First Stop, New York

by Jordan Cooke

  “Tanya!” yelled Trent. “I’m coming to save you!” He ran a few feet alongside the pool until his Bruno Magli shoe caught on one of the camera cables, which sent him flying through the air. He landed on the slate deck with a giant thud.

  “Trent,” Tanya gurgled. “Are you all right?”

  “Um,” said Max, “where are my pills…?”

  Oh, God, thought Corliss as she watched Tanya go under.

  “Um,” said Tanya, bobbing in the water, “I can’t really swim!”

  “Lifeguard!” shouted Rocco into the hotel.

  “Is that my cue?” called Anushka from the hotel.

  Corliss put down her wallet and whipped off her jewelry. “I’m a certified lifeguard!”

  “Corliss,” called Tanya, “help!”

  “I’m coming, Tanya!” Corliss said before diving into the pool and swimming to Tanya’s side.

  “Oh, no,” said Max, “I think my medication is wearing off…I think I’m about to scream…Yes, I am!…I’M SCREAMING!!”

  “Thanks, Corliss,” said Tanya, spitting a geyser of water in Corliss’s face. “I think those pills Anushka gave me made me sink.”

  Corliss swam with Tanya to the side of the pool and pushed her bony butt to safety. As she looked up, she saw Max being cradled like a baby by the camerawoman. She saw JB, oblivious, hammering away at his MacBook keyboard. She saw Rocco shaking his head and pulling Anna Karenina from his pocket. She saw Anushka stealing a glance at her reflection in the hotel lobby window.

  “Jeez, you freaks,” Anushka said, redoing her lipstick, “am I the only one who’s ready to work or what?”

  “I would,” said Trent, “but my ankle is the size of a beach ball.”

  Max shot Corliss a chilling look. He’d given her a lot of strange looks since the day they met, but this one made the hair on the back of her neck rise.

  Above, the sky was moving from violet to black.

  “We’ve lost the light,” said Max with a dramatic whisper as he clung tighter to the camerawoman. “And it’s all because of…Corliss.”

  “What?!” Corliss said, climbing out of the pool and spitting water.

  “Yes, Corliss,” said Max with a crazed look in his eyes. “You told me this afternoon that everything was ready.”

  “It was!”

  “You assured me that all the elements were in place for a spectacular scene.”

  “They were!”

  Rocco put down his book. “It wasn’t her fault, Max.”

  “Stay out of this, Rocco DiTullio. I don’t care who you’re related to, I’m not going to be intimidated by you anymore. I am Max Marx, creator of The ’Bu! And what I say goes.”

  “Well, what are you saying, then, Max?” Rocco said, daring him.

  “Yeah,” Corliss echoed.

  “Yeah,” said Anushka.

  “Yeah,” said Tanya, spitting and wringing out her now see-through dress.

  “I’m saying,” said Max, pausing for what seem like an eternity, “that Corliss is fired.”

  Corliss was dumbstruck.

  “I’m sorry. That’s just the way it has to be.”

  “But—but—but—” Corliss said, pointing across the deck at her wallet. “And—and—and—”

  “You don’t have any grounds to fire her, Max,” said Rocco.

  “Oh, I don’t? Maybe you’d be interested to hear that in addition to this evening’s nightmare, there is also a blog called The ’Bu-Hoo that purports to have all the inside dirt on this show and all the cast members—including you, Rocco DiTullio. And I’m pretty certain that Corliss here is the author of this scandal sheet.”

  “Max,” Corliss said, “I’m the one who told you about the blog! Why would I do that if I were the one writing it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m impressed, Corliss,” said Anushka, smirking.

  “Don’t be! It’s not me! That blog knew all about your night out with Writer—I mean Petey!—the night it happened. And I was with you, Max, that evening, ironing your board shorts!”

  Max looked away. “I’m sorry, Corliss. This relationship just isn’t working out anymore.”

