gold bow holds his dreads together on top of his head. He spots us through the sea of celebrities and flashes his pearly whites. Then he stands up and moves through the party effortlessly, his gaze on Parker. I feel Parker stop breathing next to me.

  “Hey, boy,” Dante says when he reaches us. Then he kisses Parker on the cheek, and it’s all so sweet I could die.

  “Well, hello,” P says, then immediately forgets I exist. They start talking quietly, whispering sweet nothings to each other. I start edging away, trying to give them some space, but I don’t know where to go.

  In an effort to be more outgoing, I try to make eye contact with a pretty girl sitting on the kitchen island. She looks over to me, a smile growing on her dark red lips, and I perk up instantly. I’m about to walk closer, when someone pushes past me. It’s a dude in a loose-fitting orange tank top tucked into skinny jeans, and he steps right up to the pretty girl and lifts her off the counter in a bear hug.

  Oh. She wasn’t smiling at me. She was smiling at orange tank top dude. I back away, my gaze darting around to make sure nobody saw that embarrassing moment. Then I wander aimlessly through the party, taking everything in. Chloe’s house is stunning, with high ceilings, walls of shelves adorned with vintage records, music awards, and books, and a huge framed photograph of Prince above the fireplace.

  “Yo!” a voice says. It sounds familiar, but no one knows me here, so I ignore it. Someone taps me on the shoulder. “Hey! Green juice girl!” I turn around to see Archer Carlton smiling at me. “I knew it was you!”

  “Oh, hey!” I say. “I’m Bex, by the way. Not … not green juice girl.”

  He laughs. “Cool, right. I didn’t know you knew Chloe.”

  “I don’t,” I say. “My cousin is here with Dante Smith, so…”

  “Nice,” he says, nodding. “You’re an intern, right? How’s that going?”

  I can’t wipe the grin from my face. I’m actually talking to Archer Carlton at Mix Chloe’s party. If only the kids from school could see me now.

  “I’m loving it,” I say, smiling. “I’m learning so much already. And being on set is a dream.”

  He chuckles, then takes a swig of his beer. “Well, I appreciate all the green juices. I wanted to talk to you more on set, but I just get really involved in the work. Not, like, Daniel Day-Lewis involved, but I really have to focus, you know?”

  I nod, still in awe that this is really happening. “That’s totally fair. I wasn’t, like, offended or anything.”

  He sighs, like he’s relieved. “Thank god. I worry that I come off as a real dick sometimes.”

  I chuckle. “I don’t think you’re a—”

  Before I can finish reassuring him that he’s not a dick, he steamrolls into a story.

  “Like, this one time,” he says, his voice louder than before, like he’s talking to an audience and not just me. “I was in the green room at Jimmy Fallon with Rebel Wilson and Idris Elba, and I made this joke…”

  A circle of four or five people start to form around him as he continues. Someone edges in front of me, and I find myself at the back of a growing crowd, all listening to him like he’s a prophet.

  “Speaking of Jimmy Fallon,” he continues. “He begged me to tell this story on the show, but I wanted to keep it hush-hush. I was this close”—he pinches his thumb and index finger together—“to landing the role of Thor for the Marvel franchise.” Some people gasp; my eyebrows shoot up toward my hairline.

  “Right?” he says, leaning his elbow on the surface of the white grand piano behind him. “Me and Chris Hemsworth were waiting in the hall to audition. Poor guy was shaking, he was that nervous. I actually felt bad for the guy. Luckily for him, I had some relaxation techniques up my sleeve—my Zen master taught me all about that shit—and I helped calm him down. In hindsight, I probably should’ve just let him freak out. Maybe I would’ve been running around with that sick hammer instead of him! That’s what I get for being a decent dude.”

  Everyone laughs, and more people squeeze in front of me. I try to stay close to hear more of his anecdotes, but his audience is so large now that I’m too far away to catch all of it.

  It’s kind of bizarre, seeing him this way. Monologing like he’s performing Shakespeare, dropping famous names left and right. This is not how I pictured him at all.

  In the show, Archer’s character, Tom, is known for his one-liners. He’s tight-lipped and brooding, the mysterious bad boy who walks into a bar and has beautiful girls with ample cleavage fall into his lap with just one smoldering eyebrow raise. It’s not necessarily a bad thing that Archer’s so vastly different from his character, but I can’t help but feel uncomfortable with it. I had this image of him in my mind, and cracks are forming in that image right in front of my eyes. It’s an odd thing to realize the person you’ve seen onscreen and in magazines for years is separate from the reality of who they are.

  “Bex!” Parker calls, snapping me out of my thoughts. I turn around to see him and Dante walking over, hand in hand. “Where’d you go?”

  I’m about to answer him when he notices Archer and completely flips out. “Oh my God! Archer fucking Carlton!”

  He drags Dante closer to Archer, grinning from ear to ear.

  A furry little creature wanders past, catching my eye. “A dog!” I gasp, then follow its wagging tail outside. It’s a French bulldog, and it leads me to the edge of the yard, to a glass fence overlooking all of Los Angeles. I crouch down and pet it lightly on the head, then it comes closer and nuzzles up to me, officially making me feel like the coolest person at the party. New goal: make this pup my best friend before I leave.

