Semi-Scripted: A Wanderlove Novel Read online

  Semi-Scripted

  A Wanderlove Novel

  Amanda Heger

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2016 by Amanda Heger

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition November 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-302-3

  Also by Amanda Heger

  Wanderlove Novels

  Without Borders

  For Jamie, my favorite sister.

  Day One

  From a distance, Marisol could only make out a shaggy gorilla, giant yellow bird, and diapered adult baby. But by the time she reached the game show studio, the line of would-be contestants snaked from the door, down the sidewalk, and out into the parking lot. In front of her, a man in a purple unicorn suit swished his tail against her kneecaps. Behind her, a group of middle-aged women in florescent pink and green shirts clumped together, fanning themselves with handwritten signs and checking their bright green lipstick in a compact passed from person to person.

  “I promise it is not too revealing.” Marisol looked toward the white-blue California sky as she held the phone to her ear.

  “Just promise you won’t have a wardrobe malfunction onstage.” Even from across the Pacific, her mother’s voice carried more than a hint of desperation. And two hints of anxiety. Marisol still couldn’t understand why this—a few hours on the set of her favorite game show—seemed to worry her mother more than anything else.

  “I promise. I am being very responsible.” And she was. She’d traded in her long-held plan of wearing a red and green bikini and a string of multicolored Christmas lights for a costume. Instead, she’d opted for a boring black T-shirt, snooze-worthy black jeans, and a pair of insomnia-curing cat ears. She’d even left the tail behind in her hotel room.

  “I know you are, Mari. I’m so proud of you.”

  Marisol felt a million things about this trip, but not one of them was pride.

  “I have to go now. They’re here.” She closed the tiny flip phone—a pay-as-you-go she’d bought when she’d stepped off the plane at LAX only a handful of hours before—and jammed it into her bag.

  An army of women with clipboards marched through the crowd. The Who’s Got the Coconut staff. Their tennis shoes clomped against the blacktop of the parking lot, and a murmur trickled through the crowd behind them. Each wore a stark white T-shirt with a drawing of a coconut across the front. Smiling from the center of each coconut—and directly between each woman’s breasts—was the host of Who’s Got the Coconut, Sammy Samuelson.

  One of the women pushed her way along the edge of the crowd, her gaze shifting steadily between the clipboard and the salivating game show hopefuls. Marisol pulled her sign from between her knees, ignoring the fact that she smacked the unicorn’s ass on the way up.

  BIRTHDAY QUEEN. She’d written the words in the same bubble letters she’d drawn for years, ever since she was thirteen and watching reruns of the show in her doctor’s office.

  “Hello? Hola. Today is my birthday.” She flipped her hair over one shoulder and put on her brightest smile.

  The woman remained expressionless and marched on, stopping in the sparse shade of a palm tree at the edge of the lot.

  “Is this your first time?” the purple unicorn asked. His horn was covered in silver glitter that rained down on the pavement in front of them.

  “Yes. I should have gotten here earlier.”

  “Naw. If you don’t have a ticket, it doesn’t matter when you show up. They pick from the crowd at random to fill the extra seats. All those suckers been here for three hours already, but they probably won’t get in.” More glitter showered them both as he shook out his mane. “I keep telling Ted that—he’s the one up there in the diaper—but he never listens.”

  “How many times have you been here?” she asked.

  “Every Monday and Wednesday for the last year.” His grin was wide and proud, and the perfect circles of purple blush on his cheeks crinkled with the movement.

  Marisol imagined the prizes he must have stored somewhere in the back room of his house. A treadmill with a dozen settings no one could figure out, three sets of golf clubs, fourteen washer and dryer combos.

  “Even got in once,” he said. “About three months ago.”

  “Once?”

  He nodded. “Maybe today will make two, huh?”

  The Who’s Got the Coconut woman made her way toward them again, eyes narrowed as she stared down at her clipboard. Marisol exhaled. This was it. The show’s website said they tried to let in contestants who were celebrating special occasions. A birthday had to qualify. Marisol crossed her fingers and prayed this woman with the sweaty face and magical clipboard would let her in. Then she would have one big, mind-bending adventure as a contestant before she had to buckle down and focus on why she was in California in the first place.

  “You. Unicorn. You’re in.” The woman blew her bangs from her forehead and took the mythical creature by the elbow.

  “Excuse me,” Marisol called after her. “Excuse me, today is my birthday.”

  “Sorry. The unicorn was my last spot. Try a more unique costume next time.”

  The last of her hope circled the smoggy Los Angeles drain as the crowd began to dissipate. Scowls marked the faces of fuzzy dragons, and the man dressed as a baby pulled a flask from his diaper. For a moment, Marisol considered asking him for a swig to wash away her sorrows.

  Instead, she followed the crowd down a wide alley and then along a fenced-in parking lot. Mercedes after shiny Mercedes filled the spots, and she tried to imagine which television star belonged to which vehicle.

  That one is Sammy Samuelson’s. No, that one? Maybe that one with the funny—

  “Watch it!”