  Corliss could no longer form words. And everyone was staring at her. How could this be? How could Max turn on her, at no provocation, after everything she’d done for him? After all those times she covered his designer-clad butt. Fluffed up his gigantic ego. Carried through his morally bankrupt directives. And even though she was planning to leave The ’Bu, this was not the way she intended to go. This was so not good for her self-esteem. So not better than waiting around all semester for a prom invitation that would never come. At least in Indiana-no-place she was never publicly humiliated. Because how can anyone humiliate someone they don’t actually see?

  It was too much to bear. And holding back the tears was becoming a physical impossibility. So Corliss ran off. Away from all the freaks with all their freaky needs, and the head freak with the freakiest needs of all. Away from the freaky, freakified Awesomeness that is The Freaky ’Bu.

  Ten

  Corliss’s Bedroom, Uncle Ross’s House—10:12 A.M., the Next Day

  Corliss’s new BlackBerry was once again ringing on the nightstand. It had been ringing all morning, but she couldn’t figure out how to turn it off.

  “Shut up,” came Corliss’s voice, muffled by a pink silk duvet.

  It rang again.

  “I told you,” she said, feeling miserable, buried in a little ball under three thousand thread count covers, “I don’t have a job so you don’t have a job.” Her hand reached out to silence it, but it raged on. She finally gave up and emerged from her cocoon. “Enough!”

  She gripped it and pushed every button she could. Finally, the BlackBerry shut up. When it did, Corliss paged the housekeeper by pushing a button on her headboard. “Claudia, can you please bring me one of your famous café au laits?”

  “Yes, right away, Miss Meyers,” came a woman’s crisp voice.

  Corliss flopped back on the bed, tossing and turning. She was a mess. Being fired had torn her up in a way she didn’t entirely understand.

  But isn’t that exactly what I wanted? To be free of The ’Bu? And the rampant psychosis that was everywhere? But she also knew she wouldn’t use the plane ticket back to Indianapolis that had been a gift from her uncle. It was somewhat powerful to go home having rejected Hollywood. But utterly humiliating to go home having been rejected by Hollywood.

  She roused herself, threw off the covers, and moved to the window. The sky was a deep gray. Dust swirled in circles near the pool’s peeing cherubs. The immaculate hedges rustled as if cats were scampering around inside them.

  Corliss hugged herself tightly. Then her BlackBerry trilled again.

  “Okay, okay, all right,” she said, surrendering.

  She lumbered over to her nightstand and saw she had a text message from Petey.

  EMAILED YOU LATEST REWRITE REFLECTING TRENT’S ACCIDENT. ACTORS EXPECTING COPIES. THANKS.

  What? Doesn’t he know I was fired?

  She called him immediately, but it went straight to voicemail. Sighing heavily, she went over to her computer and checked her e-mail. Sure enough, there was one from peteynewsome@ubcnetworks.com with an attachment labeled “Revision.”

  She hit the reply button, typed in a short message that said “Talk to office,” and sent it off. In an instant her e-mail was returned with an “Out of Office” message.

  Argh.

  She swallowed what pride she had left and called Max’s office. One of his snotty assistants picked up. “Max Marx’s office.”

  “Hello, this is Corliss Meyers.”

  “Corliss Meyers who?” came the reply before the snotty assistant hung up.

  Corliss silently counted to ten and decided she would rise above it. She was not going to stoop to the level of Max Marx and his band of B-level hangers-on. She downloaded the rewrites. As they printed, she whipped her hair into a ponytail, threw on her baseball cap,
and stepped into an adorable Anna Sui tennis skirt she’d picked up on Robertson. Then she sent Petey a text message: ON MY WAY.

  Malibu, Max’s Trailer—1:12 P.M.

  Corliss stood in front of Max with copies of the rewrite. She was still trying to take the high road, which at the moment meant she’d put her nose high in the air to keep from crying. She plunked the rewrites on his desk.

  “I guess Petey didn’t know what happened yesterday, Max. So here I am.”

  “Well, Corliss,” said Max in his chilliest voice, “Petey is very new to the staff and he can’t be expected to be aware of every little thing.”

  “Of course, Max, I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.

  “In any event, Corliss, thank you for the rewrites. I wish I could say this gesture of yours made up for yesterday’s fiasco, but of course it doesn’t. You failed me on every level.”