  “What’s your name, little dude?” I lift the gold name tag on the bedazzled pink collar and giggle when I see it. “Bowie! Hello, Bowie, how are you, bud?” He responds by trying to lick my face, and I play with his velvet ears. Out of nowhere, two other dogs waddle over, a corgi named Freddie and a Dalmatian puppy named Jagger.

  All three of them compete for my attention, climbing on me until I fall back onto my butt and give in to their cuteness. This is the best day ever.

  “Well, you’ve found the best part of the party,” a voice says.

  “Right?” I reply, even though I can’t see who’s talking to me. “I couldn’t resist their squishy faces.”

  I peek around the corgi butt in my face. It’s Shrupty Padwal, Instagram star and YouTube celebrity. She went viral last year when she and Chloe posted a video of them singing about some of the racist, homophobic, transphobic, all-around-trash trolls they get. Like a musical version of reading mean tweets. But she found fame through makeup tutorials, skincare tips, and beauty product reviews for those with dark skin like hers.

  Shrupty puts her drink on a nearby table, then sits cross-legged across from me. The puppies immediately attack her with kisses, leaving me high and dry. But I’m not mad; I’d choose her, too. She’s beautiful, with her brown skin, long dark hair, and thick lashes. She’s wearing green
high-waisted shorts, a white Sailor Moon T-shirt, and gold aviator sunglasses pushed into her hair.

  “Are you Archer’s girl?” she asks me as Jagger climbs into her lap.

  I point to myself. “Me? Nah.” Should I say I’m gay? She’s gay, so she’d be cool about it. My skin prickles at the thought of telling her, though. What if she doesn’t believe me? Dammit. I really should’ve practiced in the mirror or something until I felt confident saying it.

  “Oh,” she says. “I saw you talking to him earlier, so I thought…” She shrugs and trails off.

  “I work with him, kind of,” I say. Have I missed my chance to tell her I’m gay? Am I supposed to just blurt it out randomly? Is that a thing gay people do? I’ve never met any other out queer people except for P. Ugh. How do I gay?

  “You work on Silver Falls?” she asks. “Are you an actress?”

  Just then, Bowie leaps onto me, his tail going wild. “I wish I could act,” I say, laughing. “I’m an intern.”

  “I love that show,” she says. “What’s it like working there?”

  I start telling her about my first week, how the cast are all so nice, how Jane has taken me under her wing, and how I gave Malcolm my script.

  A light bulb sparks in my head. “Actually,” I say. “You’d be my dream casting for the character I created.”

  She tilts her head to the side. “Really? You think?”

  “Yeah!” The more I look at her, the more I see her owning that role. “You would rock it. I mean, think about it, a badass huntress, rides a motorbike, secretly saves wolves from being hunted down … then falls in love with Sasha.”

  She smiles. “That would be pretty fucking cool. I’ve been wanting to get into acting.”

  “You totally should,” I say. “I mean, my script won’t make it to air, it’s just a spec. I’ll be surprised if Malcolm actually reads it. But you’d be great in any role on Silver Falls.”

  She sweeps some of her hair behind her ear shyly. “Thanks.”

  “Shrupty!” a blond girl calls from across the pool. “Come on!” She taps on her wrist, like she’s wearing a watch.

  “Ah, shit,” Shrupty says. “I gotta go. But, um…” She pauses, then flips her sunglasses over her eyes. “Can I get your number? You know, for networking purposes.”

  “Sure.” I bite the insides of my cheeks as I give her my number, trying to suppress the wild grin that wants to take over my whole face.

  She says good-bye, and I watch her as she walks away, with the dogs following like they’ve imprinted on her. And now I’m sitting alone in the corner of the yard like the antisocial dork that I am, but I don’t even care because Shrupty freaking Padwal just asked me for my number. Maybe her gaydar alerted her to me. Maybe she thinks I’m cute. Or maybe she just wants to be on Silver Falls.

  My phone buzzes in my hand.

  Shrupty: nice meeting you xo

  CHAPTER TEN

  Malcolm is late to the writers’ room on Monday. He walks in carrying a stack of papers and a surprisingly friendly smile on his face. His hair is brushed, his eyes are clear, and he shaved. I hope that means he’s in a good mood; I want to ask him if he had a chance to read my episode.

  But I get my answer when he starts handing out the scripts. I flip open to the first page to see a very familiar scene.

  EXT. SILVER FALLS WOODS—NIGHT

  Jonah, Tom, and Sasha run through the woods. Hunters are close behind on dirt bikes.

  JONAH

  We’re almost there!

  Sasha’s leg gets stuck in a log. Jonah and Tom keep running.

  SASHA

  I’m stuck!

  She has to turn to break free. She transforms into a wolf, then keeps running—straight into a trap. Before she can fight her way out of it, one of the hunters pulls up. It’s a woman hunter, Lyla, her black jumpsuit zipped down just enough to reveal some cleavage. She takes her helmet off, letting her long, shiny hair fall past her shoulders. Sasha growls at her.

  LYLA

  Hush, wolfie. I’m Lyla, and I won’t bite if you don’t.

