Rules of Seduction

by Jenna Mullins

  “Hm.”

  “What?”

  “Well, it just seems like you’ve barely written anything since last week,” she intones.

  “I’ve been preoccupied,” I snap, feeling defensive. Which probably means she’s right.

  “I know. But . . .”

  She trails off. I know she wants to tell me something that she’s worried will make me angry. I’ve lived with her long enough to know the face she makes while contemplating saying something that could negatively impact her or someone she cares for.

  “Brit, just tell me what’s on your mind,” I sigh. Brit sits on my bed, crosses her legs, locks eyes with me, and weirdly takes my hands into hers like we’re about to have an intervention. I stare back, waiting for the lecture about laziness.

  “You haven’t really written much this week. Or last week. Or really at all since you moved in,” Brit says. “This is your passion project, and no matter how tired you are, you have to devote some time to it. Do you know how many times I’ve come home from a job and just wanted to shower the stench of mango puree off me? But I don’t.

  “I have to send the survey to clients asking about my service and I have to work on new recipes. And now that I’m combining Southern food and my healthy menus, I’m devoting all my free time to basically revamping my whole business.”

  “Brit, are you just bragging about how dedicated you are to your job?” I ask, teetering on annoyance. I know she’s just trying to help me, but all this is doing is reminding me that I’m both a slacker and helpless against writer’s block.

  “No, I’m just telling you that it’s not easy. It’s hard work, so give yourself a break if you’re stuck,” she says gently, patting my hand. “But you also have to learn to power through. I bet half of the time you think you can’t get anywhere, you’re wrong. You probably can’t get to where you are going, but if you just power through, you can get closer to where you’re supposed to be.”

  I glance back at my computer screen, still feeling completely lost and uninspired.

  “Why don’t you read it out loud?” Brit offers. I swivel my chair to face her again. This sounds like another hippie exercise.

  “To send the words out into the universe? Or to vocalize the words that I’ve written, thus making them more real?”

  “No,” she says, ignoring my jabs. “Just so I don’t have to read it over your shoulder.”

  “Oh. Okay. Sure. Well, first I have to explain the concept.”

  “Of course.”

  “Right, so the Tower is basically a metaphor for the inner desires of our main character, Sam. But the tower is actually the headquarters to this underground group that runs Hollywood, and they are supposed to represent the American consumers—you know: greedy, demanding.”

  Brit nods along, but not in the “I’m following you” kind of way, more the “I have no idea what you’re saying” kind of way. I press on anyway, knowing that it’ll all make sense once I’m done explaining it.

  “So, it’s really a topical and in-depth look at today’s society and a commentary about our values. And these characters are all about the shallow things we work for, and there’s also a love story, but it won’t work out because it’s not supposed to be a happy ending.”

  “No happy ending? Okay, well, I can’t get behind that, but we’ll get back to that in a moment,” Brit says. “So, what is this movie about exactly?”

  I open my mouth and stutter a few times, trying to gather my thoughts. I look back at my screen as if my mostly blank Final Draft document will hold the answers.

  “Well, it’s not so much about the plot as it is about the Hollywood metaphor and . . .” I pause. What is it about? It’s supposed to be Deep and Artistic—the opposite of commercial, but I don’t know if that’s even a story. “I’m not sure I’m explaining it right,” I mumble. I start rummaging through my drawers to find my outline.

  “Dani, I don’t know if anyone can relate to that. It sounds obscure,” she admits. I slam a drawer shut and look at her. My ears and the back of my neck prickle with heat, embarrassed and hurt by her remark.

  “Well, I don’t want people to relate to it, exactly,” I argue. “I want people to learn from it!”

  “How will anyone learn from it if they can’t relate to it?”

  “I-I . . . you know, they could . . . shit! I don’t know!”

  I shut my laptop and lay my head down on it. I feel the warm metal press against my forehead and vow right then and there to never move from that position, no matter how badly my neck cramps.

