“So wait. You didn’t tell the baby daddy?” Jess says, honing in on the most salacious part of the story. “That’s insane. And I always thought you were as square as Claudia.”
Claudia and I both ignore her. “So that’s pretty much why Peter didn’t come. He thinks I haven’t dealt with this,” I say.
The table falls silent again. “Are you upset I didn’t tell you?”
They all claim not to be, which I believe, the waitress once again giving us a break as she arrives to pour our wine.
Jess is the first to raise her glass. “To secret adoptions!”
We all laugh and shake our heads.
“There were times when I wanted to tell you,” I say, looking at Claudia first. “When you told me about your sister adopting Luke … when you were pregnant with Frances.” Then I look at Jess. “And every time you confided one of your gems.” I smile. “But I just decided long ago that I wasn’t going to tell anyone. I just wanted to put it in the past and move on.”
Ben asks, “So what do you think Peter’s main issue with this is?”
I shake my head. “I really don’t know. He seems to be implying that it’s an honesty issue. That I was keeping something big from him.”
Claudia turns to Ben and says, “Honey, would you feel that way?”
“It’s really hard for me to imagine that … Given your resistance to having a baby in the first place,” Ben says.
“Well, pretend that it’s another secret,” I say. “Anything that she kept from you.”
“Like a three-way lesbian tryst?” Ben says.
“Don’t pretend to be a pig,” Claudia says. “You can’t pull it off.”
Ben smiles, takes a sip of wine, and then grows serious. “I want to say that I’d understand … I feel like understanding, no strings attached, is the right, bigger-person thing to do … But honestly, I think I’d be upset. Not so much angry—but hurt.”
“You would?” I ask, a nervous pit returning to my stomach. If Ben would have a problem with it, anybody would.
He nods, then frowns and says, “And I might be a little worried, too. It sort of feels like a trust issue. I mean, don’t you want to believe that he’s told you everything? At least everything big that’s happened to him? What if he held something back like this? Something of this magnitude?”
I try to imagine that Robin is actually his second wife, rather than his first. Or even, more on point, that he has another kid out there. “Yeah. Maybe it would give me pause, too,” I say.
“But,” Ben says. “I also think that if he can’t get over this, then he doesn’t love you the way he should love you.”
I look at him, waiting for him to continue.
“This is not an unforgivable offense. Really—nothing is unforgivable if you truly love someone,” he says, glancing at Claudia.
“And what about Kirby?” Claudia asks. “Are you glad she found you?”
“Yes,” I say. “For the most part. I’m relieved that she’s okay. She seems to have a good family … and a good head on her shoulders.”
“But…?” Jess says.
“But it definitely complicates my life. Not only with Peter. But with everything … Before she showed up, it felt like my decision whether to tell anyone about her. Now I have to think about her. Does she want to know her grandfather? Then I need to tell my dad. Does she want to be part of my life? I have to show her that she is welcome in it. And.” I stop in my tracks, wondering if this part of the story will ever get easier. “And in Jess’s eloquent words, I might have to confess to the baby daddy,” I say, my stomach dropping. “I know she wants to find him. She didn’t come right out and say it—but I can feel it.”
“Do you want to find him?” Ben asks.
I try to sugarcoat it but don’t have the energy. “No,” I say. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to distance myself from this mistake. From him. From that time. The last thing I want to do is go back and unearth it all.”
“Unearth what?” Jess asks, looking jubilant. “Your feelings for him?”
“This isn’t a television show, Jess,” I say.
“It could be.”
“Shut up,” I say, thinking that if were a show, Peter would change the story line and Conrad, Kirby, and I would be a happy little trio.
“You shut up,” she snaps back at me. “Shut up and find him. You and your daughter need to go find him, Thelma and Louise style!” She grins and makes a ridiculous lassoing motion over her head.
