First Stop, New York

by Jordan Cooke

Tanya, just seventeen, was a brunette beauty with Hershey’s Kisses eyes. All elbows and knees, she exuded a shiny bright newness. That’s because only three months earlier, she’d been living in the South Bronx, the daughter of strict Catholic Puerto Rican parents who had homeschooled her. She waved like the innocent girl she still was.

  “Hello, everybody,” squealed Tanya.

  “Welcome,” said Max.

  Rocco, who had been doodling on his script since he sat down, kept doodling. JB sat up in his chair.

  Trent Owen Michaels was the next to make an entrance. Eighteen, tall and sinewy, he was a certified SoCal surfer and blond all over. He radiated sun and fun. In fact, his agent was lobbying Wikipedia to use Trent’s headshot to help define “California Boy” on their website. He’d been a B-level star ever since appearing in the short-lived cable series Emo Surfer.

  “Hey,” Trent said, mouth-breathing through his sun-kissed lips.

  “Trent,” said Max, “these are Rocco and JB, two of your costars.”

  “Hey and hey,” Trent said.

  “And this is Tanya Ventura, who will be playing Tessa.”

  “Uh, hey,” said Trent, offering his hand.

  Tanya’s eyes catapulted open. “Oh my God. Trent Owen Michaels, hello! I’m so excited to be working on this TV show with you!” she said, nervously twisting her hair.

  “Cool,” said Trent. “TV rocks.”

  “I know! But my parents think TV is, like, the tool of the devil.” She rolled her eyes. “So whenever I was done with my homework, we just sat around and prayed to the Baby Jesus! I mean, I love the Baby Jesus,” she continued, crossing herself, “but who wants to pray to him when American Idol is on?” She chewed her nails and giggled flirtatiously. “That’s why I completely rebelled and got a job at Home Depot, where I was totally scouted by two IMG agents!”

  Trent smiled his patented crooked smile. “Weren’t those the agents who got you that slammin’ six-page Valentino spread in W where you’re all in that total bikini? And then that smokin’ Sports Illustrated cover where you were all in that total other bikini?”

  “That’s right! My God, how did you know that, Trent?”

  “Let’s just say, like, I do my research.” He chose two seats next to each other so that he and Tanya could sit side by side.

  Max smiled painfully. Trent was looking at Tanya like a starving man looks at a pig on a spit. And Tanya was liking it.

  Unacceptable…

  Trent was, in no uncertain terms, a player. His sexploits were constant catnip for websites like Gawker and Perez Hilton. His past was littered with a trail of weeping girls that stretched from LA to Laguna. Would Tanya be next in line?

  If there was one thing Max knew from directing music videos, it was that all it took for production to come to a screeching halt was one weeping teenager locked in her trailer. Oh, no, this potential coupling will have to wait—until it’s good for The ’Bu. I’ll have to devise a way to keep Trent and Tanya apart. There’s way, way too much riding on this show for me, thought Max, and for the network, to have a couple of hormone-hijacked kids mucking it up.

  As he was making a note to this effect in his BlackBerry, he heard a new female voice enter the mix. “Hiya, sexy beasts.” The husky voice was unmistakable. Its owner was yet another famous heartbreaker.

  Yes, thought Max, our star, Anushka, has arrived.

  The whole room strained to get a look. Anushka Peters had fascinated everyone under twenty ever since she’d become a household name on the long-running TV show Suburban Magic. Thick, buckwheat-colored hair, with lunar blue eyes—she looked as if she were dreamed up by some mad scientist who created starlets in his spare time.

  As she strode over, Max noted everyone’s response. Most stared, but Rocco didn’t seem impressed. Trent even winced. JB, however, bounced up and down in his chair.

  “Hello!” JB practically yodeled. “I’m JB.”

  “Great,” she said, tossing her hair. “Hey, Trent,” she said, frowning. “Long time no…”

  Trent managed a crooked smile.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met…” Anushka said, giving Tanya a chilly once-over. Tanya froze.

  “This is Tanya Ventura,” said Max. Anushka gave Tanya a little snort and took her seat.

  Tanya remained frozen. Could she possibly be starstruck? Max wondered. He knew everyone had been telling Tanya that she would be the next Anushka, because Anushka, with her hotel-trashing, production-slowing antics, was perpetually on the verge of becoming a wash-up.

