by Jayne Denker
“Faith,” he said quietly, and his low tone caught my attention. “Really, I’m not.”
There was a beat or two of silence. I shook my head and studied the ceiling tiles. “What do you want, Mason?”
“You’re really going to keep coming back until you talk to Alex?”
“I’m stubborn that way. Threaten to sic your rent-a-cops on me all you want. I’ve had worse.” As you witnessed, I thought.
“Well, then, if I can’t keep you away from Alex, let’s do this the right way. You’ll be welcome, as long as you don’t badger him. Observe, instead. See what he’s learning, see why it’s important to him. And then you can decide if he’s better off here or back on the show. And in exchange, I’m asking you to give something back to our department—”
“Cash?”
“Faith!”
Of course he was the type who couldn’t be bought. “What, then? And don’t ask me to give a lecture about my mother’s career again.”
“Forget the lecture. I want you to teach a course.”
Yeah, it finally happened. Dude rendered me truly speechless. Eventually I fought out, “Are you insane?”
“Well, not an entire course—and not alone. I want you to help me out with one for the fall semester, which starts middle of next week. My guest lecturer just bailed on me—that was the phone call I just got. I’ll have to take on the course myself now—I can’t find a replacement at this late date—but I’ve got so much to do already . . . I thought you could teach it with me. You can speak to a moderately sized group of people, I suppose?”
“I—” My words caught in my throat, and I just stared at him, incredulous.
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Wait,” I said, closing my eyes tightly for a minute, trying to get my equilibrium back. “Why in the world would you want me to help teach a class?”
“Well, the kids would eat it up, for one thing—the legendary Faith Sinclair, real-world experience, all that. And if you’re going to camp out here to try to change Alex’s mind about his life choices, you might as well make yourself useful.”
“And Alex would take the class.”
“No, definitely not.”
“Well, then, what’s the point—”
“It’s not part of Alex’s course schedule for his acting studies. Besides, if it were, I wouldn’t ask you to do this. It would be unethical for you to have any academic influence over him. You can communicate with Alex on his own time, ifhe wants to talk with you. In fact, this offer is contingent on whether he’s okay with having you on campus at all. I’m doing this because I think . . .” He sighed, then admitted, “Because I think you’re right—Alex should have an opportunity to know all his options, including going back to Modern Women if he wants. But he also should have the freedom to make his own choices, so no full-court press on the guy.”
I couldn’t believe the next thing that came out of my mouth. “What . . . what’s the subject?”
It looked like Mason was trying to suppress a smile, failed. In fact, he was beaming. “Scriptwriting. I figure it’s up your alley.”
“Well, yeah.”
“So you’ll do it?”
God, he looked so hopeful. And Jaya was right—he was pretty adorable. He had that kind of open face and those eager eyes that made you want to take him home. Like a puppy. So it actually hurt me a little bit when I whapped him on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. Figuratively, of course.
“No way in hell.” And I shoved open the double doors and walked out.
* * *
“Oh, COME ON!”
I realized that roaring at my windshield, and at the taillights of the cars in front of me, as far as the eye could see, through that windshield, wasn’t going to move traffic along any faster, but I was frustrated. And baffled. It wasn’t rush hour, it was the middle of the day. There was no good reason for traffic to be backed up. None at all. Yet here we were, roasting in the noon sun. Even the carpool lane was stoppered up. Not that I was considering illegally crossing the double yellow line and illegally using the lane without another person in the car or anything. Not at all.
I glanced at my phone. No messages, no texts. My traffic report app highlighted the stretch of highway I was on with a fat red line. An alphabet salad of strange abbreviations may or may not have been explaining there was an accident somewhere up ahead.
I reminded myself for the hundredth time to check the traffic app before getting on the highway.
Sighing raggedly, I closed my eyes. So far, today had been a total waste of makeup. Restless, I fired up the speaker phone and hit Jaya’s number.
“Jaya Singh’s line. Ashley speaking. Can I help you?”
