by Jordan Cooke
“Forget it, Tans,” said Trent, pulling away and adjusting his khaki shorts. “The praying thing is so lame. And the makeup dude has been really pissed at me lately because I have scabs on my knees from all the kneeling.”
Tanya knew this had to be frustrating for Trent. She also knew his eyes weren’t the only blue thing about him . . . but she couldn’t help it. She had to hold off. Even though she sooooo wanted to be with Trent. “I understand, Trent,” she said, buttoning up her top. “Why don’t we just take a drive and, like, cool down?”
“Jeez, Tanya, you don’t know how hard this is on a dude!” he exploded. “It’s very hard!”
Tanya frowned. “Trent, as mad as you are at me, Tanya, the best and prettiest girlfriend you have ever had, you really shouldn’t take the Lord’s name in vain.”
“Wha—? When? I didn’t!”
“You said ‘Jeez,’ which everyone knows is Jesus’s nickname. And I wish you wouldn’t say it when you’re angry.”
“But that’s when people say it! It’s a word for when you’re all, like, whoa, I don’t know what else to say!” Trent was pouting. Tanya thought he looked so cute. She even wondered if she could reconsider the second base thing. She started to unbutton her blouse again, but immediately saw Jesus’s face on the dashboard. She’d been having lots of Jesus visions lately, but in this one he looked really angry, staring at her from the odometer, so she quickly buttoned up her blouse.
Trent watched sadly as Tanya’s boobs were declared off-limits. He then put the Cruiser in reverse and started down the canyon. As he maneuvered the bends and curves of Mulholland Drive, Tanya noticed the faraway look in his eyes—like he actually had something on his mind. This seemed strange to Tanya. She’d only ever seen Trent look like he had nothing on his mind. Except surfing. Or Little Debbies when he was having an anxiety attack.
“Thanks for understanding, Trent. I feel really comfortable with you. Like, really. Like, totally. Like, even, like—” Tanya stopped herself before she could say what she was about to say. Trent was looking over at her like, “Huh?” Her eyes began to well. Her heart rattled so loudly in her chest she thought for sure Trent could hear it. She’d almost just told Trent . . . she loved him.
“What’s that look on your face?” said Trent, stealing glances as he navigated the curvy canyon roads. “It’s all, like, weird.”
“Nothing, Trent,” she said, covering. “Better keep your eye on the road. I mean both eyes. Not just one, which would be totally spastic.” But Tanya knew she couldn’t keep it in—the thing she was trying so hard not to say. It was pushing against the inside of her mouth like a little demon, a demon that wanted desperately to be exorcized—preferably by a Catholic priest. Or was it an angel inside trying to get out, one sent by Jesus? Or was it a demon disguised as an angel? Tanya’s mind did backflips, but she couldn’t stop that little demon/angel, no matter how hard she tried. “I LOVE YOU!” she finally cried.
Tanya clamped her eyes shut the minute the words were out. She felt as if the world had ended. It was completely silent as she held her breath. All she could hear was the purring of the engine and Trent’s breathing. Her heart seemed to slow, then stop entirely. Am I dead? she thought.
“Tans?” Trent said, suddenly breathing so heavily he sounded like a psycho in one of those Saw movies. “I love you, too.”
Tanya wasn’t sure she heard right. Which wasn’t a new sensation. She often felt she hadn’t heard right. But then she realized: I totally heard right . . . “OHMYGOD,” Tanya squealed, her eyes bursting open so hard she almost hurt herself. “THANK GOD YOU SAID IT BACK OR I WOULD HAVE FELT LIKE A TOTAL LOSER BUT I’M NOT, THANK GOD!”
Trent flinched. “Tans, you’re, like, screaming at the top of your voice.”
“OHMYGOD I KNOW IT’S JUST I’M SO EXCITED I’M, LIKE, CAUGHT IN LOUD MODE!”
Trent flinched again. “It’s, like, way loud, Tans.”
“I TOTALLY KNOW BECAUSE THE INSIDE OF MY HEAD IS LIKE, OW THAT’S SO LOUD!”
“Um, could you find a way to dial it down?”
