Free Wrong City by Morgan Richter Page B

button-down shirt over stiff, dark
jeans that somehow looked wrong on him: too new, maybe, or too high at the
waist, or maybe Freddie just felt uncomfortable and unnatural in them, the way
Vish felt whenever he wore a suit. Which is what he was wearing today, because
this was a job interview, or something like it, and he wanted to look
professional.
    Freddie had a
receding chin and a thick mustache that swamped his upper lip. When he smiled
at Vish, the mustache moved up to smother his nostrils in brown fuzz.
    “Troy really
talked you up and down, and I have to say, I think she picked a winner.” He
pawed through a mess of loose papers on his desk, picked up a script, squinted
at it, tossed it aside. “I thought I had your book here…”
    There was
nothing on his desk that could possibly be his book, which ran to about six
hundred pages. Vish waited, smiling politely.
    Freddie gave up
the search with a shrug. He smiled at Vish again. “I thought it was really,
really neat. Really… thick. So I guess you’re from India, huh?”
    “Born in
Detroit,” Vish said. “I’ve actually never been to India.”
    “That explains
why you don’t have an accent.” Another smile, somewhat nervous. “You’re a good
writer. You don’t have any television experience?”
    “No. I just
moved here at the start of the year. From New York. I’ve been trying to get a
foothold into the industry, but I haven’t had much luck.”
    “We can set you
up on a trial basis.” Freddie folded his hands together on top of one of the
piles of paper. “We could use another staff writer. I don’t think it’d take you
long to get the hang of our format. Are you familiar with Interstellar Boys ?”
    “Yes, I am. I
think it’s an amazing show,” Vish said. This was only half a lie. He’d watched
the entire series over the past week, streaming it online on his laptop in
preparation for this meeting. They were currently in the middle of the third
season, and the first season, if not quite amazing, had been fun and trashy in
a cheerful and mostly inoffensive way. Troy was great in it, even though her
role as a spaceship commander-slash-astrophysicist wasn’t a meaty one. She was
sexy yet practical, managing to seem plausibly brainy even while scampering
about a spaceship in silver hotpants and matching knee-high boots. The show was
undeniably cheesy, but it was knowing, deliberate cheese with some wit behind
it.
    In the second
and third seasons, though, it had derailed. Vish continued watching with a
sinking sensation as interesting characters stagnated or vanished, as promising
plotlines were abandoned or burdened with nonsensical complications. He’d
slogged his way through the most recent episodes, because of course he’d need
to be familiar with those, but it had been a struggle.
    Season Two was
when the bumblebee girl joined the cast. Kelsey Kirkpatrick, the girl who’d
teetered on the patio railing at that party in the hills the night of the
earthquake. She’d come on the show, bringing her cachet as the star of a number
of tween-oriented films, playing a nubile young stowaway with psychic powers,
and as soon as she appeared, the focus shifted further away from Troy.
    Still, though,
he could write for it, warts and all. Maybe he’d have some positive effect. He
could provide a fresh outside perspective. He’d already scribbled down a
handful of ideas to help nudge the characters back in the direction of the
roles that had been originally established for them.
    “Well, then.”
Freddie smiled at him. “I’m excited about this. Start on Monday?”
    A quick pang of
guilt. Jamie had always been good to him, signing him up for extra hours
whenever he needed them; he should return the favor by giving her more than a
couple days’ notice. “Absolutely.”
    Freddie rose to
his feet and extended a hand. Vish shook it. “Welcome to Interstellar Boys ,
Vish. Good to have you with us.”
    When Vish
emerged from Freddie’s office, Troy