THE GREAT WALL OF DIVA

June 2017

Barneys New York

(Wilshire at Rodeo Drive)

“Mercedes is late,” Bentley groused.

Bach shrugged. “Of course Mercedes is late.”

Bent stared across the white-linen-covered bistro table at her sweating brother, who looked as miserable as she felt. Santa Ana winds were blowing in from the desert today, which made the air in the café unbearably hot and dry, even in the shade of the white canvas umbrella over their heads. Regardless, Production had refused to scrap the shoot.

“Production” meaning Mercedes.

So here they were, shooting where the Royce family meetings were always shot: the semi-fabulous rooftop restaurant on the fifth floor of the Beverly Hills store of Barneys New York, known for its killer view.

“It’s hiatus,” Bentley groaned. “Why did she make us come back and shoot a stupid family meeting two weeks into hiatus? When the season’s over, it’s supposed to be over, right?”

“Right,” Bach said, leaning forward in his chair.

“Hold still,” Ted (camera one) said, shoving a mic inside Bach’s shirt collar. Ted was a good guy; he had once come to school with the younger Royces on Grandparents and Special Friends Day. (Mercedes no longer spoke to her own parents and didn’t really do friends, special or not.)

“What did you have to cancel today, Ted?” Bent asked the hulking cameraman. She tried not to look at his pit stains, which now reached almost down to his waist.

“Me? Had a tee time with the crew at Rancho Park.” Ted shook his red dreadlocks (Dred Ted, that was what Bach and Bent had first called him) and puffed out his pink cheeks beneath them. “No big.” That was all Dred Ted had ever said for five years now regarding Mercedes and her last-minute production changes. Dred Ted was a wise man.

“I was supposed to be surfing.” Bach shook his head as Ted dropped the mic cord down his back. “Some guys from my poker club were meeting up at Zuma.”

“You don’t surf,” Bent said, annoyed at the mention of her brother’s poker habit. In the two weeks since the benefit, he’d played every day. He was acting like Porsche did when she fell off the Diet Coke wagon. One day she had given it up—the next, you opened her car door and all the empty soda cans fell out.

“I might have surfed. I like cute boys in wet suits.” Bach shrugged. “Now I guess we’ll never know.”

Mac (camera two) held up a mic. “Your turn, B. Let’s get you wired up.”

Bent leaned forward in her distressed wicker chair. Mac pulled out the tails of her shirt (Ulla Johnson) and ran the cord up her back over her bra strap and bare skin, just as he had most days for the past five years. He knew (and didn’t care) that her bra would be some kind of horrible running bra, just the same way that she knew (and didn’t care) that his fingernails would be black with motorcycle grease. That was the nature of the bond.

Beyond Mac and Ted and occasionally JoJo (camera three), if anyone’s underwear managed to show, there was no one left to notice; the restaurant patio was full of tables and empty of customers, except for Bentley and Bach. Even though it was Sunday, and even though the deck was normally crowded, no restaurant turned the Royce family away—not when they were filming. If the network used the footage, the social media payoff would be huge; people would drive in from as far as Phoenix or Salt Lake City, just for the photo op.

So the tables were held, and the regular people were turned away, making it clear that unknown social media followers who may or may not ever show up to eat were somehow ten times more important than real customers who were already waiting outside. LA ran on invisible rules like that. Sure, there was a whole lot of talk about the freedom of food trucks and taco shacks (carne asada is not a crime!)¹⁶ and how you could wear sneakers (Golden Goose!) and jeans (size zero!) into any restaurant in town—but that was only if you were young and hot and as toned as a free-range chicken.

Or if you happened to be a part of the Mercedes Royce Show.

