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Katie said to tell you she wished she could’ve made it.
Katie said to tell you she wished she could’ve seen you, but she had to get back to Los Angeles.
Katie said to tell you she’s so, so sorry about your dad, and she wanted to make sure you got her card and flowers.
Diana had been telling Wil what Katie said for fully thirteen years. Or, even more often, Beanie told Wil what Diana had told her Katie said.
“Tell her I said to break a leg.” Wil smiled.
Diana started typing, and Beanie patted Wil’s knee, which meant that she’d responded correctly. Versus, say, blurting out,Tell Katie she could give me her number.
Beanie leaned closer. “After this is over, Diana’s going to fly back with Katie to LA for a couple of days. So get ready for a nice long talk on our drive back to Green Bay.” Beanie smiled at Wil with an eyebrow raised.
“I love that for us. Do you want to hash out a rough agenda or stick with the classics?”
Beanie laughed. “I do like the classics, but maybe we could mix it up a bit. After the part where I gently ask you what you’re going to do with the rest of your life, and I remind you that I’m tired of hearing about your TikTok at my workplace from people I try to avoid talking to, then we could try out—and I’m just workshopping this, so do feel free to offer feedback—I don’t know, processing some of our feelings about losing your dad and the love of my life?”
“Oh, wow. Okay.” Wil nodded, staring at the still-darkened stage. “Or, option B, we could talk about Katie’s thing. Our observations and deeper contemplations about what we’re about to witness.” Wil gestured toward the stage. “Enlighten ourselves with the arts.”
“Sure, sure. Except, this is you and me, right?” Beanie leaned back and smiled. “We might as well get a sack of burgers at a drive-through and turn the stereo up super loud.”
“That,” Wil said. “Let’s do that. It’s been working for years. Why mess with our amiable and pleasant mother-daughter bond?”
Beanie pursed her lips. “Your deflection is noted for the record.”
A beam from a hidden projector lit up the screen, and a lush sound system filled the cavernous concrete-walled studio with the opening theme ofMary Wants It.
Wil had seen this episode.
She didn’t follow the show, but she’d watched the two episodes Katie guest directed. The first one was part of last season, and Katie later won an Emmy for it. Wil had watched the Emmys, too, because she made sure to watch all the awards shows where Katie had been nominated. Usually she curled up next to her mom on Beanie’s sofa, a bowl of cheese popcorn between them, reminiscing about when Katie had first seen the Oscars when she was eight. She’d made Diana buy her a trophy from Green Bay Awards and Trophies so that she could practice holding it while giving invented acceptance speeches.
This episode ofMary Wants It,Katie’s second as guest director, had broadcast a couple of weeks ago. It was notable for having aired live, in a continuous take, with no commercials except for a ten-minute intermission. No doubt the producers thought of it asa bit of a stunt, but in the dark of Wil’s bedroom, streaming the show on her laptop, she’d cried.
It wasn’t something Wil was accustomed to doing. Crying at shows or music or movies. It felt weird. And amazing.
Very familiar feelings in the category of Katie Price, Wil remembered. Katie was, and had always been, a weird and amazing person.
The episode was even more overwhelming on the huge screen, which exaggerated the high-definition, hyperreal way Katie had filmed it. The actors seemed to throw off visible energy that wasn’t fully controlled. It felt almost like they would inevitably have to mess up or break, but the longer they didn’t, the more Wil’s throat got tight. It was relentless, and beautiful, and probably would put Katie’s trophy-holding skills to good use this year.
The episode ended. Beanie sniffed and wiped at her cheeks. The lights over the audience stayed low, but the screen light gave way to stage light that was somehow the same color as fall sunlight. The shift brought the press corps to attention, buzzing around their equipment as the audience applauded.
Before Wil could even get ready to anticipate it, Katie stepped onto the stage, tall, as tall as Wil in a pair of stacked heels and an outfit Katharine Hepburn probably had had three of, with high-belted drapey trousers and an understated ivory silk button-down unbuttoned past her sternum. Casual ropes of pearls and soft gold chains layered against her peachy skin. Her dark blond hair—longer than her mother’s and somehow always a little warmer, a little wilder—was caught in a casually disintegrating braid over her shoulder that looked like it had been styled by angels while she was sleeping.
It had been so long since Wil had seen Katie in person that she saw this Katie—waving at the roaring crowd in the artificial autumnal sunshine, her smile glowing—and Wil’s brain supplied a memory, as clear as if it were happening now, of Katie in therealfall sunshine of their senior year of high school, folding up her long legs on the bleachers set up by the football field, a script on her thigh, her hair in a messy braid over her shoulder, watching Wil’s cheerleading practice while she memorized her lines for the school musical.
Then Wil’s throat felt tight again, and she made herself look away for a minute so she could take a deep breath to slow down her racing heart.
It had been a long time since she’d taken those kinds of memories out and thought about them.
The audience clapped and whistled and shouted until Honor Howell stepped onto the stage. Wil looked at Honor with interest, dazzled in spite of herself at this glimpse of Hollywood royalty. The Howells were mentioned in the same breath as the Barrymores, Coppolas, Warners, and Disneys. Members of the Howell family had been breaking the race barrier in Hollywood for a century. Honor herself was the daughter of Gordon Howell, the most famous director in Hollywood for all of Wil’s life, at least, and the first Black man to direct a film with a budget in the $300-million range.
Honor Howell, Diana had explained on the drive south from Green Bay, had made her mark in Hollywood as a “dreammaker.” She’d funded and invested in some of the most well-respected production studios in the world, and her own media corporation, Cineline Carnegie Howell, had recently edged out the Murdochs’ empire, pulling ahead in stock value due in large part to Honor Howell’s impeccable savvy.
Honor’s signature inky bob gleamed under the lights as she waved at the audience with a pair of tortoise-framed glasses in her hand. Her warm, deep brown skin, snatched jawline, and broad cheekbones would mean she remained effortlessly gorgeous for decades. She slid the glasses on as she sat down in one of the chairs.Paired with the glasses, her perfect red sweater and trim dress pants gave her a look that Wil associated with the hardest professor on your college schedule—the one who ended up being a favorite despite handing out Cs like they were gifts.
Katie settled back in her own chair with a command of the space that meant the audience started quieting without being asked. “Everyone!” Katie said at the precise moment the crowd was perfectly calm. “So many everyones are here!”
Boom mics moved like birds over Katie’s and Honor’s heads, but the women didn’t give them even a glance. “You’re very popular,” Honor said, smoothing her hands over her lap. “Aren’t we on your home turf, nearly? You’re a Midwestern girl, if I remember correctly.”