One. The Ghost of Christmas Loser #2
I take my phone out onto the concourse of the mall.
Everything is festooned with holiday décor—giant bells and candy canes hang above the store entryways, and a massive tree glitters in a central pavilion surrounded by seating.
I’m composing myself for the call while shoppers toting bags from stores I’ve never been able to afford clip by me and Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas Is You” plays in the background.
Because this is LA, my skin is warmed by the sun dappling the walkways.
Normally, I hate emerging from Li’l Ballerz to be seen by the posh crowd here.
My ripe-smelling uniform is degrading even when I have recently laundered it: electric-blue track pants and a black T-shirt both emblazoned with the words Li’l Ballerz in magenta.
But today, it’s okay. There’s NEWS. I dial Lacey.
Lacey’s been my agent since a screenplay of mine, Mirrors , took third place for original script at a small Las Vegas film festival.
That script—about a woman who discovers that her reflection is living its own, better life on the other side of the mirror—never went anywhere, but it did get me a lot of meetings, and I still have hope for it.
My latest thing, How Pretty? , has an even darker bent and centers on an appearance-obsessed woman who receives a pill that allows her to become gradually more physically alluring but at a cost: each time she improves, one person who’s dear to her forgets her existence entirely.
“Lacey LaFoy’s office,” Lacey’s assistant says as she picks up.
“Hi, it’s Jill Jacobs calling for Lacey.”
“Hi, Jill, I’ll put you through.”
“Jill!” Lacey comes on sounding effusive and warm. And is it hot in this Li’l Ballerz shirt or is it just my excitement that Lacey’s NEWS must be good? It’s both. This shirt is absolutely made of microplastics. At least I can eat it for dinner if I go totally broke.
“Hi, Lacey. How are you?”
I listen as Lacey describes a new trick learned by her old dog, Feathers.
We talk about the unlikely casting of an indie star in a new action franchise.
The whole while I’m waiting patiently for my news.
The news I need. Maybe Frankie coming into the arcade was a sign that I could be her.
A screenplay sale would mean I did not make a mistake moving to LA.
Did not make a mistake in a million other ways.
At this point, I almost care less about selling a script than I do about proving I didn’t screw everything up. Because the expectation when you throw over one life for something entirely different is that you wind up getting something better than the life you tossed aside.
“So, my news…” Lacey begins.
I’m holding my breath. All the sounds of the mall around me fade to nothing. Li’l Ballerz could be on fire right now and I wouldn’t know, because all my attention is locked on Lacey’s voice coming over the line.
“How bloody can you make How Pretty? ”
“What?”
“Just, it’s a hard sell right now. It’s a thoughtful screenplay, but… it’s reading a little dark for my buyers.”
“Someone bought it?”
“No, no. I thought maybe I could get someone attached if you could add some jump scares. And a monster? Or a serial killer?”
“Wait, so it’s reading too dark, but it wouldn’t be too dark if I add a serial killer?”
“It’s dark in a way that makes people think a lot, like Sylvia Plath.”
“I love Sylvia Plath.”
“I don’t know; I don’t understand poetry. I do know people don’t watch movies for poetry. So, if you could make it splashier…”
“It’s got a high concept going for it. You said so.”
“I know, doll. You are very thoughtful. And smart. But your ideas are hard for people. It doesn’t have to all be so hard. Can you do more… fluff?”
“I thought you just asked for blood. A serial killer.” I don’t want to do that to my script at all, but I will if it means a development deal, some scrap of success I can cling to.
“Think about it,” she said. “How are you for money?”
I peer back into Li’l Ballerz, where the two girls have now unloaded all the stuffies from the claw machine and are handing them out to passing kids.
How nice of them. And how sure for me that I’m looking at my last paycheck minus whatever I owe for aiding and abetting theft of several dozen free-trade, organic-fiber, body-positive stuffed animals.
“Um…”
“I was telling someone at the Heartfelt Channel about you. And I thought… well, they start working on their next holiday slate right now. It’s work for hire, but maybe…”
The Heartfelt Channel.
They start airing their Christmas (and to Heartfelt, it’s always Christmas, though they’ll throw a few bones to Hanukkah just so no one can say they’re like that ) movies as soon as fall dips into pumpkin-spice territory.
And even if the stories vary slightly (though a fave theme is reminding a city—read: morally bankrupt—person that small-town life is better), the message is often the same: all you need to do to fall in love is tap into your inner Christmas person.
Once you’ve embraced the season, you can be swept off your feet (though, in a Heartfelt movie, like on an all-girls dormitory floor in the 1950s, both lovers must keep at least one foot firmly on the ground).
Frankie got her start writing them. So it just goes to show that they can pay off. But there’s one problem.
I’m not a Christmas person.
“I can’t write a Heartfelt movie.”
“Okay, doll,” Lacey says, and I can actually hear her interest drifting away from me toward a client who won’t waste her time. “But I think you need to think about it. And the serial killer to fun up your script, okay? We’ll talk after the holidays?”
“Sure!” I tell Lacey in my most upbeat voice—a voice in which I can hear the choking panic of my life further crumbling around me but hope she interprets as zippily enthusiastic—as a tiny boy comes out of the arcade clutching a lumpy walrus stuffed animal.
He’s holding an older woman’s hand—his grandma or maybe nanny—and notices my arcade T-shirt. He gestures toward the melee and says to me, “You’re not doing a good job.” He waddles away, and from the smell that wafts up to me, his diaper is clearly full.
You know it’s dire when someone who still shits their pants thinks your life is in free fall.