The Comeback Season

Chapter 1

Freddie

I nearly eat shit as I step off the bus in Silverlake, just managing to catch myself before I become inspiration for the next Final Destination film. It’s these damn heels. I would have rather worn my boots, but as much agony as it brings me, I’m attempting to look professional.

I straighten my too-tight pencil skirt and use my blazer sleeve to wipe away the embarrassing layer of sweat clinging to the back of my thighs.

It’s always hot on the Eastside of Los Angeles, but July is a special sort of miserable.

Sunlight beams off the pavement and parking meters, making me squint.

“You good?” the bus driver calls after me.

“Best day of my life,” I say with a wave, ignoring the weird look he gives me as I tuck my notepad under my arm and hurry across the street.

The hot yoga and pumpkin spice latte crowd are always talking about manifesting these days.

Maybe if I speak it into existence, it’ll come true.

At this point, I’d summon the Wishmaster if it meant getting my failing film career off the ground, consequences be damned—though I’m highly skilled at self-sabotage, so I doubt he’d even need to intervene.

As it stands, I’m late for the most important meeting of my floundering film career thus far.

I swore I wouldn’t be, but it’s not my fault America refuses to invest in public transportation, and since I’m still driving the convertible coup my parents bought me for my sixteenth birthday, I opted to take the bus rather than show up to an indie film production meeting in that gaudy thing.

The pretentious little Silverlake cafe is just as packed as the 101 when I step inside. Everyone looks like a would-be screenwriter, wearing normie glasses, septum rings, and clutching their craft cold brews. Scriptwriting software beams from more than a few laptops. I shoot Miles a quick text.

Freddie

Here. So sorry I’m late.

Miles

Table by the bathrooms.

I venture into the bowels of the coffee shop, smiling when a man, roughly my age and wearing an Exorcist shirt, waves me down.

He’s average in height, with brown eyes, unruly brown hair peeking out from under his hat, and the shadow of a neckbeard—in other words, your garden variety Los Angeles film bro.

I briefly wonder how many of his screenplays pass the Bechdel test, but then remind myself that I am currently begging, not choosing.

“Frederica?” He extends a hand, highlighting a full sleeve of vibrant American traditional tattoos with a Wild West theme. The coyotes, cactuses, and cowboy hats contrast with the fading stick-and-poke on my left forearm: a sheet ghost bearing the words trick-or-treat.

“Only to my mother. Freddie’s fine,” I reply, shaking it. His grip is a little on the limp fish side for my liking.

I’ve always hated my full name. Frederica Elise Hearst. It’s the sort of name that belongs on a dusty mausoleum somewhere in New England, not in a credit roll.

In my opinion my little sister has it worse—Elinor Frances, but unlike me she takes pride in our family’s stuffy traditions, so her name never bothered her.

“Freddie it is. Freddie Krueger,” he adds, making finger claws.

“That’s what they called me in prep school.”

“Because you wore ugly sweaters?”

“Because I gave the other kids nightmares,” I say.

He doesn’t laugh, his features instead twisting in uncertainty. Kill me.

“Joking. It was because I was always falling asleep in class,” I reply in an attempt to recover the situation.

“Makes sense.” His laugh is awkward.

I’ve already managed to make my would-be producer uncomfortable. Great.

“Anyway, thanks for meeting me.” He takes a seat. I do the same. “You weren’t waiting long, were you?” The bathroom-adjacent air smells like a dingy mix of cleaning products and coffee grounds—a far cry from the gentle incense and designer hand soap my mother keeps at home.

“Nah, don’t worry about it. I appreciate you coming. A lot of people don’t trust Gregslist gigs.”

“You don’t look like an ax murderer,” I reply, sizing Miles up—though I don’t tell him he’d be hotter if he did. He grins, blissfully unaware of my questionable kink for men covered in blood.

“I save the axes for set,” he says, snapping my focus back in place. “So what do you like about the project?”

