And maybe that’s how we heal, by finding one another.
“I think this calls for a field trip.” She stands up and tugs at my hand. “We deserve some fun, Faith Herbert.”
Dakota’s Tesla SUV is pretty much the closest I’ll ever get to riding in a spaceship. It even drives itself. The future is here.
The production offices and part of the more permanent set are in the warehouse district, close to Ches’s house.
As we pull up, Dakota’s excitement builds. She points out different people and waves to a short white guy with a round tummy, blue hair, and a lip ring who she explains is Margaret’s assistant.
The warehouse doors are open, with two huge trucks backed up to the bay. There are people everywhere. Not Hollywood-looking people, but the kind of people who wear cargo pants because they actually need the pockets. They shout at each other and run up to help lift things without being prompted, while cracking jokes.
“The cavalry has arrived,” says Dakota.
“Wow.”
She nods, recognizing my awe. “Takes a lot of people to pull this thing off. Trust me,” she says, “even the worst TV shows take an army.”
Suddenly my appreciation for every TV show and movie I’ve ever seen takes on a whole new level.
She guides me in through a small side door that has—“Oh my God! ‘The Grove Production Offices’!” I read it off the decal on the door. Immediately my cheeks flush red. “Sorry,” I say. “Fangirl moment.”
Dakota yanks my phone out of my hand. “Passcode,” she demands. I reach over and punch in my four-digit code and she pulls up the camera and snaps a quick selfie of us with the production office sign behind us. “It’s real now,” she says. “It’s been selfied.”
I follow Dakota, pretty much floating, as she takes us down a narrow hallway lined with glass doors leading to bland offices. Dakota opens the door with her name on it and the title Assistant Producer. The only thing inside beyond the desk stacked with papers and a mini-fridge is a life-size cardboard cutout of herself from last season’s promo photo shoot. The cutout has a comical twirling mustache inked on her face and a huge olive-green puffer jacket draped over the shoulders.
“I make a very good coat hanger,” Dakota explains.
“No lies detected,” I respond.
“But I spend most of my time in my trailer. I’ll save that for the end of the tour.”
Two doors down, we pass Margaret Toliver’s name, and I suck in a breath through my teeth.
“Now she,” Dakota says, “is totally worth fangirling over. But she’s not in today. Next time,” she promises.
“I don’t think I could handle a set visit and MarTo”—Margaret’s internet shorthand name—“in one day.”
We pass through a makeshift conference room/what appears to be a former lunchroom to the open warehouse, where diorama-like sets I know so well are configured like little matchbox scenes.
“Lots of shows still film on lots in LA,” Dakota explains. “But Margaret swears Hollywood kills her creative energy. She likes being in the thick of it.”
“The thick of what?” I ask.
Dakota shrugs. “Middle America. Why work so hard to isolate yourself from the audience you’re trying to serve?”
“That’s so smart.” I can’t hide the awe in my voice.
“Can’t take credit for that one. Just another Toliverism gem.”
Dakota walks me through each of the main five characters’ bedrooms. There’s Parker, the volleyball jock from a blue-collar family who lives in a well-kept but modest house. Greta, the rich girl who just wants to go to art school, lives in a huge mansion, is closer to her childhood nanny than either of her parents, and has an on-again, off-again relationship with Reese, who’s played by Dakota. Reese lives with her financial adviser dad in a lush town house. Neither of them are over the death of her mother, and they communicate by slamming doors. Reese is also a bit of a playgirl, which the media has also framed Dakota to be. Then there’s Cody, Greta’s twin brother and the golden boy who’s never good enough. Lastly is Reese’s best friend, Dylon, the rehabilitated bad boy who lives above the motorcycle shop where he works.
“We’ve got each room set up in here, but we’ll be using spots around town for exterior shots like movie theaters and shops and for places like Dylon’s new shop.”
“Since the old one burned down last season,” I say.
It’s like I’m standing in the middle of a dollhouse where the fourth wall has been entirely removed. “This is incredible. What’s up there?” I point to a whole other floor that probably once housed supervisor offices so that whoever ran this factory could check out the whole place with just a quick glance.
“Oh, that’s nothing right now,” Dakota says. “We’ll probably rotate a few sets up there. Maybe for some hospital scenes or something.”
“Hospital scenes?” I ask with a raised eyebrow. “Was that a . . . spoiler?”
“Nice try!” she says. “I’m a seasoned pro. If I didn’t spoil Parker’s faux death last season, there’s no chance I’m spoiling what we’ve got in store for next season. Besides, you wouldn’t try to get me in any trouble, would you, Faith?”
I laugh nervously, because as much as I’m a purist and hate spoilers, last week, before I met Dakota, I would have jumped at the chance of getting an itty-bitty spoiler of next season. But something that feels like guilt settles in the pit of my stomach. I would never write about all this stuff Dakota is showing me on Faithfully Yours, but maybe . . . I don’t know. Maybe it was wrong of me not to at least tell her who I am. Surely she’s at least heard of my blog. The official Grove social media accounts share my recaps all the time. Dakota even posted one of my memes on her Instagram once. Plus, if I don’t tell her soon and she finds out later, all of this could blow up into a much bigger deal than it is.
Dakota leads me past the prop department, where a white woman about my size with wild curly hair wearing nothing but overalls and a fluorescent yellow sports bra sits on the floor surrounded by papers organized like a crop circle. “Corissa!” Dakota shouts. “This is my new friend, Faith.” Dakota turns to me. “Corissa is a good person to know. You make nice with Corissa and Doug over at craft services and your life will be at least ten percent better for it.”
“Hi, New Friend Faith!” She doesn’t even look up.
“Nice to meet you!” I call back.
She glances up to me then. “Oh, hey, you gotta tell me where a girl can find some decent plus-size clothes in this town! It’s like a fashion desert out here.”
I laugh. “That’s one way of putting it. There are a few good places in the Twin Cities,” I tell her. “Even a really cool resale shop called Cake.”
“Mmmm,” she says. “My kind of store. Come hang out with me some time, New Friend Faith.”
“Uh, um, yeah. Grool. I mean, great. Or cool.”
She laughs, sliding a pencil behind her ear and returning to her papers. “Grool.”
“Bye,” I say so quietly only I can hear myself. “She’s so cool,” I tell Dakota as she leads me outside.