In a few minutes, Mercedes would be able to pretend to enjoy the view of sky and palm trees and hills—and, thanks to Mac and Ted and JoJo and the rest of the RWTR crew—nobody else would.¹⁷

“I see you broke out the man-bun today,” Bent said, looking back at her brother. “That’s new. I mean, for you.” Bach’s longish gold-brown hair was pulled up and out of his eyes in a kind of stubby, perspiring ponytail that sprouted like a damp mushroom cap on the crown of his head.

Bach reached up to feel for himself. “I know, I know. I’m pathetic. I was going for less of a man-bun and more of a man-doughnut. Seeing as every guy in the room when we were at the Chateau last time had one.”

“Not the whole flock.” Bentley grinned. Talking about the party sent a secret thrill down her spine. She reached her hand into her pocket and held on to Asa’s matchbook, a pleasant reminder that meeting the mystery boy had been real, not a dream.

And that it—he—the night—had been amazing.

Even if I can’t find him on Instagram or Snapchat or Facebook or Twitter or anywhere, she thought, even if he hasn’t found me yet either.

She took the matchbook out of her pocket and held it between two fingers. In blue cursive letters it read Philippe’s. She wondered where Philippe’s was, and if she could find him there. Her search of the matchbook’s origins had turned up few suitably glam A-lister alternatives; all she’d found was a bar in Kyoto, a restaurant in New York, and a chef in Montreal.

“Fine,” Bach said, mistaking her smile for a laugh, feeling for his hair. “So it’s more like a man mini-doughnut.”

“Try doughnut hole,” Bent said, still smiling.

“Stop. I’m already starving.” Bach looked at Ted. “Where are they?”

“Five minutes,” Ted replied, holding up his walkie. “Pam just got a sighting on MRSDIVA.” Mercedes drove a massive white Mercedes SUV that looked like an ambulance; the crew tracked her (for their own safety, Bentley thought) by her unmistakable vanity plate. At least it was better than her convertible, which had the plates MRSMERC. The Mercenary Royce nickname had sprung up as soon as she’d brought it home.

“Wow. Five minutes? That’s almost punctual for her. You know those reality show divas,” Bent added, in a lame attempt to improve her brother’s mood. (Diva jokes were his favorite.)

“Yeah, yeah. Easy on the reality, double down on the diva,” Bach said, with a melodramatic sigh. “Today I starve while last time we shot here I had to eat lunch six times back-to-back. Order, fight, pee, change, repeat. The Diva isn’t just late, she’s cruel.”

“The Diva giveth and the Diva taketh away,” Bentley agreed.

And then, as if they’d somehow conjured her up themselves, the Diva was upon them—and the easy camaraderie of cast and crew instantly vanished.

“Is this the setup I asked for, Teddy?” Mercedes stepped into the center of the deck, JoJo (camera three) scurrying after her. “Is Mac going to tape down these cables? Someone’s going to die here, and I’m going to get sued, and you’re going to get fired—and not in that order.” The crew went scrambling until her path was clear and the surrounding white umbrellas were tipped up, just so. Once satisfied, Mercedes launched herself toward the table, sat, and dropped her bag at her feet.

“God, this weather. Can we set up fans or something? Blow the haze away? Pam? Where’s Pam? And where’s my drink? Hello? Do none of you even show up until I get here?” Her minions went running, which was what she expected and more to the point what she felt she deserved, Bentley knew. Greatness demanded effort, her mother liked to say, not just from herself but from everyone around her.

Effort was an understatement—but great Mercedes Royce was.

Today, if not exactly dazzling, she was something in all white, even in the bleak heat. She was shining. Glaring, maybe. It was her signature color. White suit jacket. White fitted pencil skirt. Cristophe salon blowout. Chunky eighteen-karat collar and cuffs. Rings on her fingers and bells on her toes, Bentley thought. That’s my mama.

Mercedes picked up a waiting mic from the table, tucking the cord expertly behind her lapel, before Ted could take a step toward her. She looked back to the doorway expectantly. “Come on. What are you doing in there?”

Cue the sister.

