Why Blame When You Can Breathe?

A little backstory here. I remember watching this series when it first aired. I found it unique for a few reasons. One is that at the time most of the cartoons made were for young boys; not this one…yet I couldn't turn away. Two, it came out around the same time I was the same age as the main characters (actually about a year older) and saw things happening in the series that were true to life and not dumbed down for purposes of age-level humor. This maturity of handling the pitfalls of junior high and (eventually) high school life earned the show a fan from a periphery demographic.

So I couldn't help but notice watching the smitten interest of Courtney with Ginger throughout the series. Funny enough the executives thought about it, but decided against it. Had this been a decade later, it probably could have happened (the ending of Legend of Korra bears this out, for sure). But where was Courtney at the end with the book reading and what happens when the most interesting circumstances bring the friends back together? This fic seeks to answer that question. Please be advised that this fic contains graphic language, strong sexual content with adult women on women, drug use and some violence. You have been warned.

DISCLAIMER: 'As Told by Ginger' is a creation of Emily Kapnek and is produced by Anivision, Klasky-Csupo and Nickelodeon/Viacom Networks. This author makes no claim to any properties herein and makes no monetary gain from its production. Please do not flame.

(Chapter 1- Special Assignment: Homecoming)

If it were any other day, I would've left the office an hour ago. Perhaps I should consider this a blessing in disguise. More likely than not I won't have to bear the brunt of notorious rush hour traffic in yet another clear, sunny but somehow, mundane Friday in the City of Angels.

It's not as if I had any plans out of the ordinary, though. The post-work agenda rarely differs for me in the last three years. After opening the door to my Huntington Park apartment, kicking off my modest black heels, checking the answering machine for any important calls, ridding myself of this baby blue blouse underneath a navy blue blazer and skirt combination with matching tie, I inwardly debate whether I should go to the gym this evening or Saturday morning while along the way finding something to eat, getting six or so hours of sleep, and weighing new clientele and their works to represent for the upcoming spring season.

That formulaic process seems like a bore, but this is my familiarity. Lazy weekends are the cure for energetic yet fun times promoting the best entertainment and social functions throughout the world. I went through those above rituals just last week and probably pronounced them out loud while waiting in traffic and listening to the afternoon drive talk show. That all seems so inconsequential now, though. To say I don't know what caused the change is a complete fallacy. It just happened and it goes back to the reason why I haven't left the office of my employer Westwood and Beyond Marketing in the very neighborhood of my alma mater.

Well, before I get to that, I should be getting to me. Around the office and professionally, I'm known as Courtney Claire McShell. If the name of my employer didn't give it away, I am an advertising and public relations agent who works alongside artists, entertainers and the like to promote their works and present them to either companies or the general public so that they may support them or so they (the artists) can move up the next level to achieve their success. I started this line of work while attending the University of California, Los Angeles as an intern and I've never left earning a full-time position six months after graduating with a double bachelors in business administration and public relations.

I have earned my credentials with more than ten years of service to this firm, but I would be a fool to suggest that this success, including living debt free and holding a personal portfolio of a few million dollars on the side, was all on my shoulders. I had a helping hand in that through the trust fund set up by my father when I was a baby. For all the screw-ups that came later, I can't thank my father Prescott Gripling enough for that gift. The fact that he couldn't touch it during the liquidation has truly served me well. I haven't had to work my way out of a hole due to attending UCLA out of state.

But wait! I'm known as McShell, but my father is Gripling? Again, I told you my professional name, but I've never changed my true given name, Courtney Claire Gripling, with the 'McShell' part coming from my mother. It's her maiden name. I've always wondered when that surname, my last name and heritage, would no longer come back to haunt me to the point I no longer have to hear jokes about insider trading and my father being the men's version of Martha Stewart. Twenty years have passed and by either hook or crook, I finally did my part to make a name for myself. Gone are the days where I lean on my father and his legacy in the name of success but…perhaps that's over exaggerating the larger point.

I take a tremendous amount of pride in what I do and the fact that I can help people improve their level of success in what can only be described as a cutthroat business. I've never shied away from what I do for a living. While people on the outside look to the glamorous aspect of rubbing shoulders with celebrities on a near daily basis, I constantly remind people that it's all about the business. It has to be otherwise someone else can easily take my place. To be fair, it's not 'all work and no play' for me as much as it's recognizing the difference between your friends and your associates. Believe me, in my formative years I got a true lesson about what it takes to be a real friend; one I won't soon forget.