  During the second season of Suburban Magic, Anushka partied so hard, she broke into the Los Angeles Zoo one night with some friends and shot pink paintballs at the polar bears. Consequently, her pretty little prime-time booty was plunked in jail. She had to wait for her manager to post bail while sandwiched between two snoring mimes reeking of Smirnoff Ice. The press had some fun with that one.

  But as Max gazed at Anushka, he had a hard time believing anyone anywhere could replace her. She was not only beautiful, she was adorable. Freckles were scattered over a button nose, and her lips always turned up a little devilishly. Her bod was class-A killer—and to prove it, she’d just appeared on the cover of Maxim wearing a bra with two smiley faces. She was a kind of vixen-next-door type, and everyone found her irresistible.

  Sure, she’d arrived wearing something that looked like a bathrobe—and enormous reflective glasses that no doubt hid dark circles and puffy eyes (and probably sordid tales from the night before). But Anushka Peters had entered the building, and she was, as always, covered in stardust.

  “Anushka,” whispered Max. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Hey, Maxy,” she croaked in a voice scratchy from way too much partying. “So,” she said, glancing at everyone with a weary, wry smile before finally taking a seat at the head of the table. “Aren’t y’all glad to see me looking so foxy?”

  Max consulted his watch. It was exactly 10:00 A.M. That’s when he heard panting. Everyone turned. A few yards off stood a young woman so out of place, so disastrously styled, and so stained by beet juice that a few people gasped.

  “Hey,” Corliss said faintly, trying to catch her breath.

  “And who do we have here?” Max asked conde-scendingly.

  “Corliss Meyers,” she said, jogging over and shaking Max’s hand rather too vigorously. “I’m the new production intern. Please excuse this violet color all over my face and shirt. I got into a wrestling match with some beets. And if you’re picking up on a vinegary smell—that’s me, too. Italian dressing. Lite…” She laugh-snorted, then slapped her palm against her forehead. “Uh, okay, Corliss, time to shut up. No one cares about your caloric intake. So, is this where the rehearsal is?”

  Before Max could answer, JB stood and offered his hand. “Sure is, young lady. Hi, I’m Jonathan. Or JB. Or Jay Boy—or whatever’s cool!”

  Max watched Corliss closely as she moved to the table to shake JB’s hand.

  “Phew! I guess I’m in the right place, then. Hi, JB. I’m the new production intern—did I say that already? But I couldn’t find the production! Those hallways go on forever…” She laughed a little nervously.

  Everyone just kept staring.

  “What happened is the strap on my fanny pack broke when I got in the building and I got all turned around ’cause I lost my Chapstick at some point and—” She showed the broken fanny pack to everyone.

  “First of all, Corliss,” said JB sympathetically, “you have found the production! Second, as luck would have it, I always carry a travel sewing kit for fanny-pack emergencies.”

  “You do?”

  JB whipped out his pocket-size sewing kit and Corliss handed over her fanny pack.

  “Wow…I owe you, JB.”

  “Don’t mention it. Someday you can fix my fanny pack.” He heard himself and giggled. “I think that came out wrong.”

  Corliss giggled back. Max hadn’t taken his eyes off her. Not five minutes in the door and she’d alread
y been able to get other people to do work on her behalf. Brilliant, he thought. This girl is a model of competency and accomplishment.

  “You,” he whispered.

  It took Corliss a moment to realize that Max was referring to her. “Me?”

  “The one with the broken fanny pack, yes.”

  Corliss took a breath and approached Max, gently brushing past the cast members seated at the table. When she got to Anushka’s chair, her jaw went slack and her legs came to a complete halt. Observing this, Max half expected her to pant and drool.

  “C’mon, c’mon. You’ll have plenty of time to fawn over Anushka,” Max said.

  “Oh, God, sorry,” said Corliss. “Ever since I moved to Hollywood last month, I’m like a fawning machine!” She rolled her eyes at Anushka, who glared back at her.

  When Corliss finally reached the finish line, Max extended his hand to her. “I’m Max Marx, creator and director of The ’Bu. Tell me about yourself.”

  “You are? And you want me to—” She looked over at JB, who nodded encouragingly. “Oh, um, well, sure, Mr. Max.”

  “Marx.”

  “Yes, Mr. Marx.”