Tanya took a few deep breaths. She looked out the window to get her bearings. They were driving west on Sunset Boulevard, passing Fresh, the salon where she had received her first exfoliating facial—the very first day she’d arrived in L.A. She took this as a sign that her and Trent’s newly declared love was more than skin-deep. It was, in fact, pore-deep. She whispered a thank-you up to God, Jesus, and the Holy Spirit, and then turned to Trent, facing him for the first time since they’d spoken the words aloud.
“Trent, this is a magical night. You even look a little like a magician. And I feel like . . . your magician’s assistant. Like, in a really tight outfit with thigh-high boots covered in sequins.”
“I totally feel the same way, Tans. But reversed ’cause I don’t want to wear those boots. But, yeah, like, there’s magic in this car,” he said, his baby blues looking to Tanya in this mind-blowing moment bluer than the bluest blue.
“Let’s do something to always remember this night,” she cooed. “Something special. Something only you and I—Trent Owen Michaels and Tanya Ventura—could do on a magical night like this.”
Trent looked thoughtful for a full moment, which once again impressed Tanya, for whom thoughts were like icky, slippery eels trying to get away. “I got it,” he said finally as he pulled into the parking lot in front of Jamba Juice. “Let’s order two protein shakes with fiber boosts.”
This wasn’t exactly what Tanya had in mind. But she knew Trent wanted to keep in tip-top shape—and on his diet—while maintaining muscle mass, all of which she wanted to encourage. Our physical beauty means the world to me—and to the American television audience, too, she thought. Before the thought could leave her mind, she expressed it. “There’s nothing I’d rather do, Trent, than keep fit and toned with you!”
Malibu Beach—Max’s Trailer—9:32 A.M., the Next Morning
The inside of Corliss’s head felt as mushy as her mother’s overcooked broccoli. She’d been interviewing nanny candidates for just over an hour, but so many had been disasters that Corliss was beginning to wonder if there was any appropriate child care in the greater Los Angeles area.
So far she’d interviewed a former gang member with a killa tattoo on her forehead, a bipolar nun with dyslexia, and a German bodybuilder who’d invited her to an all-nude weekend in Palm Desert. This one was sitting right in front of her, either winking repeatedly or working through a really bad tic. “Uh, no thanks on that nudie weekend invite,” Corliss said, trying desperately to keep things in the professional realm. “I like to remain entirely clothed on weekends.”
“Too bad,” he said, then frowned and winked. “Is dat da end of da interview?”
“I think so,” said Corliss, showing him to the door with the fake smile her uncle Ross had taught her. “And maybe you should get that tic checked out,” she said under her breath. The bodybuilder-nanny frowned and stepped onto the beach. Once Corliss made sure he was all the way to the parking lot, she returned to her desk and plunked herself down in disbelief. “Thank God that’s over. Jeez . . .”
Corliss was totally perplexed. All of the candidates had come highly recommended by Max’s assistants, who sat a few feet away, diligently tap-tap-tapping away on their computers, perusing the various nanny sites Corliss had recommended. Could they possibly have thought those half-functioning outcasts would be suitable guardians for Legend?
Then it occurred to Corliss. Max’s assistants didn’t want her to find the perfect nanny for Legend. That’s because Max’s assistants didn’t like Corliss! In fact, they probably wanted Corliss to fail in the nanny search—because they wanted her to fail at everything Max asked her to do. That’s because all of them wanted her job.
“Everybody out!” Corliss bellowed when this realization hit her. She stood behind her desk with her hands on her hips, glad she’d worn the rather tailored Copines mini-jacket today because she felt it gave her more authority than s
he innately had. Of course her hair was a little listless because she’d tried a new conditioner, but she felt her tone of voice more than made up for her limp locks.
Max’s assistants gave her that infuriating blank look they always gave her whenever she told them to do something. “You heard me. The nanny search is over!” They kept giving her that blank look, the one they’d copied from Max. It was like staring at a sea of blank mini-Maxes. Finally, they turned their backs on Corliss and slouched insouciantly out of the trailer.
“God!” said Corliss, already spent and only two hours into her day. “It is so hard to get good help!”
“What did you say, Corliss . . . ?” It was Max, sticking his head in. “Or are you talking to yourself like I do?”