From me, even the greatest of stars are treated the same as the fledgling performer looking to take the next step. They are owed that much from me and the business; an opportunity. If someone sees something in them, then we put in an investment. There is little difference between this and dealing with stocks, bonds or commodities…with one clear exception; they're people. They have needs, wants and desires like all of us and throughout ten years I've seen the frustration of great talent not getting their break for whatever reason or getting the break and finding the grass not being as green on the other side of the fence.

I apologize. I just went on this nostalgic tangent for some reason. Someone once told me about that. You know, the grass being greener? Let's just say they're more right than wrong. I'll cap this off in just a moment and make my way home.

At this point, of all points, it hits me…and I fall right out of my chair onto the floor of my office, backside first.

Catching my breath, I have to exclaim such realizations if only to confirm them to my inner conscience. "Wow! That's right. Pretty soon my apartment won't be my home anymore."

I don't want to scare anyone. The firm didn't fire me. After all, if they did would they allow me to remain there after hours?

Racking my brain, I do my best to regain my bearings once more. I get up on my feet and then look at my desk to see the manila envelope with instructions for my next assigned subject. The project I could never imagine would be on my desk and the assignment I couldn't believe came my way. What luck…in a manner of speaking.

"McShell," came the call a split second after a few knocks on the door. It's the boss whose knock is unlike others because he only uses two or three knuckles on his right hand. Lighter than a full knock, it belies his true demeanor; brash, cagy, gregarious and all together assertive in the manner in which he conducts business.

"Good afternoon, Mack," I respond as he opens the crack in my office door. I should add that he is one of the more open bosses out there, anyone can come to him with any problem and he'll listen. Also we have a 'last-name policy' to compensate for people that find a 'first-name policy' to be unprofessional. Reid Mackaulay has known me since my college days and saw a lot of himself in me. Honestly, between us, I've always believed it was about more than just what he saw that I could do for the firm, but despite those lingering thoughts, he's always kept a business-like approach with all of his people, for the good of the company.

On this particular day, he's caught me with about half an hour to go before the end of the day, but this behavior of his is nothing out of the ordinary. Usually, if we've completed work for a client, our next assignment would come by the tail end of the week. If a team was necessary, then a mandatory meeting would be called and everyone in the office knew what would take place next.

I look his way and can tell that whatever he's got in mind has been weighing on him for a while. "Would you come into my office, please? I have a special assignment I want to speak with you about and…just meet me in five minutes. Please?"

"Yes, sir." At this point, I have no clue what it is he could possibly want to do. I finish whatever e-mail drafts I have to compose and turn off my computer before leaving for my boss's office.

Speaking with the secretary, she buzzes me in and I shut the door behind me per the request of Mack.

"Have a seat, McShell." I do so and give the older gentleman my undivided attention.

Thinking about what could possibly come next, I recollect to the myriad of times I've been called to Mack's office for a 'special assignment'. They can vary from project to project in grand scope. One thing I've found they all have in common is that they tend to be subjects that are non-traditional for a Los Angeles-based agency that has, amongst its clientele, motion picture studios.

Nevertheless, from promoting adoption agencies in Southern California to raising awareness of the economic benefits of legalized recreational marijuana. The projects run the gamut of both unique and absurd marketing plans and promotions.

I see Mack and I also notice his head in his hands. Granted, I knew these one-on-one meetings he'd have with his staff would consist of projects no one would beg to take, but that the office saw as worthwhile. "Now, Courtney," he begins, surprising me by using my given name. I should've known at that moment something was different about this. "As you probably know, there are many subjects out there that we as a firm local in Los Angeles can't cover with the best of care. The…there is an author who released non-fiction short stories about her life experiences a few years ago. It was an absolute success and people are now eagerly anticipating her debut fiction work.

"Now, I had several other agents in mind for this process because her people constantly tell me she won't do business unless she has someone personally there to check everything and go through the proper clearances. She's got a young family at home and she doesn't want to leave them for too long a time. Despite that, we need her business because the buzz on social media, her popularity scores and everything just…no one's seen anything like this out of an author in a long, long time. Her following proceeds her."

