by Amanda Heger
“You’re a genius.” He started digging through the bowl. “Hold on.”
A few minutes later, he’d handed her a slip of paper and made her promise not to read it until it was time to say the line. The light on the camera went red, and Marisol put on her best badass impersonation.
“Peanut, watch a master.”
A snort came from somewhere out in the crew.
“Jerry, keep it down,” Julia called out.
“Sorry.”
Marisol marched over to James, who was working away on a paint-by-number drawing of a dinosaur. “Hey there,” she purred.
James’s eyes widened and one shoulder twitched upward. He was trying not to laugh. At her. This man—whose entire career rested on entertaining people—thought she was funny. It felt like being perched at the top of the world’s tallest roller coaster, anticipating the glorious rush to come.
She unfolded the paper Evan had tucked into her palm and leaned forward.
I should kill him. But even as she had the thought, she knew his choice of line would hit the mark. She sucked in her cheeks, knowing she probably looked like a bug-eyed fish, but it was either that or burst at the seams.
“What’s the difference between a trust fund and an erection?” she asked.
James rested a hand on his chin, like a less muscular, more world-worn version of The Thinker. “Well, I honestly don’t know.”
“I don’t have a trust fund.”
• • •
Evan’s lunch break flew by in a blast of pats on the back, a barrage of script ideas—it seemed the writers were suddenly inspired to write—and a handful of sidelong glances at Marisol.
She’d killed it on the last sketch. Perfect delivery, perfect composure. And after they’d begun tearing down the set, she’d plopped down beside him with her biggest grin to date. “That was fun,” she said.
“Yeah. It’s been a while since anyone has had fun around here.”
Even James had a hopeful look on his face when he’d left for the day. A look Evan hadn’t seen since his first week on the show.
“Well, this is a pornography set,” Marisol said. “I think some people have had fun.”
“Good point. Also remind me to bathe in hand sanitizer before we leave here tonight.”
“I think soap and water works best. That is my professional nurse opinion.”
“Noted. Do you have a second to talk about the next sketch?” He and Andrew had turned it over and over again. The physical comedy was all there, but it was missing something. Something neither of them could quite put their finger on.
She nodded. “What is the next one?”
“This one is me on a date with one of these girls—”
“You have gotten over me so quickly?” She threw a hand up to her chest.
“Well, it was a tough road, but I’m working my way through the pain.”
She gave him a smile that caused a different kind of pain. One he enjoyed more than he cared to admit, even to himself. Get it together. “So I’m on a date—”
“Is it the girl you knocked over? It should be her. We can say you knocked her out, and when she woke up you convinced her she had already said yes.”
“Perfect.” He scrawled her idea on his notebook. “So I’m on a date.”
“Yes, and…”
“And it’s supposed to be on the beach. But really it’s only a sandbox and a fan. There are some cardboard cutouts of waves in the background.”
“Okay?” The furrow of her brow said she wasn’t following.
“You still haven’t seen the show, have you?”
“I tried to watch on my laptop but the hotel Internet was too slow. It would not load the video.”
The irony. Thousands and thousands of people, including him, made a pilgrimage to Los Angeles every year. They stuffed themselves full of Botox. They pulled late-night shifts at diners while flogging themselves with auditions—or, in his case, packets of written material. And still most of them would never make an actual appearance on television.
Marisol had never even seen the show, and she was already becoming a star.
Their star. The star the show needed more than ever.
“One of the bits James always does is that the show is broke. We kind of are, I guess, but James does it in a self-depreciating kind of way. He’s always making fun of the sets, taking jabs at the network for not giving us any money.”
“So you made a very cheap beach to fit his jokes?”
“Exactly. But it’s missing something.” He handed her the script. “You’ll read these lines.”
She chewed her bottom lip as her eyes moved across the page. A strand of hair crossed her cheek, and Evan found himself wanting to tuck it away.
You’re screwed.
“What if I am the one moving the waves?” she asked. “While I am telling you the things to say? Picture it.” She made a rowing motion with one hand and cupped the other on the side of her mouth. Her very pretty mouth. “Evan! Be a better date or you are going to die cold and alone.”
The clomp of combat boots snapped him out of his daze.
“I thought I was doing the waves,” Penny said. Her blue-streaked hair gleamed brighter than ever, and she’d tied her So Late It’s Early T-shirt in a knot at the back. Like him, she’d stayed on board while all the other interns had scrambled for life rafts—begging for other network shows to take them on.
“Marisol, this is Penny. She’s an intern, too.”
“Too?” Penny scoffed. “More like the only intern. I’m having a great time filling the audience. And cleaning up the set. And organizing the props.”
Guilt seeped into Evan’s stomach. In his rush toward the writers’ room, he hadn’t given a second thought to who’d be stuck with his bloated daily to-do list. “Sorry, Penny. It’ll be better after this week.”
Assuming there was an “after this week.”
“Whatever. Julia put me in charge of all the social media.” She turned to Marisol. “We need to talk about your accounts.”
Marisol looked back and forth between them. “My accounts?”
“You know, Facebook, Twitter, Insta.” Penny waved a phone at them. “You’re not that old. You have some of this stuff, right?”
