“Good as new.” Smiling at Sirena, he said, “Time for our rehearsal. See you later, Sally.”
“Sirena,” we corrected him.
“Let’s go, Ellie.” He opened the door wide for me to pass by him.
I locked eyes with Sirena.
“I . . . I’d like to stay with Zelda,” she stammered.
He ignored her. “We’ll start with Fun Fact.” He passed into the rehearsal room and sat on a chair, notepad in hand. He faced the wall of mirrors, caught my eye, and clicked his pen. “Ready?”
Sirena folded her arms. “I’d like to stay,” she repeated, louder.
“That’s fine,” Ben said smoothly.
Sirena and I exchanged a shocked look.
“But before we start, I have something I’d like to say to you, Ellie.” He turned in his chair to face us.
Sirena took a protective step toward me.
“I’m sorry I yelled. You are perhaps the most talented female performer I’ve ever worked with, and it throws me off guard. You’re going places, Ellie. I’m just worried about your soft heart. I want to prepare it—prepare you—for the world out there. You know how Olympic athletes train at high altitudes so running at sea level is easier?”
I shook my head—both because I didn’t know that, but also because I couldn’t make sense of what he was saying. I stepped closer to Sirena.
“Well, I’m hoping if you can handle the man-vibe here, everything out there will be easier. I’m sorry it’s hard. But some day you’ll thank me.”
It was what I wanted to hear, right? That he was sorry? That I was talented? But he’d said it before. And things didn’t get better—they got worse. And then cycled back to this apology part again. I felt trapped in an endless loop.
“I—” I began. I looked over to Sirena who shrugged a tiny shrug as if to say, “What are you going to do?”
I faced Ben. “Thank you. For apologizing . . . But look.” I took a step forward. “If I’m so talented, don’t you want to set me up for success when the improv reps are here? If I can’t be in the cold open because I’m the writer, can’t I at least get credit for the writing?”
In the mirror’s reflection, I saw Sirena nod.
“About that.” He shuffled through his notepad and pulled out the script. “I’ve made some changes. Thought we’d share writing credit.”
I took the script from his outstretched hand and skimmed it.
“Where’s the pilot?” I asked after a minute. I flipped the page over, read some more, then alarmed, asked, “Why did you change the end? These aren’t—you changed parts that were working really well.”
Ben shrugged. “I have more experience than you do.” He smiled benignly.
“We were all in that room, Ben. We all heard that laughter. The pilot part is the best part. I—this isn’t—”
Sirena’s breathing grew louder.
“Look.” He spread his legs wide and leaned his knees on his elbows. “All the best writers work in teams. Poehler and Fey, McKay and Ferrell, Nichols and May . . .”
I was getting tired of arguing with him all the time about our differences in improv philosophy. But all the fire was gone from this script—my script. “I liked it the other way,” I finally said.
“And I like it this way. And I’m the coach.” He shrugged. “Take it or leave it.”
I looked over at Sirena’s face, which had turned into a looming thunderstorm.
“Are you saying if I don’t agree with your changes . . .”
“We’ll cut this cold open and do the one I wrote instead. You’d be in it—you’d play Marcy. I wrote her for you anyway.”
“The team hated that sketch.”
“Not the version we revised after you left.”
I wanted to scream. He had backed me into a corner—either I share writing credit for this terrible new script, or I humiliate myself in his porn-adjacent piece of crap.
Which improv rule was going to help me now?
“You know what?” I said, “I’m not feeling well.” I picked up my bag. “Cramps. You do whatever you want.” I turned on my heel, and Sirena put her arm around my shoulder.
“Asshole,” she muttered.
“What was that?” Ben called lightly.
“I said you’re an asshole.” Sirena turned and faced him. “You’re a jerk. Roger and Dion think so. Everyone on JV thinks so.”
I pulled at Sirena’s sleeve. “Come on. It’s not worth it.”
Ben smiled. “Sour grapes.” He shrugged. “Not everyone can be on the top team. Or can coach it.” He turned to me. “Take care of yourself. See you in the morning.”
“Actually, it’s a free morning, remember?” I said. “I’ll see you