Porsche, smacking her lips and waving a lip-gloss wand, followed in her mother’s path with less commotion but no less magnificence. As always, Porsche nailed it when they were shooting. Her fitted black Dolce dress—everything black, that was Porsche’s go-to color—dove down between the truly exceptional breasts she had gotten for her sixteenth birthday. Her face was equally impeccable, with utterly flawless, Cleopatra-perfect makeup, and—beneath her enormous custom Parisian sunglasses—about as much eyeliner. Her mouth was drawn with a vibrant rose, huge and lush and glossy.

There was no denying it. Porsche Royce was a marvel, even to her little sister. She was the very definition of femininity, like the armless lady statue in the Louvre. (The one on the stairs that they’d rushed by on the way out, when Bach had to pee.) Or like the ancient whatever fertility goddess on the slide from Bentley’s art history class. On days like today, my sister makes most women seem like men in comparison, Bent thought.

“How do I look?” Porsche pursed her glossy lips.

“Hideous,” Bach said.

“My thong is totally riding up my crack,” she said, unfazed. With that, she dropped her Lippies by Porsche lip-gloss wand and jammed on her mic.

“Lovely,” Mercedes said.

As Diva Number Two sat back, Mac and Ted and now JoJo circled the table with their handhelds, getting into position.

Producer Pam lurked in the doorway, muttering into her headset as a row of waiters lugged fans out to the patio, per Mercedes’s request. (As if they really could blow the haze away!) “Quiet on set,” Pam called out, raising one hand into the air. The waiters froze in place. “And we’re rolling.”

A waiter in an entirely different uniform and with significantly more chiseled cheekbones—probably played by an out-of-work actor—scurried over, holding a tray of drinks.

Mercedes smiled flirtatiously at him. “Wow, that was fast.”

Porsche made a point of ignoring him; she only flirted with herself, or at least people more famous than she was.

“Sweet shackles, Mercedes.” Bach looked his mother over. “Jingle all the way, babe.” Bach was improvising, as usual; he never bothered to read the scripts ahead of time, which drove his mother insane—also as usual.

“Is that any way to talk to the woman who keeps you in Rag and Bone?” Another classic m-word dodge. Mercedes glanced around to make sure the cameras were still rolling, and then grabbed Bach by both cheeks. “Darling boy. Kiss, kiss.” But they were just words. No actual kisses were exchanged. There was entirely too much lipstick involved for that.

She reached for Bent’s hand across the table, giving it a quick-clawed squeeze. “Sorry to keep you waiting, lovey. The paparazzi chased me all the way here. I swear they’re trying to kill me.”

“Whatever,” Bad Bentley said, rolling her eyes per the script—though today’s write-up had been pretty sketchy, even for the RWTR writers’ room. Probably because: hiatus. What the hell were they even doing here on what should have been their time off? She hoped the crew was getting paid time and a half.

Porsche kissed the air in Bach’s direction, as well. He waved her off lazily. “Kiss, kiss to you, too, big sister.”

She tossed Bent her lip gloss. “New color. Lippies by Porsche, Summer Salmon.”

“Ew.” Bent wrinkled her nose (which wasn’t in the script, but in fairness, Porsche’s endless product placements never were either). “Fish-gloss? Gross.”

“It’s a color,” Porsche said, now irritated.

“Plain iced tea,” the waiter said, putting a glass of murky brown liquid in front of Bach. He enunciated carefully as he spoke, which was always what happened when an extra landed a speaking part; they sounded like GPSs. “Muddled mint lemonade,” he continued, placing a glass of white-and-green fizz in front of Bent. The Diet Cokes he slid silently to Mercedes and Porsche, which meant Pam was paying by the line.

Bent picked up her mint lemonade and waited for the latest salvo in the war between her mother and herself over the extra three (two? one?) pounds she carried on her bubble butt, which had become one of this year’s recurring story lines.

Mercedes clucked. (It was her on-camera disapproving mother sound.) “Drink tea, not lemonade, Bentley.”

