10. Aarti
AARTI
I slip into the studio like a teenager sneaking in past curfew, except instead of avoiding my parents, I’m dodging my own writers’ room.
Through the glass, I can see Madge with our three segment writers, their heads bent in deep concentration.
I duck past before anyone can see and barricade myself in my office.
My hands are actually shaking as I lock the door and grab an emergency kombucha from my mini fridge.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’ve pitched to studio executives before.
I’ve performed for millions. I’ve literally hung from a helicopter for a Midnight Live cold open.
So why does the thought of sitting across from Gretchen Gordon make my palms sweat like I’m back in middle school math class?
The answer: because Noa Hart will be sitting beside me.
Noa makes me antsy, and I have to admit, it has very little to do with her destroying the diorama.
It’s because Noa doesn’t look at me like everyone else does.
She doesn’t see “Aarti Nair, Comedy Genius” or “Aarti Nair, Diversity Hire” or even “Aarti Nair, That Woman from That Thing.” She just sees some unhinged lady who falls into dumpsters and calls security on (aggravatingly insistent, curly-haired) business associates.
Which is equal parts refreshing and mortifying.
I slump into my desk chair and spin, staring at the ceiling.
The truth is, once this show launches–really launches–I’ll be so deep in the closet I’ll be finding Christmas presents from 1987.
Every relationship, every moment of intimacy, every honest expression of who I am will have to be delicately managed, hidden, danced around, more than ever before.
I’m tired already.
My phone buzzes. Brigitte98 just posted a new carousel to Gramsta .
Brigitte on the runway, Brigitte with a SpongeBob Band-Aid on her alarmingly flawless tan skin, Brigitte in a blurry selfie in the back of some black car with…
that starlet, whom she told me was just a friend, planting a sexy kiss on her neck.
Can I even blame her for the soft launch?
I freaked out at The Velvet Tongue. We always had an end date anyway.
I met Brigitte eighteen months ago at a Chateau Marmont party that I was only attending because Madge threatened to submit my headshot to The Bachelor if I didn’t get out more.
She was by the pool, impossibly long legs crossed, making everyone around her look like Cabbage Patch kids.
When our eyes met, she blushed, and I knew it was a done deal.
We went back to her place that night. And most nights since.
Before Brigitte, there was Samira, the burgeoning sapphic pop star who wrote songs about me that she performed in dive bars while I sat in the back, hood up, pretending I didn’t know all the words.
Before Samira was Chloe, a slightly older method actress from my first indie film The Red Dot , where I played a superhero who gets her powers on her period.
Chloe insisted on staying in character even in bed, which was hot until she was prepping for a biopic about a doomsday cult leader.
Before Chloe was... well, a rotating cast of women.
Some of them were out, some were not, but all of them understood the rules: be discreet, be cool, be gone before morning.
The only other people who know the truth about me are my sister and favorite uncle, Arjun.
I haven’t even told Madge, although I’m sure she has her suspicions.
She’d accept me, I know that. She’d make spreadsheets about optimal coming-out strategies and roll out Pride merch for the show.
But I can’t put that burden on her. It’s not fair to make her keep a secret that could tank everything we’ve built.
My phone buzzes again. This time it’s a photo from Madge–a selfie with our writers, all of them making exaggerated suspicious faces.
MADGE
We saw you walk by earlier.
I drag myself out of my office and shuffle down the hall like I’m walking to the guillotine.
“There she is!” Sydney Remsho, our head segment writer, spins her office chair around, revealing her Burger King employee shirt with the original name crossed out and Syd scrawled in Sharpie over it. “Savior of our livelihoods! Restorer of frozen dessert diplomacy!”
I nod at Madge. “Credit where it’s due, all I did was let my festering annoyance bubble over. She’s the one who somehow convinced our network overlords it was comedy gold.”
Rohan doesn’t even look up from the origami giraffe he’s meticulously folding. “Also, nothing’s been greenlit yet, Syd.”
“Don’t be a downer, Ro!” Freya, a young staff writer we poached from Midnight Live , lobs a crumpled notebook paper at Rohan. He bats it back.
Madge claps her hands. “Settle down, Musketeers. Aarti’s gonna do great. She’s good on her feet–”
“–but even better on her face,” I finish for her. It was the tagline for my first standup tour while Midnight Live was off-season.
“Look,” Madge says, switching into producer mode. “The meeting is going to be fine. Gretch the Wretch is gonna love it because it’s exactly the kind of authentic chemistry the network felt was missing.”
“Authentic chemistry,” I repeat. “With someone who brought a weapon to our first meeting.”
“Nitrogen isn’t technically a weapon,” Rohan points out. “It’s more of an industrial hazard.”
“I have to go,” I announce, standing abruptly. “Can’t keep Gretchen waiting.”
“You’re fifteen minutes early,” Madge points out.
“Even better.” I head for the door before they can psych me out more. “If this goes badly, it’s on all of you.”
“If it goes well, we’re taking all the credit!” Syd calls after me.
The elevator ride to the executive floor goes so fast my ears pop. Gretchen Gordon’s wing takes up almost the entire top floor, and everything in the space is combatively grey.
Her receptionist, a terrifyingly polite older woman named Diane, looks up from her computer. “Ms. Nair, thank you for being here. Ms. Gordon is expecting you. You can wait just down the hall.”
I follow her directions, the hallway seeming to stretch forever, lined with photos of Up Late hosts through the decades–a visual reminder of the legacy I’m about to either uphold or destroy.
God, I hope my new sidekick is more prepared for this meeting than she was two days ago.
I round the corner and immediately abandon all hope.
Noa is standing, even though empty chairs abound, looking like she might vomit or faint or possibly both. She’s clutching a weird little crochet bag like it’s the only thing keeping her tethered to Earth.
“So… like… what’s–?” Noa chokes out, radiating utter panic.
Great.
My pitching partner is not prepared at all.