Oh Christ. “Ashley. This is Faith.”
Before I could get another terse word out, there was a rustling, then Jaya’s voice. “Hey, you.”
“Got Ashley trained to hand over the phone now, have you?”
“Just for you, nobody else.”
“Try to get her to balance a ball on her nose next.”
“Stop.” But she laughed.
“No, really—I think she’s ready.”
“What’s going on? Where are you—Needles?”
“If you mean Moreno Valley, the answer is ‘sort of.’”
“You don’t even know?”
“I’m on the 210, westbound. Gridlock.”
“Say no more. Did you talk to Alex?”
“No. He wasn’t around.”
“When do you start stalking him, sleeping in your car so you can jump him on his way to class?”
“Ah, you’ve discovered my plan B. Soon, grasshopper. Soon. What’s going on there?”
“Well . . . ,” Jaya spoke slowly, which usually meant bad news. “We’re ready to shoot the Christmas episode.”
“Okay.”
“But I just heard from Randy.”
“Oh no.”
“Exactly.”
“He wants changes?”
“Worse. He’s . . . thinking of pushing us to midseason.”
“What! He can’t do that! It’s August . . . crap . . . what, twentieth? We’re locked in for a September twenty-ninth season premiere, and that late start is bad enough!”
“I know. I donot want to have to rewrite the episode to hit all the plot points in some nonspecific time frame. And we’d have to return all the holiday decorations to Props, which pisses me off. We scored the good ones this year—I want to usethose bad boys.”
“He can’t,” I declared. “Logistically, he just can’t. What in the world would he do with a hole in the fall schedule at this late date?”
“He threatened to fill our slot with some of his . . . pet projects.”
I groaned. “Oh God, not those old-school laugh-track sitcoms he’s always pushing.”
“He’s sitting on at least four pilots that didn’t get picked up. He’ll choose the two that suck the least, and we’re history till January.”
“January!” I repeated with dread. “Shit, if he yanks the show now—”
“It’s telling the whole world we’re in trouble. I know.” Jaya hesitated, then said, “Faith, I hate to do this to you, but I think we need to confirm Alex sooner rather than later. If you can get him to commit, then I can tell Randy, and we’d get ourselves a reprieve.”
“I’m right there with you. We’ve got to do it.”
“Can you?”
“What, convince Alex? Looks like I don’t have a choice.”
“Promise him anything.”
“Oh, you do notknow what you’re saying, my dear. Besides, I’ve got to get to him first.” I sighed heavily. “But at least I know what it’s going to take to get access.”
“You do? That’s great! Whatever it is, do it! Oh wait—hang on a sec.” The phone was silent for a bit, then Jaya came back with, “Faith, I’m sorry. I’ve gotta go. Wardrobe’s dressed Kimmie up like a ho again.”
I could sympathize; Kimmie was one of our sweet ingénues, ye
t half the time she came out of the wardrobe trailer looking like a streetwalker. “Ugh. All right, go bust some heads. If I were you, I’d get a bead on Marguerite first,” I advised, naming an assistant wardrobe mistress. “She hates Kimmie. Does this on purpose.”
“Got it. I’ll call you later.”
“Keep me posted.”
Jaya’s news, and the fact that everyone on the freeway had moved about six inches during the entire phone call, made me even crabbier. I turned up the AC and went to a bookmarked site on my phone: the IECC Web site . . . faculty directory . . . Mitchell, Mason—Theater Arts, Film Studies. And I called.
Chapter 9
I got out of bed with a sense of purpose bright and early Wednesday morning. I was going to be a teacher. How cool was that? A noble profession. I’d be brilliant, the kids would love me. It’d be like those teacher movies, I thought as I selected a professional-yet-stylish outfit for my first day—I’d change lives by expounding brilliantly in echoing classrooms, writing wildly on chalkboards, marching across sun-dappled, leafy campuses with my protégés following in my wake, eagerly hanging on my every word. Okay, I was conveniently ignoring the fact that the IECC campus was more like Death Valley than verdant New England, but still. My protégés could follow me around inside, where it was comfortably air-conditioned.
