The Show Must Go On

Chapter Twenty-Eight: Call Me a Fool

Chapter Twenty-Eight Soundtrack: Call Me a Fool by Valerie June and Carla Thomas

God, I'm hungover.

I scheduled the party for Saturday to avoid exactly this problem, but karma has not rewarded me for my foresight. Karma is punishing me, in fact. I must have been very, very evil.

Nas throws a packet of Paracetamol to me. It sails past my head and flops uselessly against the wall. For a moment, I imagine leaning over, picking it up, and swallowing a pill, but I feel vertigo from the thought alone. Instead, I drop my head into my arms and wait to die.

'Eleanor!'

'Shhh.'

'Eleanor.'

'What?'

'You're drooling.'

'I defy you to prove that in a court of law.'

'You're drooling on Kehinde's new script and I'm supposed to read it next.'

'It'll dry.'

A chair squeaks, and then comes the dreaded sound of his footsteps. They stop.

'Eleanor. Drink some water, for God's sake.'

The expression on my face must truly horrify him. He laughs so hard that he nearly chokes, which he richly deserves.

'How is the script, anyway?' he asks, once he unfortunately recovers.

The question, though, is enough to pull me from my sulk. 'The script,' I tell him enthusiastically, 'is brilliant. I'm hanging to hell and it's enough to keep me awake.'

'Oh, really?' he insincerely asks. 'Are you hungover?'

I am sorely tempted to spit on the script before handing it to him, but it's too good. I settle for a menacing scowl. His fingertips brush mine as he leans between our desks, taking it from my outstretched hand, but I don't notice or react or think that means anything, because I'm hungover but I'm not an idiot.

The studio sent over the main pack designs this morning: key characters, backgrounds, props, a way of working I've never experienced before, but one that makes the whole creative process feel more alive, more reactive, than waiting to see photos from a set. Listening to Nas talk about it—about the waterfall production process allowing us to keep changing throughout, iterating, to find an idea partway through that can rework the finale's visual language - has shone a new light for me. I've never worked like this before, and I've never worked with him like this before. But I think I like it. And I think the show will be pretty good, too. Great, even.

Nas's tongue pokes out between his teeth as he reads. I've hardly done anything this morning, so I allow myself a moment to stare at him. What's the harm? His glasses slide slowly down his nose, his cream shirt clings to his shoulders, and the muscles in his forearm tense as he turns each page. Every part of him is new and familiar, both at once.

'By the way,' he says, and now he's deliberately not looking at me. I can tell from his breathing. 'I took your advice and texted some school friends.'

'Really?!' I shouldn't be this excited for him, but I am.

'Don't say it like that.'

'No, sorry, I'm being serious! I think that's great.'

'Eleanor.'

'Yep, and now I'm being condescending. I hear it.'

He chuckles. 'Great, so now that we're on the same page, do you have any tips?'