by Jordan Cooke
THESHOW
Pilot Episode
by Jordan Cooke
Grosset & Dunlap
GROSSET & DUNLAP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario
M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)
Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland
(a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia
(a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.)
Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park,
New Delhi—110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.)
Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue,
Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Cover designed by Ching N. Chan.
Front cover image © Photodisc Photography/Getty Images Inc./ Veer Inc.
Back cover image © Fanelie Rosier/iStockphoto/iStock International Inc.
Copyright © 2008 by Grosset & Dunlap. All rights reserved. Published by Grosset & Dunlap, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014. GROSSET & DUNLAP is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Printed in the U.S.A.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.
ISBN: 978-1-101-65236-7 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Big thanks to Judy Goldschmidt for her endless patience, her constant support, and her pretty hair.
I’d also like to thank Matthew Pond for his hospitality in Sydney, where I attempted to complete this book during Mardi Gras (rather distracting).
Thanks, too, to my nieces, Erin and Kate, and my nephews, Jack, TJ, Dylan, and Zachary. They’re all really cute and very smart.
Finally, I’d like to thank my friends Kevin Kane and Maura Tierney. Whenever I got stuck writing the book I’d think, “What would Kevin and Maura like to see happen next?”
Table of Contents
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
One
The 405—9:17 A.M.
Corliss Meyers was having a breakdown at 65 miles per hour. She’d just caught sight of herself in the rearview mirror and what she saw was not pretty. Ohmygod, could I be any paler? My complexion is the color of Toaster Strudel!
This would not do on the most important day of her life. Which this was. Up to this point, anyway. She looked around the car for something—anything—that might help. But there was nothing—except for a salad from Whole Foods, which sat in a plastic container on the passenger seat. Something about it inspired hope…
Then it came to her in a flash—an article she’d read in CosmoGIRL! It said that if you rubbed fresh beets into your cheeks you could produce a natural, rosy glow that would do in a pinch if you ever forgot your blush.
Luckily for Corliss, the salad was chock-full of beets. Of course, they were smothered in vinegar and onions, but what could she do? People judge you more on appearance than smell, right?
Corliss dug her hands into the plastic salad container and got a tentative grip on three slippery beets. That’s when the car in front of her stopped suddenly. Which caused Corliss to stop suddenly. Which caused the beets to slip out of her fingers and slide down the front of her shirt.
Now she was exiting the 405 with one hand while using the other to search her top for missing beets. She didn’t have to search far. This area doesn’t cover a lot of landmass, she thought as she plucked big wads of beet pulp from her shirt and tossed them out the window.
Thank goodness she was wearing a red shirt. The magenta splotches left by the beets blended in perfectly. Almost.
And to think she’d been having a close-to-acceptable physical appearance day.
Her skin was ninety-eight percent zit free, which it hardly ever was. Her strawberry blond hair had only about thirty percent split ends—which was totally a record. And the recurring rash on her forehead seemed to be disappearing. Yes, Corliss was one of the rare fortunate ones to be cursed with two different afflictions of the skin. The first, a common condition associated with puberty; the second, a common condition associated with neurosis. (She’d diagnosed herself as neurotic when she took up reading Abnormal Psych textbooks for fun during the second semester of her junior year.)
Corliss pushed the pulp that remained on her fingers into her cheeks—but then she had to make another sudden stop. As she did, her fingertips slid across her face, creating four magenta streaks under her granny glasses.
Then she heard a siren.
Is that going off in reality, or am I having a psychotic breakdown?
When a state trooper appeared next to her on his motorcycle, she had her answer. She thought for sure she’d been doing the speed limit. But as the cop approached, Corliss knew exactly what her traffic infraction had been: pelting an officer of the law with beet pulp. He was covered in it.
Corliss took this beet fiasco as a sign that the transition to LA wasn’t going to be easy. Everything about Los Angeles was completely different from Indianapolis—or Indiana-no-place, as she liked to call it. In fact, her world had changed in so many ways, she sometimes felt like she was in one of those movies where someone’s soul gets transplanted into another person’s body.
If only it were a body with boobs and cheeks that didn’t require the help of root vegetables.
“I’ll let the assault with the salad items slide,” said the officer as he wrote her ticket, “but running that red light back there will cost you.”
“What?!”
She tried not to cry as she accepted a $350 traffic ticket. Or think about how on earth she would pay for it. There wasn’t any time. She was already running late—and she’d just lost another fifteen minutes. Getting off the grounds of her uncle’s estate took ten minutes all by itself.