  It took every ounce of restraint Corliss had not to remind the empty-headed haircut that she was the best assistant he’d ever had.

  “So I guess this is good-bye, Corliss.”

  “I guess so, Max. Good luck.” She saluted like the soldier she was.

  “It’s a shame, too, because I have a feeling that today, with the filming of the pilot’s climax, we just might make television history.”

  You know what, Corliss thought, you should figure out how to work your ‘eco-flush’ toilet before tackling television history, Max Marx. She was about to say it, too, when one of his assistants stuck her head in. She scowled when she saw Corliss, but then turned to Max. “Max?” Her tone was urgent.

  “What is it, please?”

  “Michael Rothstein just pulled up.”

  Max and Corliss looked out the window. Sure enough, there was Michael Rothstein’s town car. Production assistants were gathered around it, waiting for Michael to emerge. When he finally did, they could see he was dressed in midnight black, looking like the angel of death.

  Outside Max’s Trailer—Continuous

  Max stepped down from his trailer. Corliss followed.

  “Don’t leave just yet, Corliss.”

  Corliss, too shut down by Max’s complete and utter gall, didn’t respond.

  “Max,” called Michael Rothstein in a gruff voice as he approached. He was moving toward them at a clip. “We expected to see footage yesterday and it’s nowhere.”

  “Michael, hi. I don’t know if you’ve met my assistant Corliss. Corliss, can you check on that thing we talked about you checking on?”

  “Max, you can’t possibly want me to—”

  “You look busy,” said Michael.

  “We are, yes. Aren’t we, Corliss?”

  “Yes, Max. Very busy,” Corliss droned halfheartedly—clearly Max had finally taken complete leave of his senses.

  “Good,” said Michael. “Because listen to me, Max. I don’t care if you do work in a top-secret bat cave somewhere. We need to see that climax you keep promising. The one that’s gonna make TV history, blah blah…”

  Corliss could tell Michael meant business.

  “And it better have ‘wow’ factor! I don’t want to have to drag my saggy tuchus to the beach again. I don’t like the beach. I get sand in my loafers and everyone smells like cocoa butter.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael, I meant to call you, but—”

  “No buts, Max. The only buts I want to hear about are the butts jiggling across the screen when The ’Bu pilot airs to fabulous ratings. We’ve already spent millions and we’re not spending a penny more until we see approved footage. Do we understand each other?”

  “Yes, Michael,” Max said with a steely stare. “Corliss, take down everything Michael just said.”

  “Good,” said Michael. “I expect this history-making climax scene in my office within twenty-four hours.”

  “Twenty-four hours?” Max’s eyes clouded over.

  “Yes. Last time I checked, that meant a day. If it’s not there in twenty-four, consider yourself off the project.”

  Max staggered back against Corliss.

  “Max,” Corliss whispered, “you’re on my foot.”

  “But Michael, you can’t possibly mean—”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Max. You can always go back to directing Justin Timberlake videos. Now where can I get a Sprite around here?”

  Corliss pointed to the catering trailer farther down the beach and, for the first time, Michael took her in. “Thanks, kid. I’m parched.”

  Malibu Canyon—Continuous

  Max was hiking up to the location where they were about to shoot the climax. Corliss scrambled alongside him, incredulous at what had just taken place.

  “Um, excuse me, but what was that about, Max?”

  “What?” Max said, the picture of innocence. “I merely wanted to show Michael Rothstein that we were a cohesive unit and—”

  Corliss held up a hand, just like Max had done to her a thousand times. It worked. Max stopped talking.

  “Don’t bother explaining yourself, Max. People who are fired don’t deserve explanations.”

  “Corliss, I don’t like your tone.” Max moved to a small plateau where the production assistants had set up the lights and sound. The cast was there, too, all staring a little sadly at Corliss.

  “Hey, m’lady,” said JB with a long face.

  “Hi, Corliss,” waved Tanya with a frown.

  Max gestured for everyone to move away from Corliss. “Let’s go, everyone! Where’s Anushka?”

  “Here, Max,” came her unmistakable throatiness from a few yards off. “Hey, Corliss, what are you doing here? Didn’t Max can your butt?”

