by Jen Wilde
People have limits, and I can see by the near-constant anger in Jane’s eyes that she’s bubbling closer and closer to hers. I just hope I’m there to see it when she does. Malcolm’s time is running out.
We speed-walk to the set, and the whole time Jane is rattling off all the things on her very impressive to-do list. After she pauses to take a breath, she sighs, then turns to me. “Are you sure you want to do my job one day?”
I grin and nod. “More than anything.”
She chuckles. “Ah, you’re a masochist. Just like me.”
“I guess so,” I say, laughing with her.
When we walk through the double doors and onto the set, the tension is palpable. Then I notice Archer and Will arguing by the door of the cabin.
“Didn’t you see my apology, man?” Archer asks.
Will rolls his eyes. “Yeah, I saw it. But I wouldn’t exactly call it an apology.”
Archer throws his arms up in the air. “I’ve been catching so much heat for this. I don’t know what anyone wants me to say.”
“Jesus, Arch,” Will says. He has bags under his eyes, like he hasn’t slept in days. “Did you ever think that maybe this isn’t about you?”
Archer snaps back, “Tell that to the thousands of people online telling me to kill myself.”
“I’m sorry,” Will says. “That’s never okay.”
“No,” Archer says, crossing his arms. “And it’s all because I made some stupid comment about being straight. Do you know what it feels like to be harassed over something like that?”
Will gives him a harsh stare. “Yes. Yes, I fucking do.”
Realizing his mistake, Archer sighs. “Yeah. Okay. Fair point.”
Even from the other side of the set, I can see Will’s nostrils flare in anger. “I’m done trying to help you understand.” Then he walks away, leaving Archer standing alone. Archer punches the thin wood of the set wall, putting his hand right through it. Startled, my breath catches in my throat.
Jane groans. “Great. The last thing we need right now is feuding talent and holes in the fucking walls.” She falls into her chair and starts rubbing her temples. “I’m getting a headache.”
“I’ll get you some water,” I say.
“And a bagel,” she adds. “Please.”
* * *
Later, I’m on my way to the editing bay to watch clips from last week’s episode shoot with Jane, when Shrupty marches toward me out of nowhere.
“Hey,” I say with a smile. “How’s your first official day going?” But then I notice the expression on her face. She’s clenching her jaw so tight she could shatter her teeth, and the script in her hand is practically crushed into a ball.
She throws it at me like it’s trash. “What the hell are you playing at with this?”
“Whoa,” I say, stunned by her anger. “What’s happening?”
She glares at me, hands on hips. “These new pages are bullshit. How could you do this?”
I pick up the script and try to flatten it out so I can read it. “New pages?”
I flip open to the new scenes, and my jaw falls open. No wonder she threw it like it was trash—it is.
INT. TOM’S HOUSE—NIGHT
Tom enters. He turns on a lamp, walks into the kitchen, and opens the fridge for a beer. A shadow moves past in the background that he doesn’t see. He closes the fridge, walks back into the living room, sips the beer, and puts it on the coffee table. Then he spins around and pushes the intruder against the wall, holding his knife to their throat.
TOM
You have to do a lot better than that to fool me, hunter.
Lyla smiles at him.
LYLA
And you have to do a lot better than that to scare me, dog.
I look up at Shrupty. “Wait. Tom and Lyla? Where’s Sasha?”
“That’s what I want to know,” she snaps, crossing her arms over her chest. “How could you rewrite my whole character without telling me? And to change her sexuality and hook her up with fucking Archer ‘Straight Pride’ Carlton? That’s low.”
“I’m just as mad as you are,” I say, but she rolls her eyes.
“Bex, your name is on the front. Don’t lie to me.”
I flip the script to the front, and she’s right.
WRITTEN BY MALCOLM BUTLER AND BEX PHILLIPS
You’ve got to be kidding me. I finally get my writing credit, only now I don’t want my name anywhere near this garbage.