  Her right foot slipped out from under her. Then her left. Her butt smacked the pavement, and everything became a mess of feathers and expletives—some Spanish, some English. When they stopped, she lay on the ground beside a man dressed as a peacock.

  A very large, very angry peacock.

  “I said watch it.” He sneered at her through the cutout below his beak. “Dumb bitches never look where they’re going.”

  Marisol stood and dusted off her pants. “Excuse me?” This was too much. Being turned away from the show. Falling on her butt in front of all of these people. Then being verbally assaulted by a man dressed as a peacock. On her birthday. “It was an accident.”

  A small crowd had gathered around them, a mix of pedestrians and game show rejects staring at the tiny Latina and the fallen bird—who was still rolling on his back, unable to stand because of the weight of his tail feather display.

  “Can somebody give me a hand?” He looked at the crowd.

  She waited, arms crossed against her chest. No way she was going to help. In fact, she quite enjoyed watching him roll and grunt on the ground, the beak flopping over his face each time he moved.

  “Buenas dias.” She stepped around him in long, quick strides, determined to make it back to the hotel without another man-bird related incident.

  Footsteps scrambled up beside her, and Marisol whipped around. “You are a grown man in
a leotard. Leave me alone.”

  “I am?” An unfamiliar face—human, definitely not animal—looked back at her. “I knew I was a little color-blind, but—”

  “Sorry.” She shook her head. “I thought you were someone else.”

  “Happy birthday, by the way.” His brown eyes were a bit sleepy and framed by dark glasses. He had a bit of stubble along his jaw. Like he’d crawled out of bed ten minutes ago, with no time for coffee or shaving.

  “How did you know?”

  “I assume you’re the queen?” He held up her hand-painted BIRTHDAY QUEEN sign in one hand and her cat ears in the other. “And this is your crown? Personally, I would have gone with jewels, but to each their own.”

  “Oh.” She took her props and stuffed them into a nearby garbage can. Her mother had been right. Trying to cram a visit to Who’s Got the Coconut into the first day of her trip was an irresponsible thing to do. She needed to be settled into her hotel room and practicing for tomorrow’s interviews. With a twenty thousand dollar grant on the line, Marisol knew she had to be at the top of her nursing game. And her volunteer coordinator game. And her don’t-let-my-family-down game.

  “Wait. How about a birthday present?” With three long steps, the guy was beside her. He held out a green wristband. “A free ticket to see So Late It’s Early.”

  “So late what?” Maybe it was a new game show. Maybe she’d walk out of the studio with a new car. Or a boat.

  “So Late It’s Early.” He pointed at his gray T-shirt, where a cartoon sun poked over a jagged horizon. “A talk show.”

  “No prizes?”

  “Sorry, no prizes. But the warm-up comedian sometimes gives out candy.” He slipped the band onto her wrist before she could say “yes” or “no”. “Make a right here and someone will scan your band at the holding area,” the guy said.

  The mid-afternoon sun reflected off the pavement, and sweat beaded along her hairline. The conference hotel was at least an hour-long bus ride from the studio. Plus, she still had to unpack, iron the wrinkles from her suit, and try to get some sleep before her interview tomorrow. The voice of panic settled into the back of her mind, filling it with words like responsibility. Restraint. Face of the organization. Bankruptcy. Sitting in the studio audience of a television show she’d never even heard of would be an epically stupid decision.

  “This way? Through those gates?” she asked.

  “Yep. Enjoy the show. And happy birthday.”

  With every step Marisol took, she intended to veer away from the studio and toward the bus stop. But she walked on, winding her way through the velvet ropes and picturing a set full of overstuffed furniture. There’d be air conditioning and candy. And maybe an up close and personal experience with a celebrity. On the plane, she’d spent two hours watching Delta Airlines’ Patriot Ninja Fighter special. In her dream world, she’d end up sitting primly on a couch, surrounded by shirtless game show ninjas as they fed her birthday cake.

  She stared at the line of people on the other side of the gate. This was not her dream world.

  A man and woman in beige shorts stared into space while the teenagers beside them stared at the phones in their hands. Twin girls who looked about Marisol’s age hooked their arms around an elderly woman. The woman’s walker was covered in streamers, and a balloon floated from a string attached to one of the handles. BIRTHDAY GIRL! it read.

  “Wristband?” a brunette with too much eyeliner asked.

  “Oh. Sorry. I think I have made a wrong turn.”

  “So Late? This is the right line.” The girl scanned her wristband. “They’ll send someone to get you in a few minutes.”

  Marisol barely heard her. Her mind was occupied not with the old woman or the surly teenagers, but with the group of people at the very front of the line. Their obnoxious pink and green T-shirts hurt her eyes, and she would have recognized them even if there wasn’t a grown man in a diaper and bonnet standing directly behind them.

  “I am in the wrong place.”

  The elderly woman in front of her turned, her walker clomping with every tiny movement. “They always let in the freaks that didn’t get into the game show next door. Back when Jimmy was here you had to be classy to get into the studio. None of this”—she waved her hand at the over-excited teenagers and the teetering baby—“disgustingness.”

