Chapter 2 INT. TALK SHOW GREENROOM
Chapter 2
INT. TALK SHOW GREENROOM
After more than a year of television appearances, radio interviews, and podcasts, Maggie Niven still hated getting miked up. No matter where they clipped the box or how they draped the cord, she felt ridiculous.
She’d gotten through being fired and endured a wrongful termination lawsuit. But she didn’t enjoy being the most well-known opponent of the high school theatre censorship movement.
“All set,” the PA said. “How does that feel?”
“Fine,” Maggie lied.
The guy led her out of the greenroom and into the studio. The set of Hear Her had to be the shiniest place on earth. Everything about it screamed This is the number one morning talk show for thirty-five- to forty-four-year-old women . The gleaming hexagonal table. The four hosts with their shimmering hair and perfect lip gloss.
Maggie was extremely dull and matte in comparison.
“Maggie!” Grace Choi waved carefully so as not to disturb the makeup person who was touching her up. “You’re by me.”
Grace was the only real journalist on the panel. She’d come to Hear Her from the White House beat, and they leaned heavily on her during segments about real news. That was probably why she had on a serious navy suit, albeit one that was better tailored than any item of clothing Maggie had ever touched.
Gingerly, Maggie took her seat and focused on the morning’s important business: not puking when confronted by three massive arachnid cameras and the bank of stage lights.
“We’re glad to have you,” Grace said. “It’s an important story.”
“Yeah, it’s ... good to be here.” Maggie almost choked on the word.
Grace’s smile was knowing. “Just remember, some of us are on your side.”
“Some?”
Across the table, Rylee Lagrange was straightening the lapels of her metallic silver suit. A former pop star, Rylee had moved into infotainment, but she always seemed to be reminding everyone she used to pack arenas.
“And some of us,” Rylee said, “are thinking about parents and their rights.” Her smile was sweetly aggressive, like a Vera Bradley pattern.
A few weeks after her firing, Maggie had endured an especially painful interview on Built Right , the most popular current-events podcast among angry dads. That had been when Maggie still believed her firing was some kind of misunderstanding—that if she could just explain that the play in question wasn’t smutty or inappropriate, it would all blow over and she’d get her job as a high school drama teacher back.
That interview had been the first time Maggie had come face to face—voice to voice, actually—with Parent Led. In nineteen exquisitely uncomfortable minutes, she’d learned this wasn’t about the situation at her school. It wasn’t even about whether Covering the Spread was a bad choice for high school students to perform. Something much bigger was at stake.
It felt grandiose for Maggie to cast herself as the canary in the coal mine, chirruping about students’ freedom and the expertise of teachers in determining curriculum, about whether there was a right to expression and whether a small knot of angry people could decide what was okay for everyone else to read and watch and perform and listen to.
But these days, she was feeling sort of like Tweety Bird.
Rylee was still going. “I just think it’s important for our viewers to hear a balanced story, and I—”
“Let’s wait for the cameras to turn on,” Denise Strong interrupted. An Oscar winner for her work on an Ida B. Wells biopic, Denise was thoughtful, empathetic, and smart. For all that she was pushing seventy, she was still stunningly beautiful. Her long braids might be frosted silver, but her face was still unlined.
Maggie really had to be more consistent with her nighttime skincare routine.
Under her breath, Maggie asked Grace, “Who else is going to be on?” Maybe they could be a buffer against Rylee.
“Zoya Delgado.”
Maggie had watched Zoya’s show, of course. Everyone had. Waverley was Videon’s biggest hit in years. During the trial, when Maggie had had trouble sleeping, she’d put it on almost every night. The combination of political intrigue and romance, mixed with Scottish scenery and fabulous costumes, was hard to resist.
That wasn’t going to help Maggie today, though. Waverley had nothing to do with her.
“Thirty-second warning, everyone,” a producer cried.
Zoya Delgado arrived. She was young to be the showrunner of a cultural juggernaut, probably younger than Maggie. With her glossy curtain of black hair, stunning features, and stylish pink A-line dress, she could’ve starred in a Videon series in addition to writing and directing one.
“And we’re live in five, four ...” A producer signaled the last three counts, and Maggie reminded herself to breathe. She’d faced Parent Led’s talking points before. She could do it again.