“The show is pushing our stuff really hard online,” Evan explained. “That’s where the stuff with you and Betty really hit it big, so they’re trying to drum up buzz about it that way.”
“We don’t want you to post anything about the show on your accounts,” Penny said. “I’ll put everything on the show’s accounts. If you want to post something in a week or two that’s fine. But nothing while your segments are airing, got it?”
“Got it,” Marisol said. “Also I think it’s better if you do not use my last name.” She turned to Evan. “Because of the conference.”
“Agreed.”
Penny shrugged. “Whatever. I doubt anyone cares that much. I’ll post some on-set photos after I’m done doing all of my job and his.” She threw Evan a glare before she clomped away.
“She’s a little bit prickly. Don’t worry about it,” he said. “And you’re definitely doing the waves. Great idea.”
“I will not give you any more great ideas if you make me say I have an erection again.”
“You loved it, and that was the best take we had all day,” he said. “Besides, you’re the one who told everyone I didn’t know how to act around women.”
“You made me race an old lady in a walker!” Her wide smile betrayed her protest.
“And it was awesome.”
She swatted his arm with his script. “So we agree you deserve it. Now let me see the rest of this.”
By the time they started rolling on the second sketch, they’d bounced so many ideas back and forth his brain couldn’t keep up. The crackle of creative chemistry between them kept sparking fires, and Evan struggled to write them all down before the next one started. And the smoke from those fires blurred the view of the quieter
, smoldering one he was trying hard to ignore.
“Action.” Julia’s voice rang out over the sparse set. In final edits, the screen behind them would become an ocean, but for now it was a solid, stark green. Someone had dragged a plastic child’s sandbox from the prop room and flopped it down in the center of the room. Beside it sat a bottle of wine and two glasses. A giant fan blew so hard bits of sand pelted Evan’s face and mouth. Behind him Marisol pushed and pulled a thin stick attached to a row of wooden waves. It gave the segment a certain terrifying-circus-puppet-show vibe.
“Pour her a glass of wine,” Marisol shouted over the roar of the fan.
The girl sitting beside him in the sandbox looked over her shoulder, sending a metric ton of blonde hair whipping across his face. “Who is that?” the girl asked. Her name was Monica, and she was a twenty-something actress who’d been on the show once or twice before. Not enough that anyone beyond a few hardcore fans would remember her face.
Assuming the show had any hardcore fans left.
“No one. It’s no one.” He pulled the cork out of the wine and picked up a glass. “Wine?”
“Sure.”
He tilted the bottle at the exact moment the fan oscillated in their direction. Wine splashed all over his shirt, and sand coated the inside of the glasses.
Monica—like a pro—began drinking, straight from the bottle.
As the sandstorm slowed, Marisol called out more tips. “To develop intimacy, start with short bursts of physical contact. Lay a hand on her arm. Or help her brush her hair out of her face.”
“Sorry,” he whispered as he reached forward and wrapped a fist around the ends of Monica’s hair. He yanked. Monica stifled a laugh as the chunk of blonde extension they’d slipped into her hair came loose in his hand.
“Ouch!”
“Like that?” he called.
Marisol kept moving the waves. “Not exactly. Try again.”
Evan dragged in a breath. If they succeeded in bringing the show back to life, he’d have a career path already laid out. Clear of the thorns and hurdles he’d been fighting since he decided to come to LA. But there was a good chance he’d never have another date again.
Evan went for it, just like they’d discussed.
His hand darted forward, and the next thing he knew Monica’s entire left boob was in his grasp.
She froze, mouth open in horror.
Behind the sandbox, Marisol’s face darkened with pent-up laughter. And when she finally let it out, Evan couldn’t stop himself from cackling along with her. Within seconds, everyone in the studio was in an uproar, and he knew right then that they had something special. Something that had been missing from the show’s chemistry since the day it went live. And with the right marketing and the right editing and a good helping of luck, maybe they could turn this late-night ship around after all.
“You can let go of my boob now,” Monica said.
“That’ll do it,” Julia called. “I think we’ve officially hit too tired to function. Marisol, Penny will call you a cab.” She shook her head as she walked away, but Evan knew this crazy marathon day had begun to soften her shell. She was more like the old Julia.
They all were.
The camera switched off, and the lights dimmed. Slowly, people began putting the set away. Penny pulled out her cell phone, the same I’m-too-good-for-this expression on her face. “You want them to pick you up in the front or the back of the studio?”
Evan shifted his feet and jammed his hands into his pockets. He needed to pack his stuff and get out of here in time to beat the traffic. He had wine all over his shirt, more scenes to write for tomorrow, and a toxic-waste-level amount of dirty dishes in his apartment.
“I’ll take her back,” he said. “You want to get some dinner first?”
Stupid idea, Evan.
Penny sighed. “Are you taking care of this, or am I?”
Marisol cleared her throat. “Dinner would be good.”
Best idea ever, Evan.
If a friend from home had come to visit, Evan would have brought them to one of LA’s major establishments—In-N-Out Burger or Pink’s Hot Dogs or Roscoe’s Chicken. Someplace where they’d be surrounded by other tourists and a barrage of languages. A place where they could go back to Peoria and drop the name of the restaurant to their other friends.
