Chapter 16 Seventeen Days till Christmas
16.
Seventeen days till Christmas
Like most women, Liz was a skilled chameleon, able to seamlessly transition between being entertaining, helpful, chill, sympathetic, or whatever else a situation called for. They weren’t behavioral shifts that usually resided close to her consciousness, but now Liz was overly aware of playing a new role: the perfect host. Attentive and friendly, the first to offer Violet a drink, or check that she had enough bedding. But living under the same roof made Liz feel lightheaded and slippery. When they did the dishes together yesterday morning, she’d almost dropped a plate. Twice. Violet had touched her arm with a sudsy hand. “You okay?”
Violet’s fingers were warm and wet. Liz imagined pulling Violet into a bubble bath. Kissing her, as water flowed over the sides of the tub. The bubble of her daydream popped when Liz caught Birdie’s eye. Her sister was grinning, mouthing, Vibe, vibe, vibe!
Violet hadn’t mentioned checking into the hotel Cat had booked—she was still sleeping in the suite across the hall from Liz. She and Liz worked separately during the days, rereading the first season’s scripts and making notes. Today, Sunday, was their first official brainstorm. Liz felt hopeful, but Violet seemed edgy. When they’d parted ways last night, Liz made some reference to tomorrow being the big day. Violet had winced, her face collapsing into worry, murmuring something about Liz lowering her expectations.
Annoyingly, Friday’s snowstorm knocked out the heat in the Barn, making the space unusable until it could be fixed. They’d have to work from the main house. Liz didn’t want to work from a bedroom—far too intimate—and assumed they’d have no trouble finding a quiet corner. But this morning the house seemed overly full.
“Having everyone around will make both of us nervous,” Liz confessed to Birdie. The sisters were huddled by the Christmas tree. The enormous undressed pine almost tickled the family room’s ceiling. Liz kept her voice low so as not to be heard by her mother, Jin-soo, Ash, or Rafi, who were all in the kitchen making breakfast. “There’s no privacy.”
As if on cue, Rafi wandered over, peeling a banana. “What are you guys doing?”
“Having a private conversation,” Liz informed him.
“About what?” He took a bite of a banana. “Violet, and how it’s full lesbian period drama between you two?”
Even though Violet wasn’t yet downstairs, Liz felt a slap of panic. “No, it’s not!”
“Yes, it is,” Birdie said patiently. “You’re starring in a modern-day remake of Carol. Are you missing a glove?” Then, to their brother: “We’re talking about periods. Lizzie has a superheavy flow, and I’m trying the Diva Cup, which is like a tiny cocktail of my menstrual lining—”
“Ew, Birdie!” He gave them a horrified look, backing away.
There was no privacy. Birdie cocked her head. “What about a hike?”
Liz gestured outside. It was drizzling. The forecast predicted rain all day.
Birdie chewed her bottom lip, her blue eyes bouncing to the kitchen, the tree, then back to Liz. She grinned. “I may have a solution.”
Oh no. Not another Birdie solution. When they were teenagers, Birdie’s “solution” to the problem of Liz being tongue-tied around boys involved an earpiece and relayed flirting. The earpiece crossed wires with a nearby Chinese restaurant, resulting in Liz attempting to order moo shu chicken off her confused date. Liz groaned. “Don’t get involved.”
“I got you, sis!” Birdie was off, stage-whispering over one shoulder. “Need to make a call!”
Liz hoped she wouldn’t regret opening up to her sister. She settled into an armchair, angled to give her a clear view into the kitchen, and poked around her laptop, waiting for Violet. It was 9:15 a.m. They’d said they’d meet at 9 a.m.
Everyone gobbled up breakfast before dispersing to various corners of the house. Only Babs was at the kitchen island when Violet padded in a few minutes later, wearing a light pink hoodie, her blond hair plaited into a braid. In her arms were her laptop, a notebook, and a pile of season one scripts and craft books.
Liz waved, wanting to project ease and confidence and not—as she truly felt—like her stomach was full of tiny lizards. “Morning! Ready for today?”
“Yep.” Vi dumped everything on the kitchen counter. “I’ll just make a tea. Any takers?”
Liz gestured to her already full mug of coffee.
Babs nodded. “Brew me up, buttercup.”
Violet found a box of loose-leaf tea. Fumbling it, the entire box spilled onto the kitchen counter. She let out a sharp exhale. “ Shit. ”
Liz rose to help, but Babs was closer, already scooping up the mess. She eyed Violet. “Everything okay?”
She’d always been especially attuned to fellow performers.
“Oh, it’s our first writing session today.” Violet shot Liz a slightly helpless smile. “Little nervous.”
“When I was your age they didn’t let actresses anywhere near the scripts,” Babs said, dumping a handful of leaves into a teapot.
“Honestly not much has changed.” Violet filled a kettle with water. “It was my idea, and I really had to fight for it. Swimsuit shoot? No problem. Something that uses my brain? Suddenly, it’s an issue.”
This was news to Liz.
“Good for you for advocating for yourself.” Her mother settled back on a stool, zeroing in on the woman switching on the burner. “So. Where are you from, Violet Grace?”