  “No ‘mister,’ please.”

  “Yes, Marx. I mean, Max. I mean, Mr. Marx without the mister…” Corliss’s face went pink.

  Max made a rolling gesture with his hands for her to continue.

  “So, yeah, so Ross Meyers is my uncle, and, um, I’m from Indianapolis—which you can totally hold against me because, boy oh boy, is it the lamest place to come from. It’s like all about car racing and cheese—bor-ing! Anyway, I really want to study psychology someday, and Uncle Ross said LA is loaded with psychologically disturbed people, so he paid for my plane ticket and—”

  Max raised a hand to silence her. “I’ve made a decision.” Corliss’s mouth hung open in silence. “You’re my new assistant.”

  “Oh my God, really?” Corliss said. “Are you serious? ’Cause if you are, I’m so, so ready to be helpful. To you, Marx—Max—and to The ’Bu.”

  “I’m excited to hear you feel that way, Corliss,” Max said as he jotted the phrase “interested in psychology” in his BlackBerry.

  “I do! Utterly and completely. People from Indiana may not have a lot going for them, but they do have enthusiasm.” Her face went pink again. JB gave her the thumbs-up.

  “Very good,” whispered Max. “It’s obvious to me your utter lack of regard for outward appearances suggests you have a brilliant mind, Corliss.”

  Corliss looked down at her red Le Tigre polo streaked with beet juice and her faded Wet Seal jeans.

  “This makes you my smartest assistant by far. I have only two rules: First, whenever you approach me, you need to stand one to two feet away, no more, no less, and at all times be ready for, you know, whatever.”

  “Whatever,” Corliss echoed, matching Max’s gravity.

  “The second rule is to always be poised to jump whenever I say.”

  “Jump. Gotcha. And by all means, tell me if I don’t jump fast enough. While I’m pretty bright upstairs, my gym teacher said my physical reflexes are a little on the slow side.”

  “I’m not looking for a circus performer, Corliss, I’m looking for someone with smarts. And I already have a crushingly crucial, time-sensitive activity that demands that level of smarts.”

  Corliss’s eyes opened wide and she moved within the prescribed one- to two-feet radius.

  “I need you to run to Trader Joe’s. Pick up some cases of Poland Spring. As many as you can carry. And they’ve got some low-fat rosemary crackers that I like, get a few boxes. Then head to the Kabbalah Center on Robertson. I need four bottles of their Kabbalah water.”

  Corliss blinked. Max could see she was confused.

  “I have a crucial meeting this afternoon with a network executive whose wife is up to her implants in Kabbalah, and I don’t want to offend her,” he explained.

  “Kabbalah…?” Corliss asked.

  “It’s a Jewish thing. And the Poland Spring is for any gentiles I have to meet with. The network bills me for water—blessed by God or not. And I refuse to subsidize everyone’s water intake based on their religious beliefs.”

  “Makes sense. I was raised Presbyterian myself and—”

  “Another thing,” Max continued. “And this is very important, Corliss.”

  “Yes, Max. I’m ready.”

  “My stepbrother, Legend, has the day off from school. His nanny came down with the stomach flu and, obviously, I can’t look after him right now,” Max continued. “Would you mind if he went with you?”

  Before Corliss could respond, Max led her to a door that opened into a small dressing room. Inside, plunked down on a black leather sofa, frantically Game-Boying away, was a pudgy five-year-old with a nose that looked like the object of some serious picking.

  “Say hi to Corliss, Legend,” Max said, as if speaking to a two-year-old.

  “Hi, Corlith,” Legend lisped without looking up.

  “Hi, Legend,” Corliss said hopefully. “Is that like King Arthur’s legend?”

  “No. My motherth family are all living legendth.”

  “Legend and I come from a family of world-famous zoologists, Corliss. Our great-uncle Thaddeus attempted to mate a chicken with a hummingbird. It didn’t work, but he certainly made a name for himself. Legend can explain it all to you in the car.” Max peeled Legend from the couch and pushed him toward Corliss.

  “Sure, Max,” Corliss said. “It would be a pleasure to hang out with Legend.” It was obvious, however, that Corliss dreaded this assignment and was only trying to be helpful.

  “Here’s my American Express,” Max said, handing over a jet black American Express card. “Save the receipts.”

