Semi-Scripted: A Wanderlove Novel Read online

She froze, a sesame ball halfway to her lips. “You have a dungeon?”

  “No. Dungeons and Dragons?”

  She shook her head.

  “It’s a story game about fantasy adventures. Your basic exercise in collaborative storytelling, with an overlay of tabletop combat game.” He crammed in another bite, talking with a mouth full of noodles. “Stop me if this gets too basic.”

  “Okay.”

  He droned on, expecting her eyes to glaze over.

  “Do you make up new characters every time?”

  “You develop them over time. It’s a persistent game world. You gain experience points as you play. Then you use them to improve your character.” He took a deep breath, pulling in every last bit of his D&D knowledge. “My game’s been going on for years. When we last left our intrepid adventures, they’d just finished fighting their way through the temple of the evil Cult of the Ebon Hand.”

  “Ebon Hand?” Marisol stabbed his noodles and took a bite. “What is that?”

  “Okay, hold on.” Julia ground her jaw. “Marisol, do you play Magic the Gathering?”

  “Dungeons and Dragons,” Evan offered.

  “Whatever.”

  “No, but I want to. Do you get costumes?”

  “No,” Evan said. “That would be weird.”

  “That would be weird?” Julia asked.

  Marisol stole another bite from his plate. “These are very good.”

  “This is my new favorite customer!” Edna called out. “You want some more?” She appeared at the table and unloaded half the cart in front of Marisol.

  Evan hid his laugh behind one hand.

  “Let’s take a five-minute break.” Julia strode off without waiting for an answer.

  Marisol came around to his side of the booth and grabbed the remaining shrimp roll. “Sorry, I think I messed it up.”

  “It’s fine. Julia’s kind of stressed right now. She’s wearing a lot of hats. We just didn’t expect you to be into the game. It’s sort of weird.”

  “How long does this game take?”

  “D&D?”

  She nodded.

  Evan leaned back in the booth. Finally, something he’d learned in college was useful in real life. “Usually lasts about seven hours. Three hours of actual play. One and a half hours of sundry delays, and two and a half hours of dick jokes.”

  “I know a lot of dick jokes.”

  Her words caught him mid-drink, and water spewed everywhere. The table. The food. Marisol.

  She shrieked and jumped out of the booth, wiping madly at her dress while her shoulders shook with laughter.

  “Sorry Edna,” Evan called out.

  “What are you two doing?” Julia marched back to the booth.

  “It was an accident.” He waited for her wrath to sharpen. Who knows where she’d gotten that dress, and he’d probably ruined it.

  “Well, do it again for the camera, please. Somebody dry off her face.”

  “Do it again?” Marisol’s eyes widened.

  “Is that okay?” Evan asked. “I mean—”

  “This time you should do it bigger,” Marisol said. “Where is Edna? Wait until she is here and get her too.”

  “Perfect,” Julia said. “Yes. Heighten it. That’s perfect. Okay, let’s go again.”

  By the time they finished taping, he’d recited every fact he knew about Dungeons and Dragons. Three times. And each of those three times, Marisol played a different part. The first take: interested. The second: confused and bored. And by the third take, she’d recited half the facts back to him, as if she were an expert on the game.

  By the third take, she’d also been too drenched to carry on with filming.

  “Great. We’ve got some good stuff.” Julia handed her a stack of napkins the size of a small child. “It’s about time the writers got something right around here. Anyway—”

  Take credit. “I wrote it. I mean, with help from the other writers. And from Marisol because well…” Evan gestured toward her waterlogged dress.

  Julia cocked an eyebrow. “What happened to five middle-aged guys in their moms’ basements? Never mind. We’ll talk about it later. Marisol, we need you to come back to the show tomorrow. Maybe Sunday too.”

  “You do?” she asked.

  “We do?” Evan asked.

  Julia nodded. “We want to shoot a few more of these. Take us through the rest of the week. If you say yes, I’ll make Evan give you a private, backstage tour of Who’s Got the Coconut.”