I could do this. I could.
At least Alex had given his okay for me to be on campus, according to Mason, I reflected as I hit the freeway and started heading, yet again, to Moreno Valley (God, this drive was getting old). That was something. It felt like getting the nod from the other side of the velvet rope at one of the hottest West Hollywood clubs. (Not that I was a club-going sort, but I’d heard stories from my non-famous friends who had to wait in line.) Now all I had to do was get to Alex—maybe, to further the analogy, that was like being allowed access to the VIP room. I was just going to have to be careful when I approached him, speaking softly and walking gingerly, like I was approaching a wounded animal. Not that there were wounded animals in West Hollywood clubs . . . oh crap. Analogies were stupid. I turned off the freeway and headed for IECC.
Gasping as I staggered across the fifty or so parking lots on the perimeter of the campus toward the classroom building, I wondered why visiting faculty didn’t have reserved parking spots right outside their building. What if I wanted to bring a visual aid, like a . . . a styrofoam-ball model of the solar system? (Oh heck, adjust for theater—okay, a scale model of Shakespeare’s Globe made out of toothpicks.) I’d have to carry it all this way, in the stifling heat? Luckily all I had to carry today was my morning coffee.
Halfway there, I took a break in the shadow of a building and pretended to check the campus map Mason had sent me by e-mail. Within minutes after I’d committed to this thing, he’d inundated me with the course syllabus, tax forms, the map, and the one-page contractual agreement promising me a silly amount of money (silly as in tiny) for fifteen weeks’ worth of work. Of course, since I was only going to be putting in a few hours of my time per week, and co-teaching at that, it was probably a fair deal.
God, it was hot, even in the shade. I thought I was in shape, but perhaps what was needed here wasn’t so much muscle conditioning, but endurance training—no, I amended, survivalist training: altering your body so it was able to function on two sips of water and one cricket a day or something. I pushed on, wondering if there was a health club that taught that sort of thing in L.A. Then I realized that the sun must have been getting to me. Of course there’d be a health club that taught survivalist training. There was a health club for every type of fitness in L.A.
I almost missed the building, because for the most part, aside from the theater, which was funkily round, and the esteemed admin building, which was trying its best to look Ivy-League-by-way-of-Spanish-Colonial-architecture, all of them were pretty much interchangeable—and as inspired as railway freight cars.
I ducked inside and, as usual, the air-conditioning nearly made me weep with relief. I took my time finding the classroom, just to cool off before I got there. The last thing I needed was to stand up in front of a whole room full of students while sporting pit stains.
Still, my classroom plans were secondary to my ideas for finding Alex afterward. I hadn’t told Mason the reason behind my change of heart about teaching. He didn’t need to know that the show was in even greater crisis than ever. Then again, he didn’t ask, either. He just sounded really, really happy that I’d called. That was kind of surprising; even though I hadn’t forgotten what Jaya had said about him being a fan, I sort of felt that he was just barely tolerating me most of the time.
No matter, though. Right now it was “all about the kids,” as they say. I walked into the classroom with my head held high. “Hey guys,” I said brightly, dropping my bag next to the lectern and taking a swig from my coffee cup. “Scriptwriting 350, right?”
Before I could get another word out, Mason swooped down on me, grasped my upper arm, and steered me toward the door. “Can I talk to you a moment before we start, Ms. Sinclair?”
“Don’t I get to be called ‘professor’?”
“No,” he said bluntly. “After you.” And with his free hand he gestured at the hallway, as if I couldn’t remember where I’d just come from.
Once we were out of the classroom and the door had shut behind us, he let go of my arm, but stayed alarmingly close to me. He didn’t look happy.
I smiled at him. “Want to give me some last-minute tips, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell?”
He didn’t smile back. “You’re late. Class started ten minutes ago.”
“I was here.”
“You weren’t in the classroom.”