Bent shrugged. “You know I don’t like plain tea. It tastes like wood.” She stuck out her tongue. Bach kicked her under the table, which he did every time she gave in and stuck out her tongue, as instructed by the Bentley Bible.

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels,” Mercedes said sternly. It was one of her favorite lines, and she had a habit of adding it to every script.

“God, listen to yourself,” Bentley said, scooting her chair farther away from her mother in annoyance. (Another beloved on-camera #RWTR joke.)

Bach drank from his glass. “Skinny doesn’t taste that bad. You get used to it.” This time, Bent kicked her brother beneath the table. Suck-up. He already was skinny—damn him and his Adderall.

“Is that my Diet Coke? Did nobody order me extra ice?” Porsche ate like one of Satan’s hounds guarding the entrance to hell. Strips of flesh and Diet Coke or water, depending on whether she was on or off the soda—her own personal crack.

Nothing else entered her body.

“It’s the weather,” the fake waiter said apologetically, before disappearing in search of ice that could withstand a Santa Ana wind—and a possible second performance. (Bent doubted he would find either.)

“So let’s cut to the chase. Why are we here, Mercedes?” Bach was already shuffling a deck of cards in one hand, beneath the tablecloth. He looked nervous, and Bent realized she was nervous too.

Right from the start, when Mercedes had landed them the show, Porsche was the anointed alpha dog; Bent privately thought of her mother and sister as Thing One and Thing Two. Everything was about the two of them, and they were a fierce doubles act; if the Royce family was Under Mercedes, it was also About Porsche. Which was a pretty scary feeling for the other people in the family—for your own life to never be about, well, you—to be B- or C- or even D-listed by your own flesh and blood. Whereas other families maybe had favorite children, the Royce family had stars and additional cast members. Which, as bad as it might be, felt even worse—at least for the additional cast members.

Bach kicked her under the table. Focus, B. They’re filming.

“Yeah, what he said. Let’s get this party started already,” Bent said. “Before we melt.” She didn’t feel like making a Bad Bentley face, and couldn’t think of a rude enough comment, so she just tried to slurp her lemonade as loudly as she could.

“Absolutely. You’re here,” Mercedes finally said, sitting tall in her seat (Golden string, Mercedes! Golden string!) “…because I have News.”

Hmm. Also not in the script.

“Please say syndication.” Bach was momentarily intrigued. “Please, please say syndication.”

Porsche snorted—not one of her approved on-camera sounds—and put down her Diet Coke with a thump. “Are you kidding? Syndication? Dream on, guys.”

“CUT!” Mercedes yelled.

Mac and Teddy looked at Pam, and then slowly lowered their cameras.

JoJo kept filming. (It was Lifespan policy to keep one camera rolling, in case Jeff Grunburg wanted to go through the footage later. Privately, Mercedes felt like this was just another tactic in the psychological war the two of them waged on each other, the ongoing battle of who worked for whom.¹⁸)

Mercedes turned on Porsche. “Really? Dream on? You just couldn’t keep that one to yourself?”

Bentley raised an eyebrow. Mercedes snapping at Porsche? Is there a crack in the Great Wall of Diva?

“It’s his fault.” Porsche glared at her brother. “We’ve been off track since we started. If you for once ever learned the script—”

“Yeah? At least I’m not the reason we just had to stop shooting.” Bach scowled.

Porsche rolled her eyes. “What was I supposed to say? Syndication? At the rate we’re going, that will never happen. This isn’t Duke of Ducks. I’m not Joelynne Wabash. We don’t have a secret family recipe for duckloaf. We’ll never be syndicated.”

“We don’t know that,” Mercedes began.

