Slipstream

Chapter One United States

Chapter One United States

Stories sell. People think of directors and screenwriters as the ultimate storytellers—human gods shaping real life into fables. But really it’s me, the camera. A documentary is where metalworkers become heroes and empty store shelves become plot. Veterans in vacant fields, tiny pageant queens, real life made better. Documentarians can’t promise our subject matter will stay neat and pretty after the credits roll; after all, happily ever after doesn’t exist in real life.

But for a moment there, at the end of a documentary? My movies can trick you into thinking that the world makes sense.

And that’s a story people want to buy.

“Hey, it’s me again. I managed to find a cab, so now I’m standing out front of this… building.” I blow a strand of hair from my face and squint at the intimidatingly large locked gate. “Can you text me the code to get in? I can’t find it in the email.”

I end the voicemail to my boyfriend, Max Black. Then I wait. And wait. He must be busy—like me, he can get distracted—so I swallow my pride and press the call button to the front office. “Lilah Graywood from Black people are likelier to invest in us if they aren’t worried we’re about to break up. His idea.

The woman takes my hand with a fluorescent smile. “It’s so lovely to finally meet you. I’m Sarah, marketing manager here at Ignition and who Max has been emailing with since last… gosh, how long has it been now? December?” She looks at him with an equally cheery grin, almost conspiratorial, like they had to email their life stories back and forth to arrange for this production. “Our team principal, Holmes Bianco, adores your documentary about the congressman. The one who cheated on his wife? He couldn’t stop raving about how great you made him look!”

Naturally. The big boss man of a sports team would enjoy an accidental image scrub. “I, um, didn’t realize people would be that sympathetic toward him after watching it.”

“You made him human. You have a gift. If you ever want to get away from this guy and into marketing”—Sarah winks—“we’d love having you as a videographer.”

I force a smile. She’s being nice. She doesn’t know that to me, filming expensive race cars and the problematic men who drive them feels like a personal failing. “Hey, no poaching my camera girl,” Max laughs, and now my smile is real. It’s one of our inside jokes: He’s the heart of Black it isn’t appropriate for a documentarian to talk back or show that we’re humans with emotions, too. But none of this is normal, and hopefully my time in Texas will be very short-lived. Might as well be the one person per calendar year who treats this man like a privileged asshole instead of a god.

“Dang, you caught me. I don’t know Formula 1. Please, tell me all about driving cars super fast on TV.”

Actually, this might be the first time in Arthur’s life that someone dared to be sarcastic in his presence, since he lets out a noise that’s half surprised laugh, half infuriated huff. “You think Formula 1 is just driving fast.”

“It’s not?” I think back to what Max told me. Weird-looking cars, unnecessarily spread-apart competitions, a convoluted set of racing rules mystifyingly called the “formula.”

“It’s…” Arthur is silent for a beat, thoughts twisting behind his guarded expression. “When was the last time you felt alive? Not existing. Not breathing. Alive.”

His question grinds my sarcasm to a halt. That, and the intensity in his gaze. His eyes are uncomfortably hazel. Green with mostly golden brown, like an old bourbon bottle held up to a sunbeam, left on the shelf to age.

“I don’t know,” I answer, defaulting to honesty like always. I’m not used to being on the receiving end of probing questions. “Let me guess, you’re going to tell me that you feel alive when you drive in circles and everyone claps?”

Arthur blinks at me, tiny reflections of my irritated face disappearing and reappearing from his pupils. Then he looks at my mouth, for a second that unspools for hours. Then he looks over my shoulder. “Are you dating him? That guy you’re with. Is he why you’re here?”

I swallow roughly and avert my gaze, too. No. He didn’t just—there’s no way this guy is perceptive enough to clock that Max and I are together. He’s probably just another sexist athlete who assumes I’m here to please a man. And while that’s not necessarily untrue, I’d rather eat my vintage camera collection than admit it.

I force my eyes back on Arthur’s scowl and say, “I’m not answering that question.”

“So it’s a yes.”

“It’s a nothing.”

“Right.” His scowl deepens. “You don’t want me to know your personal life.”

“Correct?”

“And yet you’re here to film mine,” he says with a crisp note of self-righteousness. “All of you media people are the same. You sweep in, sell a bit of our souls, and leave. At least Sarah’s grandfather was a driver. She makes an image for me because she loves racing.”

Woof. This is exactly why I need to talk Max out of making this film. After living half a decade in D.C. and clawing my way for respect in one industry that idealizes toxic masculinity, I know the work that goes into making your own seat at a table that doesn’t want you. Sports is a boys’ club, too. Arthur Bianco, with his eye-rolling and uncle connection, is no different than the congressman I’d filmed, who’d thanked his male mentors during his election-night speech while my camera had been glued to his wife’s happy tears.

I adjust my glasses and decide that a stronger approach is necessary, slipping on my best and iciest documentarian demeanor. The Lilah who manhandles politicians. Wins awards. Gone is my quiet sputtering, a bubbling-over teakettle right before it starts whistling. I’m all boil now.

“Fine. I hear you,” I say. “You feel as if I have power over you in here, and that you haven’t consented to being in this film. But you need to talk to your team, not me. Because you’re rich, yes?”

Arthur blinks. “I… yes.”

I nod, unsurprised. “And famous?”

He frowns.

“So you still have all the power in real life. My—Max, he signed the contract for us. Unless I’m able to change his mind, I can’t stop making this movie.”

“Your Max,” Arthur echoes, parroting my slipup.

“Mm-hmm. My Max.”

His throat bobs, sending a droplet of water running down, down, down his neck, his collarbone, his bare chest. “You never answered my question,” he says. “Do you like Formula 1?”

Had that been the question? “Oh. Well.” I shrug and look away so he can’t see the hurt circling around my throat like a sad dog begging for attention. No. I’m a vegan Buddhist who hates sports and loves politics and will never own a car. I think this whole facility is a mockery of the human condition and waste of wealth, along with this reality TV sham of a documentary. Along with, probably, your entire life. And clearly, that doesn’t matter to the one man who matters to me.

“I don’t think I could ever enjoy a sport where—”

I’m winding myself back up for verbal sparring round two, only then Arthur whispers, “Quiet.” And I’m quiet.

“Hello, my new favorite duo! Did we have fun getting to know each other?”

Sarah’s back with her clipboard and her bouncing ponytail, and I realize that if Arthur hadn’t cut me off, she’d have heard whatever I was going to say about Formula 1. Which would’ve been bad. If I don’t act like I’m standing in the Pentagon, every little thought in my little head dedicated to safeguarding this race-car driver’s precious public image, Sarah might sniff out that my intentions aren’t pure. And I need to be the one to talk to Max, not her.

And I will. I’m going to stop hiding what I really think from him and tell him the truth. That selling out was a mistake, and we belong in D.C., together, doing important work—even if we never make millions or land a Netflix deal or whatever it is that he’s after. Even if I have to withstand being his girlfriend, because that’s what he decided one day he wanted me to be. He’s still my best friend. My only friend. And having a friend like him, who teaches me how to be me, is a one-way ticket out of never staring at a porch light again.

I will fix this.

“We’ve been having a blast,” I promise Sarah, ignoring Arthur’s incessant frown.

“Gosh, that’s awesome.” She giggles. “You guys are going to be perfect for each other, I swear.”