“Portland.”
“Nice city.”
“I only lived there until I was eleven. My parents died in a car accident, and then I lived with my grandfather.”
Babs straightened in shock. “My god, you poor thing. Where did he live?”
Violet explained to Babs what she’d told Liz during one of their first hangouts—that she’d spent her teenage years in the Oregon Coast Range, deep in the backcountry. Wet, misty mountains of old-growth forest: western red cedar and Douglas fir. Miles from the closest neighbor.
“Gave me a certain strength of character,” Violet told Babs. “An acting teacher once told me it deepened my well.”
It was true: Violet could draw upon an emotional depth most performers her age could only fake. It was one of the reasons Sweet had been so successful. Once the writers grasped the extent of Violet’s range, the show evolved into darker, richer territory.
Liz listened as Violet described how her parents’ death ended her childhood. From it, a new dream emerged. “Being a performer,” Violet told Babs. “Being someone else. Somewhere else.”
Babs nodded. “I lost my family, too. My first husband, Liz’s dad, didn’t approve of my career. Neither did my father. But I have no regrets over my choice.” Her gaze became soft. “There’s something extraordinary about the way it lets you step into different shoes. See the world through someone else’s eyes. It’s like…”
“Magic,” Violet finished.
“Exactly.”
They exchanged a smile.
Bittersweetness bloomed in Liz’s chest. Violet had opened up to Babs in the way she used to with Liz. Despite the fact that they were, ostensibly, friends, their ease and intimacy hadn’t returned. In its place was either an effortful attempt at professionalism or intrusive thoughts about kissing in bubble baths.
“Ma!” Birdie rocketed back in. “Great news! Jecka wants to host us all on an art crawl!”
With the enthusiasm of a game show host, Birdie explained that their mom’s new art advisor could accompany the family on a drive to local studios. She proudly displayed a hand-illustrated map Jecka had designed, of artists’ spaces that were open to the public on Sundays.
“You could buy some art,” Birdie said to Babs. “Or just window-shop. It’d be a great way to meet local makers. The boys are in, and so is Jin-soo. Go get your raincoat!” she ordered, ushering their delighted mother in the direction of her suite. Babs loved a spontaneous plan, especially if it was all organized for her.
“Art crawl?” Birdie asked Liz and Violet.
Liz fought a smile. “I can’t, unfortunately…”
Birdie slapped her forehead, affecting confusion. “Today’s your big brainstorm, I totally forgot.” She sauntered into the family room so only Liz could see the wink Birdie gave her. “Guess you’ll have the whole house to yourself all day. ”
“You’re officially my favorite sister,” Liz murmured, giving her a hug.
“It’s win-win,” Birdie whispered. “Maybe Jecka won’t think I’m such a hot mess.”
“I thought that was your entire brand,” Liz teased her.
Birdie stuck out her tongue, then spun to address Violet, still at the kitchen island. “Sorry you’ll miss it, Amazing Grace. Violet Crumble. Grace Face. We don’t have a nickname for you yet, do we?”
Violet rested her chin on her hand. “Prefer if it wasn’t Grace Face.”
“Grace Face it is!” Birdie gave a thumbs-up. “Have a great day. If your poem is anything to go by, the words will flow like sweet, sweet honey.”
“Poem?” Violet’s look of confusion clicked into embarrassment. Her shoulders slumped. “Oh. The one on Insta. Yeah, I deleted that.”
Birdie frowned. “Why?”
“Obviously you didn’t read the comments.” Violet’s tone was edged. “People had a lot of opinions. Actresses trying to be smart is like seeing a dog walk on its hind legs. Funny, but very wrong. That sort of thing.”
A surge of protective anger balled Liz’s hands into fists. She hadn’t read the comments, either—she’d forgotten how painful the tsunami of attention Violet now received couldbe.
Birdie shrugged. “Whatever; it was dope, people are dicks. Come out from behind your avatar, brah! Wait! I should take a picture of you guys.” Birdie’s phone was in her hand. “You can post about your first writing sesh and stick it to the haters.”
“Oh no.” Violet flinched, as if Birdie had just swung a punch. “Please don’t. I can’t handle a thousand people in my DMs telling me I’m dumb or fat or that I should just stick to being a pretty face they want to fuck.”
“Whoa.” Birdie pocketed the phone. “My bad.”
“Let’s keep Vi offline,” Liz said, getting to her feet. “We need to focus on work today.”
Violet gave Liz a grateful smile. Babs reentered the kitchen in a cherry-red raincoat, her waterproof Chelsea boots squeaking on the tiles as she used the cane for balance. Was it Liz’s imagination or did her limp seem worse than yesterday?
“You’re not coming, Lizzie?” Babs asked. “Then could you do me a tiny favor and print out the addresses for my holiday cards and get them in the mail?”
Liz stiffened. This “tiny favor” would take more than an hour. “Mom, I can’t—”
“You need to find the sticker paper,” Babs spoke over her, “and the stamps. And make sure you—”
“Mom, I can’t.” Liz made her voice firm. “I have a workday planned with Vi. That’s why she came all this way.”