  “Dani, I didn’t say that to be mean, I swear,” Brit says in a low voice. She rests a hand on my back and rubs it in wide, soothing circles. It feels nice.

  “I know,” I respond, my voice muffled by the laptop.

  “Huh?”

  “I said ‘I know.’ You’re right,” I tell her. I sit back up and push my bangs off my face. “Asking those simple questions helped me realize what this story is.”

  “Great! And what is this story about?” she asks eagerly.

  “It’s about crap. Confusing, condescending, pretentious crap!”

  If this were a movie, I would fling my laptop off my desk dramatically. But the movies don’t show you the broken computer or the arguing with an Apple Genius about the warranty’s expiration date and the begging parents for money to get a new one. That’s my movie. So even though I desperately want to physically remove the awful script from my desk, I don’t.

  Tower isn’t my screenplay. Not anymore. Maybe it never was; maybe it was me trying to write in a way that would impress someone else and not actually me writing. Now I feel dumb for even wasting energy worrying about working on it. Not that I ever really worked on it, even when I made a promise with Tate to write in my free time.

  Tate. At least he cared about my crap script.

  I get out of my chair and walk away from my script, toward my disaster of a closet, which consists of clothes haphazardly hung up or thrown on the top shelves and some film equipment I have yet to use since moving here. I turn back to look at Brit, whose face falling tells me that I look as miserable as I feel. I also notice she’s dressed in jeans and her dark purple chef’s coat. She’s got her hair up in a very tight bun with a rainbow-striped headband pushing stray hairs back.

  “Are you supposed to be on the truck right now?” I ask, gesturing toward her outfit. “You’re in your cooking uniform.”

  “Oh! Yeah, I got a catering job and I need to head out. Actually, I needed to head out, like, ten minutes ago, but you looked like you needed a friend—”

  “Shit, Brit. I’m sorry. You should have told me to shut up! Go! Don’t be late to your gig.”

  “Hey, don’t apologize. That’s what friends are for. Besides, I can make up the time in the drive and during prep.”

  “I still feel bad. Is there anything I can do to help?” I ask, stepping out of my closet and holding my hands out to Brit. “You know, to thank you for listening to me.”

  “Wow, yeah . . . I actually do need your help!” Brit says, her face lighting up. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “Sure. So what am I doing? Do you need help packing your knives or something?” I wonder aloud as I start walking toward the kitchen.

  “Um, maybe. Right now I need you to find a pretty dress to put on. Something cute but comfortable. Black, preferably.”

  “Huh?”

  “Thanks! See you outside in five minutes!”

  * * *

  As we rumble down the 405 in the Vegan Art truck (which after much scrubbing now has a faded “F” you can barely make out), Brit finally tells me all about her catering debut.

  “A catering company called me yesterday, frantic because there was a last-minute cancellation with one of their sous-chefs for this big Hollywood party,” Brit tells me, ecstatic on the verge of manic. “So they asked me to help out!”

  “Brit, that is incredible!”

  “I know,” she agreed happily. “And g
et this! The chef overseeing the event is Jackson Halley!”

  I know she’s expecting a reaction from me, so I rack my brain in an effort to reach her level of excitement. Is he a famous Food Network personality? A celebrity turned chef? I watch the Food Network pretty regularly, so I’m sure I’d be able to recognize a big food name. Why don’t I recognize it?

  “He’s only the biggest vegan chef in the business!”

  Bingo.

  “He’s changing the way people look at vegan cooking. He’s totally into this new idea of combining authentic cuisine from all over the world and making it vegan-esque. He even has his own TV show,” she tells me. “He’s basically my idol, and I’ll be cooking for him! And hopefully I can show him my new comfort food/vegan fusion menu and get his feedback. Or maybe he’ll take me on as an apprentice . . . Or maybe I’ll get my own TV show!”

  I glance over at her, eyebrows raised, to convey that the chance of that happening after their first meeting is pretty slim, but Brit laughs and rolls her eyes before I can say anything.