  “Will do,” said Corliss.

  Max watched Corliss take Legend’s hand and lead him from the soundstage.

  “Excellent,” whispered Max. “I can now begin to realize The Awesomeness of The ’Bu.”

  Corliss’s Rental Car, Somewhere in Brentwood—11:42 A.M.

  Legend kept taking off his seat belt and Corliss kept putting it back on.

  “But do I hafta? Legendth only die in plane crasheth.”

  Corliss sighed, impressed by his skewed reasoning. “Legend,” she said, using her strictest babysitter voice. She knew zilch about child psychology, but she guessed it was necessary to establish firm parameters with difficult kids. “It’s a rule in my car that anyone under the age of puberty should be strapped in.”

  “But ith a rental car…” he chirped, unbuckling his seat belt yet again.

  “Legend, work with me here. What if a cop gave me a ticket?”

  “Maxth would reimburth you,” replied Legend.

  “I can’t bill my new boss for a traffic ticket the first day of work! Please, Legend, if you keep the seat belt on, I promise to get you some peanut brittle at the Farmers Market on our way back to the studio.”

  Legend pouted and looked out the window. This is a kid who probably has a closet full of peanut brittle from the Farmers Market, thought Corliss. She strapped him back in and hoped for the best.

  This trip was turning into a nightmare. Corliss had a GPS in the car, but the minute they were off the UBC lot, Legend had offered a surefire “shortcut”—which Corliss had been naive enough to take. A drive directly over Laurel Canyon that should have taken half an hour was now clocking in at ninety minutes—with no end in sight.

  “The beach?!” shrieked Corliss as she realized she’d headed in the wrong direction yet again. Sure enough, dead in front of them was the West Coast itself. She swore to herself she wouldn’t cry.

  Legend looked at Corliss with the innocent eyes of a cherub. Could he have planned this? thought Corliss.

  “Legend, why did you tell me to go west on the 10 freeway just now?”

  The pudgy lisper shrugged. “Becauth I like to thee all the cool carth.”

  Corliss took a big breath. “Okay, I’m taking big breaths to calm myself. So here�
��s what we’re going to do. From now on we are going to listen to the electronic GPS lady. I gave you your turn and now it’s hers, okay?”

  “But that lady ithn’t even real!”

  “I know, she’s a computer. And computers are our friends.”

  “Okay, Corlith. There’s jutht one thing I want to know.”

  “Of course, Legend—anything. I want us to be buddies! So what do you want to know?”

  “Um, hath anyone ever put their hot dog in your hamburger?”

  Back at the Soundstage—11:43 A.M.

  JB ran back into the cavernous room. His face was flushed, and sweat dappled his brow.

  “JB,” said Max sternly, “five-minute breaks are not twenty-minute breaks.”

  “Yes, Max, sorry. Just checking my e-mail.” He scuttled over to his chair and reorganized his pencils.

  “Fine, but don’t let it happen again. We’ll be on a very tight schedule with this production and it’s imperative that everyone be prompt.”

  Max approached the table where all the actors sat waiting for him. He sized them up as the pieces of clay he thought them to be. They looked up at him with anticipation. Even Rocco seemed ready to start.

  “Okay, before we begin, I have a few words about your characters. Trent, you’re playing Travis, the lifeguard. Good guy, not the sharpest knife in the drawer. He’s been involved with Alecia on and off, but Tessa immediately replaces her in his heart. Tanya, you’re playing Tessa. Extremely sweet girl who would give a starving man the bikini top off her back. She’s new in town and a little naive. Anushka, you’re playing Alecia. After the sun itself, she’s the hottest thing on the beach. She’s with Ramone now, but still has lingering feelings for Travis. Rocco, you’re playing Ramone, the mysterious muscly guy who’s head- over-heels for Alecia. And JB, you’re playing Ollie, the lovable geek who’s everybody’s confidant.”

  JB raised his hand. “So I take it we’ve all been cast against type?”

  Everyone thought that was funny—except Max.

  “You get exactly one funny-guy comment like that per day, JB.”

  JB sank in his chair. Rocco shot him a smile.

  “So. We’ll read through our first episode and then I’ll send you home. I’ll expect to see you bright and early tomorrow on location at the beach,” Max said as he took his seat at the head of the table. “And now, the history of The ’Bu begins…”