Babs scoffed. “It’ll only take a minute!”
Liz was ready to acquiesce; it was easier than arguing, and it would get her mother out the door quicker. But then she glanced at Violet, whose presence reminded Liz she wasn’t protecting just her own time. She was also protecting Violet’s.
Liz steeled herself, feeling more nervous than a grown woman should. “No.”
Babs looked taken aback. “…No?”
It was a complete sentence. “No.”
Her mother narrowed her eyes, mouth turning thin. People rarely said no to Babs. Liz never did.
“Raf and I will do it.” Birdie leaped in. “When we get back.”
Liz shot her sister a grateful look. That was a first.
Babs looked from Liz to Birdie then back to Liz, before shrugging. “Fine.” She raised her voice, the tense moment already in the past. “Someone get my checkbook and all three of my Pomeranians!” Babs zipped up her raincoat with a flourish. “Let’s go buy some art.”
The house rolled out. As the sound of the two car engines dwindled to nothing, Belvedere Inn fell silent. The only noise was the soft patter of rain against the old glass windows.
They set up at the kitchen island, laptops and notebooks open, a bowl of roasted almonds within reach. Liz explained they had to deliver what everyone liked about the first season without repeating all the same ideas. “Up the stakes while staying true to what we’ve established.” Liz checked her notes. “Introduce additional characters, without taking the spotlight off fan favorites. In general, be awesome. Er. Awesomer.”
Liz knew that on paper, Sweet sounded like empty calories, no substance. The books were fast food for preteens, and a twenty-first-century remake risked being all winks. But Liz had grown up on witty, self-aware teen shows: Veronica Mars, Freaks and Geeks, The O.C. She envisioned something that was extravagant and playful. Carefully plotted, smartly paced, and emotionally grounded. Something with a generous eye for its three-dimensional characters. Sexy, sure, but ultimately romantic, in surprising ways.
The original book series blended typical teen stuff (sexy young love) with the truly insane melodrama of the series’ later spin-offs. The first season of Sweet careened through Sweet Valley High canon, with story arcs that focused on juicy secrets, forbidden romance, and the unraveling of the seemingly perfect facade of Sweet Valley. Jess joined a cult called Good Friends, the charismatic leader of which she had culty sex with before he was exposed as a shady fraud; Elizabeth was almost killed by a murderous doppelg?nger—“The Third Twin”—while simultaneously investigating the story for The Oracle, the school’s internal TV channel; the twins were nannies for the royal family, wherein Liz fell in love with a prince, and Jess, a jewel thief. The emotional arc of the first season focused on the love triangle between the Wakefield twins and their love interest, Todd Wilkins.
For the highly anticipated second season, it was Liz’s aim to once again strike a balance between the ridiculous and the sublime: the truly batshit and the surprisingly smart and tender. “I need to open a new world, take the show into new territory. It has to be a big swing, I think, because the first season was so…”
“Good?” Violet guessed.
“I was going to say nuts,” Liz said.
“Oh. Sure.”
Shifting on their stools, they exchanged another shaky smile.
“Do you have any ideas?” Liz asked.
“I do. I was trying to think of something that’d”—Violet flipped through her notes—“generate a lot of story and emotionality, as well as provide opportunity for escalating tension and meaningful character development.” She took a deep breath. “What if one of the twins got pregnant and had a baby?”
Instantly, Liz knew that wouldn’t work. It wasn’t canon: established and accepted as true in the fictional world of Sweet Valley. Neither twin had ever gotten pregnant. It might work in season six or seven, but it was too early to introduce the unsexy problem of being a teen mom into their sexy, extravagant world.
But Liz wanted to be a good brainstorm partner, which meant supporting Violet’s suggestions. She typed it down. “A baby. That’s interesting. Maybe Jessica—it’d be the most challenging for our bad girl. Not sure how much micro-dosing she can do in a mother’s group.”
“Yeah, she might not be a great mom right now.” Violet frowned, as if mentally playing the concept out in more detail. “On second thought, that’s a dumb idea.”
“This is a brainstorm; all ideas are good ideas.” But Liz was relieved to add a question mark next to it.
They met each other’s eyes, then bounced their gazes away. Radio silence; dead air.
Vi cocked her head to the side and bit her lip, the look she always got when she was focusing hard. “Maybe—” she started, then stopped. “Nothing.”
“How about—” Liz started, before realizing she had: “Nothing.”
“Maybe…” Violet wiped her hands on her sweats. “Maybe…” She let out a frustrated, embarrassed breath. “Maybe I’m not very good at this. God, why didn’t I just stay in my lane?”
“Vi. Hey. We just started. And your lane is whatever the hell you want it to be. Let’s throw around some ideas for Jessica’s second season arc—the big-picture journey our pansexual queen will go on.”
But the conversation didn’t flow. Violet was closed, second-guessing herself, growing more and more anxious as the minutes crawled by. Finally, she pushed back from the island, chair legs screeching against the tiles. Her face was as stormy as the rain clouds outside. “I’m not feeling great. I need a minute.”
“Oh, sure.” Liz’s concern deepened. “Can I get you anything?”
But Violet was already walking away.