  “Yes, and I was just leaving.”

  “Anushka, Corliss is not your concern. You should be preparing for the scene we’re about to shoot.”

  “Just grabbing a quick ciggy butt.” She was hiding a Marlboro Red behind herself.

  “Well, don’t do it near me. My dermatologist told me secondhand smoke dulls my skin. Go farther up the hill until your cue.”

  Anushka shrugged and trudged up the hill as she was told. “Cor, why don’t you hang around until we’re done with this scene. We can do a little talky-talk over lunch.”

  “Okay, I guess. But you shouldn’t be smoking a cigarette around all this dry brush.”

  “Don’t sweat it, Cor. I just put it out.”

  As she said this, a small ball of fire puffed up on the ground near her.

  “Uh-oh,” said Corliss.

  Anushka simply took one giant step and stamped it out. But then another ball of fire puffed up inches away. Anushka stamped that one out, too. But then another ball erupted in another direction.

  “Anushka,” sighed Max. “Why are you doing that strange dance? This isn’t West Hollywood on a Saturday night.”

  Anushka couldn’t move fast enough. She was stomping around in a circle of fire that was beginning to spread out across the hill.

  “She’s not dancing, Max…”

  “Oh, no,” Max said, now realizing exactly what was happening.

  Suddenly flames and smoke were everywhere.

  “Anushka, Max!” screamed Corliss. “Run!”

  But they didn’t know which way. Every time they went in one direction, fire appeared in front of them. Every time Corliss pulled them in another direction, they came face-to-face with more flames.

  Max tried to scout safe ground, but the entire canyon was becoming engulfed in great rising towers of fire. Electricians and cameramen tried their best to take cover. Tanya whizzed by, yelling her brains out, pulling Anushka with her.

  It was pandemonium. But Max and Corliss kept moving, eventually finding a break in the firewall. “Come on, Max, this way!”

  Helicopters suddenly appeared in the sky above them, their deafening blades whipping up sand and adding to the chaos. Max’s sunglasses were sucked from his face. “Those were Gucci!” he yelped, covering his eyes. “Wait a second, Corliss…” he said as they ran for safety.

  “What is it, Max?”

&nb
sp; “Having my glasses sucked from my face was dramatic, wasn’t it?”

  “Just keep running, Max!”

  “But—but what if I started shooting?”

  “Huh?” Corliss panted.

  “Shooting this!”

  “Are you serious?!” She thought Max had lost his mind.

  “I could get all this into the show!”

  “But—but—” Then Corliss began to do the math. The helicopters…the production crew running for their lives…Tanya screaming her bikini off.

  “Do you think it’s a good idea, Corliss? The viewers will just think they’re seeing brilliant special effects.”

  A gong went off in Corliss’s head. The same one that always went off when she had one of her premonitions. The one that said yes, yes, yes. “Max, yes! I think it’s brilliant!”

  Just then, the camerawoman ran by with the small high-definition camera she used to get shots on the fly. She passed it to Max like a football and he sprinted with it, grabbing shots of the awesome fire and the smoke and the actors running away from it as it coursed toward them down the hill.

  “Go, Max!”

  He kept getting shots. Of palm trees swaying from the winds the fire produced. Of houses high in Malibu Canyon melting to pieces. Of telephone polls falling, power lines twisting, and cars careening around the Pacific Coast Highway as people rubbernecked to see the flames above.

  Max got it all.

  Even Tanya, who once again flew by screaming her head off.

  “Tanya!” Max called as he followed her with the camera. “I’m going to feed you some lines!”

  “Max, I’m flipping out!”

  “Say, ‘My God, Alecia! Where’s Alecia?’”

  “My God, Alecia! Where’s Alecia?”

  “Now say, ‘This is all my fault! And now we’re all going to die!’”

  “THIS IS ALL MY FAULT AND NOW WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE!”

  And it seemed like Tanya meant every word of it. She ran down the canyon with her hands in the air, making a sound that Max had never heard come out of one tiny human being’s mouth. Trent tried to follow after her, but she was on a tear.

  “Tanya, I’m sorry we ever, like, fought!”