I had a feeling where this was going. "And…is it fair to say…everyone else turned it down because…she's not from here?"

A discrete nod told me everything I needed to know, but I then asked, "How far?"

Then came a chuckle from his mouth; a chuckle that told me he knew something I didn't. That much was obvious, but as you learn in this field it's all about context and not content when conducting business. "Try…clear across this great land. She's in the New York Tri-State area, a tad closer to Connecticut/New York border…" Well, I'll be damned. It's been a while since I've been there. Though I'm trying to think why we're spreading our wings so widely. Is this author making plans to possibly take her work to the big screen? If so, Mack's once again on his game in terms of getting to talent at the ground level. He's always had a nose for that kind of thing.

"I really was not looking forward to asking you this because you have been one of the best agents in this firm. Should you take on this project, then that means we don't see each other for at least six months and you'll really be missed here in the office. You just…you know how to bring out your subjects. You make them feel at home and you keep them coming back. Courtney, do you have any idea how difficult that is in this day and age? And now we have this author, who wants to have an agent from our ad house come to her home for the next six months in the lead up to her first fiction novel. I can give you the details, but I've read what's close to a final draft and can tell that this is something we're bound to see on the big screen in a few years."

"Ah-ha!" I exclaim to him. "Once again your aim of finding talent when they get started is impeccable. Admittedly I'm somewhat surprised that it's an author so far away and she wants such treatment, but…I guess the struggle will be worth it if she delivers."

"That's why I'm counting on you."

"Me?"

"Yes, Courtney," Mack responds. Folding his hands in what appears to be a sign of prayer, he admits, "I…wanted to talk myself out of it and find someone else, but no one wants to do it. I even offered double the pay with most expenses on the work trip paid and an added eight weeks of vacation over the next two years, but no one wants it! Look, I get it. Most agents in this firm are married with children and…transplanting them to what might as well be a foreign locale isn't what's best for them. I understand."

It's all starting to make sense. The son of a bitch is setting me up to go to Connecticut for half a year to cover this so-called writing sensation. He knows I spent several years there as a teen and thinks that the draw of home for me will be as strong for me as it was for LeBron James. Okay, I'll play along for a bit (or be played along, depending on one's view). "So you turn to the youngest agent in your firm, the thirty-two year old divorcee of one of the top sports agents in Los Angeles who hasn't had a spouse, pets or kids to come home to in six years and throw in her face the opportunity to double my salary for this job and to go back where I grew up?"

Oh, did I mentioned the fact that I'm divorced? Well, I am. We're still friends, though. I never wanted a failed marriage to get in the way of what was always a good friendship and thank heavens, it hasn't…despite some of my UCLA comrades telling me I'd forever regret marrying a graduate of my rival institution, the University of Southern California. I'm unapologetic and will never take back that time or that decision. I'm the better for the journey.

"Like I said, no one else would take it."

"I don't know, Mack. That's a tremendous commitment you're asking me to make for this author. I mean, double and eight weeks paid is great, but…I need to know how much I'm valued by taking on this project."

Can you tell I'm milking him for all he'll give? If not, there you go. To be honest, he had me at double pay and enough vacation time to take a 30-day trip twice, but we'll see how far I can move the needle. "I would really appreciate this, Courtney. I…this is part of the reason why we were looking into opening a New York office. She saw the work we did and…"

"No one else wants this?" I need that point made absolutely clear.

"Trust me. I've asked everyone else who I'd possibly want for such a grand project."

You have to do better than that, Mack. "I reiterate, Mack, I need to know how much you value my services to take on a project of this magnitude. Lay it out for me if I'm the one for the job."

He takes a deep breath and save for a few blinks of the eye, I don't take my eye off of my boss. He knows I drive a hard bargain, and rightfully so. Looking off to the side at a few envelopes, he nods as if he knows just what will send me across the country. "Okay, here's my deal. I have to have her with this company. She's a lottery ticket without the risk. Trust me, her writing is that damn good. So…if you say yes, I'll triple your salary, give you an added sixteen weeks paid vacation over the next four years on top of what you already have, double all of your earned bonuses for three years, furnish your next company car, give you a reserved parking space upon your return, and…give you fifteen percent of controlling shares in the company. I'm talking you'll have power to decide these matters, if you agree to my terms."