“Was this the plan all along?” she asks. “Make up some story about a groundbreaking queer story line on a historically heteronormative show, then flip the script the second I show up on set and it’s too late to back out?”
“What? No! I don’t—”
Her arms fall by her sides, and her scowl turns into a frown. She glances around to make sure no one is listening, then leans in close. “Do you even like me?”
“Shrupty,” I say, looking her straight in the eyes. “Yes. I do. I like you, a lot.”
“Then why don’t I know anything about you?” she asks as she backs away. “You always change the subject if I ask about your life. You deflect or give one-word answers or kick your cousin under the table.”
My heart sinks with shame. “You knew about that?”
She rolls her eyes. “I was right there, Bex.” She buries her face in her hands. “Fuck. All these red flags. You don’t care about me, you just wanted to use me for the show.”
“No!” I try to explain, but it’s hard when I don’t know what’s happening myself.
Dirk walks over then. “Shrupty, they’re ready for you on set.”
“Thanks,” Shrupty says with a sad smile. “I’ll be right there.”
Dirk sees the new pages and turns to me. “Sorry it took me so long to add your credit.” He smiles, but it’s pure evil. “Good work on the rewrites.”
He walks away, and I’m completely lost for words. That motherfucking asshole. Shrupty turns to me with tears in her eyes.
“Do you know how many times this town has tried to change me? When I started my YouTube channel, people said I should focus more on my beauty tutorials and tone down my political talk. I said no. When my videos started going viral, people said I should change my name to something that makes white people more comfortable. I said no.” She shakes her head. “Now, I finally put my trust in someone to tell a story I can be proud of, and you do this?”
Her shoulders hunch, and she closes her eyes. “I’m so tired of people trying to erase who I am.” Then she looks at me like I’ve ripped her heart out, and I feel my own heart break. “I can’t believe I trusted you. I can’t believe I was falling for you.”
My head spins as she leaves me standing alone, wishing more than anything that I could take all of her pain away. How did this happen?
I open the script again. The more I read, the more furious I get. Malcolm swapped Archer’s character, Tom, with Alyssa’s character, Sasha. In this version of the episode, Lyla swoons all over Tom and they hook up. She doesn’t even have one scene with Sasha. He erased her queerness completely.
I march off set and through the lot, the pages crumpling in my fists. When I reach Malcolm’s office, he’s sitting in his chair by the window, scrolling on his phone. I throw the script onto the desk in front of him and ask him the question that keeps racing through my mind.
“Why?”
He looks up at me, eyebrows pinched. “Don’t start.”
“Why did you rewrite Lyla?” I ask, pointing at the wrinkled papers of the episode.
He groans. “I knew you were going to make this into a thing.”
“You’re damn right I am,” I say. “There’s no reason to do this. The episode was perfect the way it was. It was going to change the whole show.”
“Stop busting my balls,” he says. “You must’ve heard what happened over the weekend. Archer is the star of this show; what he says and does reflects on us. If people love him, they love us. If they hate him, they hate us. And wow, do they
hate us right now.” He leans forward, tapping his pen on his desk. “I had to give him a softer story line. Something to make viewers fall in love with him again, trust him again. And nothing’s softer than a romance.”
“Wait,” I say, resting my palms on the desk. “That’s why you did this? To repair his reputation? This is all about optics.”
He shrugs nonchalantly. “That, and Archer and Will need some time to cool off. Archer has already been up here whining about Will’s attitude this morning.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Will’s pissed. And he has every right to be.”
“Whatever,” he says. “I’m not debating this with you. The rewrite stays.”
“So you’re going to punish everyone else for Archer’s mistake? Everyone else has to suffer just to make a homophobe feel better?”
“Who’s suffering?” he asks, looking around the room. “This is a fucking television show, for Christ’s sake. Why do you care so much?”