Uncle Ross lived in a mansion in Holmby Hills with the longest driveway in the world and two sets of gates that required passwords and PIN codes and above average hand-eye coordination in order to navigate them. Inside there was an actual planetarium for parties and something called the “Great Room.” As for Corliss’s setup, she had a private bath, a dressing room, and a walk-in shoe closet that played “Hollaback Girl” whenever she opened the do
or. Uncle Ross had this put in as a welcome gift.
But that was the least of it. Her bedroom overlooked a garden straight out of a Marie Antoinette fantasy. There was a pool, of course, and it was decorated with six marble cherubs who cheerfully peed into the deep end. There was also a lemon grove, a Japanese rock garden, and a pool house that looked like the Parthenon.
The entire compound was staffed with people who didn’t talk. They silently made sure that pitchers of cucumber water were positioned everywhere, and that all the towels were fresh and warm. Corliss often caught sight of this small army of quiet people as they polished away, making sure every visible surface sparkled like Missy Elliott’s bling.
Uncle Ross told Corliss she should be nice to the staff, but she didn’t necessarily have to learn their names. But of course I will, thought Corliss, who never wanted to appear rude.
Corliss had come to live with her uncle Ross because of her excellent school record. She’d already finished all her requirements, and she’d taken so many AP courses that her guidance counselor decided a little preemptive kick into the real world would do Her Royal Awkwardness some good. When her uncle caught wind of this, he decreed that Hollywood, the center of the entertainment industry, was the place for Corliss.
“But I’m interested in psychology, Uncle Ross,” she’d protested. “It’s going to be my major next year when I go to Columbia, and someday I want to work in a mental hospital.”
“Then Hollywood is the perfect place for you,” her uncle had proclaimed.
Corliss wasn’t sure. But there was one thing she was sure of: She didn’t want to be parked on her butt in Indiana obsessing over why no one was asking her to the prom. So she’d said, “Okay, Uncle Ross—you win. Hollyweird, here I come!”
Uncle Ross was a famous screenwriter—his six Golden Globe awards had been made into a chandelier—and that’s how he had been able to arrange for an ultracool internship for her as a production assistant on an exciting new television show. The show was called The ’Bu—the local nickname for Malibu, California. It was a dark and sexy look at the legendary coastal town, and word was that it had the potential to be the hottest new series in years. The pilot episode had just gone into production—it hadn’t even been shot yet. But the minute Uncle Ross told her about it, Corliss was sure: The ’Bu would be the kind of turbocharged hit that would totally rock TV Land. It had the perfect mix of fun, skin, reckless partying, and tears.
Corliss could predict such things. She was a little witchy, in fact. Her mom used to shudder whenever Corliss had her “premonitions.” Not “the earth will end on Saturday” kind of premonitions, but “I give you and that hairy veterinarian two more weeks” kind of things. And Corliss had been right. Fourteen days after that particular prediction, all that was left of her mother’s sorry relationship was a can of Puppy Chow, four Narnia chew toys, and a clump of wet Kleenex.
As Corliss finally approached the legendary lot that housed the UBC network, she vowed that such a pathetic life would never be hers. Not that she wanted to be a star herself. How could she? She was so nondescript looking, people she’d known forever often walked right past her. Once, she’d shown up at her grandfather’s unexpectedly and when he’d opened the door he’d said, “Sorry, I don’t donate to religious organizations.”
More importantly, Corliss had zero talent. She knew this because the director of her high school musical had said, “Corliss, you have many gifts, but talent is not one of them.”
Which was fine with her. Corliss was happy enough to stand next to the stars. Bring them coffee or run lines with them. That way, she reasoned, I can bask in their glow—which has got to be so much easier than being the source of the glow itself.
The Offices of the UBC Network—9:46 A.M.
Max Marx moved through the maze of silent, taupe-colored hallways that led to the soundstage. At twenty-six, he was a certified prodigy with twelve-hundred-dollar glasses and a silhouette designed by Miuccia Prada herself.
Flanked by a gaggle of assistants who clung to him like gum to a sidewalk, Max spoke in a voice he never raised above a whisper. He had earned this crew because he had made a huge name for himself creating high-concept music videos for bands like My Chemical Romance, The Killers, and Death Cab for Cutie.
“Get Brandon on the phone,” he whispered to no assistant in particular—and each and every one of them jumped to get Brandon Flowers on the phone. They were there to make sure the world unfurled before Max like a giant VIP staging area. That’s because Max was both creator and director of The ’Bu, and all of them wanted to be him when they grew up. If only they knew the pressure of being Max Marx, Max reflected, thinking of himself, as usual, in the third person. And why was it so pressure-filled to be Max Marx? Because brilliant, powerful Max had a secret: He’d never worked in television before. He’d also never worked with writers.