  “Julia, she’s really busy with the conference—”

  “And Evan I’ll need you to write up some more ideas tonight and bring them with you tomorrow.” The producer gave him a look that dared him to challenge her again.

  Which he wouldn’t, and she knew it. The thrill of seeing his ideas come to life had already hooked him, straight in the gut.

  Marisol’s face stayed unreadable. Her dark eyes locked on his.

  “I know you’re really busy,” he said. “But I’d really appreciate it. We all would. And we can make sure we put a link up to your organization on our website. Right, Julia?”

  “What is it?”

  “A public health organization. It’s really cool. She goes through the rainforest—”

  “Down boy,” Julia said. “Whatever. That’s fine. As long as it’s not some weird fetish website, it’ll be fine.”

  Marisol bit her bottom lip then looked between them. “And I still get the private tour of Who’s Got the Coconut?”

  Julia nodded. “I’ll have Evan talk to our guy over there.”

  “And I can keep the dress?”

  “You can absolutely keep the dress.”

  Marisol took another bite of shrimp roll before she finally put him out of his misery. “Have someone pick me up at my hotel.”

  Day Five

  The second she stepped into the sound stage, Marisol knew she didn’t belong. Around her, staff members in So Late It’s Early T-shirts hastily threw together an art studio, and the set was wall-to-wall leggy blondes, paintbrushes, and easels. The last time she’d held a paintbrush was in primary school, and the last time she’d been a blonde—well, that was an ill-fated month at age seventeen.

  All more signs she shouldn’t have agreed to this.

  “Perfect. You’re here.” Evan’s voice came bounding out from between the blondes before his body did.

  Perfect would have been doing the show last night, getting her tickets to Who’s Got the Coconut, and spending the rest of the weekend locked in her hotel room prepping for the conference. But somehow, she’d been talked into it. Maybe it was Julia’s promise of the backstage tour. Maybe it was the thrill of creating something. Maybe it was the way Evan made her laugh harder each time he spat water everywhere.

  Maybe it was just Evan.

  Long day. You were slap happy. That is all.

  “When do I get my tickets for Who’s Got the Coconut?” she asked. All night long she’d dreamed of winning the elusive grand prize—ten thousand dollars could eke a little more work out of Ahora even if she didn’t come home with the grant—and all morning she’d been up researching and quizzing herself on the prices of household items. Laundry detergent: eleven dollars and ninety-nine cents for fifty ounces. A broom: eighteen dollars and ninety-five cents. Industrial-sized box of tampons: entirely too expensive.

  “We need a little bit to work on that.” He rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. “How about Friday?”

  Friday was the day the grant winner would be announced. After that she’d be free to devote all of her time to scraping her way to the top of the Coconut pyramid. And maybe she’d get to see Evan before she went home. For purely platonic reasons, of course. “Friday will be good.”

  “And I was thinking we could do the backstage tour tomorrow,” he said. “After we finish taping. Is that okay?”

  “Will I be able to touch the Wheel of Terror?”

  “Sure.”

  “How about the Trumpeting Turnips?” />
  “You can touch anything you want.”

  “Anything?”

  He looked at her from the corner of his eye, and a smile fought its way across his face. “Are you flirting with me, Ms. Gutierrez?”

  “Me? Never.” She held out a flash drive. “Here is the information for my posters.”

  He slipped the drive into his pocket. “I can drop them by your hotel on Monday. That way you’ll have them for meeting with James on Tuesday.”

  Now she had plans to see him four days in a row. And maybe once more a week from now. This was not what she was supposed to be doing in LA. She was supposed to be focused on networking and presentations and ironing her suits. Not on the way her stomach flip-flopped when he looked at her that way.

  “Hotel bar?” she asked.

  “Deal.”

  One of the blondes slid by with a paintbrush in hand. Someone had expertly applied a smudge of pink paint across her cheekbone. It gave her a breezy, confident, carefree look. Marisol had once been that girl. Full of confidence, riding the waves of que sera, sera. Until everything at home had gone straight down the toilet.