He brought Marisol to Wilma’s. The tiny diner at the edge of Hollywood had thick burgers, greasy bread, and all the crinkle-cut french fries you could eat. It smelled like salt and butter, and it was impossible to leave without a ketchup stain somewhere on his person.
It was his favorite place in all of Los Angeles.
It felt like home.
“This okay?” he asked. “They have the best cheeseburgers.”
Marisol glanced around. “Perfect.”
The diner had a steady crowd but no wait. A low-key, seat yourself kind of place, where the waitstaff always seemed more interested in refilling his drink than shoving him out the door. Even when he spent hours in here, drafting idea after ridiculous idea for his submission packets.
His legs ached with exhaustion, and he plopped down in a booth across from Marisol. “That was the most fun I’ve had since I started at the show.”
Marisol smiled. A real smile. By now, he’d watched her enough to know her fake smile made her look a little too perfect, like those models in makeup commercials who’d just been “caught” faking their six-inch-long eyelashes. But when Marisol was really happy, her eyes went a little buggy and her mouth opened wide, revealing that single crooked tooth on the bottom left. When she was happy, she let her imperfections show.
“You ready?” A gum-snapping waitress interrupted, barely looking up from her grease-stained notepad. “Or do you want to hear the specials?”
“Cheeseburger, please,” Marisol said.
“Same.”
The waitress didn’t write a single thing on the notepad in her hand. “You’re the kid that’s always in here, right? And you’re her. I knew it was you. They didn’t believe me. Hold on.”
The waitress disappeared behind the counter and returned with the cook in tow. Red and brown smudges stained his apron and a tuft of black hair stuck out from beneath his hairnet. “Hot damn. It is them.” He pulled a five-dollar bill from his back pocket and slapped in the waitress’s hand.
“No one here believed me that the Cheeseburger Guy with the notebook was the same one from all over the Internet. But then I saw her.” She pointed at Marisol. “And I knew I was right on the nose.”
Under the table, Marisol nudged him with her foot. “I thought you said no one watches the show?”
“Oh, honey. His lost puppy dog face made the rounds on every clip show this side of China.” The cook looked at them both and shook his head. “This place’ll spit you up and eat you alive. So when you find a boy who looks at you like that”—he jabbed his spatula toward Evan—“you take him and get the h-e-double-hockey sticks out of Dodge.”
“I think we’ll have two cheeseburgers. Medium.” Evan put an edge on his words. He didn’t want to explain it was all fake. And not just because the show needed people to believe it was real.
The cook and the waitress shuffled off, but they left behind the stares of half the diner. The other half were buckled to their phones, fingers swiping away.
“Do you feel like everyone here is looking at us?” Marisol asked.
He did. “I think we’re being paranoid.”
“Do you think anyone wants James’s autograph? Maybe I could take orders and charge for them. One hundred dollars each. Then I would have enough money to spend all of my time at the show. I would not have to worry about the grant at all.” Her voice said she was kidding, but the crinkles around her eyes were dead serious.
“I love that you have no idea how unpopular our show is.”
“It is that bad?”
“You’d probably have to pay the people in here before you could give them his autograph.”
Her shoulders slumped, and Evan found himself wanting to take it away, the pressure that sometimes looked like it was about to consume her. “Any news on the Pubes?” he asked.
Her frown deepened, and her gaze rolled over the old black and white photos on the wall before landing on him again. “Why do they call you the Cheeseburger Guy?”
“I’m a regular, I guess. This place reminds me of home. When I was a kid my grandparents owned a—shit. Hold on.” He whipped out his phone and began trying to calculate the time difference between Los Angeles and Peoria. Noon had come and gone, and he hadn’t bothered to call Gramps. If he was lucky, he could maybe catch him before bed. His fingers dialed home before he’d finished the math.
His grandfather picked up after one ring. “Lies, kid. They’ll eat you up inside.”
“Hi, Gramps. It wasn’t a lie. I just had a really busy day.” He glanced over at Marisol. “Sorry,” he mouthed.
Here he was, at his favorite diner in the entire city, with a gorgeous girl across the table—and he’d picked up the phone to call an old man more than a thousand miles away. Apparently, he was almost as horrible with women as his character on the show.
“Lies and pies will make you fat with shame. Don’t get fat, kid.”
“I’m really sorry. I know I said I’d call—”
“Do I gotta spell it out for you? You said you weren’t going to be on the show anymore. But it says right here you’ll be appearing with that parrot guy next week.”
Maybe Evan would have to cave and call his father. Check to be sure Gramps was taking his medications as prescribed. He’d always been prone to pontification, but usually his ramblings made some semblance of sense. “Parrot guy? Says right where?”
“You know. The one with all the stupid hats. Always looked like a real asshole to me.”
Paul the Parrot Man was Monday’s scheduled guest. And he did look particularly smarmy. Maybe the meds were working okay. “Gramps, please. Focus. Where did you see that?”
“On my computer. Somebody from the senior center put it on there.”
“Put it on where?”