All of it, from top to bottom, was more than I'd either asked or bargained for when hearing this deal. I'm speechless and nearly flabbergasted at the sheer size of the numbers Mack threw at me just to work with this author more than three thousand miles from Los Angeles back home and in a familiar landing spot to boot. I'm doubly convinced, but if I've ever learned anything from my cable bills, I know there has to be a catch, especially considering Mack's last sentence. "So, what's the catch? What do I have to sign away for the golden goose? An arm and a leg? My frozen eggs? Eighty hour work weeks in perpetuity?"

Bringing his hands together I get the view of what appears to be a coarse yet clear smile. It's as if a weight lift from his shoulders, but went directly to his feet. Perhaps that explains why he appeared to want to get up from his seat, but then came back down in his chair, bending back before taking a deep breath. He finally elaborates on his terms, saying "If you cannot sign her for at least five years with our ad house, I will only give you the treble salary and eight weeks of vacation added to your original total. All other offers are contingent upon you signing her to us exclusively for those five years. Also," he adds while pulling out a single page document with a few lines for signature, "you agree to work with our author in Connecticut sight unseen. You won't know who she is until you sign here and commit to providing her services. Once you sign here, we can go forward with the process."

Mack hands me the document and it is, indeed, a simple one-page contract that holds me subject to lawsuit should I abdicate the project for any reason beyond life and limb, hardships, accidents or illness during the trip. I'll be given six weeks to prepare the move and my work load will be reduced and eventually eliminated as I move from my current active talents. All appears straightforward with no weasel words or fuzzy language about needing to relinquish my first born if this doesn't work out, so I sign and date in preparation for the next order of business.

Handing the contract over to Mack, he sighs before taking it and telling me, "You have no idea how much I appreciate this and appreciate you for stepping up to the plate in such a mighty way. If this works out, our entire agency will be wearing diamonds larger than fucking elephant turds."

My boss has a, shall we say, colorful way of describing how a monster deal for the company would reap us benefits of an absurd nature. Truthfully, making multiple small deals provide us a great living, which is all any of us could ask for, but this is the reason why we aim to be the best in the business. Perhaps none of us put an item as gaudy as a diamond that size on our list of goals for the year, but it doesn't hurt to dream big, for sure.

Now, as I look at Mack reach into a drawer of his desk, he pulls out a hardcover book without any identifiable markings of a title or author. "We're gonna hit the heights because of the first fictional work from the author Ginger Foutley."

If I had a drink at that very moment, I would've choked on it. Of all the authors—of all the authors that could've come from the New York Tri-State Area just by the New York/Connecticut border, it had to be that one. Again, with a drink, I choke, but without a drink, I just get this bug-eyed look like a deer intersecting a road with an oncoming car driving with its hi-beam headlights flashing.

My boss notices this, just like a nonverbal tell during a board meeting and innocuously asks me, "Hey, is something the matter? If you don't know about her work, I can give you her nonfiction short story collection. I tell you, Courtney, you'll love it! It's called…"

I might as well put everything out into the open. Before he can tell me the title, I interject, saying "It's called As Told by Ginger: A Collection of Short Stories by Ginger Foutley. Honestly, I hope I'd remember that after all this time. I…believe it or not, I actually have an advance copy signed by the author in my apartment."

"No kidding?" he asks me in a tone of heightened anticipation for good news. I could see it in his eyes. A pin light of hope for this deal evolved into a shining star in just a matter of seconds as he digested my admission.

"No kidding," I respond.

"How did you get an advanced copy?"

Time to pull back the curtain in this case and let the information free flow. "We actually went to school together for most of our formative years until high school. We…I transferred along with my brother further upstate with mom before I turned sixteen. After graduation, I got to reconnect with my dad for a little bit after he got out of prison. He…apologized for shaming us as a family. We, of course, forgave him, but I still took my trust fund to UCLA to go where I knew I needed to go; away from the drama of all that. Later I found out that Ginger went to New York University for creative arts after my ex spotted Ginger's name in the credits for a late night talk show. Her name was there as an intern. I later caught it on a DVR and couldn't believe it!