  In the last couple of days, she’d gotten that back. At least in those hours when she was here and not at the hotel, feeling two sizes too small to fit in there.

  “Evan?”

  “Yep?”

  “Thank you. For bringing me on the show, I mean.”

  He winked. “My pleasure.”

  Half an hour later, Marisol wore another starlet’s cast-off dress and stood under the studio lights. The room smelled faintly antiseptic, like someone had coated the whole place in rubbing alcohol before they’d arrived.

  “Why does it smell like that?” she asked.

  “Porn,” someone said.

  “Porn?” She glanced around, half expecting to see the blondes had stripped off their smocks—and everything else.

  “Sometimes they shoot adult films here. It was all we could get on short notice.” Evan looked away sheepishly. “Anyway, don’t worry. We made sure everything got cleaned this morning before you got here.”

  She cringed. “Do not touch anything, got it.”

  “Also, if weird porno music starts playing from the side speakers, just ignore it. Jerry found a CD, and he won’t stop messing with it.” Evan rolled his eyes.

  “Do not touch anything. Ignore the porn music.” Marisol raised a brow. “Anything else? What am I supposed to do for this part?”

  “This is a good one.” His explanation started off slowly, but with every breath his excitement seemed to build and build. By the end, Evan had gone into hyperspeed English, and Marisol could barely grab on to one word before the next flew by.

  “This one is about you picking up women?”

  “Right.”

  “And all I must do is stand there and hand you these lines?” She gestured to the fishbowl filled with strips of paper.

  “Basically, yes. Think of it like you’re coaching me. But you can always improvise if you want. Don’t feel like you have to stick to what’s on the paper. If you think of something better, go with it.”

  “Like if you need a pep talk because all of the ladies are turning you down?” she asked.

  “Exactly. And I promise, with these lines, they will all turn me down.”

  “Let’s get this show moving,” Julia called out.

  Someone rolled the camera closer, and someone else escorted Marisol and Evan to stools on the opposite end of the stage. The blondes took their places at their easels, and then the red light on the camera glowed.

  James January walked out from backstage, complete with a beret and palette full of paint. “Welcome to Paint and Crank. A true artistic experience, guided by both moi and a baggie of crank.” He handed out individual baggies of a powdery white substance before getting up close and personal with the camera. “Some places limit you to wine, maybe beer if you’re lucky. But not us. Here, we nurture the inner artist.”

  Marisol tried to keep a straight face as the blondes tore into baggies and began rubbing what looked like powdered sugar all over their noses. The camera swung in her direction, and the red light on top shot straight through her shaky wall of decorum.

  “What is going on? Are they supposed to be doing drugs?” She didn’t know whether to laugh or chastise them all.

  “Evan you were supposed to explain this to her.” Julia put one hand on her hip and muttered something to the camera guy. The only words Marisol could make out were “intern” and “hopeless.”

  “I thought I did. Okay, you know those paint and wine things?”

  “No.” She ignored the fact that every face in the room was watching her every move. “I do not think we have this in Nicaragua.”

  “You know what, that’s even better. Go with it.” Evan leaned in closer. Close enough that Marisol could see the tiny scar a half centimeter above his lip. “Just be yourself. And if things get weird—well weirder—just keep it going. You’ll be fine.”

  She nodded. Everything was so much more complicated than she’d expected. And every day seemed to add another layer to balance.

  “This time when the camera turns back to us, I’ll start talking to you. Pretend like it’s just us. Maybe this time, pretend like you’re a drill sergeant?”

  She straightened herself on the stool. “Okay.”

  The camera pointed at them again. “Marisol, I don’t know if these pickup lines will work,” Evan said. His eyes widened, and he looked at her like she might be his fairy godmother.

  Marisol shook the fishbowl in her hands and channeled her inner drill sergeant. “Are you questioning my tactics?” She jerked the bowl toward him. “I have tested every one of these lines. They will work.”