Maybe she’d buy herself a new plant to celebrate, like that slipper orchid she’d been lusting over but hadn’t bought yet because more crucial things—such as paying her mortgage—had come first.
Damn responsibility. French fries were going to have to be a good enough bribe to survive this.
A light near the camera flipped from red to green, and they were on the air.
“Welcome back,” Denise Strong said. “Conversations about content in the media are nothing new. From the Hays Code to movie ratings, we’ve struggled with what’s appropriate in movies, on television, and at the theatre. Our answers have changed over time, but lately, things have taken a sinister tone. In the last few years, we’ve seen book bans, attacks on teachers, and media boycotts, all related to questions about subject matter and community standards. Joining us today are two people who’ve experienced this backlash firsthand: Oregon teacher Maggie Niven and Hollywood showrunner Zoya Delgado. Ladies, thank you.”
Maggie muttered something incoherent, while Zoya offered a smooth “I’m so pleased to be here.”
Denise pivoted in her chair. “I’d like to start with you, Maggie. Can you tell us about what happened to you?”
“Well, I was a high school drama teacher for sixteen years.” The number was somehow too short and too long. But forty-eight main-stage productions, countless one-act plays and improvisational pieces, and thousands of students were the tally of Maggie’s career.
The cliché was right: teaching wasn’t a job; it was a calling. It had been her calling. For all that she’d disappointed her parents with her small ambitions, Maggie had always known her job was important.
“In that time, I won several district and state awards for teaching, and I mentored countless students.”
The first face that sprang to Maggie’s mind was Amira Kirby. Her parents hadn’t wanted her to take drama. During back-to-school night, they’d been clear that acting was irrelevant for their future-physician daughter. But in class, it was equally clear acting lit Amira up in ways chemistry and biology never could.
Amira had been one of dozens of students who’d protested Maggie’s firing. She’d told the school board that being in theatre was the only reason she felt confident enough to object. Studying drama empowered kids. That’s why it was dangerous.
“Last year, I was fired when a parent complained about a production I directed, Covering the Spread .”
The funny part was when Maggie had picked the plays to do that season, she’d worried far more about Radium Girls , with its messages about how science was perverted by commerce and the exploitation of workers, than she had about Covering the Spread . She’d been so naive.
“I’ve seen it,” Denise said. “But for people who might not know the play, can you describe it?”
“It’s a musical about a high school debate team. It’s become a standard for community theatres and high schools because it has a small cast and really great songs. There’s also an audience participation component and some improvisation, so it’s a good teaching piece.” That had been how Maggie had seen it, anyhow. “It does have some mature themes about poverty and parental pressure, and the characters—much like actual high school students—are coming to terms with their sexuality, but the tone is light.”
“Maggie.” Rylee was really good at conveying through a single word that someone had messed up big time. “You’re being pretty casual about content that many people, many parents , have concerns about. Some might call Covering the Spread pornographic.”
It would be extremely boring porn. As tempting as it was to be sarcastic, however, Maggie knew it wouldn’t help.
“If anyone said that, they would be misrepresenting the truth.” Maggie’s voice was confident and calm, but sadly, she felt neither of those things. Her stomach was churning like the sea during a hurricane. “There’s no nudity, sex, or violence in Covering the Spread . I’ve directed productions of Molière that were edgier. While there are a few profane words, if it was a movie, it’d probably be rated PG-13.”
“They take the Lord’s name in vain.” Rylee clearly couldn’t think of a worse offense. “And this ‘play’”—she put sarcastic air quotes around the word—“normalizes teens having sex. It also represents alternative lifestyles as if they’re no big deal.”
Didn’t Hear Her normalize lifestyles, at least Starbucks-swilling and yoga-doing ones?
Maggie wiped her sweaty palms on the cushion of her chair. Don’t be snarky. Don’t be snarky. “The play, with its language and the way it addresses a variety of families—and yes, even with the romantic subplots—represents life as it’s experienced by many, if not most, of my students. It’s real in a way that’s also age appropriate.”
“According to you .”
Maggie had a master’s degree in theatre education, so she was an expert in the subject. “Yes.”
