by Amanda Heger
“Her Internet does not always work.”
“Did you call her?”
Marisol nodded. She’d spent more than an hour on the phone with her mom that morning, explaining everything. The Pubes, Clint, the show, the documentary. Not so surprisingly, her mom had already gleaned most of it from conversations with Evan and Felipe. Surprisingly, she’d seemed okay with it all. Even more surprisingly, she’d said she managed to watch a clip of the show.
“Of course I like it,” she’d said. “It has you written all over it.”
“How is your back?” Marisol asked.
“Will be okay. How is your heart?”
In pieces. But also whole. “I am worried about the brigades.”
Her mom laughed, and for a minute Marisol wondered if her mom had dipped a little too deeply into the pain meds. “Mari, the brigades are going to be fine. Hold on a second.” The shuffling of paper filled the line.
“Mom?”
“Hold on.” More shuffling. “As of 11:38 this morning, Ahora added 214 new donors to our list. And I bet, if I looked at it now, it would be even more.”
“¿Verdad?”
Her mom began rattling off names and cities and dollar amounts, one after the other. “Ted the Baby. Los Angeles, California. One hundred dollars. I guess we need to find a way to make people use their real names?”
Marisol laughed. “That might be his real name.”
“Clint McIntyre. Deer Hollow, West Virginia. Fifty dollars. Donald Abramson. Peoria, Illinois. Five hundred dollars.”
“That must be Evan’s grandfather. They are very close.”
“Here’s the best one. Are you sitting down?”
“Yes.”
“The So Late It’s Early Show, Gone but Not Forgotten, USA.”
Marisol grinned. Definitely not forgotten. Too weird to be forgotten. “That was nice.”
“Ten thousand dollars.”
It had taken Marisol ten minutes to recover. In all, they’d received enough to make up almost all of the lost grant money, and the donations were still pouring in. By the time she’d hung up the phone, Marisol felt like she finally understood what the universe had been trying to tell her all along.
That she’d find a way. Her way.
“Evan?”
“I also brought you this. You might not want it, but I thought it would make a good souvenir.” He handed her a glossy magazine cover.
In Last Show, James January Finally Does Something Right.
Below the headline was a picture of Marisol and Evan wrapped in a kiss while James clapped from his messy desk.
Marisol knew exactly where this magazine cover would go. In a frame, right in the middle of her living room so everyone could see it. And maybe another copy for her bedroom. And one for Ahora headquarters. And one for—
“You want me to get rid of it? I mean I know the magazines aren’t your favorite.”
She grinned up at him. “You’re my favorite.”
And then, despite all her promises to Annie, they were kissing. And kissing. And kissing.
His mouth felt hungrier than all the other times they’d kissed, and she knew hers was too. The clock was ticking louder on the time they had left, and everything else faded into the background.
“Marisol?” He pressed his forehead to hers, pulling her top lip between his. Then the bottom. Then another full, desperate kiss that made her forget everything but the way his hands fit perfectly against her face.
“¿Sí?”
“I forgot.” His fingers skimmed the neckline of her dress, moving ever so slowly, making small swirls along her skin. Which was all it took for this dress to go from her favorite piece of clothing to her worst enemy.
He tugged at the zipper, but only made it an inch before the knock sounded at the door.
“Mari.” Annie’s voice came from under the door. “We’re late.”
Evan groaned. “Make her go away.”
Marisol didn’t know whether she wanted to laugh or cry. “Uno momento, por favor,” she called out. “Fix please.” She straightened her dress and turned around.
“This has to count as cruel and unusual punishment.” He pulled the zipper down, just a little more, and kissed the back of her neck. And her shoulder. And the ridge of her spine.
“Mari. If you are messing up that hair!” Annie called.
Evan pulled the zipper up and pushed her toward the door. “She means business.”
“You have no idea.” Marisol pulled open the door. “Look, I didn’t mess it up. Too much…” Her words faded as she took in the sheer amount of people on the other side of the door. Annie. Felipe. Julia. Penny. James January. Sammy Samuelson.
“Sammy Samuelson?!” Her brain shuttered and shut off. The host of Who’s Got the Coconut was at her door.
So she slammed it shut.
“Evan. Evan! Sammy Samuelson is out there.” Her heart seemed to be beating in her throat, and nothing was making sense.
“Yep, and I assume you want to hear what he has to say.” Evan pulled the door back open, and Marisol took a deep breath.
“Right. Oh. I am very sorry. Nice to meet you.” She extended a hand toward the game show host—who had the courtesy to pretend she hadn’t just had a complete mental breakdown at the sight of his face.
“I thought it would be nice to meet you tomorrow before the show,” Sammy said. “I hope that’s okay. I know your appearance is going to give our special celebrity segment a great boost. We really appreciate you coming out on a Sunday.”
She must have been hallucinating. Or maybe the part of her brain that understood English had packed up and gone home for the day. “My appearance?”
“You still haven’t told her?” James asked. “My God, kids these days.”
Marisol stared at Evan. “Told me what?”