"I played phone tag with my mom who got in touch with Ginger's mother who finally got me connected back to her. We talked for a bit about our lives, she was working in one of the network page programs at the same time I interned for a major motion picture studio for one summer. We exchanged information, but rarely called because of our busy schedules. In fact, despite it all, we've only seen each other a few times since high school. I remember once she came to visit me for a week several years ago while considering her career path and looking to get some networking done on the west coast. I really loved spending time with her. It felt right that we should be friends and close ones like early high school and junior high. It didn't last, though, because after that point she dedicated herself to the short story compilation and her family's memoir. She went back home and the last time I actually saw her was at her wedding. I attended, wished her and her husband, Darren, the best—by the way I also went to school with her husband. But that was the last time about…now six years ago. I got the copy of the book four years ago and thought she did a great job. The sales more or less reflected that."

It's true. So many people got to see their life experiences through Ginger and no one was more proud of her than me, hard as it is to believe. Often times, there is an attempt to fabricate or otherwise, to borrow an expression, 'Hollywood' their experiences for best story. Those who do that fail to see what I think Ginger always knew based on her writing; she does not write for everyone or to please everyone. No, she wrote the story, allowed it to stand on its merits and presented it to people. A true, unfiltered account of the truth of growing up and how it's difficult whether or not catastrophe happens in this thing called life. I did write her to thank her for the book and for not falling for the idea that the story needed juice. I lived many of those stories right along with her and knew they would resonate with an audience. The project is steadily growing on me if only for the idea that I might have a hand in Ginger's future success.

So I think that encapsulates the extent of our time together. I don't know what Mack thought of when I told him one of the advance copies was signed for me by the author. That fact probably got him thinking we are good friends. How I wish it were present tense, but it's not. It's not about inking this deal—at least, not completely, but I'm anticipating quite the adventure coming back home, reading this near final draft and reconnecting with a true blue friend.

Despite all the emotions swirling in my head, Mack appears oblivious to it all as he brings out his right hand saying, "I think we'll all be in the money before you know it. The only question I have is, 'Can you get her in our family?' Based on what you've said, she'll gravitate to an old friend."

I bring out my hand and we proceed to shake to a project's future success. I tell Mack, "I'll give you all I've got for this one."

"That's all I needed to hear. I'm counting on you, Courtney. I tell you what, take the next week off and prepare for the move. It'll be the right time for your contacts to get their work absorbed by the rest of the organization. I want your only concern being Ginger and her signing on the dotted line long term. You do that, and what you've long known as success will pale in comparison to what takes place next. Thanks a million, Courtney. You're dismissed."

Well that all sounded intriguing, for sure. It's been about two hours now and I'm seriously considering take out or a stop by the nearest fast casual dive to eat before heading home. Beyond that, thinking about my next steps will take time, but apparently I now have plenty of time to eat, breathe, and sleep reuniting with undoubtedly one of the most important friends I ever made…on a strictly professional basis.

I'm mixed about this. Again it came out of nowhere but the more I think about it, the less I believe this should've done that. There are authors throughout that area of the country looking to get their projects the proper attention. None of a particular popularity or that I followed beyond reading their works and with me more focused on those in motion pictures, television, music, theater, stage shows and sports, the written word just doesn't garner as much attention from me beyond my goal of reading at least one hardcover a month. But I knew Ginger's success first hand. I paid attention to the best seller's lists and saw her collection there for more than a year. I anticipated word of a follow up and just missed it.

Blame that on what they call the vicious cycle; life just happened to roll forward and the next grand tower or untouched mountain laid before me waiting with baited breath for my challenge. I kind of resolved myself to my role in promoting the best in emerging entertainment while she lived the chaotic yet cathartic life of a writer three thousand miles from me. Not the easiest thing to cover with your attention primarily focused in another area.

So my life has kind of gotten turned upside down in just one afternoon. Dealing with this is not something I aim to do on my own for very long. "I need to make a phone call to…someone. Anyone—wait. I know who to call. Of course. I always knew. I just hope she'll answer."

Grabbing my purse from underneath my desk, I turn on the device and unlock it. A quick tap to the phone menu leads me to the contacts at which point I roll down to the letter 'M'.