Luckily, Grace Choi stepped in. “If Rylee’s correct, you should have encountered widespread outrage. Were there a lot of complaints?” Somehow, Grace made this sound evenhanded and not sarcastic, which Maggie suspected it was.
“Only one. To be clear, participating in the play and attending it were optional. I did offer extra credit to students who came. But one student’s parents thought the content was too extreme, and after they went to the school board, I was fired.”
“Which is when you tried to cash in,” Rylee said.
Maggie had to blink back the emotions threatening to pour out of her eyes. She knew she’d done nothing wrong, that she’d been right pedagogically, and that a few yahoos on the school board had been looking for an opportunity to make a statement. Even Maggie’s parents, who would rather have had their daughter writing education policy than teaching, had seen the value in the lawsuit. It was one of the first times in Maggie’s life when she’d felt as if she hadn’t been disappointing them.
The money she’d gotten in the settlement had barely covered her legal fees. In a few months, the small nest egg Maggie had managed to squirrel away was going to disappear, and, not to put too fine a point on it, she’d be totally broke.
“I wasn’t looking for a sweet payday. I sued for wrongful termination—and won—because it was a fight that had to be won.” She was here today for other teachers who might find themselves in the same situation. As much as Maggie hated this, she had to be public about her win. It might give someone else the confidence to fight.
“Oh really,” Rylee sneered. “Then why didn’t you return to teaching?”
“I thought I was going to. But my case shows how things have changed in American public schools. Teaching is hard under the best of circumstances. I taught three classes of drama and two of stagecraft every year. Most school years, I directed two plays and a musical. I’ve sewed costumes and painted sets and hung lights. My days were regularly twelve hours long, once I tacked rehearsals and construction meetings onto the end of a regular school day.” Maggie hadn’t realized how hard she’d been working, the constant furious paddling she’d been doing, until it had stopped.
“My word,” Denise said.
“That’s not unusual, by the way. Almost every elementary, middle, and high school teacher has a schedule like that. Many of us coach or lead clubs or spend extra time mentoring or tutoring, in addition to our teaching. But when I won my case, the idea of going back to that schedule in such a hostile environment—I just couldn’t.” She’d been wringing herself dry, all while vipers had waited in the grass to pounce.
“Because you were too busy promoting yourself and your agenda?” Rylee demanded.
“I don’t have an agenda.” Maggie sounded almost desperate. “But the things the school board didn’t like in Covering the Spread are real. Queer families exist. Parents sometimes pressure their kids in unhealthy ways. People use strong language. Teenagers kiss and break up and learn who they are outside the roles society and their families want to put them in. But that’s the point: drama is about our very humanity. Art can’t be art, it can’t teach us anything or entertain us, if it denies those things. If we scrub all the so-called difficult content out, it’s just a puppet show—and not a very good puppet show.”
Rylee was steaming mad now. She was trying to hide it, but a vein in her temple had started to bulge. “So anything goes?”
“That isn’t my position at all. I was always acutely aware of the responsibility I had to my students to pick works they could understand thematically and artistically, and Covering the Spread did that.”
“And the court agreed with you,” Denise put in.
“Yes.” That was why Maggie had to sue. She had to make sure that some other teacher had the precedent of Maggie’s case for protection.
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you? But I’ve done my research, and I know that you’d been planning this for years,” Rylee spit out. “You did a study, right? About teaching high school students to kiss?”
She’d been braced for this. Rylee’s “research” had clearly consisted of downloading Parent Led’s talking points.
“No, I didn’t.” Maggie certainly wasn’t going to let Rylee lie about her. “I wrote my master’s thesis about the challenges and best practices for directing Romeo and Juliet with a teenage cast. It was based on my experiences and those of two other drama teachers. How do you make sure everyone is comfortable with the blocking? What does negotiating consent look like?”
“You mean intimacy coordination?” Denise asked.
“Yes. Most high schools won’t have someone doing that exclusively, the way they do on Broadway or in Hollywood, but you still need to think about how to direct those scenes and the feelings of everyone involved. Not because there’s something dirty or wrong about kissing, but because you want to do it well, for the actors and the audience.”