  Evan pulled a slip of paper from the bowl. She recognized the glint in his eye—the one that said he was fighting laughter of his own. She’d seen it at least a dozen times last night, and the familiarity let her relax a little.

  Without another word, he crossed the stage to one of the blondes. The girl slashed a paintbrush against her canvas with her eyes closed. Her arm moved at a superhuman rate, but she stopped completely when Evan approached her.

  “Hey,” he said. “Do you like antiques?”

  After an awkward pause, the girl rubbed her nose. “Yes.”

  “Good, because I’ve got some junk. And no one’s laid a hand on it in years.”

  The girl smacked him with her paintbrush and turned away. Evan slunk back to his stool.

  Marisol licked her lips, trying to keep her giggles under control, and put on her best no-nonsense, take-no-prisoners voice. “You can do better than that, Peanut.”

  Evan broke. “Peanut?” he sputtered. “Do you mean peon?”

  She glanced offstage, expecting Julia to yell “cut” or for the red light on the camera to click off. But Julia stayed quiet, and the camera kept rolling.

  “Are you correcting your superior, Peanut?” Marisol demanded, thrusting another paper into his hand. “Try again. Do not be so awful this time.”

  Evan trudged across the stage to a new girl. This one had apparently done so many fake drugs she’d gained laser focus. She bent over and kept her nose an inch from the canvas as she painted something so tiny no one could see it.

  “Hey,” Evan said. “It would be a lot easier for me to sweep you off your feet if—”

  The girl was enraptured. By her painting.

  Marisol couldn’t resist jumping in. “Do not let her ignore you,” she called across the set.

  Evan nodded and started again, practically screaming this time. “I was saying it would be a lot easier for me to sweep you off your feet if you stood up.”

  Finally, the girl tore herself away from the canvas and straightened, revealing herself to be two heads taller than Evan. And probably thirty pounds heavier.

  “Great,” Julia called out over the laughter on set. “I think that will do it.”

  “Wait.” Marisol waved her hands overhead. “He should really swee
p her off her feet, no?”

  For a minute, Julia and Evan and the exceptionally tall blonde looked at one another without saying a word. Marisol’s throat went dry, and she wished she’d kept her mouth shut. This wasn’t her project. She didn’t know what she was doing.

  “Nice,” Evan said. “We should do it. If it’s okay with you?”

  The blonde shrugged. “Good luck, kid.”

  He grinned and gave Marisol a nod. If anyone had reminded her that thirty seconds ago she’d wished she hadn’t spoken up, she would have called them a pathological liar.

  “Let’s roll,” Julia said.

  Evan started again. “I was just saying it would be a lot easier for me to sweep you off your feet if you stood up.”

  This time, when the Jolly Blonde Giant stood, Evan picked her up like a groom carrying his bride over the threshold.

  “Ooof.” He stumbled, knocking the girl’s feet into her easel.

  The easel crashed into the one beside it, taking out a canvas, a palette of paint, and the blonde holding it. And then she took out the girl beside her who took out the easel next to her, until the entire “Paint and Crank” studio went down like dominos. In the end, only Evan and the girl in his arms were left standing.

  Marisol buried her face in her hands, only half succeeding in containing her laughter.

  “Great job, guys.” Julia helped set the girl back on her feet. “Let’s get this cleaned up, and we can move on.”

  The set fell into chatter as everyone chipped in and began setting things upright. Someone ran out with a rag and a bucket of water and began scrubbing the paint from the floor. Marisol carried her stool offstage, half bouncing with excitement.

  “Good job.” Evan took the stool from her hands. “Great addition.”

  “It was good to begin with. You wrote all of this last night?”

  “And this morning. Not just me either. A bunch of us had ideas and we bounced them around until we found something that would work.”

  He was trying hard, but his words couldn’t mask the pride on his face.

  “You missed one great idea,” Marisol said.

  “Really?”

  The pieces were clicking into place, and all she wanted to do was stay in this moment. To keep laughing and making stuff up. Seeing how far they could go down this really weird rabbit hole. “I should do one. As an example for you.”