“Because I am Lyla!” I shout. “And Shrupty is Lyla. Alyssa is Lyla and thousands of Silver Falls fans are Lyla. By doing this, you are telling them that they don’t matter. That they can be erased and no one will care. Well, I care. And I’m not going to let you do this.”
Malcolm tilts his head to the side and examines me. “You’re gay?”
“Yes!” I yell, throwing my hands up in the air. “I’m gay.” My heart sinks, and I cup my hands over my mouth. “I hate that I told you that before I told my mom. Shit. No.”
“Jesus,” he says, scrunching his nose up. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna cry. Get out, and pull yourself together.”
I gather myself, drop my hands to my hips, and lift my chin. “I’m not going anywhere until you cancel those rewrites.”
He stands up, towering over me. “You need stop being so difficult and remember your place.”
I don’t know what comes over me, but I’m just so sick and tired of bullies. So instead of backing away, instead of recoiling like I’ve always done, I lean in closer and look him in the eyes.
“You need to remember where you got that episode from in the first place.” My voice doesn’t shake. My words don’t get stuck in my throat. I don’t even blink.
Malcolm, on the other hand, turns red with rage. “You better watch yourself, Becky. I can make or break you in this town. I’ve squashed bigger bugs than you.”
“You can’t fire me,” I say smugly. “I’ll go straight to Ms. Randall with the original script that I wrote and you stole.”
He glares at me with a scary glint in his eyes. “You breathe one word to anyone, and I’ll not only ruin you, I’ll ruin Shrupty, too.”
I gasp, and he smiles. “I see it now. That’s why you got her the audition, right? So you could get in her pants? I respect that. She’s a pretty girl; it’d be a shame to see her career destroyed.”
My breathing shallows. I feel like he’s ripped my heart from my chest, leaving it to bleed out on the desk between us. He’s got me cornered, and he knows it. I can tell by the sick smirk on his face.
He sits down in his chair and leans back like he doesn’t have a care in the world. “Now, I believe I’ve said everything I need to say. I’m sure you have a lot of important intern things to do. And Jane’s butt cheeks must be getting cold without your lips glued to them for once.” He turns the back of the chair to me. “Close the door on your way out, Becky.”
I leave and pull the door closed, then stick my middle finger up against it.
“Everything okay?” Jane asks. I had no idea she was standing in the hallway.
“Oh,” I say, sliding my hands into my pockets. “Yeah.”
She tilts her head to the side. “You sure? You seem … upset.”
I think about telling her what just happened. About how Malcolm took my script and turned it into trash. But I’m on thin ice already; telling Jane would only create more problems for the show and for me. Besides, what if he really does have the power to ruin Shrupty’s career? I can’t risk it.
“I’m fine,” I say. I fake a smile, and it seems to ease her suspicions.
We start walking down the hall together, when she leans in and says, “I know he’s a jackass, but there’s no use arguing with him about anything. He’s screwed people over many times and won.”
I try to coax more detail out of her as we walk to set, but she doesn’t say anything else. I think about all her interactions with Malcolm that I’ve witnessed, how she shrinks a little in his presence, and realize she’s just as intimidated by him as I am. He must have screwed her over, too, probably more than once. All he does is treat everyone like shit. And he’s going to get away with it. Again.
When we walk onto the soundstage, everything is set up to film the scene I was once so excited about but now I’m dreading. Archer stands outside the cabin door, scrolling on his phone while he waits for his cue. Shrupty sits on the couch on set, twirling her necklace between her fingers as she goes over her new lines one more time. I can still feel her kiss on my lips from when I found it on the ice on Saturday night. I still feel her hand in mine, her skin soft and tender and warm. My heart was just getting used to falling in love. Now, less than forty-eight hours later, it’s all turned to shit.
The assistant director calls for everyone to get ready, and the whole set quiets down. Shrupty and Archer get into their positions, and the crew stand by for filming.
“Action!” the director calls.