“I don’t know who I’m talking to, Max. I’m so wrung out from interviewing nanny candidates. It’s like all the psych wards up and down the coast suddenly went out of business and all the patients showed up here. Jeesh.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Corliss,” said Max, paging through something on his iPhone. “But I absolutely need you to keep on it. I’m dealing with two impossible children at the moment and it’s not easy.”
“Two children?”
“Yes, Legend—and Anushka.”
Corliss shook her head and braced herself for more bad Anushka news. “What now?”
Max sighed. “Well, we finally got her back into the bald cap and costume, but now she wants a henna tattoo in the shape of a fire-breathing dragon on top of her head. She says if we don’t get her one she won’t go before the cameras.”
Corliss shook her head. “Yup, that sounds like Anushka . . . Can hair and makeup do the tattoo?”
“They just sent me a text saying they’re working on it. I’m creatively visualizing that they’ll have it on her willful little skull in a half hour so we won’t lose any more time. We’re shooting on location in a fabulous mansion today and we’ve got to get the cast moving. Meanwhile, Legend is doing everything he can to undo the effects of the two anxiety pills I took with my midmorning snack . . .”
Max looked like a little boy lost in the woods. It was a look that Corliss had seen before—one she could never resist. But she held her tongue. Professionalism was going to be her watchword from this point forward and she simply wasn’t going to be taken in by the need to take care of Max. No matter how cute and little-boy-lost he looked.
“Please, Corliss,” he continued. “It’s imperative you find a nanny for Legend. I can’t start filming the third episode unless I’m in my clear zone. Which, as you recall, is a zone where everything goes away and all that’s left is me.”
“Okay, Max,” said Corliss, sighing. She knew Max’s advanced narcissism was his only weapon against the world. She also knew it was her duty to protect it at all costs, especially during production—so professionalism had to meet caretakerism. She turned to her computer to search for more nanny websites. “I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you, Corliss. I know you’ll find someone fabulous. Do you want my assistants to keep helping?”
“Absolutely not!”
Estate Overlooking Malibu—10:37 A.M.
Rihanna had listed the property with the most exclusive real estate agent in Malibu. While it was on the market, The ’Bu had rented the spectacular home to shoot the opening scene of the third episode. Michael Rothstein had decreed that he wanted the opening scene of this episode to have “wow appeal.” The house certainly had it—especially the room Max and the cast found themselves in.
The blue stone fireplace was two stories high. A Murano glass chandelier dripped thousands of glittering red shards from a height of thirty feet. Windows soared to the top of a vaulted ceiling where teak Tibetan beams crisscrossed in a tangle of intricately carved artistry.
Except for Anushka, who was in another bathing suit, the cast was assembled in their evening glamwear—which meant more clothes than usual. They were posed against an ancient Belgian tapestry that covered one entire wall. Twenty grips scurried around them, adjusting the lights to make their beautiful faces glow just so. The grips were having trouble lighting Tanya, however, because she was wearing a black hooded bathrobe and her face was covered in Dead Sea mud. “Max?” she said, raising her hand as the technicians fluttered about her, hitting her with more and more wattage.
“Yes, Tanya,” said Max, praying that she wasn’t about to ask one of her patented dum-dum questions. “What is it?”
“Because there’s all this light on me, my mud mask is, like, becoming caked to my face. Which is making my face all itchy. Like, totally itchy. Like, ow itchy.”
Trent beamed at her, his eyes blazing. His mouth hung open even more than it usually did. She gazed back at him, the mud around her mouth cracking as she smiled too big. It was clear to everyone they were once again madly in love—inseparable and insufferable.
“Patience, Tanya,” said Max. “Actresses all over Hollywood have sacrificed more for their art than a little itch. Creatively visualize that your face is floating above everything, peaceful and free from the rest of your body.”
Tanya scrunched up what she could of her face. “But then wouldn’t I be beheaded?”
“Um—” said Max, who was immediately distracted by Legend tugging at his Zegna cotton check pants. “What is it now, Legend?”
“Can you take me to the little boyth room?” he asked at the top of his voice.
“I mean,” said Tanya, plowing on, “if I was beheaded I couldn’t talk and say my lines. Right?”