“Don’t we? Then how come we haven’t even heard a word about next season yet?” Porsche started to stress-frown, and then realized what she was doing and took a breath, massaging her face with her fingertips. (Stress wrinkles, Bentley knew from her sister’s daily lectures, went deep. Maybe even the deepest.)¹⁹

“Well, that’s why we’re doing something about it,” Mercedes said calmly. Only she wasn’t calm, Bent knew. Mercedes never bothered to make herself sound calm when she actually felt calm.

Uh-oh. That’s not good.

“Doing? Doing what? There’s nothing we can do!” Porsche, unlike her mother, was practically wailing. “We’re getting boxed out. Everyone’s so busy not talking about it and not picking up when we call and not asking us for favors and not inviting us on their planes, it’s almost like they’re rubbing it in.”

Bentley looked at her sister. “Not to be negative, but would it really be the worst thing in the world? If we were, you know, cance—”

“Don’t say it!” Porsche shrieked. “Don’t put those vibes into the atmosphere! If you say it, it could happen, and then what would we do?”

“Go back to our regular lives? Go to school? Get jobs? Contribute to the greater good of society, for a change?” Even before the words left her mouth, Bent knew that she was pressing her luck.

“What?”

“Bentley!”

Both Mercedes and Porsche looked like they’d been struck. Bentley sighed. At least she could give them that to agree on. Even if it meant Bach’s foot was now digging into her ankle.

Mercedes recovered first. She leaned across the table and clutched Bentley’s hand. “I know why you feel you need to say these hateful things, Bentley. I know you’re terrified on the inside that the unspeakable will happen, and that you don’t know what you’ll do if you have to go back to regular life.”

“Okaaaay,” Bentley said. She looked back at the cameras, because Mercedes was definitely doing her on-camera voice. Ted’s and Mac’s green indicator lights were still off, though. Only JoJo circled around Mercedes now. She’s getting primed, Bent thought. This is just the lead-up. Proceed with extreme caution.

Mercedes kept going. “But we are going to make it. I promise you that. Literally nothing else in our life matters, not to me. Because I am your mother.”

Bent and Bach locked eyes. Mercedes had used the m-word.

“Wait. Literally nothing?” Bach asked.

Kick, kick. Bent answered him beneath the table.

“But you’re right, Porsche. We’ve got to up the stakes for next season if we want to stay in the game. Joelynn Wabash is this year’s headliner, that’s true. That’s also part of the reason why I want you to meet someone. A very special someone.” Mercedes looked at Pam. Pam’s arm shot up, and the cameras went back on.

An ambush, Bent thought. Not in the script, but Pam’s in on it. Then she caught the look on her sister’s face—which was shock. Wait—Porsche’s as clueless as we are? How is that possible? Since when did Mercedes start keeping Porsche out of the loop?

It wasn’t possible.

Porsche recovered seconds later, just as all three cameras began to move in on the family. She made a point of adjusting her face so it stayed out of the sun—or rather, the direct line of both Mac’s and Teddy’s shots—while she pulled herself together. “You know I hate surprises, Mercedes.”

“Well, you’re all going to love this one,” Mercedes said, looking mischievous. “He’s just in the other room. I’ve invited a very special boy to come live with us. A beautiful baby boy. And we’re going to raise him as a Royce.”

The cameras swiveled for the reaction shot (which, as it turns out, was not one they would have missed—no matter where they were positioned on the patio).

“What the hell, Mercedes?!” Porsche knocked over her Diet Coke and staggered to her feet, dripping wet.

“A WHAT?!” Bach looked at his mother blankly.

“The hell?!” Porsche said again, this time more loudly.

“A BABY?!” Bach said, incredulous.

“MERCEDES! YOU CANNOT TAKE CARE OF A BABY!” By the time Porsche got the words out, she was shouting.

Not Bentley. She said nothing. She didn’t know what to say. She had never in her life seen her sister turn on her mother like that. When Mercedes drove, Porsche rode shotgun. When they sat in a restaurant booth, it was always assumed that Porsche got the seat next to her mother. And the spare Birkin. And the second producer credit. And the extra Emmys ticket…

It’s not possible, Bent thought again. Thing One and Thing Two aren’t supposed to fight like this. The Divas were…the Divas. The stars were the stars.