  “I’m kidding about that last one. But still, it’s nice to have a dream,” she says wistfully as she flips on her turn signal to cruise to our exit. Brit’s words seem to stick to my skin and I stare out the window, watching the Los Angeles sky start to go from blue to pink, as if someone has hit the dimmer switch in preparation for dusk.

  “Yeah, it is nice.”

  “Oh! Oh! And the best part? You wanna hear the best part?” Brit suddenly yells. She honks politely (which I didn’t know you could do until driving with mild-mannered Brit) at a guy sitting in front of us at a green light. “This is all thanks to you!”

  “Me?”

  “Yes, you gave my business card to some woman at Vamp Camp! Her name is on that piece of paper in my bag,” she says, pointing to the giant, beaded bag at my feet.

  There are probably a dozen or so pieces of paper in her bag, but I eventually find a piece of notebook paper with a name I recognize on it.

  “Margo Ray?” I ask in disbelief. “She’s the one who called you?!”

  “Well, it was her assistant who called me, but yeah. Why? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I reply, still staring at her name written in neat, block letters on the paper. “I don’t think I gave her your card . . .”

  Now I remember. I gave a couple cards to Tate during one of our lunches, telling him to pass them on to anyone who throws a lot of parties. He must have passed one on to his agent, or—as I refer to her inside my head—The Devil Wears a Bluetooth.

  “Tate must have given it to her. I gave him a couple,” I tell Brit.

  “Sounds like Tate was supposed to find his way into your life. It’s destiny!” she cheers. I laugh her comment off, but the idea of Tate being in my life because of fate feels so cozy that I hold onto it, letting it warm me.

  I daydream about Tate the rest of the drive to the party. His eyes go from the lightest shade of aqua as he tells a joke, to an almost green when he’s feeling stressed out.

  I think I’ve even memorized his different smiles. There’s the smile for the press that’s a bit tight and rehearsed, and the smile for his fans that’s easy, natural, and handsome. But my favorite is the smile that sneaks up on him, after I tell a stupid joke or when the crew does something silly. He’ll try to hide his amusement for a few seconds, and his lips will twitch before his smile finally stretches across his face.

  It’s the smile that makes my heart ache in my chest.

  It aches because that’s the only thing I have of Tate. A perfect catalog of his moods depending on eye color and smiles. Elise has everything else. His affection. His secrets. His heart.

  I’m an outsider collecting Tate facts to obsess over later; none of them will truly ever be mine.

  “Annnd,” Brit says, breaking my thoughts, “did I mention that you’ll be helping me waitress?” Brit’s voice breaks in.

  “Wait, what?” I look over at Brit’s sheepish face, which she’s trying to hide by turning to look at her blind spot over and over again. “I’m a waitress tonight?”

  “Well, I’m sneaking you in as one. It’s a party I thought you might want to go to.”

  I suddenly know exactly where we’re going: a TV Spotlight Awards after party. One that Margo Ray arranged.

  Crap. The last people I want to see will probably all be there at this party. Keith. Camden. Tate.

  Elise.

  “Will I actually have to waitress?” I ask.

  “Probably not. I might have you help me with prep work. Chopping stuff and helping me plate. Nothing too involved,” she promises. “Of course, since this is the highlight of my career and possibly the turning point to everything I’ve been working toward since culinary school and it’s all thanks to you, you could definitely just go to the party and I won’t say a word.”

  “Brit, no. Of course I’ll help,” I tell her. “Um . . . can I wear one of those chef hats? I think that would be big enough to cover my face.” Brit laughs, not realizing that I’m being a hundred percent serious.

  “Seriously, I’m just not in the mood to see Tate tonight. And my bosses might be there, and I’m supposed to be sick. So if I could just stay in the kitchen . . .”

  “Dani, don’t even worry about Tate. You don’t have to leave the kitchen if you don’t want to. Actually, I’d prefer it because I don’t want you to get upset over him and this whole ploy,” she says. “I really need you to have my back tonight, and I know I’m asking a lot of you but—”

  “Okay, Brit! Okay,” I interrupt. “I promise I won’t have a meltdown if I see Tate. I was just talking out loud about it. It won’t affect anything. I promise.”