Archer walks through the front door of the cabin and into the kitchen. Jane watches on the monitor, but I can’t take my eyes away from Shrupty as she waits in the shadows. I can tell by the scowl on her face that she’s in character, focused on playing her part even though it must be killing her more that it’s killing me to watch.
The director motions for her to step onto her mark, and then Archer grabs her and pushes her against the wall. It’s been rehearsed and choreographed so she doesn’t get injured, but I still flinch. I hate that he’s touching her like that. I hate that this is what the viewers will see instead of an epic queer love story. I hate that Shrupty has to let this homophobic douche hold a rubber knife to her throat. I’m so mad, I want to burn it all to the ground and walk away.
“Cut!” the director calls. “Okay, reset. Let’s do it again.”
I stand off set, quietly seething as Shrupty and Archer film the soul-crushing scene again and again for hours. Each time I hear “Action!” I die a little more inside.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I climb up the stairs of Parker’s building and drag myself to the door. My mind is spiraling into panic mode. I’m so done with today that I don’t even care who sees the giant sweat stains under my armpits or down my back. There’s no point trying to hide it; I’m a hot mess and everything is fucked, so being sweaty is the least of my problems. I slide the key into the door like I’m defusing a bomb, then turn it hard. But because nothing can ever be easy in my life, it doesn’t work.
“Not today, Satan,” I mutter, then try again. And again. And again. I grit my teeth so tight that my jaw aches, but it’s better than screaming at the top of my lungs and alerting the whole neighborhood to my impending breakdown.
“Come on,” I beg the door. Turn, kick, turn, shove. No matter how many times I repeat the trick Parker has shown me dozens of times, it won’t fucking open. It’s like it’s taunting me.
“You fucking son of a bitch piece of shit.” I keep muttering curses as tears fall down my cheeks. I can feel myself hanging by a thread. I crumple onto Parker’s welcome mat and pull my knees up to my chest, hugging myself as I bawl my eyes out.
It wasn’t supposed to be like this. Los Angeles is the City of Lights, where people come from all over the world to make their dreams come true.
What a load of shit.
The aching feeling of homesickness hits me again. I miss my mom. I miss my bed. I miss the safety of dreaming a dream that hasn’t been poisoned by reality yet. The thought of leaving LA crosses my mind, and it scares me that a pa
rt of me wants to do it. A part of me wants to go home and never, ever leave Westmill again.
I’ll be that old woman living alone in a dilapidated old house, sitting on the porch and talking to anyone who’ll listen about the time I almost made my dreams come true.
I can’t believe myself. I spent so many years trying to run away from Westmill and all my Westmill problems that I never thought about the all-new problems I’d find in LA. When I imagined my life here, I pictured palm trees and sunshine and celebrities and girls Rollerblading in bikinis. A place where I would be embraced for who I am. In Los Angeles, I could be free.
But it was all fucking lies. This town is ruled by bullies. Straight white men with all the power and connections to keep them on their thrones. This place isn’t sunshine and palm trees. It’s a mirage that looks like paradise from a distance, but when you get here it’s just a dirty, shallow lake with a painted backdrop. Clever lighting and counterfeit smiles draw you in and then chew you up and leave you on the cutting room floor like you’re nothing.
Los Angeles is where dreams come to die.
All the painful moments of the day replay in my mind. Shrupty throwing the new pages at me, the betrayal and hurt in her eyes. Having to stand by and watch while she filmed her scene with Archer, knowing there was nothing I could do. The way Malcolm treated me like I was nothing, like I didn’t matter. The fact that I uttered the words I’m gay to him before I found the courage to say them to my own mother.
My own mother, who worked until her feet hurt and her back ached and her fingers bled to get me here. Who always made sure we had food on the table and a roof over our heads. Who never once doubted me, even when the odds were stacked against me.
That’s when I pull out my phone and do something I should have done a long time ago.
I call my mom.
“Hey, baby girl!” she says when she answers, her voice filled with joy. Just hearing her call me “baby girl” makes my shoulders relax a little.
