Of those hundreds of scripts, anywhere from two to three dozen would actually be filmed, and of those, only a handful-maybe four, maybe six, maybe as many as ten-would get ordered to series. Each year, the network ordered hundreds of potential new programs, giving writers the thumbs-up and the money to go off and write a pilot script. I had told myself to expect bad news told myself, a thousand times, that the numbers were not in my favor. I pushed my hair-lank, brown, unwashed for the last three days-behind my ears and sat on my bed. If she was the only one on the call, then this was the end of the road: the pass, the thanks-but-no-thanks. “Hold for Lisa Stark, please!” came Lisa’s assistant’s singsong.
In my twenty-eight years, I hadn’t gotten much. I was a woman who’d lost her parents, who’d survived a dozen surgeries and emerged with metal implants in my jaw, the right side of my face sunken and scarred, and an eye that drooped. Please, God, I thought-me, the girl who hadn’t been in a synagogue since my grandma and I had left Massachusetts, who’d barely remembered to fast last Yom Kippur. My jeans and T-shirt felt too small, the sunshine in my bedroom stabbed at my eyes, and the atmosphere felt thin, as if I was working harder than I normally did to pull oxygen into my lungs. I lifted the phone to my ear, feeling like the air had gained weight and my arm was moving through something with the consistency of tar. Bad news, it’ll just be one person from the studio, the executive in charge of the project. If it’s good news, there’s going to be a lot of people on the call, Dave had told me.
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