I should have known that there's no such thing as a perfect week, day, hour…blah…blah…blah.
Okay, wait, already I see some questions from you guys and if there's one thing I've learned in these past years it's that details are important. So let me start at the beginning.
I was at my workstation. Work was going well these days. Everyone had been treating me a little bit kinder since the article came out. The one where my animated character, Marley, who is a bespectacled brunette who's also smart, –aleck 13–year–old, was called "a feminist icon for the tween generation" (does she remind you of someone?). This got me praise all the way up the ranks to the head of the adult networks.
Now in meetings, people were likely to say something to the tune of "Let's ask Maya if she thinks this accurately represents the audience." I kind of liked it, but it kind of made me feel like I had a lot to live up to—which minds you, scares the heck out of me.
Some of my co-workers were convinced that Miley was based on them. Veronica knew it was her because of the glasses and her "fashion sense" bullshit and more than once convinced me to spend far too much money in shoes. I hadn't even known about the trendy SoHo eyewear store until Veronica opened my eyes to the wonder of its glass cases and funky frames.
Samantha thought it was her because she was a brunette and has a younger brother. And of course, Lauryn, my creative assistant, was certain that Marley's detective skills were derivative of her discoveries of her now–ex–husband Mike's money troubles and infidelities.
In reality they were all wrong. Marley, my character, who was dubbed one of the 10 coolest chicks in entertainment, was everything I'd wished I was as a teen or tween or whatever you wanted to call it. Marley was a gamma girl, totally comfortable with her looks and her brains. Totally unlike who I was at 13 or even who I was 11 years later at 24.
Marley is a combination of me and my BFFL Riley Matthews. She has Riley's looks and brains, and my bad ass coolness. Oh, the glasses you ask? That's my shout out to my other BFF – Farkle Minkus (he debates that the brains and detective skills are his as well).
It seemed to me like everyone was making a big deal out of nothing. Marley's Enlightenments wasn't even a show. It was just 60–second story that aired during the kids' block on weekend mornings. I doubt anyone noticed them. I think the magazine was trying to be hip by even mentioning Marley. I didn't think everyone was going to make such a big deal about it. I didn't expect there to be photocopies of the article (actually, it was just a page with a picture and a blurb) in everyone's mailbox. I didn't expect the general manager to mention it in his weekly memo. And I definitely didn't expect the ad in Weekly Variety.
I was thinking about all this and how nice it would be if I had someone I could really talk to about it all, someone other than Riley, who I can be able to talk to about this stuff. If you guys don't get it –I meant a guy. A boyfriend. Then the phone rang and it was Riley.
"Hey," she said. "I was certain you'd have someone answering your phone for you. Kinda like a minion."
"C'mon. It was just one little article in a magazine that nobody reads."
"More people read it than you think."
"That's comforting. So what's up? Your thumb got a cramp or something?"
"Very funny. No, I just wanted to see how you were. You know, say hi."
"You wanted to know if I met the new boss."
"Geez. Can't get anything pass by you."
"Riley, you're so easy to read. You can't even lie good even if your life depends on it."
"Yeah, yeah. So we still on later?"
"Sure thing peaches."
"See you later pumpkin."
Doesn't it sound like we get along wonderfully? Like we're totally cool and that we don't get into arguments and such? Well, let me tell you, you have to hear all the evidence before you decide to indict.
In other words, don't assume. When Riley and I get into arguments the entire New York gets worried. No joke. Exhibit A: 9th Grade, Lucas Friar…not a story I want to get into right now.
…
I walked up from the studio to Riley's apartment. I walked up three flights after Riley buzzed me in. She was standing with the door open when I got up the stairs. She held out a glass of white wine, my favorite vinho verde.
"Hi," I said kissing her on the cheek. "Thanks."
"Hey." I stepped into her apartment. I smelled food.
"Have you been cooking?" I asked.
"Yeah, my mom sent down some sausages. I'm making some pasta. I hoped you'd stay for dinner."
"Okay," I agreed too quickly. Thank god Riley is a better cook than her mom. Actually she's an amazing cook. I wouldn't be able to eat home cooked meal if it wasn't for her.
I took a quick scan of the living room while Riley went to put on the pasta. The place seemed amazingly clean. The table, which was usually covered with books and papers, was set.
"Did you get a cleaning lady?"
"No, just straightened up a bit."
"Well, it looks nice." She brought in some carrots and hummus. I took one and dipped it as she poured me some more wine.
"So what's going on?"
"Nothing. Can't I make something nice for my best friend? How's work by the way? So what did old Hackett say about the press?" Hackett was the head of programming.
"He covered his ass really well. Caught me in the kitchen and congratulated me as if the whole thing had been his idea."
"That figures, the bad man." Same old Riley—she still can't swear. My boss is an ass.
I liked that Riley knew all my stories. It was just easy to feel comfortable around her. She finished up the wine in her glass and poured the last of the bottle into our two glasses.
"Shit, it's done," I said giggling. I guessed I had been sort of gulping it, partly because it went down so smooth and partly because I was a little edgy. Like something is up.
"That's okay. I got two more bottles. I'll go open one up."
And that, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, is where the trouble began.