  She cuts Sasha free.

  LYLA

  Run.

  Sasha races away. Lyla smiles, then jumps back on her bike and rides away.

  END TEASER.

  I can’t breathe. The script falls closed on my lap. His name is on the front, in all caps.

  WRITTEN BY MALCOLM BUTLER

  It’s my script. This is my episode. I look up at Malcolm, sitting at the head of the table, reading over the episode with a proud smirk. The other writers at the table read it over, too, all of them nodding approvingly.

  “Wow,” Jane says, like she’s impressed. “So, to be clear, Lyla is Sasha’s new love interest?”

  Malcolm leans back in his chair. “Yep.”

  “Nice,” Andy says. “Viewers are going to eat this up.”

  “I figured it’s time to give the gays what they want,” Malcolm says with a dry laugh.

  What the fuck. No. I’m the one giving the gays what they want! And he can’t say “the gays”! Only gays like me can say that. Fuck. There are so many things going wrong right now, I don’t know where to start. My skin runs hot from anger, and I break out into a sweat. Conflicting thoughts race through my mind.

  He stole my script.

  But it’s not exactly the same.

  I should say something.

  No one’s going to believe me.

  I deserve some credit for this, at least.

  Writing TV is a collaborative process; maybe this happens all the time.

  He’s trying to pass it off as his original work.

  And he’s the showrunner, so there’s nothing I can do.

  As the debate goes round and round in my head, the table has already started discussing the episode. So I do what I always do: listen and take notes. But my blood is quietly boiling.

  * * *

  By the time the meeting wraps up, I’m ready to explode. I don’t know what to do. It would be so much easier to just let this go, and the thought of confronting him about it makes me nauseous. But I can’t just let him steal my script. Can I?

  I leave the building to get some air and text my voice of reason, Gabby.

  Bex: remember the script I’ve been working on? The one I gave to my boss?

  Gabby: yeah! Omg did he love it?

  Bex: I guess so. He stole it.

  Gabby: WHAT

  Gabby: GTFO

  Bex: he came into the meeting this morning with a rewritten version with his name on it

  Gabby: omg bex I’m so sorry. Did you say anything?

  Bex: no! I was too shocked.

  Gabby: are you going to confront him?

  Bex: idk.

  Gabby: dude, you have to do something

  Bex: what do I do??? HELP ME.

  Gabby: ok stay calm and ask him about it. Maybe he just forgot to credit you?

  Bex: unlikely.

  Gabby: I know he totally stole it. But approach him about in a way that isn’t accusatory. Then when he admits it you can demand he credits you.

  Bex: I’m scared gabs

  Gabby: I know. But you can handle this. It’s just like when Emily kept stealing your Ritalin. You called her out and she stopped.

  Oh god. Emily Rose was my mortal enemy all through high school. She’d terrorize me by following me through the halls, kicking my heels and muttering insults to her friends just loud enough for me to hear. Last year, I kept noticing some of my Ritalin was missing. I thought I was imagining things until I caught her with her head in my locker and her fingers in my prescription bottle.

  But she didn’t stop because I called her out; she stopped because I snitched to the principal and they made her take a drug test. Emily was one step ahead and took some pill that flushed her clean, so my Ritalin didn’t show up on her results. I came to school to find her test results superglued to my locker, with the word LIAR written over it.

  What if the same thing happens with Malcolm? What if
he twists it around just like Emily and makes me look like the bad guy?

  He could ruin me. I’d never be able to get a job in television.

  Gabby: Bex? What are you going to do?

  Bex: nothing. I can’t do anything. I need this job too much.

  Five minutes later, I’m headed back to the writers’ room to collect my laptop and meet Jane on set. But as I walk past Malcolm’s office, I see him in the corner of my eye and get so overwhelmed by anger that I approach him.

  “Mr. Butler,” I say as I walk in and close the door. “I want to talk to you about episode 612.”

  He looks up at me from behind his desk. “I thought you might.”

  I have to admit, I’m taken aback by how open he’s being about this. It’s as though he does this all the time.

  “You’re not denying it?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “Denying what?”

  “You…” I pause, gather myself, and try again. “You stole my script.”

  Malcolm laughs. “Is that really how you see it?”

  “That’s not how I see it,” I say. “That’s how it is.”

  “Is it, though?” He flips the script open in front of me, the pages blowing air in my face. “Point to the lines that are yours. I’ll wait.”

  He knows I can’t. He’s changed them all enough that I can’t claim any of it. Except Lyla. “The hunter. Lyla. She’s my character. She was my idea.”

  “Listen, Becky,” he says with a smirk. “You’re lucky I even read your script. If you remember, I didn’t want it to begin with. But I decided to be a nice guy and help you out.” He drops the script onto his desk. “You should be thanking me. What you wrote read like bad fanfiction. I turned it into something good. Something that actually deserves airtime.”

  I swallow the lump in my throat. “You wouldn’t have an episode if it wasn’t for me. You wouldn’t have Lyla.”

  “You’re blowing this way out of proportion.” He opens up his laptop and mutters, “This is why women aren’t cut out for this business. Too much drama.”