7. Noa #2
The woman shakes her head sympathetically, as if cherry-related incidents are commonplace atrocities.
“Come on in, sorry about the confusion. A few weeks ‘til air is not a great headspace for most of us.” She leads me inside by the elbow, shooting a pointed look at one of the now-sheepish guards. “I’m Magenta, by the way. Lead producer.”
“Noa–” I start, but she’s pressing a button on her headset and muttering something about an eagle and the lobby.
Seconds later, I watch with muted smugness as Aarti Nair reemerges from that treacherous hallway and stomps up to us, glowering.
“Madge.” Aarti greets her producer curtly, not even offering me a glance. “Explain.”
Magenta appears unfazed by Aarti’s simmering annoyance. “I forgot to mention this meeting yesterday amidst the… sidekick spiral .” Aarti opens her mouth to speak but Magenta cuts her off. “And that’ll be seven Hail Marys and a life sentence of being relegated to the transpo bathroom.”
I can’t help my snort of laughter. I’m starting to vibe with Magenta’s fearless shtick but Aarti is not. She folds her arms. “What meeting, exactly?”
“You get to collaborate with Noa on your very own ice cream flavor!” Magenta pitches, like a mom cajoling her two-year-old into eating broccoli.
“Oh!” Aarti mimics Magenta’s tone. “No, thank you! I have bigger fish to fry, like, I dunno, making sure our show doesn’t get cancelled before it even airs!”
She turns on her heel and walks away. Magenta scurries to follow, jerking her head at me to come with.
“This is coming from the biggest fish.” Magenta catches up to her boss, giving Aarti a loaded look. “A signature ice cream can establish who you are. It’s another way to keep your brand from feeling…” she stage-whispers, “‘ generic.’”
Even with her back to us, I can feel the disdain radiating off Aarti. “Silly me. I didn’t realize scrapping the segments we’ve been workshopping for months and feigning enthusiasm about the impossible task of finding a mini-me over the weekend weren’t adequate displays of fealty for the C-suite.”
She pivots, pushing open a heavy door with her back, then lands her gaze on me. I wish she’d go back to pretending I didn’t exist.
“So what do you need from me? My astrological chart? Social security number?”
“I mean, if those are important to you, maybe not so much the social–”
The rest of the sentence dies on my lips as I take in the vast room we enter.
We’ve stepped into the bustling soundstage of Up Late .
Crew members hurry past, muttering into headsets and looking like they belong–more than I can say for myself in this moment, clutching my nitrogen canister, trying to convince a terrifying and gorgeous woman with her name in massive neon lights into giving me something to work with so I don’t lose my job.
Even half-built, the space is undeniably hers .
The glow of her name and the Up Late logo hover above the stage.
A sleek wooden desk sits opposite plush guest chairs.
The backdrop is nearly complete, and at its center stands a sprawling 3D diorama of a city.
Instead of the buildings drawing focus, it’s the glowing pathways that dominate–thin golden lines weaving through the landscape, intersecting and converging like a circuit board.
Telephone wires? Rivers? Something about the pattern tugs at my brain, familiar but just out of reach.
“Wait,” I squint. “Is that… the LA public transit system?”
Magenta nudges her boss. “Hey, someone finally got it!”
Something flickers across Aarti’s face–annoyance? vulnerability?–before she schools it back to neutral.
“Soundbooth, Madge?”
Magenta scurries off with a mock salute, leaving us alone with my tiny moment of triumph. I, Noa Hart, professional ice cream hermit, first-time celebrity pitcher, just understood something about America’s next late-night darling that apparently nobody else did.
“Don’t look so pleased with yourself,” Aarti says. “It’s a bus map. Not the Rosetta Stone.”
“That’s exactly the kind of detail I need for your ice cream!” I blurt, clutching my canister tighter. “Your history, what matters to you, what shaped your comedic voice–”
“My comedic voice?” She arches an eyebrow. “The one you picked up from the Time-Traveling Dentist sketch you’ve never seen?”
Heat floods my cheeks. “Okay, I’m not an Aarti Nair expert. Yet! But I am an ice cream expert.” I pause. “Enthusiast? Aspiring authority? The point is–”
“Great.” She cuts me off with a fake smile. “Sounds like you’re a real self-starter. Why don’t you take a few minutes to sniff around my set, collect some insights–invent them for all I care. Madge loves ice cream, she’ll be your contact.”
She’s already turning away, but sheer panic at screwing up this job emboldens me and I reach out to grab her toned upper arm. “Wait!”