I hesitate, imposter syndrome suddenly choking me in a Michael Myers grip, even though I’ve rehearsed this hundreds of times. Channeling the energy of Jamie Lee Curtis with a butcher knife, I force myself to swallow the fear.

“Well for starters I’m a huge horror fan.

Especially found footage. The Blair Witch Project changed my life, and to think they did it with that budget.

” How fucking original. I didn’t sound this idiotic in the mirror, I swear.

My fingers curl against my skirt. “Paranormal Activity, too. I’d love to pull off something like that. ”

“Yeah, Blair Witch is a classic. I actually met with the team yesterday though, and we were thinking we might take things in a different direction. Everybody’s doing found footage these days, so it might work better if we do something else. Stand out from the crowd.”

“Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.” My stomach churns, because I know what that means: an increased budget. People make found footage films ‘cause they’re cheap.

“Have you directed a feature before?” he asks.

The most dreaded question of all. I shake my head slowly. “This would be the first.”

“I see.” Two words—two quick stabs to the heart.

Miles takes a painfully long sip of his overpriced espresso. I hold my breath.

“I looked at your reel. Kind of a Wes Craven style, speaking of Freddy Krueger. I like it.”

My heart does a backflip. Wes Craven, may the legend rest in peace, is my favorite director and my biggest inspiration. This might be the first artistic validation I’ve ever received in my life. My parents have certainly never deigned to give me any.

“In all honesty, I think the team is looking for someone with a little more experience,” he continues, and I deflate inside. “But with the right budget, I think we could make it work.”

Trepidation creeps down my spine. A budget increase for sure.

“What are you thinking?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

The air leaves my lungs. That’s a huge leap from the fifty thousand pay-to-play price tag originally mentioned in his ad.

Between my dwindling bank account and hawking my last few pieces of jewelry, fifty thousand was a reach.

Two hundred is impossible. It’s been two years since I was cut out of the family trust. There’s no chance.

“I could do that,” I lie anyway, wondering how many other wannabe directors are currently sitting in coffee shops, attempting to buy their way into this failing industry.

Probably a few. I know I’m not the only game in town.

He might even have another appointment lined up right after this one.

“When are you looking to start production?”

“Soon. We want to be wrapped and done with post in time to catch some of the festival season next winter.”

Fuck. For one, my pathetic, self-funded shorts don’t qualify me as an experienced filmmaker, and even I know that timeline is bonkers.

Two, that means he’s probably looking to start shooting within the month.

There’s no way I can get the money in time.

Asking my parents is out of the question, and my friends have already done too much for me, putting me up and covering me on the months I couldn’t make ends meet.

I’ve been paying rent under the table to Grace the last few years, and she’s spotted me more times than I care to admit.

A loan would be my only option, but I don’t even have a credit score.

“Too soon?” He raises a brow.

I don’t want to say yes, but I also don’t want to waste this man’s time. My mind whirls through all other possible avenues I can think of, and comes up short.

“I’ll see what I can do,” I say.

There’s a hint of skepticism in his eye, reminding me of when my business school professors knew I was bullshitting my way through an answer, before I dropped out, but he nods, offering a polite smile.

“No worries. You don’t have to decide today. Just keep me in the loop.”

“When do you need to know by?” I say, as if this collaboration isn’t already as dead as Johnny Depp in A Nightmare on Elm Street.

“Call it August 15th.”

That’s just over two weeks from now. I try not to let my devastation show on my face. So much for getting a foot in the door. I’m gonna be flipping burgers before I know it.

“Sounds good, Miles. I’ll let you know.” I stand and push my chair in, scooping up my notebook. He nods, and I try not to look too much like I’m fleeing as I leave the table.

I’ve just stopped to consider eating my feelings via an almond croissant on the way out when my phone vibrates. Frowning, I pull it out of my bag. It’s my mother. She almost never calls. I brace myself. Fully expecting a family death, I lift the phone to my ear.

“Hey, mom.”

“Frederica, I need you home immediately. Don’t look at the news. There’s been an incident.”

So much for manifesting my perfect day.