Unscripted (20 page)

I swear Alex practically stamped his foot in frustration. “Don’t you get it? Movies, TV, they can be so fake, so plastic. But it didn’t used to be like that. Back then, entertainment had depth. I keep saying we should get some of that into the show, but you won’t listen.”

“So you’ve been doing research into your ‘craft,’” I said, with more than a little sarcasm, as I gestured at the tablet, where the movie was still playing out.

“I’ve seen all the old-time movies, Faith.”

And the ’70s was “old time” since when? God, he was pissing me off. My sarcasm meter stayed in the red zone. “Got a Louise Brooks box set, have you?”

Alex looked at me, puzzled, for a second. Then, in a condescending tone, he said, “That was Louise
Fletcher
in
Cuckoo’s Nest.
”

Things between us bottomed out real fast after that.

* * *

I should have known something was up when the classroom was filled with pings, bings, chimes, and bips from everyone’s phones at the same time. Proud that I had gotten to class early for the second time in a row (not that Mason was there to acknowledge it), I took a last sip of coffee and glanced at my phone, which hummed quietly as it vibrated on the desk. (I had learned my lesson about the ringer after the time Jaya had called in the middle of class.) It was a text from Mason.

“Have to cancel class. Apologies. Please complete work listed in syllabus. See you Friday.”

Seconds later, after all the students read the same text, they gathered their things and, chatting, headed for the door, happy for the unexpected free time.

Before I knew what I was doing, I heard myself say, “Hang on!”

They all turned to look at me.

“Um, okay, so Mas—Professor Mitchell can’t make it, but I’m still here. And I’m, you know, an instructor for this class. So . . . let’s have class.”

The students stayed where they were, looking at me like I’d just sprouted two extra heads.

“Sit down,” I said, pulling myself out of the student desk and taking my place at the front of the room—Mason’s usual domain. Still giving me skeptical looks, they inched back toward their seats. Once they were settled again, I rubbed my hands together and glanced around. “Okay, let’s do this thing. Let’s talk about scriptwriting.”

“You mean, go on from where Professor Mitchell left off last time?” Brandon asked.

I had no idea where Mason had left off last time; I’d nearly fallen asleep and toppled out of my chair, I’d been so bored. So
I
wouldn’t be boring.

“No, let’s talk about what I know best: show business.
Real
show business.”

I was pleased to notice that they actually perked up. Until . . .

“So, like, is Britney Spears, like, on tranquilizers to keep her from flipping out all the time?” Taylor asked eagerly.

“What? No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t even know Britney Spears.”

Again, just as Alice had done in the first class when I denied a torrid affair with Johnny Depp, all the students slouched back in their seats, immediately uninterested.

“I’m talking about the business, not the celebrities.”

“But you
know
celebrities,” Taylor persisted.

“Sure I know celebrities. Big deal. They’re just people. Some are pleasant and some aren’t. Some are angry, or needy, or slutty, or neurotic, or spacey, or, yes, medicated. Some are smart and some are dumb as a bag of hammers. And no, I’m not telling you which ones are the stupid ones,” I added, seeing a couple of them start to speak. “It’s not my job, or my place, to give you the dirty details about famous people. I’m here to talk about writing for the entertainment industry, so let’s talk about it.”

My sharp tone brought them up short; those who were slouching sat up a little straighter, and they all focused on me. That was better.

“If you’re in this class, you probably have ideas for stories kicking around in your head, right? Or maybe you’ve even written some scripts already?” Nods. “Okay, then, we’re going to have a pitch session. You tell me your best idea, the best way you can, and I’ll tell you what sort of response you’d get if you tried to sell it to the suits. How does that sound?”

Now I
really
had their attention. Their nods were more vigorous, and they looked at one another excitedly. Hell, I could do this. This was easy.

“All right then, who’s first?”

More exchanged glances, then Alice said, “Um, some of our ideas are for plays, Ms. Sinclair.”

“That’s okay. A story’s a story. Now remember, I’m going to be completely honest, so no getting offended. I’m going to act just like the money men you’d be facing, no matter what your medium. And don’t forget, you’ve gotta be quick—no blathering, no umm-ing—and you have to make your idea sound strong. Got it? Go!”

They hesitated some more, but finally headstrong Trina spoke up, bless her.

“Okay, I’ve got one. It’s—hey, you’re not going to steal any of these, are you?” she asked suspiciously.

“No,” I said, fighting the urge to laugh. “No, I am not personally interested in your script ideas, I swear.” God, that was the last thing I needed. “You have total confidentiality as of right now. And if you ever see any idea that you mention here in one of my shows, you’re free to sue me.”

That got some smiles out of them, thank goodness.

Trina continued, “So okay. Like Alice said, my idea is for a play. It’s about this dysfunctional family who are all brought together for a long weekend at their summer house. And during the play all the stuff in their pasts comes out, and they fight a lot, and eventually they all make peace.”

Ah, dysfunctional people arguing for two and a half hours. Hello, Mr. Albee. I hated to tell these kids that the same drama had been written and rewritten a hundred times, but I had promised them the truth. So I gave it.

“Derivative. Next.”

“But—”

“Been done. Needs more originality. Next!”

Trina gave me a shocked look as Alice jumped in. “Okay, there’s this teenage girl, right? And she’s got two guys fighting over her—”

“Everybody look up the term ‘derivative.’ And Alice, if the next word out of your mouth is going to be ‘vampire,’ ‘werewolf,’ or ‘shapeshifter,’ you can quit right now.”

“That’s not fair.”

“That’s life in the trenches. Next!”