"I'm only gonna say this one more motherfucking time, and whether you decide to listen or not is entirely up to you," says a booming, militant voice from behind a leather chair situated in the direction of the skyline of Los Angeles from her posh office. "Either my client gets 400 million dollars over ten years, or you can take turns along with your co-executives in Anaheim sucking both of our assholes out with blackstrap molasses! Don't worry because either way we'll sure as hell be able to afford it. Have you not heard of the interest that the men in pinstripes have in my client?"

Chatter on the other end precedes more emasculating on the part of this woman as she informs the listening party, "I know you have a season left before winter meetings. I understand this is negotiations and not the mutual fucking admiration society, but you've seen the reports out there. Fans think you don't care about locking up number 27. They think you're gonna pussy out on this. Getting burned by signing half a billion dollars guaranteed on older players the past several years doesn't serve you well when it's time to sign the one and only surefire, no-doubter, can't miss motherfucker. A bat, a son of a bitch that can swing for the fences and not much else, gets 325 over thirteen, but a legitimate MVP can't get 400? Something's wrong with that fucking picture and you're the ones who can make it right, or you can kiss that goddamn goldmine 'goodbye'."

More voices on the other line continue and commence for longer than a minute before a buzzer sounds in her office with a red beacon signifying someone on the line for her. Looking to wrap up her present conversation, she informs the listener, "Well…well you see that's the reason why I make the big bucks. We'll talk when the season starts, okay? Remember 400 million or Dodgertown isn't that far from here. I'm sure they'd be interested, as well. Later."

Getting up from her seat, she presses a button on her desk and asks, "Who is it, Marlo?"

"Courtney on line two."

The face of this woman softens a bit hearing that name. For a split second, one could tell that this call is one she looked forward to, even though the caller was not expected today. Pressing the button again, she rings her secretary to "Transfer her over, please."

Only a few seconds lapse before she hears that familiar ring of the phone, which she takes from her speaker. "Hey Courtney, what's up?"

"Oh, Miranda! Thank goodness I caught you at just the right time," Courtney replies. Indeed, the one Courtney 'knew' to call was her longtime friend Miranda Killgallen, who's probably less than fifteen minutes from her at this moment in Van Nuys. "I think with the news I just got, I'm gonna need my best friend."

The first thought to naturally come to mind was one of concern. "Oh, no! Westwood didn't fire you, did they?"

"No, no!" she replies, brushing off the thought but kicking herself for even giving Miranda the inkling of a cause for concern. "They didn't fire me. I…I got transferred this afternoon. I'm gonna be leaving in six weeks for a special six month project."

Hearing those words, Miranda swore at that moment she felt her heart drop down to her stomach. After nearly fifteen years of the two of them proclaiming that they would claim this city as their own, one of the dynamic duo now has to plant roots elsewhere.

Shaking her head, she can't believe that soon the days of afternoon happy hour or nights on the phone speaking about work schedules with her best buddy will soon come to an end. Granted while Courtney won't be gone forever, it's still a bittersweet pill to swallow during an otherwise great day for her in paradise. Solemnly she replies back to the news, "Oh, sweetheart. I'm sorry. Was it…one of those Mack specials?"

"You nailed it," Courtney answers in reference to her needy boss. "Can't get out of it now. All I can do is plan my trip, inform the family and then it's bon voyage."

"Well, then…we'll just have to make the best of the time we have before you go," she says, but at that moment, the sentence was left hanging due to an underlying question left unanswered. "Where are you going, anyway?"

The lengthy pause from the other end does little to assuage the concern from Miranda's end. It's as if Courtney is attempting to let it down easy where she'll be going. Fleeting thoughts of her friend going overseas in a war-ravaged nation come to mind but leave just as quickly. Then again, her position is not one where she's usually in the line of fire or a stranger in a strange world trying to do their part to help. 'That's someone else's work,' Miranda ponders, 'and I commend him for it.'

Silence on the other end is deafening and Miranda has had enough of it. "Courtney, where exactly are you…"

"Home," Courtney interjects. To clarify, "I'm going back to Connecticut to consult with an author one-on-one before her book launch. And…"

Miranda is finding herself quite aggravated with these pauses, "And?"

Taking a breath deep enough that Miranda heard it from the speakers, she finally admits…

"It's Ginger."

A/N: That's chapter one of…I never know how many. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed this and stay tuned for the next chapter where some loose ends are tied up and Courtney flies back home to begin work with Ginger.

Until next time…this is Rave!