by Jordan Cooke
The tap-tap-tapping of typing filled the trailer as Max’s assistants competed with one another to see who could come up with a nanny candidate first. Corliss smiled to herself. It came pretty easily to her to give Max’s assistants directions. She wondered if down the line she might have her own staff of clones . . . She imagined all Max’s assistants wearing the sundress she’d put on that morning. They looked kind of cute in them. Even the boys. But an unwelcome sight quickly quashed her daydream . . .
“Hey, Corliss!” said Petey Newsome, as raccoon-eyed and dressed head-to-toe in black as ever. He was standing just inside the trailer.
Corliss gasped. She couldn’t imagine why in the world Petey would be there. She’d thought for sure she’d seen the last of him when Max found out he was underage and his contract as a ’Bu writer had been declared null and void. “Petey, what are you doing here?”
“What do you mean?” he said, looking as if nothing had ever happened. “I’m working, of course.”
“WHAT?” Corliss’s mind did loop-di-loops. Had Petey been hired back? And if he had been, did that mean he’d be chasing her around the beach again, pining for her unrequited love? It was too much to contemplate. “But—but—last I heard you were a fry chef at El Coyote!”
Petey looked at the floor. “Well, yeah, but I dropped my inhaler in the fryer one night. I got fired when a piece of it turned up in George Clooney’s gordita.”
Corliss’s stomach lurched. The thought of George Clooney chowing down on Petey’s deep-fried inhaler was way too much. Max’s assistants made “Eww-that’s-gross” faces and turned back to the computers. “But Petey,” said Corliss, her mind racing to make sense of this development, “you’re not eighteen. You can’t be working here.”
He smiled his crooked, weird smile at Corliss. “Well, an amazing thing happened, Corliss,” Petey droned. “I was so demoralized after the gordita incident that I marched myself over to Max Marx’s office and begged for my job back. I told him I’d work for free until I was eighteen—which is only a month away. He said sure. I’m now once again on the writing staff of The ’Bu. Isn’t that great?”
“Yeah,” said Corliss, trying to hide how not great she thought it was.
“And it’s especially great to see you, Corliss. You look pretty in that sundress.”
Max’s assistants giggled. Corliss was mortified. She certainly didn’t want any rumors flying around about them. “Er, thanks, Petey, but we’re a little busy in here,” she said, gesturing at Max’s assistants, who were now once again furiously tapping away at various nanny sites.
“Of course,” said Petey sheepishly. “Don’t let me be a bother.” He started inching out the door, but then stopped and turned back. “Um, maybe we could hang out tonight after work? Head down to the Malibu Shopping Center and get an oatmeal cookie at Marmalade Café? Or some chicken strips at Googies?”
Corliss’s stomach lurched again. The thought of eating anything in the near vicinity of the personal-hygiene-challenged Petey made her woozy. Max’s assistants started to giggle again, but Corliss shot them a look. “Um, Petey, could we talk when there aren’t a whole bunch of people around listening?”
“Oh,” said Petey. “I get it—a little alone time for Corliss and Petey?”
“NO! I mean—look—I’ll come find you on my next break, okay?”
“Okay,” said Petey, smiling his crooked, strange smile. “See you soon.”
As Petey stepped out of the trailer, Corliss immediately called Max. He picked up on the second ring. “Corliss, have you already found a nanny?”
“No, Max, I’m calling because I want to know why you hired Petey back! I mean, I know I did that lousy rewrite for you, but sheesh! This town is full of writers you could have hired! He’s so weird with his insomnia eyes, and he makes me feel all oogy—”
“Corliss—”
“—and he’s always up in my grill! Which means he always wants to go out with me, and I’m, like, blech, no way!” All of Max’s assistants were once again giggling. “I’m sorry, Max,” she said. “But I can’t find Legend a nanny and avoid the unwelcome advances of Petey McWeirdo at the same time! There’s only so much Corliss to go around!”
“Corliss, you’re having a fit. You must calm down. Try some deep breathing, or look at that creative visualization book I had you take away from Legend.”
“I did, Max, but all it did was make me think of how babies are made! I couldn’t help but imagine what a baby fathered by Petey Newsome would look like, which only made me feel worse!”