Or on an actual script.
Or from the crack of dawn to the black of night.
But there was another secret. Once he’d signed his ’Bu contract, he’d bought an enormous glass-and-steel house perched high atop Mulholland Drive. He’d filled it with classic video games and Pac-Man machines that his assistants found for him on eBay. In other words, he’d already spent his entire paycheck.
He’d done it all to announce to the entertainment industry that Max Marx had arrived. And to befriend Spike Jonze, who lived three doors down.
“Get Spike on the phone,” Max whispered to his flying monkeys, effortlessly exuding authority.
Max knew anyone else his age would never have been handed the reins of a new series—that job was only ever given to someone with years of experience. But such was Max’s current cachet. He could ask for whatever he wanted—and it was automatically delivered to him like a pizza, half plain/half pineapple (his favorite).
But all of it rested on one condition: Max had to create a blockbuster prime-time teen drama for the UBC. The network was fourth in the ratings—and that had to change. Max’s contract was ironclad: If The ’Bu didn’t become a top-ten rated show, it would all go away for Max. His see-through house, his pile of cheddar, and his new BFF Spike.
Max’s blood ran cold from the sheer terror of it all. But he always pulled himself together. No one ever knew the fears that roiled within him. Max was a sphinx, guarding his secrets and cultivating a mystique of power. In LA, that made him a force to be reckoned with.
I’ll fake it till I make it, he silently repeated to himself. It was a little something he’d learned at Promises, an exclusive rehab clinic he’d checked into when he was fifteen and addicted to Robitussin cough syrup.
What an awesome space, Max thought as he arrived at The ’Bu soundstage and his assistants fanned out behind him. In fact, it had once stored P. Diddy’s fleet of seaplanes. It was a little big for a show that was filmed almost entirely on location in Malibu. But the first rehearsal was scheduled there to give the actors a sense of their gigantic mission—or “The Awesomeness of The ’Bu,” as Max kept whispering to his assistants.
Max looked at his watch. The actors weren’t due for another fifteen minutes. Even so, Jonathan Bader—or JB, as he was known—was already there.
Seventeen years old, ramrod straight, with four super-sharp pencils spread out on the rehearsal table before him, JB was playing Ollie on the show—the character always getting sand kicked in his bespectacled face. A cliché, of course, but fail-safe. Boy oh boy, was JB cast right for this one, thought Max as he came upon the classic (but of course not-so-secretly handsome) nerd. Max had spotted JB in a Rite Aid commercial, sniffing air fresheners and grinning maniacally. He’d done a bunch of guest star work, too, generally playing the homicidal kid who lived at the end of the block. Max sensed immediately that JB’s off-kilter charm would win the hearts of geeks—and those who loved them—from coast to coast.
“Hey, where is everybody?” JB wondered aloud to no one in particular, which was fine because no one in particular was listening to him.
“Heya, Maxy, my man!”
Max shot the young actor a look. “JB, it’s Max. Not Maxy or Max-o or Dude or My Bro. Keep the dorky patter for the part you’ve been hired to play, okay?”
“Comprendo, boss man!” JB said, wincing as he heard himself do it again. “So…where d’ya suppose everyone else is?”
Max looked at his watch again. His assistants looked at theirs.
“Rocco is present,” said a velvety baritone that filled the soundstage. It had come from Rocco DiTullio, who was still yards away.
At eighteen, Rocco was already self-possession incarnate. A wall of rippling muscle, outfitted in board shorts, a Fred Segal muscle tee, and Havaianas flip-flops, the Italian-American actor had lips that rivaled Angelina’s, limpid eyes filled with so many blues and greens they invited comparisons to the Caribbean, and inky black hair that did whatever it was told. Even his toes were pretty.
Rocco moved like a panther to the table as PAs and network execs cleared a path. As Rocco came closer, JB tugged self-consciously at his blue gingham poly-blend polo.
Max beheld Rocco in awe. This Italian stallion alone will make the show a success, he mused. Rocco had auditioned for the show without a résumé or headshot—no one even knew who his agent was. He’d simply appeared like Hercules from the heavens. But Max had recently learned that Rocco came from a legendary family—one he has so far been successful at keeping secret.
“Good morning. I’m Rocco DiTullio,” Rocco said elegantly as he took a seat next to JB. Everyone in the entire place sighed a little in unison.
“Hey!” JB shrieked. “Sorry about the volume…indoor voice! Indoor voice! I’m JB.”
“A pleasure,” said Rocco in his deep, sexy voice.
Good, thought Max, the cast begins to assemble. And the minute he thought this, Tanya Ventura floated in, looking like an angel emerging from the mist.
