As for those thugs sprawled out on the ground, Maya didn't spare them another thought. They'd live — she knew that much. A few broken bones, maybe a cracked skull? For the lowlifes of Hell's Kitchen, that was practically an occupational hazard.
What she was thinking about was whether to dock William Beck another ten influence points tomorrow. This was already the second time he'd tried to jump her.
Those two Black classmates were two grades above her and already in high school — they'd helped her earn her stripes the hard way. As for the blond kid Morris? He'd had it worse. This was the fifth time he'd tried to ambush her — and the fifth time he'd ended up knocked cold. The skinny Black kid named Max? Maya had zero memory of him. She filed him away as irrelevant and moved on.
"Forget it," she decided. "They gave me enough material to laugh about for the next half month. A street-thug Avengers? Seriously. William and his crew should quit the gang life and go into stand-up comedy."
She found herself wishing she had a cell phone to record them — something to show Nick Fury in ten-odd years. Maybe she could even charge him a licensing fee. Maya chuckled to herself, a little shameless about it.
She pushed open the front door and was immediately greeted by Jack's voice holding court.
"The Weinstein brothers leaving Disney — that was entirely the brothers being forced out by Michael Eisner. Miramax's shares are practically all in Walt Disney's hands now. If those two brothers don't want to spend their careers working for someone else, walking out is only a matter of time."
Jennifer looked up when Maya came in, cutting the conversation short. "Hey, sweetie — how come you're home so late?"
Maya hung her backpack in her room. "A classmate had a problem with his eyes. I stopped by to check on him this afternoon." She turned back. "What were you two talking about?"
"Ha! Maya, congratulate me!" Jack's face lit up. "I've got a real job!"
Maya tilted her head. "Oh — so you finally gave up on the directing dream?"
Jack's excitement faltered. He looked as if he'd taken a punch to the chest.
"No — the Weinstein brothers just broke away from Disney and they're building their team from scratch. I'm officially a contracted director now! Harvey Weinstein is basically the godfather of the indie film circuit. Give it some time and I might actually direct my own feature!"
Jack had finally escaped being stuck as a script editor, and the joy on his face was genuine.
Maya was even more confused. She knew who Harvey Weinstein was. She just couldn't figure out why someone like that would look twice at Jack.
Not that she was writing off her own stepfather — but objectively speaking: Jack had never directed a single film on his own. He didn't even have any assistant director credits to his name. His best shot was having his name buried somewhere at the end of the credits roll for a movie that hadn't completely bombed — and even that depended on whether the producer felt generous enough to acknowledge his script work.
In Hollywood, no one writes a screenplay alone. Someone pitches the concept, and then a whole team of editors descends on it — one rewrites dialogue, another punches up the jokes, a third reworks the set pieces. If the lead writer was magnanimous, he might tack your name onto the end of the credits list. Most of the time, though, Jack just cashed his check and walked. No screen credit. No rights. Nothing.
Noticing Maya's expression, Jack coughed awkwardly and explained. "You know that script I wrote — the one based on you? A famous French director liked it and he's moving forward with production. Decent cast, too. That's what got Harvey Weinstein's attention, apparently. He figured I had something worth backing."
"You mean Manhattan Supergirl?" Maya's expression darkened slightly.
A few years back, when Maya had been tearing through competitions and racking up awards across New York — and beyond — Jack, unlike Jennifer who had no idea what any of it meant, understood exactly how significant those wins were. International science olympiads. The kind of competitions most kids would consider a lifetime achievement just to qualify for, let alone place in. And Maya had medaled in math, physics, chemistry, and biology — competing against high schoolers from around the world while still in elementary school.
Jack had quietly decided that his stepdaughter was every bit as gifted as Tony Stark — and that was a man who swapped celebrity girlfriends like most people changed shirts.
So he'd written a screenplay. All about Maya — lavishly, flowery, over-the-top complimentary. How she'd been such a precocious, hardworking child. How she'd clawed her way up from difficult circumstances to earn honors most people couldn't accumulate in a lifetime.
Maya had blushed through the whole thing. "Too much," she'd kept saying. "Way too flattering. Please don't write it like that." But she'd also kept reading, page after page. And when Jack submitted it to studios, she hadn't said a word to stop him. She hadn't had time to stop him. That was all.
The English title was Manhattan Supergirl.
Now, perched on the couch, Jack was practically glowing as he said: "Maya, you will not believe who the director is. Only one of France's most legendary filmmakers — Luc Besson."
The name hit Maya like a cold splash of water. She had a very bad feeling.
"You already sold the script?"
Jack nodded proudly and held up five fingers.
"Fifty thousand dollars?"
"…Five thousand dollars. But Maya, that's actually a solid deal for a first script. And if the film does well, I might even get an Oscar nomination — and my name is first in the writing credits this time!"
He pressed on: "Oh, and I spoke to Director Besson personally — he's giving you an audition for the lead role. Maya, you could be a movie star!"
Jennifer jumped in, delighted: "Really?! If Maya's playing the lead, can I play her mother? Maybe this is finally my ticket into Hollywood!" She dissolved into laughter.
Jack's expression shifted into something complicated. "Well — you'd almost certainly get cast as the mother. It's just that… the audience probably won't remember you. The lead's parents appear for maybe two scenes and then they're gone."
Maya's dread sharpened. "Did they change the title?"
"Oh, right! Besson did a bit of a rewrite. The new title is something like… Léon… or something like that? But don't worry — it's just a minor adaptation."
Maya: ┑(￣Д￣)┍
A minor adaptation. Sure. Don't worry. Absolutely.
She'd been completely betrayed.
Jack, please — give up on the directing dream. I'm telling you, painting has a bright future. You'd be great at it. Really.