  “Now, Gran. We talked about this.” The girls turned their grandmother forward, the walker making everything happen in slow motion. Sorry, one of them mouthed.

  “Welcome to the So Late It’s Early Show. My name is Evan,” a voice boomed from the front of the line. Marisol stood on tiptoe and craned her neck. It was him. Wristband Guy. Standing on a chair and holding a megaphone to his lips. “We’re trying to fill the audience, so stick with us for a few more minutes and then we’ll let everyone into the studio. In the meantime, I’ll be around with some sticky notes and a bin for all your cell phones. They are not allowed in the studio. Thanks for your patience.”

  Three minutes later, Marisol’s mind was still spinning as he stood in front of her.

  “Hi, Betty.” He waved to the elderly woman. “I guess you left all your electronic devices at home today.”

  “Sure did,” the woman answered.

  “Hey, the birthday girls found each other.” He leaned in closer to Marisol. “It’s not really her birthday, but she thinks it is. Phone?”

  She stared at the sticky note and pen in his hand. “I am not going to stay.”

  “Why not?”

  Because she’d never seen this show? Because she had other things to do? Because what kind of television show couldn’t even fill its studio audience without pilfering from the game show next door?

  “Look Gran!” One of the twins pointed over the other’s shoulder. “There they are.”

  Marisol turned in the direction of the woman’s wide-eyed excitement. A long white van pulled into the nearest fire lane. A giant bald eagle in a ninja mask graced the side, flapping its wings around the gargantuan letters. PATRIOT NINJA FIGHTER. The door slid open, and two brawny, muscle-bound ninja hopefuls walked straight into the studio.

  “They are the guests?” she asked.

  Wristband Guy nodded.

  When was she ever going to get another chance to see the inside of a television studio? And an hour or two of fun before she had to buckle down wouldn’t hurt anything, right?

  Marisol dropped her cell phone into the container. “Happy birthday to me.”

  • • •

  When the congratulatory “You’ve Been Selected for an Internship at the So Late It’s Early Show” email showed up in his inbox a few months ago, Evan had been granted the prestigious title of script intern. For the first two weeks, he put in a few hours at the copy machine and a few more hours running scripts all over the studio, getting lost among the maze of nondescript rooms and closets. Every time he dropped a thick stack of papers in the writers’ room, a buzz ran through him.

  If he played his cards right, one day that could be him. After all, So Late It’s Early was slated to be a pioneer in the late-night arena. No real competition. A witty host with a cult-like following. A slew of brilliant writers, poached from some of the best network comedy had to offer. Rumor was that James had never been asked to audition for the show. His legion of unrelenting fans had uncovered the location of the auditions—a comedy club down a back alley in Santa Monica—and begged James to show up uninvited.

  Apparently it had worked.

  Kind of. Until the ratings hit.

  The show began to drown. They were probably still number one in the eighteen to twenty-five stoner demographic. But the critics hit hard and fast, and each article was like a wave of icy saltwater filling the show’s collective lungs.

  James January: The Biggest Flop Since Donald Trump’s Comb-Over.

  So Late It’s Early? More Like So Late It’s Over.

  And Evan’s personal favorite, Patty Duke Spanks James January Every Night: Affiliates Choose Reruns Ove
r So Late It’s Early.

  The other interns started jumping ship. Then the writers. A mess of production assistants. A month into his internship and the show was being renewed on a week-to-week basis. Which was why today’s celebrity guests were a couple of “ninjas” with IQ scores lower than their body fat percentages. It was also why Evan’s duties had expanded to luring audience members into the studio, scouring the Internet for old videos of celebrity guests, and setting out food in the green room.

  And today, he found himself dropping off a tray of protein shakes for tonight’s esteemed guests, Tim and Tony. They’d requested three flavors: chocolate, banana, and chocolate banana. In frosted glasses with green twisty straws.

  “Do you guys need anything else?” he asked.

  “When do we go on?” one of them grunted.

  “After the monologue and the main comedy piece. It’s like…” He glanced at the monitor, which gave a live feed of the show. Currently, James was mid-monologue, and the guys’ glazed stares said they weren’t following. “Don’t worry about it. Someone will come get you when it’s time.” He unmuted the volume on the television.

  “Did you hear about the truck that overturned in South Dakota this afternoon?” Onscreen, James leaned in to address the camera directly. “Hold on. Do people really live in South Dakota? Where is that anyway? Shite. Can I say that one? Probably not.” He shoved his bony middle finger up at the camera. “Anyway, truck overturns in South Dakota and spills five hundred pounds of McDonald’s french fries all over the highway. Cops arrested the driver for driving under the influence. Said he’d been dipping into the Special Sauce.”

  Evan groaned.

  “I don’t get it,” one of the Patriot Ninja Fighter guys said, producing a white powder from a bag and dumping it into a bottle of water. “Protein powder. Don’t worry.”

  The door swung open, and Julia bolted in with her usual air of crisis and caffeine. She’d been promoted three times in the last two weeks, from writer to head writer to producer. Evan wasn’t sure if she was a genius or on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Maybe both.