“I was going to, but then you bozos showed up.” Evan pulled a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “Marisol Gutierrez, tomorrow all your dreams—”
“Nobody does it right,” Samuelson said. He cleared his throat, and the voice that emerged was the same one she’d been listening to for years. “Marisol Gutierrez, tomorrow all your dreams can come true. If you can find out WHO’S. GOT. THE COCONUT!”
The room went hazy at the edges. Her knees shook. And her tongue felt three sizes too big for her mouth.
“Mari?”
“Marisol?”
“Is she okay?”
“Her blood sugar. Mari, when was the last time you checked your blood sugar?” Felipe asked.
“She just checked it,” Annie answered. “Was it low then? High? Mari?”
She swallowed hard and leaned against the wall for support. “It was fine. I am fine.” Her vision cleared and everything shifted back into place. “This is the problem when everyone in your family is a doctor,” she explained. “You cannot even faint from excitement without someone trying to stick you with a needle.”
Everyone chuckled, and Evan helped her stand upright.
“You ready then?” Annie asked, tucking a bobby pin back into Marisol’s hair.
“Depends. I want to make sure we get there too late to see any part of”— James pulled a pink piece of paper from his back pocket—“Foreskins of Our Forefathers. I don’t need to know anything about George Washington’s foreskin status, thank you very much.”
Marisol shut the door behind the crowd, watching them meander their way toward the elevator doors. The sounds of laughter and dirty jokes trailed behind them. Most people would say they were a little too loud and little too brash for their long dresses and dark tuxedos.
To Marisol, they were perfect.
“Ready?” Evan asked.
“Ready.”
Day Thirteen
Over the last twenty-four hours, the studio had begun to shutter. Someone packed away the paintings and knickknacks from the set. Soon someone would entomb James’s desk in bubble wrap to await its next host—a host who, Evan suspected, would be
unlikely to cover it with crumpled pages each day. And someone else had begun to cart out boxes of props.
That last someone was Penny.
“Wait.” Evan hobbled his way through the door. “Do you have to take this stuff right now?”
“Unless you’re planning to haul it all out on one leg.”
“I’m sorry you got stuck doing all my work again.”
“I know. I just like to remind you.” She gave him a haughty grin. “What do you want? Everybody’s taken something so far. James took three plastic skeletons. I think Julia took a pair of shoes or something. I, on the other hand, am now the proud owner of an entire box of fake turds.”
“Nice.”
“I can’t wait for Christmas.”
“I need a costume.” He lowered himself into the closest chair.
“Oh. I didn’t expect you to be into kinky stuff.”
“For Who’s Got the Coconut.”
“Not as fun.” She kicked a box toward him. “There’s some stuff in here. I think most of the clothes are still in the back corner. Take your pick. I’ll be back an hour or two.”
“Where are you going?”
“I’ve got a date. And then James needs me to sign some paperwork for the tour.”
“Tour?” Evan asked, but she was already gone. He lowered himself into a nearby chair and tried to take it all in. To memorize every bizarre detail about this place. Because he feared that in a few weeks or months, no one would believe the things that had happened here. Including him.
“There you are.” James stepped into the room, hands in his pockets. “I’ve been waiting around for you to show up.”
“Sorry, traffic.”
James waved him off. “I’m taking the show on the road. A different city every night. Roaring crowds. A cramped bus filled with your closest coworkers. What do you say?”
“What do I say?”
“Do you want to come along? We’ll try to pay you this time. And not in college credit. If you wanted”—James kicked the ground—“we might be able to hire that girl who’s always hanging around here. About this tall. Brown hair. Boobs for days.”
Evan rolled his eyes. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah, she’s got great boobs.”
“James.”
“Okay, okay. We need some good writers. Writers who’ll take chances. You two are a good team. Plus, you know, then you could give it a go.”
Time came to a startling halt. Could they really “give it a go”? Maybe this was nothing more than a weird, short-lived connection that wouldn’t make it past the next bump in the road. Maybe it would fizzle out a month from now. Or six. A year.
But maybe not. They wouldn’t know if they didn’t give it a shot. Throw out the existing script and build their own.
Except Marisol loved nursing. Loved Ahora. Loved Nicaragua. After watching the pieces of that documentary a million times, Evan would give just about anything for her to talk about him the way she talked about those things. Yes, she was creative and funny and brilliant. But writing jokes on a bus so that upper class Americans could spend too much money on tickets and drinks to see James January? Never going to happen.
But Evan could take the job. He had nowhere to be now. Except home, which was only slightly less appealing than it had been a month ago. “How long is the tour?”
“Still working out the kinks, but I got the call this morning. They’re going to start booking slots for the next two weeks. Probably have to play a few small clubs on short notice, but I want to ride the wave of publicity.”
“And then?”
“And then we’ll see how it goes. Maybe it’ll fizzle out after two weeks. Maybe we’ll get an installation in Vegas.” James flung his arms wide. “I can see it now. James January and Celine Dion. Live at the Bellagio.”
“Celine Dion?”
“So you’re in,” James said, winking. “Perfect, now how do we get ahold of your lady?”
“You can ask Marisol, but I think you’re in for a losing battle. But I’m in. On two conditions. Wait, no three conditions.”
James crossed his arms across his chest. “I’m listening.”