“Not that chapter, Corliss. The chapter that tells you how to imagine yourself in a safe space. I’m imagining myself in an Internet-equipped igloo as we speak.”
“That’s completely weird, Max.”
“Perhaps, but I’m as cheerful as a plugged-in Eskimo. Now as for Petey, the truth is he’s a good writer. And we’re getting him for free. Cheap labor makes the network happy. If Petey makes you that uncomfortable, I’ll just implement a dating embargo. Absolutely no fraternizing between any ’Bu employees. Cast, crew—you name it.”
“You’d do that?! Boy, that would really take the burn off, Max.”
“It’s as good as done,” replied Max.
“But wait—what about Trent and Tanya?”
“Well, it’s obviously too late for them. But that doesn’t mean I’m not still carefully monitoring their relationship. I’ve got our beloved boss, one Mr. Michael Rothstein, breathing down my neck about those two ever since the live episode. Trent and Tanya could do a lot of damage if they have a falling-out. Which is yet another reason there should be no dating among the staff. So my mind is made up: There is no dating allowed between anyone working on The ’Bu from this point forward.”
“Thank you SO much, Max.”
“Say no more about it. Just get back to work finding a nanny—and pronto.”
“Absolutely, Captain,” said Corliss, saluting the phone.
“Uh-oh . . .”
“What is it, Max?” Corliss could hear a strange noise in the background. “Is that screaming . . . ?”
“I’m afraid it is, Corliss. Legend is with me on set and he just figured out how to unhook Tanya’s bikini top. She’s having a fit—and now Anushka’s storming off in a huff . . . We need to creatively visualize a nanny and pronto!”
Max disconnected. Corliss took a big breath and went back to the nanny search. With Petey out of her hair, and Max’s assistants no longer giggling, she was feeling her can-do attitude coming back, full force.
Hair and Makeup Trailer—Fifteen Minutes Later
“Anushka, please,” said Max in his most beseeching tone. “We’ve fixed your eyebrows. Now what’s the problem?”
Anushka spun around in the makeup chair and looked him dead in the eye. Her eyebrows had indeed been fixed. They both now arched gorgeously over her lionlike lunar blue eyes. But her famous hair—those buckwheat tresses that flounced around her perfect shoulders, the hair that captured hearts from Burbank to Basra—was nowhere to be found. In fact, she was as bald as baboon’s behind. “You are seriously going to look at my head, Max, and ask me what’s the problem?”
Max knew he had to keep his voice low and confident if he was to convey authority. He made a note in his iPhone to call his doctor about a testosterone enhancer. When he looked up from his note-jotting, he realized Anushka was about to blow sky-high. The hair and makeup people began to slowly back up, like customers in a bank robbery trying to judge the exact moment they might begin running for their lives. Max decided the best thing to do was pretend Anushka’s bald head wasn’t such a big deal. “What, Anushka? I think you look cute.”
“You think I look . . . cute? I look like Britney Spears on a bender! I come to hair and makeup to get my eyebrows evened out and then—as a joke, I assume—they start putting a bald cap on me and then you come in and tell me it’s not a joke and that I LOOK CUTE!!”
The hair and makeup people fled the trailer. Max was left al
one with his ranting starlet. “Now, Anushka, please hear me out.”
She crossed her arms over her magnificent chest and waited. As she did, her eyes seemed to shoot rays of rage into Max’s very soul. Not telling Anushka about the bald cap in advance was a serious misstep. Max thought for certain he’d asked Corliss to break it to her so she wouldn’t be surprised. He quickly texted Corliss: REPORT TO HAIR AND MAKEUP ASAP.
“Anushka, the writers went to great lengths to come up with a reason why your character, Alecia, could come back to the show after supposedly perishing in the fire. They decided a young woman was killed in the fire and burned beyond recognition. Her body was thought to be your character, Alecia. But Alecia, it turns out, was hiding in the canyon, subsisting off forest brush and rainwater.”
“Ha!” Anushka barked contemptuously. “As if I could ever live without Pinkberry!”
“Please, Anushka, don’t interrupt. Alecia couldn’t possibly have emerged from such a major fire unscathed, so the writers decided the fire burned all her hair off.”
