Now Daxon
Now DAXON
I guess I should probably have seen it coming, like Godzilla rising up out of the sea, but when Katrina steps on set, Wil starts to crumble.
I catch Wil panic-eating licorice at crafty during lunch as the crew finalizes the lighting for her scene with Katrina. Wil wears a blue cotton robe over her costume, her wig tied back and away by a black net to keep its 1940s style preserved.
“How many feet do you think you could get if you put all the pieces end-to-end?” I point at the enormous plastic jar of Red Vines.
Wil covers her lips with her hand, her mouth full of candy. “I heard that if you do that, you end up with a giant dork. Wait, how tall are you again?”
The worry in my gut for her softens at the familiar melody of her sarcasm, and I roll my eyes, playing along.
“Show me your tongue,” I tell her.
“Why?” Wil glares suspiciously at me.
“Show me.”
She sticks it out halfway, and it’s exactly what I thought it would be: bright red. “Nope, that’s not gonna fly.”
“What?” Now she looks worried. “What’re you talking about?”
“You guys start shooting in, what? Half an hour? Your tongue’s red. Like red-red.”
“Shit,” says Wil. She pulls out her phone from a pocket in her robe, turns the camera to selfie-mode and points it at herself, examining her tongue. “Fucking Red Vines,” she says.
“I’m a Twizzlers man, myself.”
“Daxon.”
“What?”
“Shut up, please.” But she smiles at me and I’m all fluttery, light and soft all over.
There’s no pact anymore. I’m pretty sure we sent it running with its tail between its legs. In its place is something that doesn’t seem to have boundaries or a name. Which is strange, sure, but thrilling .
“Come with me,” says Wil.
In her trailer, she brushes her teeth and tongue four times until the licorice red is a pale, forgotten pink stain. I sit on the couch and watch her. Not in the creepy I’m watching you way. Just watching, mentally pinching myself that we’re here. After seven lonely years. We’re here. Together. I mean, not together , I guess. But, regardless, we’re here. The wildest part is I still have no idea where that actually is.
“How are you feeling?” I ask her.
Wil turns from the sink. She shuts off the water and leans her hip against the counter, arms folding across her chest. Iwatch her eyes as they travel the wall space above my head. “Close to death. Thanks.”
“Okay, so better than I thought,” I say. A smile whispers its way across her lips and I grin back at her. “Talk to me.”
“I’m not trying to be dramatic, but...” Wil starts.
“Um, bullshit.”
She glares. “I think if I got too close to her, she’d full-on stab me.”
“Can we blame her?”
“ Daxon .”
I laugh. “Look, regardless of who broke into whose house, this is work. She doesn’t have the luxury of stabbing you mid-scene. Her PR team is good but they’re not our client murdered someone and everything’s fine good.”
“I know you’re right,” says Wil, letting out a sigh drenched in pure anxiety, “but I can see her trying.”
A production assistant taps on the door. “Wil, five minutes!” Wil grimaces at the carpet.
“You know what you need?” I ask her.
“A bulletproof vest? Maybe a crucifix?”
“A night out. Let’s get a group together and go out tonight.”
Wil slinks towards the door, shaking her head. “I can’t go out with a severed head.”
“ Or ,” I say, “completely intact, having just demolished another day kicking ass on this movie. We’ll get a beer. There’ll be mediocre music. And only the cool people.”
“So you wouldn’t be coming?”
“Watch it, or I’ll feed you to Katrina.”
Wil flashes her tongue at me. She puts her hand on the doorknob, then looks back. “What time?”
Katrina has this completely bizarre ability to suck all the air out of the room when she comes into it. I’ve heard people say that all the greats do this. Real stars feel bigger, feel larger than life, when you’re lucky enough to get close to them.
Bob is one of these celebrities, but Katrina? Katrina stops at every mirror and stares herself down. Katrina doesn’t greet the caterers at crafty, let alone make eye contact with them when she places a lunch order. She snaps her fingers to get the attention of our production assistants. That’s not greatness. That’s some classist bullshit assholery.
But Katrina is an industry vet, who’s made a career of starring in sitcom after sitcom, so she gets this weird free pass in Hollywood to be a jerk but still wind up on top.
“Let’s go! Are we going? Greg, are we ready?” Katrina’s voice is loud and direct and slices through the set like a buzzsaw.
Wil stands just off her mark, having her lipstick touched up. Her hazel eyes roll around to me and I smile at her, trying to put her at ease. Hoping that maybe the secret language there’s always been between us will reach her and stop the hammering I know her heart is doing.
“Let’s get quiet on set!” calls our second assistant director. Wil takes her mark, pulling a little on the edge of her costume blouse.
Here it is: one of the big scenes. The first of two blowout fights between Lila and her mother. Katrina fusses with the back of her wig, shooing away the hair and makeup crew who had flocked to her to help.
“Action,” says Greg from his director’s chair.