“One: no more nicknames. Two: we have to take the tour to Peoria. We’ll fill the seats, I swear.” Gramps would have half the senior center in the audience, no doubt.
“I can handle number two. Number one is going to be tougher. What do you think about—”
“Three: you call everyone you know in Hollywood and find Julia a job before we go.” He knew he didn’t have to say why, not after she’d held this sinking ship together until the very end. She might have been crazy sometimes, but she still managed to pull off what no one else had managed: letting them go out with grace.
“Already done. Did it yesterday in fact. Right along the same time I snagged you this.” James pulled a business card out of his pocket. “He’s a pompous old bat, but he’s an old bat who knows a lot of people.”
EASTON SULLIVAN, AWARD-WINNING DOCUMENTARIAN
Followed by a handwritten number and a note on the back. Evan, I’m running a documentary master class in the spring. There’s a seat for you if you want it. No charge. Loved your work.
“Thanks, James.” Evan slipped the card into his pocket. Working on Ahora’s documentary had reignited something inside him—those same flickers of excitement he’d gotten as a kid, when he found a way to tell a story. To string together bits of people’s lives into something more. Something that could actually change people’s lives.
“I’ll get you the paperwork. And”—James glanced into the hall—“how about I let you tell this lovely lady what we discussed?”
“What did you discuss?” Marisol breezed into the room, with a smile thirteen miles wide on her face. “Was it the secret to winning the Big Bank Blowout on Coconut? Because I have a theory—”
“I’m sure you do,” James said. “I’ll let you tell Evan all about it. If you guys decide to ditch that jerkoff Samuelson and his dollar-store toasters, the party invitation still stands.”
Marisol ignored his dig at the show. “Thank you for coming last night.”
James clapped her on the back. “Sorry you didn’t take home the prize.”
Her smile didn’t falter. “My mother called this morning. Your fans have donated enough for us to go back to four brigades each year until my brother comes home.”
“We make quite a team, I’d say.” James offered Evan a pointed look and left the room.
“Did you find us costumes?” She’d gone all bug-eyed and crazy with excitement. “We only have two hours before the line starts.”
“We don’t have to wait in line.”
“But that is part of the fun.” She winked and sat on his lap, careful to avoid his bad leg.
“We could have more fun in here. I bet there are still a few couches around here somewhere.”
“Evan.”
“What? I’m just saying, we don’t have to go out there in the heat and wait next to all those sweaty people in their old Halloween costumes.” He pulled her face to his, tracing the lines of it with his fingers. Then he was tracing other parts of her, etching them into this brain so he could access them when she was gone.
Tomorrow.
Marisol straddled him, hands wrapped around his neck. “But if we do not wait outside, how will I rub it in the peacock’s face when I am chosen and he has to stay outside?”
“I’m sure he’ll see it on television.” He ran a thumb over her lip, and the way her eyelids fluttered closed suggested he was closer to winning than he’d thought. “Besides, we can’t do this outside.” He let his mouth brush against hers, but just barely, pulling out the moment until she let a whimper escape.
“Evan.”
“Hmm?” He didn’t move.
She closed the gap, biting his bottom lip a little before she pressed all of herself against him. Her hips moved in circles, and he grabbed her, pulling her as close they could possibly get with all these clothes between t
hem.
“Ahem. I, uh, don’t mean to interrupt. Well, I guess I do.”
Marisol pulled back but didn’t get up. And Evan said a little prayer of thanks, because he didn’t want to talk to his boss with a raging boner on display.
“I’m headed out for the afternoon,” James said. “Did you have time to discuss… Obviously you weren’t doing much talking, so I’ll just say it. Marisol, I want you to come work for me. We’re taking the show on the road. Think of it like the world’s best road-trip, where you share a bathroom with your coworkers. The pay is decent, but not great, and I can—”
“No.”
“You didn’t let me finish. Evan’s coming. You guys can do this”—he pointed to their chair—“any time you want. Okay, maybe not in front of everyone. That would get old.”
She glanced at Evan, and for two solid beats his heart stopped. And in those two beats his hopes swelled to bursting.
Then they burst.
“I have to go home. I am flattered though.”
James shrugged. “He said you’d say that, but I had to give it a go. Okay, you kids carry on. Don’t use the condoms in here though. I think those have been around since Johnny Carson was here.” Then he was gone.
“Are you mad?” she asked. “It sounds fun, but—”
Evan kissed her, lightly this time but still hard enough to cut off her words. He didn’t want to think about what could come after that “but.”
“I’m not mad. But right now”—he scooted her off of his lap—“we have to find costumes pretty damn quick if we’re going to show that peacock who’s boss.”
• • •
The studio was freezing cold, but between nerves and the costume and being wedged into the audience with a hundred other people, Marisol’s body was playing a game of temperature ping-pong. Either she was sweating or covered in goose bumps. Sometimes both.
If only they would just call her name.
The show was already two segments in, and no one had so much as uttered her name over the PA system. Instead, a woman dressed as a cowgirl won a new car. And during the family game, a mom, dad, and their two daughters won a thousand dollars, which they promptly lost by betting it on a chance to win a vacation to Costa Rica.