15
kirby
“We have to go,” Belinda says as we jog around the track during our timed mile in PE. She is referring to prom—the only topic I find more tedious than college. It is also the only topic I feel more decisive about than college. For the gazillionth time, I tell her I’m not going, my mind drifting back to Marian and Conrad. It’s been a few days since I talked to Mr. Tully, and pretty much all I’ve been doing is obsessing over finding my other parent.
“C’mon, Kirby,” she continues. “I refuse to be that girl—sitting home watching some rom-com and shoving my face full of popcorn.”
“So don’t watch movies or eat popcorn,” I say as Justine Lewis laps us for the second time, her long blond ponytail dancing like a kite string, her neon-pink Nikes kicking up dust in a cloud that reminds me of Pig Pen on Charlie Brown. As ridiculous as I think it is to overachieve in PE, I’m kind of jealous of stupid ol’ Justine, wishing I went out and played the drums like she runs track—proudly and for all the world to see.
“If we don’t go,” Belinda says, “we’ll regret it for the rest of our lives.”
“God, I sincerely hope we aren’t thinking about prom for the rest of our lives, Belinda. Or anything about high school, for that matter,” I say.
Short of a teenage pregnancy, I think. And maybe not even then.
“Shit. Cramp,” she says, slowing to a walk as she limps and kneads her side.
Mrs. Tropper, our gym teacher, shakes her head in disgust as we pass her along a straightaway.
Belinda says, “It’s a rite of passage.”
“Says you.”
“Says everyone.”
“Except me.”
“Kirby. Seriously. People will ask forever, ‘Who did you go to prom with?’” she says. “And we’ll be like, ‘Uh, no one. We were total losers.’”
I tell her I’ve never heard the question posed to anyone over the age of twenty. That I have no idea if my parents went to theirs, although I seem to remember some weird story about my mother swapping dates with her best friend at the last minute.
“I bet Marian went,” Belinda says. “I bet she was prom queen.”
“It didn’t come up. Shock, surprise,” I say, although I wouldn’t be surprised if Belinda was right. I mean, buying crazy-expensive designer clothes for your newly discovered daughter seems like something a former prom queen might do. Which is another reason I can’t stomach wearing them—or even showing them to Belinda or my sister.
“Come on, Kirby. Please. Do it for me,” she says, pausing to tie her shoelace and catch her breath. “For once, can we just not be the two losers?”
I watch as she double-knots both laces. “I think we’ll be bigger losers if we go with each other than if we don’t go at all.”
She shakes her head. “No way. We’ll look like sexy, liberated women. Like we don’t need a man.”
I let out a snort of laughter and tell her I’ve never seen anyone need a man as much as she does.
Proving my point, she says, “Although I actually might have a date. I’m really feelin’ it with Jake Mahoney.”
“Who?”
“The guy I met at the mall.”
I groan.
“What?”
“The mall? Belinda, mall pickups are for hoosiers,” I say, St. Louis slang for white trash. “With femullets.”
“For your information, we were at the Galleria, shopping for sunglasses,” she says. “Hoosiers don’t shop at the Galleria.”
>
“Until you and Jake went there,” I say, smiling.
“Okay. Say what you will about your best friend in the world. But Jake’s no hoosier. He lives in Clayton. He goes to Chaminade. He plays lacrosse. He’s going to Wash U next year.”
“Please, Belinda. You know a Chaminade guy is never going to go for a DuBourg girl,” I say, referring to 101 in St. Louis high school snobbery.
“C’mon, Kirb. He really seems to like me. For real.”
“Fine. So ask him to prom. Go for it,” I say, finally breaking a sweat as we begin our fourth and final lap.
“Only if you go with us. He has this friend, Philip—”
“Philip? His name is Philip?”
“What’s wrong with the name Philip?”
“Nothing. If you’re a queen or duchess or something,” I say.
“It’s not like you to judge a book by its cover,” she says, skillfully hitting a hot button.
“Look, Belinda. I’m not going to prom. And I’m certainly not going on a blind date to prom. With a Philip.”
“He’s cute, I swear. You can check him out on Facebook.”