TO THE STARS – OFFICIAL SCRIPT
INT. PATTERSON HOME FOYER – EVENING
VICTORIA PATTERSON, 50, is elegant and well-mannered with a vague air of royalty. Everything about her, from her hairstyle to her shoes, looks expensive. Angry, she comes downstairs to find LILA just getting home from a day spent with NICK.
VICTORIA
I have been sick with worry over you. Where have you been?
LILA
(flustered)
Mama. You scared me. I didn’t see you there.
VICTORIA
We have guests turning up here any minute now and you look like you’ve been hit by a cyclone. Explain yourself.
LILA
Not now, Mama, I have to change.
Already the tension between Wil and Katrina is so thick it’s gelatinous. But what’s great is that it works perfectly for this scene. Since meeting on the Ferris wheel, learning to trust him and spending a day together on the beach, Lila’s been sneaking out to be with Nick, trying to keep him hidden from her mother. This is the turning point where her secret comes out.
VICTORIA
Eliza, tell me where you’ve been.
LILA
Out at the beach.
VICTORIA
With who?
LILA
Just some girls.
LILA edges towards the staircase, hoping to escape before the truth about who she’s been with gets out. VICTORIA puts a finger up to stop her.
VICTORIA
Which girls?
LILA
Alice and Mary-Kathryn. You don’t know them.
VICTORIA
What is that? Right there on your neck. That mark.
LILA
I was being careless, I was out too long in the sun. I’m sure it’s just a burn. I’ll head up and get changed. Who’s coming tonight?
VICTORIA
Stop. Come here. Let me look.
LILA
Mama, I need to get ready.
At a look from VICTORIA, LILA grudgingly steps closer to her mother and moves the hair off her neck to expose what is clearly a hickey.
VICTORIA
Who?
LILA
Who, what?
VICTORIA
What is his name, Eliza? The boy.
LILA
Mama, I told you, it’s a sunburn, that’s all.
VICTORIA
Tell me this minute. I know it wasn’t a gentleman. No respectable man touches a young lady like that, let alone at all, without thinking about marriage, and I know that can’t be, because we haven’t set eyes on this boy.
LILA
Nicholas Greene. Nick, Mama. His name is Nick.
VICTORIA
Greene? I don’t know any Greenes. Who are his people? What does his father do?
LILA
Mama, I’m a mess, I’ve got to get changed. The wind was wild on the boardwalk and I—
VICTORIA
(cutting her off)
Answer me, young lady.
LILA
His father works cutting steel. Nick works part-time fixing cars, part-time on the boardwalk during the summers.
VICTORIA
Steel?
LILA
Yes, ma’am. Mr. Greene works for Daddy’s company.
VICTORIA takes this in and it’s a bitter swallow. This is her worst-case scenario. A blue-collar distraction, a stain on their image.
VICTORIA
No. I forbid it.
LILA
Mama, listen to me. Please. I could have him over. You and Daddy could meet him. He’s smart. He’s a hard worker.
VICTORIA
I will not have my oldest daughter getting foolish with a mechanic with no family name, no money. I forbid it.
This is LILA’s worst-case scenario. Given her choice, she’d keep NICK to herself, but there’s no turning back now that the secret’s been spilled. LILA backs away slowly towards the front door, looking at her mother, her lifelong model for how not to step outside the lines, like she’s never seen her before.
LILA
You can’t do that.
VICTORIA
Lila, I am not playing here. Do you hear me? I need you upstairs and fixed-up right now. And I don’t want to hear another word about you bothering with this boy.
LILA
Mama. Please.
VICTORIA
I said not another word!
LILA
You can’t keep me from him.
VICTORIA
Upstairs and that’s it, Eliza. That’s final and we’ll hear no more about it.
LILA
(crying)
I love him.
VICTORIA
(harshly, dismissively)
You don’t know what love is.
(a beat)
You don’t know what it’ll cost you.
“Cut!”
The sound of Greg’s voice makes me jump. Not because it’s insanely loud, which it is, but because for the last few minutes, I’ve been somewhere else entirely. I’ve been rooted in the Pattersons’ foyer, watching generational privilege and trauma whip out its fangs. Watching Wil earn the accolades I know are coming her way.
The subtleties in her face, as Katrina’s character spits terrible things at her, grab me by the shirt collar and shake me around enough to feel my bones rattle.
Tiny, blink-and-you-miss-it things she does with her eyes, minute twitches at the lips, the way you can almost see the breath rushing from her as her face pinkens with anger.
This is real for her.
I think about how we play pretend for a paycheck, but for Wil, this is as real as it gets. A fake mother she can’t stand, twice over.
“Reset! Let’s go back to one.” Greg motions to the cameras, then gets up from his chair and takes to the set, bringing Wil and Katrina in for a huddle. When they break, I catch Wil’s eye. She’s trying to pin back a victory smile, trying to stay focused and in the moment. But she’s proud of herself for something and I know she’s just been praised.
