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It is a nice Seattle predawn morning. I check in at the desk (security since 9/11 has changed everything about my profession—even on a nothing show like this) and go to the studio. A producer, who is young enough to be my son, greets me, mumbles something that might be recognition, and leads me to the set.
“Kendra is pretty green,” he says as we stand behind the camera. “And challenging. Maybe you can help her. ” He sounds doubtful.
The moment I see the set, I know I am in trouble. It looks like a stuck-up teenage girl’s bedroom, complete with enough sports trophies to sink a small yacht.
And then there is Kendra herself. She is tall, and Q-tip-thin, wearing tiny denim shorts, a plaid shirt with ruffles around the collar, a fedora with a gold lamé hatband, and what we used to call come-fuck-me pumps in the old days. Her hair is long and curly and makeup enhances her spectacular natural beauty.
She is leaning back against her dresser, talking to the camera as if it is her closest confidant. “… Time to talk about texting rules. Some of the kids I know are, like, making Herculean mistakes. In the old days, there were, like, books to tell you what to say and how to act, but we, like, don’t have time for old school now, do we? Teens today are on the go-go-go. So Kendra is going to step in to the rescue. ” She smiles and moves away from the dresser, walking casually toward the bed. There is a blue X on the floor—her mark—which she misses. “I’ve come up with a list of five things that should never be texted. ” She moves across the room, misses her mark again. Tully hears the cameraman curse under his breath. “Let’s start with sexting. Face it, girls, boob shots to your guy are a no-no—”
“Cut,” the director says, and the cameraman breathes a sigh of relief.
“Kendra,” the director says. “Can you stay on script?”
Kendra rolls her eyes and starts playing with her phone.
“Go on,” the producer says, giving me a shoulder pat that might have been meant to be reassuring but feels more like a shove.
I square my shoulders and walk onto the set, smiling.
Kendra frowns at me. “Who are you?” she says to me. Into her mic, she says, “I have a stalker. ”
“I am hardly a stalker,” I say, fighting the urge to roll my eyes.
She pops her gum. “You look like a waiter in that suit. ” She frowns. “No. Wait. You look kinda like someone. ”
“Tully Hart,” I say.
“Yeah! You look like her, only fatter. ”
I clench my jaw. Unfortunately, my body picks this exact moment to overheat. A hot flash tingles uncomfortably across my flesh. Pins and needles. My face turns beet-red, I’m sure. I can feel myself sweating.
“Are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I snap. “I’m Tully Hart, your new cohost. There’s nothing for me to do on today’s script, but we can talk about tomorrow. In the meantime, you need to hit your mark. It’s the sign of a professional. ”
Kendra stares at me as if I have just sprouted a beard and begun braying. “I don’t have a cohost. Carl!”
The young producer is beside me in an instant, pulling me back into the shadows.
“And Carl is?” I ask.
“The director,” the producer sighs. “But it really means she’s going to call daddy. Did they tell you she’s already had four cohosts fired?”
“No,” I say quietly.
“We call her Veruca Salt. ”
I look at him blankly.
“The spoiled brat in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. ”
“You’re fired,” Kendra yells at me.
Beside me, the cameraman takes his place. The red light comes on and Kendra smiles brightly. “We were talking about sexting before the break. If you don’t know what that is, I don’t think you need to worry about it, but if you do…”
I back out of the studio. My hot flash is abating somewhat. I can feel the drizzle of sweat on my forehead drying up and my cheeks are cooling down, but my shame is not so easily retracted; neither is my anger. As I leave the studio and step back out onto the Seattle sidewalk, I am consumed by a sense of failure. This is what I have fallen to? Getting called fat and being fired by a talentless teen?
More than anything I want to call my best friend and have her tell me it will get better.
