Astrid sighed. “Okay, as great as it’s been making fun of Everett . . . and to clarify, I find that deeply enjoyable . . . maybe it’s time to—I don’t know—do our jobs? Everett, why aren’t you dressed?”
Technically Everett was dressed, in jeans and a T-shirt, but what Astrid meant was that he wasn’t in costume. Not that he wore a superhero costume or anything, but he did have a look for the show. One that (he hoped) said I’m a professional adult, but I’m fun. I’m educational, but I’m creative. Kids like me, but I’m not a kid.
He pulled on the navy blue cardigan he’d thrown over the back of his chair. “Done. Dressed. Let’s do this.”
Astrid rolled her eyes. “This is why women write you emails. Because you dress like hot Mr. Rogers. Why don’t you wear a red cardigan and make the homage more obvious?”
Everett bristled. “I would never. The man is a legend, and it would be disrespectful to invite the comparison.”
Astrid shook her head and followed Jeremy out the door to set. Everett drummed his fingers on his laptop, thinking about reading through the email one more time, but decided against it.
Astrid poked her head back in the room. “Hey, before I forget. . . . I have to talk to you about something later. Not related to your love life, thankfully.”
“Can’t you tell me now?” Everett asked.
“Nope!” Her voice carried as she walked down the hall. “Later!”
Everett sighed, his mind running through the possible bad news it could be. Was he fired? Doubtful. The show had his name in the title. Was the show canceled? Astrid was in way too good a mood for that to be happening. Budget cuts? Possible. Probable, even.
He sighed again. Okay, he’d read the email one more time.
* * *
—
AFTER FILMING ENDED for the day, Astrid caught Everett while he was still sitting on the couch. “Hey, you have a second?” she asked.
Everett looked around them. They weren’t alone—people were still walking around set, even though no one was paying any attention to them. “How much are they cutting it?”
Astrid coughed. “What?”
“The budget,” Everett said.
“Oh. Oh!” Astrid barked out a laugh. “You thought this was bad news. Wow. Okay.”
Everett sat still for a moment as Astrid laughed. “Uh, Astrid? Filling me in right now would be great.”
She wiped her eyes. “Right. Okay, well, this is the opposite of bad news. I got a call from the Imagination Network—”
“You what?” Everett cut her off. The Imagination Network was the biggest children’s production studio in the country, a place so out of his reach that he’d never dreamed he might be able to work with them.
“Yeah. They saw the show, and Everett . . . they liked it. They really liked it. In fact, they want to meet with you.”
“They want. To meet. With me?” Everett sounded the words out slowly, like they were a language he was just learning.
Astrid nodded. “Yep.”
“About . . . the show.”
“No, about your illustrious burlesque career. Yes, about the show!” Astrid took a sip out of her thermos, which Everett knew was full of herbal tea. Astrid never needed caffeine; she was permanently in the state that most people could achieve only via coffee. The only thing she ever needed from a beverage was the ability to calm down.
“I can’t even focus on how you made another joke because holy shit,” Everett said slowly, sprawling back on the couch.
“My thoughts exactly,” Astrid said.
“So . . . what’s happening? Are they coming here? Do we have a phone call?”
“They’re gonna come here to talk to you,” Astrid said. “And provided things go well, they’ll fly you out to see their studios after that.”
Everett exhaled.
“Ev,” Astrid said, meeting his eyes, “this is a big deal.”
“I know,” Everett said, looking back at her. If this worked out—if the Imagination Network liked him, liked the show, wanted to work with him—then all of this would be worth it. The fact that he was unable to sustain a real romantic relationship. The fact that he always turned Natalie down when she wanted to hang out. The fact that he was a thirty-year-old man who spent 95 percent of his social time with his family. If his nonstop focus on work paid off, instead of flaming out in a few years when some better show came along and parents and kids grew tired of him, then he wouldn’t have that persistent voice in his ear whispering, Something is missing. This was the something.
Although Everett clearly idolized the classics, the Imagination Network was responsible for most of the innovative children’s programming happening right now, at this moment. Their shows were never flashy, trendy, or focused on selling kids some shit they didn’t need. They wanted to help kids grow, not turn them into consumers. And their focus was on all kids, specifically low-income children who might not have access to preschool or fancy after-school programs. Everett cared about every kid, but he knew that working with the Imagination Network would help him reach the kids who really needed programs like his, shows that helped them work through their feelings and told them that it was okay to ask questions, be confused, even be angry sometimes. His heartbeat quickened as he thought about what it would mean for the show, for the kids, if Everett’s Place had a national audience. This was what he’d been working toward ever since that day Jeremy and he had started making the show in his parents’ attic.
And then he thought about how he and Astrid had been working together for so long, how she was the one who kept them all on schedule, how the show would never be what it was without her, how he would never be anything without her, and all of a sudden, he was overcome with gratitude.
“Come here,” he said, leaning forward to envelop Astrid in a hug.
“Okay,” she said into his shoulder. She stiffly patted him on the back. “Uh, thanks.”
He leaned back. “Thanks for making this a great show, Astrid.”
She looked at him and he thought, for a moment, that he could see some sort of tenderness in her eyes. But then she frowned and said, “Good news makes you emotional, huh? Go hug Jeremy, you weirdo.”
18
Dear Theodora,
First, I should address one thing: nothing is too personal to email about. You’re talking to someone who sees the innermost thoughts of small children every day, and they rarely have a filter. This email is barely personal when compared to the things a four-year-old will tell you about their toilet habits.