Aarti whips around, glaring at my hand on her bicep until I sheepishly remove it.
“I need to know you , not Magenta.” The words tumble out faster than I can organize them.
“Even though she seems super cool and I love the green hair and standing up to her boss situation. But here’s the thing–I’ve seen my boss Stella do enough collabs to know that even when celebrities claim they don’t care, they will hate the final product if they don’t see themselves in it. ”
She scoffs. “You and everybody else wants to ‘know me’, but only in a way that fits neatly on a poster.” Her voice goes sharp.
“This show is dangling off a cliff because I’m told it’s ‘bland’ when I play it safe, and ‘too much’ when I try to make it mine.
Every time I put more of myself into it, the network slaps my hand away.
Too divisive, too inconsistent, too bold–pick your critique.
So yeah, maybe it’s better for you to just whip up a crowd-pleaser sundae than pretend you’re bottling my soul. ”
She pivots on her designer heel.
“But that’s what makes this opportunity exciting!” I chase after her. “You can show people you’re all those things at once. Contradictions don’t cancel each other out, they create flavors. That’s the beauty of ice cream!”
Aarti looks momentarily amused, then catches herself, and I watch it transform into a smirk. “Noa, was it?”
I nod.
“Noa, that’s very poetic and all, but I’m gonna level with you. I’m happy you’re passionate about what you do. So am I.” She gestures at her bustling domain. “Hopefully you can empathize that I have a lot more pressing things to do than weigh in on old-fashioned versus French vanilla.”
This is why I’ve always known that celebrity collaborations would not be for me.
I may not be comfortable in the spotlight, nor particularly outspoken in most situations, but there’s one scenario that never fails to fling me to the far opposite end of the spectrum, and that’s being condescended to.
Maybe it stems from defending Aiden from bullies and transphobes when we were growing up.
Even though I was shy, I knew my twin needed me more than I needed my dignity.
I set the nitrogen canister on the ground before standing back up. My spine straightens like someone’s pulled a string through the top of my head.
“Aarti, was it?” I begin. Her eyebrows shoot up in surprise.
“Yeah, name’s right there in neon .”
“Aarti, I am passionate about what I do. And there’s a lot more to it than waiting around for some diva to choose between two of the most basic ice cream flavors in the world.
” I’m on a roll now and I can’t stop. “You’re not the only one whose job is on the line here.
The sooner we actually get started, the sooner we can be done with this and go back to our regularly scheduled programming or whatever you TV people say.
” I pull the notebook from my back pocket and give my pen a pointed click.
For the first time, Aarti looks nonplussed, like she’s unaccustomed to being spoken to so bluntly. When she finally speaks, her nostrils flare like she’s just taken a putrid whiff of Hollywood Boulevard.
“A diva? ”
Of course she got stuck on that.
And of course, I immediately apologize.
“I’m so sorry, I didn’t–”
“Seems like you think you know me pretty well. A diva TV person with the most basic taste in the world?”
I throw my hands up and my pen goes flying off my notebook.
“I don’t know you, okay? That’s the point!
I just need you to answer a few questions.
I’m sorry for the name-calling, this is quite literally my first time filling in for my boss and also my first time being woman-handled by security guards and also my first time–”
Aarti takes a step toward me, her head tilts just so… Is she going to kiss me?
Before my brain can catch up to what’s happening, she’s bending down and grabbing my pen off the floor. She holds it out to me.
“Fine. You have five minutes.”
She walks over to the oak desk and points to the armchair beside it. I take a seat. It’s surprisingly cushy and I tuck my legs beneath myself, no energy to care that I’m doing what Aiden lovingly calls the bisexual perch.
Behind the desk, I can see why the network cast her as a host. She’s tall, so even sitting down, she has an impressive stature that makes her seem larger than life.
The stage lights bathe her dark hair, highlighting the ethereal bluish undertone of her silky black locks.
Her eyes are deep brown, so I haven’t been able to differentiate her pupils until this moment, noticing flecks of gold dotting the coffee-colored swirl of her irises.
She blinks, and I jolt, realizing I’ve been totally and utterly staring. Again.
“First time on TV?” she asks.
“Just here to promote my new show, Noa Hart, PhD, Totally Bombs Gigantic Career Opportunity As Expected.” I pretend to take a sip from an invisible mug. I may not have grown up watching late-night but its tropes have still seeped into my knowledge base by osmosis.
Aarti’s lips twitch like she’s holding back a smile. “Nice space work.”