“Uh, a bit drastic?” she said sarcastically.
“Not if you consider that they first suggested you come back as an amputee.”
“What?!”
“Calm down, Anushka. I told them America doesn’t want to see an amputee in a bikini. They might, however, want to see one beautiful girl, surviving against all odds—bald, but unbroken.”
Anushka pretended to weep as she played a tiny, invisible violin. “I get it. I read the script, Max. Survivor, loved by all—yada yada. But there’s one problem, and it’s a BIG one. I consented to come back to The ’Bu on one condition. And that condition is that no matter what the scene—no matter what I was doing in it—no matter how late at night or early in the morning it was shot, I was going to be HOT. H-O-T, Max.”
“But,” he said, trying to resummon his patience, “how could you ever not look hot, Anushka? You’re America’s Hot Sweetheart. At least that’s what Star magazine called you last week.”
Anushka rose from her makeup chair and looked directly into Max’s eyes. “BALD IS NOT HOT!”
Corliss arrived breathless, climbing up into the trailer. “What is it, Max? I came as fast as I—” And then she saw Anushka. “Uh-oh.” She looked at Max. Her face registered her horror at what she’d forgotten to do. “With all the nanny business this morning I guess I forget to talk to Anushka about the, um”—Corliss gulped—“hair thing.”
Max nodded solemnly. “I see, Corliss.” He sighed. “Well, I guess I have been throwing a lot at you. Something was bound to get lost in the shuffle. It’s just a shame it’s the, um, ‘hair thing’—as you so eloquently put it.”
“YOU knew about this, Cor?” stammered Anushka, who was now shooting rage rays in Corliss’s direction. “YOU were part of this ugly conspiracy?!”
“Don’t blame Corliss, Anushka,” said Max. “She’s in the midst of an extremely high-level task for me. In any event, you need to know how important Alecia’s baldness is to the plot. Especially when you hear how there’s going to be a big scene for her when all her friends gather to tell her how they’ve been lost without her.”
Anushka leaped from the makeup chair and banged toward the trailer door. “Another nice try, Max. A big hospital scene with tears—blah, blah, blah—no one can live without me—whatevs. But none of that,” she said, jutting her cleavage forward so Max could get the point, “makes me look HOT. I don’t care if I’m hooked up to twelve IVs, getting blood transfusions through my ears, and hanging on to life by a thread—if I’m not covered in hotness and camera-ready, I walk! Comprendo?”
“Anushka,” said Corliss, “don’t go! I’m sorry!”
But Anushka was already out the door.
The Beach—Continuous
Anushka marched toward her trailer, kicking up a cloud of sand as she went. Corliss trudged behind her. Max followed. “Anushka,” said Corliss, “don’t go getting your thong in a twist. Think of all the beautiful actresses who’ve won awards just by looking butt-ugly, right?”
Anushka stopped running. Max and Corliss stopped running. “Name ’em,” said Anushka, steam practically shooting out of her ears.
Corliss cleared her throat and began. “Well, Jennifer Hudson in Dreamgirls had to play all frumpy. And Angelina Jolie had to wear that bag-lady wig in that movie nobody saw. And, at the very top of the list, America Ferrera has to play ugly in Ugly Betty!” Max examined Anushka’s face closely. Corliss’s argument seemed to be having an effect. “America Ferrera is so pretty in real life,” Corliss continued, “but then on TV she looks like Extreme Makeunder. All of those women have shelves full of awards. In fact, being made to look ugly is practically the first step to getting an award in this town, if you think about it.”
Max could tell Anushka was doing exactly that. “Let me do the math here . . .” she said. After a moment of raising and lowering her now-even eyebrows, she began to skip back to the hair and makeup trailer, a bald sandstorm in motion. Max and Corliss followed as best they could, spitting sand as they went.
Hair and Makeup Trailer—Continuous
Anushka landed in front of the largest mirror in the trailer, cocking her chrome dome this way and that in contemplation. Max sighed at the sight. Even completely bald, Anushka could still stop traffic. In fact, her eyes looked otherworldly beautiful under her naked noggin—and her lips looked luscious and more kissable than ever. Max saw Corliss seeing this, too. But most importantly, he saw Anushka seeing it.