“Right. ’Cause people never misrepresent on Facebook. You, of all people, know that’s not the case,” I say, thinking of her many bogus status updates about all the fun she’s having at fictional parties.
“I don’t lie. I just stretch the truth. And do a lot of Photoshopping.” She laughs and says, “Why don’t you meet him? And if it goes well—”
“No, thanks,” I say, as Mrs. Tropper blows her whistle and singles us out among a half-dozen other stragglers. “Belinda! Kirby! Zip it, ladies! C’mon! C’mon! Move it!”
I flip her off as she turns to heckle someone else, but we pick up the pace ever so slightly, falling silent as I think about prom. Way deep down, maybe I am just the tiniest bit disappointed not to be going, especially after Charlotte gave me the giddy update last night that Noah invited her, followed by her half-dozen visits back to my room to show me earmarked pages of evening wear in the Macy’s mailer. Maybe, once upon a time, I, too, had a few girly visions of prom. Picking out the beautiful dress. Having a cute boy arrive at my house to pick me up. Taking a million photos with friends in the backyard. Sneaking a flask into the limo. Slow dancing at the end of the night. Kissing under a sky full of stars. All that shit.
But that just isn’t my reality. And slapping together some version of prom with Belinda, whether just the two of us or with a couple of stuck-up idiots from another school probably only looking to get laid, isn’t going to change the underlying facts about my high school experience. It isn’t going to make me any cooler or happier—nor will it fool anyone into thinking I’m cooler or happier. If anything, it’s going to make me feel worse, especially because there is a high likelihood of Belinda getting sloppy drunk and hooking up in some hotel room while I stand in the corner, with a push-up bra, a streaky orange spray tan, and some dweeb named Philip. No, thanks.
As we cross the finish line, Mrs. Tropper bellows out our time, shaking her head. “Thirteen minutes, forty-two seconds. A sorry effort, ladies! My grandmother can run a faster mile.”
I shrug and give her a blank stare, showing her how very little I care. The one thing I’m really, consistently good at.
16
marian
First thing Monday morning, Angela Rivers makes an entrance into my office that is as dramatic as any scene she has performed to date, including the one in which she discovers that her boyfriend is having an affair with his ex. I realize, within seconds, that this is no coincidence.
“He’s fucking her,” she says, showing her range as an actress as she vacillates between pitiful sobs and manic rage. Her eyes are red, her skin is broken out, and I quickly notice that she has done something drastic to her gorgeous, long red hair. Her trademark. Not only is the color off—verging toward Cyndi Lauper orange—but as she drops her head to her hands, I notice that there is a whole chunk missing in the back where she (or a very mean-spirited hairdresser) whacked it good. I find myself silently brainstorming styles to fix it, and more important, how we could work the change into a story line.
She repeats her announcement, as I wonder why I can’t take her pain more seriously. Am I being selfish, concerned only about how this turn of events (and bad hair) will impact my show? Or am I unconvinced that she is doing anything other than acting. I notice that in her impressive display of grief, there are no actual tears.
“Who is fucking whom?” I ask a little too loudly. I glance toward the hallway hoping that no one heard me, just as I can tell Angela hopes everyone hears us. After two assistants peek in and Angela has yet to reply to my question, I stand, walk past her, and push my door closed.
“Damien,” she says. “I should have known not to trust someone whose name is synonymous with Satan!”
“What?” I say, confused.
“Damien Thorn? In The Omen?” she says, as if I’m stupid for not instantly making the connection between an actor’s name and a horror film franchise from the seventies. “I can’t work with him.”
I stare at her, and process the possible magnitude of the situation. After Angela, Damien is our most important asset, dubbed “the next big thing” by the Hollywood hype machine and recently chosen as one of People’s “50 Most Beautiful.” In other words, she better work with him. And then I remember Carla’s remarks in the writers’ room and say a prayer that the rumors aren’t true—and that he isn’t fucking the third most important asset, Carrie England.