“I was hiking from the damned parking lot, to tell you the truth.”
“Let me give you a little advice: Get here earlier. Okay?”
I saluted. “Yes, sir, sir. Anything else?”
“You might want to dial back the snark—you’re going to have to be the grown-up in there.”
“Duly noted.”
“Lose the coffee. You need to look more professional.”
“Okey doke.” I hid it behind my back. Sure, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell, I’ll give up my coffee. When you pry it from my cold, dead hands.
“And act more responsible.”
“I’m a very responsible person!”
He regarded me silently for a minute, implying disagreement. And disapproval. I didn’t take kindly to that.
“You’re calling me irresponsible just because I misjudged how long it was going to take me to walk from where I had to park—which, for your information, was on the outskirts ofVegas? Do you not understand that up until a few months ago, I was in charge of a major television production, shepherding a cast and crew of thousands?”
The corner of his mouth quirked. “‘Thousands?’”
“So I’m hyperbolic.”
“Among other things.” After a pause, he sighed, then said, “I’ll introduce you when we go back in. We’re going to go over the syllabus, answer any questions they might have, that sort of thing. Just listen and observe today, okay?”
“Yeah.”
“You all right?”
“I’m fine!”
He looked me up and down before he nodded and stepped back. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Mason pushed the door wide to let me go through first. Then he gestured to a student desk; they were arranged in a sloppy semicircle, more or less facing the instructor’s desk and lectern. The one he pointed out to me was at the far edge, closest to the front of the room. I scooped my bag up, slid into the chair, and put my cup of coffee on the floor next to me, within reach. Cold, dead hands, like I said.
Mason picked up a few sheets of paper, rounded the instructor’s desk, and leaned his butt and the heels of his hands against the edge, his long legs out straight, crossed at the ankle, as he faced the students.
“Okay, sorry for the interruption. As I was saying, this class is going to be a little different
, because you won’t always have to listen to me droning on incessantly.” The students smiled and laughed politely—the girls a little extra, which wasn’t surprising. Mason didn’t notice—or, if he did, he didn’t let on. He leaned my way to hand me one of the papers as he continued to address the students. “Pardon the hard copy of the syllabus—I’m a bit of a Luddite in that regard—it’s the same as the one that’s posted online. Okay. This class will have two instructors. Me you know and, perhaps, are sick of already.” More polite chuckles. “Our other teacher just made her Hollywood entrance.”
He swept a hand in my direction, and all the students swiveled their heads to stare at me again, as if they hadn’t seen me the first two times I entered.
“This,” Mason went on, “is Ms. Faith Sinclair. You probably know who she is, but if you don’t, you should. Ms. Sinclair is a noted television producer; she’s creator of the very successful Modern Women.”
Some of the students nodded knowingly; others let their mouths fall open in an “O” of surprise and recognition.
“Ms. Sinclair was kind enough to sign on rather recently, on short notice. So the syllabus doesn’t adequately reflect how this class is going to work. In other words, usually in this class, you would learn the mechanics and nuances of scriptwriting. With Ms. Sinclair here, you’re also going to learn about real-world applications.”
The kids studied me as this sank in. Most of them—there were only six—smiled in approval, and that was gratifying. This morning I had been so sure that this was going to be a cakewalk, but Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell had popped that balloon pretty deftly. I needed building up again. Faith Freakin’ Sinclair, I reminded myself. I can do this.
A hand snaked into the air.
“You have a question, Alice?”
A pale, solemn-faced girl turned to me. “Yeah. Um, Ms. Sinclair, is it true you dated Johnny Depp back in the ’90s?”
I practically choked on a sip of coffee I thought had been safe to sneak. Good lord, that old rumor? I thought it had gone the way of the dodo years ago. But some juicy Hollywood tales refuse to die. “Um, no,” I said with a self-deprecating laugh. “Definitely not. Total fabrication. He was just a guest at one of my mom’s parties. I think I exchanged all of three words with him.”