And yet here they were, her sister screaming at her mother as if she were something lower than an additional cast member.

Bach slammed his hand on the table with mock excitement. “Of course Mercedes can’t take care of a baby. Which is why this whole angle is genius!”

“Oh, please,” Mercedes said.

“Nothing about this is genius,” Porsche barked.

“Oh, yeah? You know what’s really going to move the dial on our ratings? When our mother is arrested for reckless endangerment of a baby!” Bach started clapping. “Well played, Mercedes. Even for you, well played.”

“You’re being rude.” Mercedes drew herself up, pushing back her seat. She looked straight at Porsche. “I don’t deserve this, and I’m hurt, really. Have a little faith. I know what I’m doing.”

“‘I know what I’m doing’?!” Porsche began laughing hysterically. “Says the adoptive parent of my new baby brother?!”²⁰

“You might as well at least meet the poor thing. Especially since we had Production drag him the whole way from Ojai along with his team. You have no idea, the paperwork.” Mercedes sniffed.

Porsche and Bent and Bach were speechless.

“Stay there, I’ll bring him out. We can pick it up with a new reaction shot.” Mercedes rushed back to the patio door, motioning to Pam. “Probably joy, right? Or maybe surprise? Pam? What did the writers say? Do we need to do more than joy?” Mercedes disappeared into the restaurant.

“Joy should cover it,” Pam said, as if nothing strange was happening at all. Then she turned to the Royce kids. “Can you guys give me joy?”

“Seriously?” Porsche looked at their producer, disgusted.

“Do I look like I’m joking?” Pam did not. (She never did.) She bent over the table now, leaning on the back of Mercedes’s empty wicker chair. “It’s hot. It’s hiatus. We’re now in time and a half.” She raised her head and stared straight at the three remaining Royces. “So can you please get it together and give me some freaking joy? GIVE. ME. SOME. FREAKING. JOY. That’s all I want to see or hear from any of you.”

The siblings stared. Bent’s heart was pounding. She didn’t know what to think if even Pam was losing it now.

Pam stood up straight again. “I need more Bentley. More Bach. And you, Porsche?” She looked serious. “Dial it down. I need way less Porsche for the rest of the day, okay? Okay.”

Less Porsche. Two words that had never been said before. Porsche was so surprised, she didn’t say anything at all.

“Fabulous.” Pam turned back toward the patio door. “Quiet on set.” Her arm flew up. “And…we’re rolling. Bring him in!”

They could only hear Mercedes’s voice at first. “Come here, Hope. Come with Mama, Hope. That’s what I’m calling you. My sweet baby Hope.”

Mama? Impossible.

Mercedes emerged in the doorway, calling over her shoulder—but to what, Bent couldn’t tell.

“Hope! Come here, hot stuff. Come give your new big sister Porsche a big kiss. She really, really, really wants to meet you.”

Bent held her breath—

As the three cameras swung around in the direction of the newest member of the Royce family—

As Mercedes lifted up what appeared to be an orange-and-brown leather Hermès leash—

And as an enormous feathered creature waddled out behind her.

“A DUCK?” Bent said, choking on the words.

“IT’S A DUCK?” Bach shouted.

“WHAT THE DUCK?!” Porsche howled.

Mercedes smiled. It was a duck, all right—and not just any duck. Hope the Duck was the size of the turkey they’d eaten at the LA Country Club last Thanksgiving. To be honest, Hope was just a few webbed feet short of being the size of a Smart car. He was no gentle turtledove either.

“Hope is from Joelynne Wabash’s wild game supplier. Get it? He’s Duke of Ducks royalty,” Mercedes said proudly. “Take that, Joelynne. This is one feathery fricassee you’ll never lay your lips on.”