“Okay, there’s this serial killer—” Brandon started, then paused.

“I’m listening.”

“I was waiting for you to call it derivative.”

“I might. Go on for now.”

“And the tone is really gritty, really dark. And these two people, who were abused when they were younger, go after him—”

I made a buzzer noise. “Too bad, Brandon, you almost had me. Next!”

To my surprise, Michael spoke up. I’d always gotten the impression that he wasn’t sure why he was in the class, or even why he was a theater major. But he said, “Um, okay, this is for a movie?” I nodded. “There’s this comic book that hardly anybody reads, with this cool superhero—”

“DC or Marvel?”

“Marvel, I think?”

“Sold!”

Michael was elated, but Brandon looked mutinous. “Hey, that’s not fair! How come his idea sold so fast?”

“Superheroes. Studios
always
buy ideas for superhero mega-blockbusters. But the suits don’t read all the obscure comics themselves, so they wait for nerds to bring them the ideas that haven’t been used yet. Simple as that.”

“But it’s a stupid idea!”

“I agree.”

Michael suddenly looked affronted that I’d called him a nerd and his idea stupid.

Brandon persisted, “But—”

“
But,
” I interrupted him, “this stupid idea makes good box office here and, more important, internationally. Which makes the studio stupid amounts of money. So Michael will become stupid successful.” He grinned, pleased at that. I think he forgave me for the previous insults. “That, in a nutshell, is the business. Anyone else?”

Elias and Taylor, the only two left, clammed up, probably thinking fast about how they could add superheroes to their earnest or clichéd story ideas.

“Look,” I said, in a softer tone. “I know it sucks. But you can’t give up. You have to come up with a unique idea, and believe in it enough to convince the suits that it’s worth greenlighting. That’s what I did with my show, and that’s what you can do with your idea for a play, or a movie, or even a TV show. Just have the passion, okay? And the conviction. Oh, one more thing,” I added. “If you’re ever in doubt, just tell them your story is about redemption. They never say no if they can latch onto the word ‘redemption.’ Okay, moving on . . .”

* * *

Wow, was I proud of myself. I’d taught a whole class and lived to tell the tale. I had imparted my knowledge, shared my wisdom. What a rush.

I was still on my I’m-changing-lives teacher high when I strolled into the theater building to visit Alex’s acting class. The good mood I was in was even extending to him, and I was willing to give him another chance to change his mind. “This is real”—pfft. Wants to be a student and learn stuff—double pfft. I knew what he liked: money, fame, his gorgeous mug seen by millions in high def every Wednesday night at nine o’clock.

Whatever delusion Alex was clinging to these days was an obstacle I, Faith Freakin’ Sinclair, could easily overcome. The dude in the tweed jacket, physically blocking the entrance to the auditorium, looked like more of a challenge, however.

“Hey, Mr. Professor Mason Mitchell. We missed you in class this morning.” His dark look was seriously compromising my good mood. “Something wrong?”

He crossed his arms. “Mind telling me what all that was about, Ms. Sinclair? The fact that you decided to ‘teach’ today?”

“Oh, you heard, then.”

“I heard quite a bit,” he said in a tight voice. “Especially the part about how you almost made some of the students cry.”

“Whaaat!” I gave him a goofy look to jolly him out of his funk. “That’s a little exaggerated—”

“Ms. Sinclair,” he began, and I knew my attempt at jollying had fallen flat. I was in for a lecture. “I told you I didn’t want you teaching the class just yet. I
told
you I wanted youto—”

“Yeah, yeah, ‘observe.’ I heard you the first hundred times. Look, you asked me to help you teach the class. Be a guest lecturer. Teach the kids about the real world. So I did. And now you’re going to tell me I did it wrong?”

“Yes, you very much ‘did it wrong.’”

“But—”

“You
don’t
speak so bluntly. You
don’t
destroy their ambitions and dreams with a couple of careless, harsh words. And you
don’t
—”

“—Tell them what it’s really like out there? God forbid. So you’d rather keep them in a little academic bubble, then send them out into the real world without any preparation?”

“There are certain
ways
you do that, and your method wasn’t—”

“Look,” I said sharply, cutting him off, “don’t try to keep these kids from finding out the truth early. If I can clue them in and give them an edge, I will. My advice is worth
way
more than hours of touchy-feely hand-holding in a classroom miles away from the industry.”

Mason looked away, his jaw working. Eventually he said, “Were you planning on attending Advanced Acting today, Ms. Sinclair?”

“Yes.”

“I don’t think you should.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said, I don’t think you should observe the class. Go home, Ms. Sinclair. I’ve had enough of your L.A. cynicism for one day.”

I started to protest, but he looked me in the eye again, and I could tell he was deadly serious. Instead of pushing it, I quietly turned on my heel and left the building. I got the feeling that he was watching me the whole time, but I didn’t dare turn around to find out.

* * *

That argument with Mason haunted me that night and all the next day. I was home alone—Jamie was God knew where. Not that I cared; I relished the peace and quiet. Until it got too peaceful and too quiet. Then my mind started replaying our strained conversation outside the theater over and over again. I had seen Mason in a bad mood before—often because of me—but never had I seen him that upset. I kept picturing his furious, but still handsome, face in front of me as I tried to clean the oven, mop the floor, throw out the moldy food in the back of the fridge, anything to stop thinking. I couldn’t get him out of my head.

I flung a lump of something that was more mold than cheese into the garbage can, where it landed with a thud
.
Ugh, this Mason thing was ridiculous. I shouldn’t have been obsessing over it.