Katrina, however, goes back to her mark at the top of the stairs, and her lips form a bitter line as she waits for the scene to be called to action.
She’s gotten feedback, and it wasn’t an ass-kissing for once.
The local crew likes a place in town called Betsy’s, this shoebox bar where the beer is cheap, so that’s where wego.
It’s Wil, a couple production assistants, two or three extras, and some of the main cast, like Vanessa, who plays Lila’s younger sister, Amy, and Sean, the Frat Boy.
Wil and I order a round for the group. We sit together at the bar, trying to toss peanuts into each other’s mouths. I miss every single one, but she makes them all, which completely tracks. And god. It’s so normal. Like nothing broke us, like we didn’t wait seven years for this.
“Sorry, could I have a picture?”
A woman dressed in white with a bachelorette sash across her torso approaches timidly and gazes at Wil like she’s the moon.
I know the feeling.
“Sure,” says Wil, flashing me a wide-eyed look as the bride-to-be gets close and lifts her phone in front of them for a selfie. Wil’s left hand, which was resting under the bar against my thigh, retracts and my skin goes cold without her touch.
It’s possible that maybe it’s not real at all, this thing we’re doing. But I would reach up, fearless, and pull down every star in the sky if I could make it real, if it could be as it was. I’d carve out my heart with a toothpick if I was sure she wouldn’t run.
Maybe I’m not sure, though. Would she run away if I tried to make us something permanent? She’s changed in subtle ways over the years, like leaves once green starting to burn. Ican’t predict her every move anymore.
“Here, let me,” I say and reach out for it.
“Oh my god, Dougie!” the bride-to-be squeals. “I forgot you got hot! I mean, shit. That was rude. Sorry, I’m drunk.” We all laugh. “Would you be in it, too?” she asks, and I nod, tell her sure, then pose myself on her other side and lean in with a smile. The flash goes off and the bride breaks away from us, giggly and excited, talking animatedly with her hands the way Wil does when something lights her up. “I wanna buy you guys a shot.” She flags down the bartender.
“Hell no,” argues Wil. “You’re getting married. It’s on us.”
Tequila in tiny glasses and a plate of lime wedges slide towards us across the counter. Wil counts us down. We bump our glasses against the bar with each count, then toss them back.
“Hey!” says the bride, grinning ear-to-ear like she’s just had the best idea anyone’s ever thought of. “You guys remember the dance ?”
“Well,” I say, “I think it’s physically impossible for us to forget. I still have scars. Emotional scars.”
“Oh god,” groans Wil. “The Baldovia Boogie?”
This is a Marnie, Maybe classic from season three, the heyday of our show. To defeat a rival from her kingdom of Baldovia in a talent competition, Marnie, who can’t let anyone know she moonlights as a world-famous popstar, invents a dance to perform with her best friend, Dougie, that is so sublimely cringey, but wins her the competition, because of course it does. And now, the world will never let us forget it.
I have never walked through an airport without someone asking to see it.
Last Thursday, I was pumping gas and did a half-assed, one-handed Boogie for two excited teens. It’s my Ghost of Christmas Past. But with Wil finally by my side, the last thing I am is afraid.
“Could we do it for TikTok? You guys, come here!” She waves over her friends, and Wil and I exchange a look. “Baldovia Boogie!”
Wil’s eyes get big and she shakes her head at me. I, on the other hand, flash her a grin and nod my head.
“Daxon. Nuh-uh,” she whines.
“ Sunshine, sea stars, shine as bright as we are ...” I start to sing the completely bananas lyrics in a high, terrible rendition of her teenage singing voice, and Wil glares at me. I hold my hand out for her and turn to the bride. “Ready?”
“I have it!” a woman from the bridal party cries, holding up her phone. It’s been attached to an auxiliary cord feeding into the bar’s speaker system. Bar regulars turn to watch. She presses play, the way-too-familiar beat starts, and Wil groans as she reluctantly flops her hand into mine and I pull us out into the middle of the room.
Wil hides her eyes with her free hand, flushed red as a stop sign, dragging her feet through the motions. But I can see her lips just under her hand and they’re wide with a grin, so I make a grab for that hand, too, and spin with her in time to the music.
She’s laughing at herself, at the goofy face I know I must be making. At life, I guess, timing, this right now, after so much time apart. I watch Wil find her way to the right steps.
There’s a lot of embarrassing arm-ography involved in the Baldovia Boogie. Clapping over our heads and flapping chicken wings, then some stomping for ultimate obnoxiousness. The choreographer who cooked this up for us almost a decade ago is probably stirring his cauldron of poison apples and cackling evilly somewhere.
But it’s us. Wil and I. Us . And tonight is a memory I’m locking away inside my soul—beneath a tag that reads: Property of Wilhelmina Chase .