“If I could get in here,” Zoya Delgado said, piping up for the first time. “I totally agree with Maggie. Sex is part of human experience, so it would be weird if film, television, and theatre didn’t represent it at least some of the time. But you have to be responsible about it.”
“Do you use an intimacy coordinator on Waverley ?” Denise asked.
“We haven’t,” Zoya said slowly, as she watched Maggie with a gleam in her eye. “But we should.”
Across the table, Rylee was incensed. “I can’t believe you are all pretending that this is normal. It’s disgusting. Teenagers kissing in front of an audience while you applaud? What filth. I, for one, am glad you aren’t teaching anymore.”
And there was the toxicity that made returning to teaching impossible.
Maggie’s classroom had felt like a space where anything was possible. She had helped her students grow, and they had produced truly beautiful art together. But she had no idea how she was supposed to go back there knowing it was a minefield. Whatever bonds of trust she’d needed to be a good teacher had been shredded.
Even now, faced with the vitriol in Rylee’s eyes, it was hard to imagine how any of those bonds could be remade. The woman, and the people who agreed with her, despised Maggie and everything she stood for. Maggie knew her own position was right, but seeing that hatred felt awful.
“I ... disagree. And so did the court. But I have to say, it doesn’t feel like a victory. It feels like we all lost something.”
Denise let the sadness in Maggie’s answer sit in the air for a minute before saying, “Well, after a break for some local headlines, we’ll talk to Zoya Delgado, the showrunner for Videon’s hit Waverley , which has also come under fire for some risqué content.”
Lana Larkin, the boozy grandma of the panel who’d become famous doing fashion commentary during red carpets, piped up for the first time. “It’s all the butts! People tuned in for the butts.”
That was ... succinct and probably true. The cast of the show had some very nice butts.
Denise ignored Lana. “We’ll talk about how they film those steamy scenes, and the drama around the cast for the upcoming season, including the casting of Tasha Russell and Cole James.”
“Woo-hoo, that man,” Lana said with a wolf whistle. “I cannot wait to see his—”
“And we’re out,” the producer called as the light by the camera flipped to red, and thus the world would never know which Cole James body part Lana was dying to see.
Maggie pressed her hands to her cheeks and tried not to look at Rylee, who was stage-whispering to her makeup person about how everyone on the panel was so mean . She might have thrown the word floozy in there too.
Maggie wouldn’t mind being a floozy, actually. It sounded fun. But instead, she was going to have to settle for a double order of fries.
If only Maggie were better at this. More charismatic. More persuasive. More like her parents wanted her to be. But there would never be any convincing the Rylees of the world—Maggie knew that for sure. You couldn’t give facts to someone whose argument was built on a foundation of bad faith. They didn’t want them.
Besides, there weren’t going to be many more moments like this one. Interest in the lawsuit and in Maggie was fading, and she’d soon have to decide what to do with the rest of her life and how to pay her bills.
And that was probably the scariest thought of all.
“You can get some air if you want,” Grace said. “Local affiliates have a few minutes for headlines.”
With a grateful sigh, Maggie stood and slipped behind the cameras. The temperature dropped at least twenty degrees once she was on the other side of the set. She truly had no idea how the hosts of Hear Her could stand it. She was slick with sweat. She listed against the wall, where she was out of everyone’s way, and took a few deep breaths.
But someone else clearly had the same idea. “Maggie,” Zoya Delgado called. “I’m glad I caught you. It’s great to finally meet you.”
It was as if the mall Santa told you he was excited to meet you when you went up for a picture. “Um, I’m pretty sure that’s my line. I’m a big fan of the show.”
If Maggie weren’t still feeling green from her confrontation with Rylee, she would’ve had a zillion questions about the upcoming season. At some point, she was going to regret not asking them—after all, how many times was she going to meet Zoya freaking Delgado?—but she was too wiped at the moment.
“And I’m a big fan of the stuff you’ve been saying about how art should represent human experiences—all human experiences. If you’re not going back to teaching, I have to ask: Have you ever thought about working in Hollywood?”
Maggie was grateful for the wall under her shoulder; otherwise, she might have fallen flat onto her tailbone. The months she’d spent suppressing her gag reflex let her keep her voice even when she replied, “What did you have in mind?”