He watched as she picked up a bottle of Bed Head Spoil Me Defrizzer and cradled it like an Emmy Award, silently mouthing “thank you”s to all the little people, blowing kisses, nodding humbly. One single tear even fell and bounced off her bikini top.
Finally, Anushka slammed down the defrizzer and nodded. “Okay, Max. If being fugly is what it’s going to take to get me any respect in this town—and an Emmy nomination—then I’m in.”
Max and Corliss applauded simultaneously.
“Hold your applause!” She looked like she meant business. Max and Corliss did as they were told. “There are three conditions. Numero uno: I do this bald thing for one episode and one episode only. And numero two-o: I’m in a different Zac Posen micro-bikini for every scene I’m in. And numero three-o: Tanya is totally covered up for every scene she’s in with me. Preferably in something unflattering and shapeless. Like a burka. Or a parka. Or a burka/parka. It could be a whole new look for her. Ha!”
Corliss looked at Max and shrugged. Max wondered how he could consent to such conditions. “But Anushka, we were supposed to start shooting this morning and you’re in six scenes. I’m not sure the costume designer can handle six Zac Posens for you and something unflattering for Tanya on such short notice.”
“Not my problem, Max,” said Anushka, elbowing Corliss and winking as Max squirmed.
“Let me call the costume designer,” he said, looking at Corliss, who nodded encouragingly. He placed the call to the designer. “Kennedy? This is Max Marx. We need six different Zac Posen micro-bikinis for Anushka, and something unflattering for Tanya. Will that be a problem?” He covered the phone. “She’s checking.” He listened again. “I see. Well, let me get back to you.” He disconnected the call. “She says she can dress Tanya down for today’s scenes but that she only has two Zac Posen micro-bikinis on the racks.”
“No deal,” said Anushka emphatically.
“I figured as much,” said Max. “Then you leave me no choice, Anushka. Kennedy needs until tomorrow. We’ll have to bump filming until the morning. But if I agree to this, that means I want to see you at 6 A.M. in this very chair looking bald as a baby’s behind. Do we have a deal?”
“It’s a deal, Max,” said Anushka, peeling off her bald cap and shaking out her long locks. “If anyone needs me before then, I’ll be at Barney Greengrass ordering the sturgeon scramble.”
As she sashayed out the door, her perfect little bikini butt waving in the breeze, Corliss sighed. “Anushka catastrophe av
erted, Max!”
“For the moment,” he said with a sinking feeling.
Two
The Hollywood Hills—10:13 P.M., That Night
Tanya thought her heart might burst into a million pink stars. She and Trent were parked in his new Toyota FJ Cruiser looking out over the glittering Los Angeles valley. They’d been making out for so long her lips were twice their normal puffy size. As she gazed into Trent’s Caribbean blue eyes, she wondered just how far she’d let him go. Two buttons of her Marc Jacobs silk twill top were already unbuttoned and Trent was angling for a third. She almost let him, too, but—
“Stop, Trent! You know where this could lead.”
Trent looked like he didn’t know. “Where?”
“Someplace Jesus wouldn’t like!” She searched her Très Jolie clutch for her rosary beads.
“Um, what?” said Trent, looking dreamy-adorable in a cinnamon Ted Baker polo, torn khaki shorts, and faded blue Vans. “Jesus doesn’t approve of second base?”
“I’m pretty sure Jesus doesn’t approve of any base, Trent. And you know my pledge to him—and to the American TV-viewing public.”
Trent looked like he didn’t know. “Tell me again?”
“Trent?! It’s to keep my legs crossed until I am joined in a holy union before God at, like, a church. With a big reception where I look really pretty. Then a honeymoon where I go to someplace really, totally amazing with my husband and then we do it, like, on the beach. For the first time. Ya know?”
Trent sucked his teeth. He didn’t look happy. “But Tans, we’ve been going out a long time. We’re even each other’s dates for the Emmys. Doesn’t that count for something in Jesus’s eyes? I mean at least second base?”
Tanya sighed. Trent did have a point. But Tanya was pretty sure Jesus wouldn’t go for second base—even if they were going to the Emmys together. “Why don’t we get out of the car and kneel down and pray a little and ask him?”