  “Great!” she says. “Because I’m going to be a nervous wreck and I’ll need you!”

  I smile encouragingly, knowing she’ll be just fine for her big debut. If anyone has good karma, it’s definitely Brit. I just hope I have some good Karma in reserve, because tonight, I’m going to need it.

  Rules of Waitressing

  If it’s something hot, carry it low. If it’s something cold, carry it high.

  Don’t let people linger. They get two hors d’oeuvres, max. Smile and move on.

  If people are rude, make sure they get nothing but rice cakes with whipped soybean mousse for the rest of the night.

  Keep on the outskirts. If you get sucked into the center of the party, you will never get out.

  If people look drunk, they probably are. They will knock over your tray.

  Find out who the important people are. Feed them first. A happy higher up is a happy paycheck.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “I need those sweet potato chips!” Brit screams, wiping sweat from her brow as she hunches over the plates. The hor d’oeuvre hour is supposed to start in five minutes, and Brit has told me four times that we are “in the weeds,” which I take to mean that we are behind schedule. I squirm in my uncomfortable attire and try to slice yams faster on a fancy machine that I’m certain will cut off my finger if I take my eyes off of it for one moment.

  Brit packed a dress for me since I couldn’t find one in my own wardrobe, a tight black number that belonged to her old roommate. It has a neckline so low that I’m certain my boobs are going to fall out. But then I remember I don’t have any boobs so they’re probably not going anywhere. Her roommate was a tad shorter than me and definitely curvier, so the hemline is a bit too short, but the ass and hip area is a touch too baggy, so the end result looks like I’m a kid trying to wear Mommy’s dress.

  But on the plus side, no one can see what I’m wearing because being in the kitchen means I have to wear a chef’s coat, which is supplied by the catering company. Apparently, the only sizes the coats come in are Large, Huge, Way-Too-Big, and Giant.

  “Dani, more chips?” Brit yells again, this time in a question. Brit oversees the kitchen with demands disguised as questions to soften blows. It seems to work, because the prep people and chefs under her command don’t question a si
ngle order. She has her own personal army to serve in the trenches of the gleaming stainless steel kitchen.

  More than once I’ve glanced up from my work to watch Brit. This is the first time I’ve gotten to see her in her element, and it’s hypnotizing. She’s like a dancer, moving through the kitchen with grace, precision, and handfuls of cumin. She stops to check on a simmering stock then smoothly moves through a group of chefs plating soup, tasting and perfecting seasoning, without spilling a single drop. If I had tried, there would have been more broth on the floor than in bowls.

  I could watch her all night, but she’s counting on me to at least finish some elementary cooking tasks, like slicing sweet potatoes as thin as pieces of paper. I roll up the sleeves of my baggy chef’s coat and get back to work.

  After five more minutes of slicing potatoes that will eventually be fried in peanut oil (it’s healthier, of course), Brit beckons me to her station.

  “What do you need, chef?” I ask eagerly, caught up in the teamwork and frantic pace of the kitchen. Maybe I’m in the wrong business.

  “I need you to take out the first round of appetizers,” she tells me, methodically putting edible flowers onto plates of fried rice balls glazed in a sweet BBQ sauce. My mouth waters as her team lines up a row of plates to be brought out to guests.

  “Dani! Can you do that?” she asks again, snapping me out of my food trance. I straighten up at attention.

  “Um, what? Take them out?”

  “Yes, I didn’t make this food for fun. People need to eat it.”

  Shit. Do it for Brit. For Brit!

  “Yes. Okay, I can do that. What’s the dish called again?” I take off my chef’s jacket, realizing just then that Brit put me in a black dress in case she needed me to serve the hors d’oeuvre. The adrenaline and rush I got from preparing the food floods out of me when I think about who is out there. I can’t decide what I’m dreading more: seeing Tate or seeing Tate with Elise.