Sure enough, she says, “I just can’t believe he cheated on me,” she says. “And with her. He knows how much I loathe Carrie!”
Indeed, we all know how much she hates Carrie, even before this, although no one is quite sure why, as Carrie is one of the most gracious, humble, easygoing actresses I’ve ever worked with, practically an oxymoron. Maybe that’s the very thing that chafes Angela—the fact that everyone constantly remarks on how lovely Carrie is, both outside and in. Maybe, deep down, Angela knows she only has half of that equation covered. And maybe she’s starting to figure out that it’s the part that matters the least. Though I doubt it.
Before I can get down to the nitty-gritty of the life-imitating-art situation, Angela shakes her head, clasps her hands in her lap, and strikes an Oscar-winning, injured pose for the ages.
“I’m sorry, Marian. But I quit.”
“No. Just calm down,” I say, although I’m now in a panic.
This advice only serves to rile her more, as she stands, tosses her massacred hair to one side, and says, “I won’t work with them. Either of them. I quit. Unless—” She looks up at me, her timing as impeccable as it is on set. “Unless you fire them.”
“Fire Damien and Carrie?” I say.
“Yes. Both of them.” She thinks for a second and then says, “Or at least her.”
She stares me down, a dare to do what she wants, as I realize the real purpose of her visit is revenge.
“They have contracts,” I say, shaking my head, but mentally doing the figures and calculating the cost of buying out Carrie’s contract and replacing her.
It’s doable, of course, but there’s principle involved. It would be egregious to let one series regular force another out—and a terrible precedent to set, an indication that Angela is the true showrunner. I would lose all control and respect. “I just can’t do that,” I say.
“Well, then I quit,” she says, turning to leave.
“Wait. Wait! Let’s call Standish,” I say, as everyone refers to Peter. “Let’s be rational here.”
“I am rational,” she says. “What about my reaction to infidelity is irrational? Have you ever been cheated on?”
For one second I feel sorry for her. “Not that I know of,” I say.
“Well, then you can’t possibly know how it feels.”
“But this show is making your career,” I say, appealing to the best thing I have in my arsenal: her ego. “You’re becoming a star. You were nominated fo
r a People’s Choice Award. All that goodwill you built up will be gone if you pull a stunt like this.”
“It’s not a stunt,” she retorts. “It’s the way I feel. I’m being true to myself. Putting my heart over fame.”
“But it won’t be perceived that way. It will be perceived as a diva move.”
Because it is.
“Diva? I’m not the diva. She is.”
I sigh, thinking that maybe I should start writing novels so the characters wouldn’t have to come to life when she blurts out, “You know, this is your fault!”
“My fault?” I say.
“You writers,” she says, pointing at me. “You put them in bed together. I told you it was a bad idea.”
“You told me it was inconsistent with Damien’s character. Not that you were worried about this outcome,” I say.
“Still,” she says. “I warned you.”
“Okay. Look. Let me call Standish,” I say, swiveling in my chair, hitting speed dial, and lowering my voice into the phone. When he answers, I say, “Um. It’s me. Hey. Can you come down here, please?”
“Right now?” he says.
“Um, yeah,” I say. “It’s sort of an emergency.”
“I’d say it’s an emergency!” she shouts over my shoulder.
“Shit. Is that Angela Rivers?” Peter asks. “I heard she was in the building.”
“Uh-huh,” I say.
“Tell me we don’t have a Charlie Sheen on our hands?”
“Um, yeah. Can you just come down here, please?”
“Yep. Be right there,” he says, with the same mix of irritation and urgency that I feel. We are both acutely aware that this is how shows implode, especially one already put on the ropes.
I hang up the phone and stare Angela down. “He’s coming,” I say.
“How are things with you two, anyway?” she says.
“Great,” I lie, wondering if anyone knows we’re on the ropes, too.
A beat later, Peter arrives with a sexy air of calm competence. He takes a seat next to Angela and humors her, murmuring his concern as she repeats much of the same tirade about Carrie, along with her demands that she be fired from the show.