“Tanya,” said Max, “I didn’t say you were beheaded. I said you should creatively visualize—”
“Max,” Anushka interrupted from across the room. “I want the light to hit my right side where the henna tattoo is. This dude”—she pointed at one of the grips—“is lighting my left side.”
“Light Anushka’s right side, please,” said Max to the grip as his eye began to twitch. Anushka turned her head to better show off her tattoo. The grip did as he was told.
Legend once again tugged on Max’s pants. “Boyth room, boyth room!”
“Okay, Legend,” whispered Max, trying to keep it together, and wondering desperately how Corliss was doing on the nanny search. “But didn’t you just go to the boyth—I mean boys—room?”
“That wath for number one,” Legend shouted, even louder than before. “Now I hafta do a big poop.”
The cast giggled. Max went red. “Legend,” he said, bending down and lowering his voice further. “That’s not a word we say when we’re not at home.”
“Thorry.”
“JB,” said Max, “would you mind taking Legend to the bathroom? You’re not in the first part of this scene and I’m almost in my clear space.”
“Sure thing,” said JB, finishing a series of sit-ups. He’d been furiously pumping his once scrawny, now slightly less scrawny muscles all morning as the technicians had been setting up. He got to his feet, then lifted his bony little arms in the air. Two enormous semicircles of sweat clung to his pits. “Uh-oh, Max, I think the Jeebster needs to change shirts again . . .”
Max sighed and looked around for the costume crew. “JB, why do you insist on getting all sweaty before we shoot? This is the second time this morning we’ve had to pull you another shirt because of your overactive endocrine system.”
“Sorry, Max,” said JB, hopping from foot to foot. “Just trying to keep myself busy. Put the ol’ excess energy to good use—if you know what I mean. Wouldn’t you rather have me working out my poppin’ bod than sinking all my moolah into bad stock trades and giving the blogosphere more bad publicity ammunition?” He smiled impishly.
Before Max could reply, Legend tugged at his pants again. “I really have to poop!” the shrunken preschooler yelled.
“Yes,” said Max, rubbing his temples, “we all got that particular news flash, Legend. JB, can you please take your stinky pits and my stepbrother to the restroom?”
“Aye, aye, Captain,” said JB, saluting. He took Legend by
the hand and they scampered off down a hallway. Max texted Corliss: NANNY SEARCH???
Anushka was cracking up. “Gotta love a kid who screams ‘poop.’”
One of the grips shot Max a look. “Anushka, can you please keep still while they light you?”
“Max,” said Rocco, approaching. He looked incredibly fit after his rehab stint in Sicily.
“Yes, what is it, Rocco?” said Max, backing up a little as he did whenever Rocco came his way.
“I’m genuinely looking forward to today’s shoot. The writing on this episode is a lot stronger than usual. Better character development, more innovative plot twists . . . It’s quite an improvement.”
“Thank you, Rocco,” said Max, who felt a bit confused; he was so much more used to Rocco giving him attitude than praise. In fact, Rocco still totally intimidated Max. Rocco was wicked smart, hyperarticulate, built like a wall of bricks—and related to the famous Bellucci family. Four things Max was not. “I’m glad you’re looking so well, by the way, Rocco. I’ve got a few ideas about how we’re going to shoot this scene. I know you’re interested in directing someday, so maybe you’ll learn a little something.”
“I’m sure I will, Max,” said Rocco with an out-of-character humility. “And let me add I’m greatly looking forward to hearing your ideas.” He bowed a little in Max’s direction.
“Thank you, Rocco,” Max said, bowing back a little. He knew he had to play it cool to keep Rocco’s respect, but inside his stomach crumpled. The truth was, Max had zero ideas about how to shoot the scene. He was going to wing it like he always did.
A cold sweat broke out on his forehead as he was once again reminded just how giant a fake he was. He went to bite his cuticles, but then he realized he’d spent four hundred dollars on them the day before, so he signaled one of his assistants to bring him a bowl of wasabi peas instead. The assistant ran off and Corliss ran up.
“Corliss! Has there been any luck with the nanny search? Legend is so up in my grill I need a—a—”