Nobody said anything. Not in words, anyway.

QUAAAAA­AAAACK!

The approach of mother and duck was accompanied by a chaotic chorus of flapping and fluttering and feathers flying.

Bent stared at the thrashing animal. “I don’t…I can’t…”

“Oh my god,” Porsche said. She sunk back down into her chair and started to cry. “That’s it. I can’t do this. I give up. It’s over.”

“Don’t talk like that. You’ll scare Hopie.” Mercedes yanked the leash harder. “He’s part of our family now.” As if in answer, Hope hopped up onto Mercedes’s empty chair and scrambled to the top of the table, knocking over Bentley’s (almost full) lemonade glass and stepping straight into a plate of soft (completely untouched) butter—narrowly missing Mercedes’s Diet Coke.

QUAAAAA­AAAACK!

Porsche cried harder. Bach put his arm around his sister. “It’s okay, P.” He patted her back. “Everything will be okay.”

“Stop crying! I said stop!” Mercedes was getting frustrated now. She couldn’t handle this many emotions in one day. “This will work. I’m telling you! Hope is going to fix everything. You just aren’t seeing it yet!”

Porsche snapped. “Give up, Mercedes! How desperate do you think this looks?” She sprung to her feet. “You think people are just going to buy that we’re suddenly duck people now? Well, they won’t! Because we’re not! We’re nothing! We’re not getting another season and we’re just as pathetic as everyone thinks we are!”

“Not everyone,” Bach began, standing up—but Bentley pulled him right back down into his chair. This wasn’t a fight for additional cast members like the two of them. Not when the Divas were facing off.

“Do you have a better idea?” Mercedes was starting to lose it herself.

“Better than making us a joke? A low-class, white-trash joke?” Porsche hurled back. “Of course I do!”

“GREAT! PITCH ME! GO ON, DAZZLE ME! Since you suddenly know everything—what’s your idea, Porsche? What’s your big high-class trash-don’t-stink million-dollar idea? If you’ve got one, by all means let’s hear it!” Mercedes’s voice grew louder as she spoke, until she was shouting. Porsche was clearly caught off guard.

“WELL?!” Mercedes roared.

“NOW?” Porsche was blushing. “I don’t know—I guess—Oh, come on, Mercedes, it doesn’t work like that. I’d have to brainstorm—storyboard—consult—that kind of thing takes time—” She looked at her brother and sister for help.

“Sure,” Bent said from the table.

“That’s what I’ve heard.” Bach tried his best to be supportive. Of course, neither sibling had ever been asked to pitch or storyboard anything before.

Mercedes yanked the leash in front of her. “Of course you’ve got nothing! You complain and complain, but do any of you ever do anything? No! Never! Why should you?”

“I’m at every meeting you’re at, Mercedes!” Porsche’s eyes narrowed. The worst was not yet over, it seemed.

“And I’m the only one who actually does what it takes to help this family!” Mercedes was as red-cheeked and emotional as Porsche now. She yanked the leash again.

QUAAAAA­AAAAAAACK!

The panicked duck couldn’t take it anymore. It flung itself into their faces, flapping its wings and stomping its flippers and as a result upsetting nearly every drink, breadbasket, salt and pepper shaker, and bowl of artisanal sugar cubes on the table in one spin around the center.

Bach rolled out of his seat. Bentley pushed her chair away from the table. Porsche screamed. “HELP? This is your idea of HELP?”

“At least I’m doing SOMETHING!”

“You think this is something?” Porsche was apoplectic. “What do you think I’ve been doing all this time? I thought my Lippies Line would save us—but my entire product line is tanking! I’ve got a twenty-million-dollar budget shortfall, and you’re buying the family a pet duck? Wake up, Mercedes! You guaranteed my loans. We’re not just going to lose the show—we’re going to lose the house!”

QUAAAAA­AAAAAAACK!

Hope the Duck must have mistaken Porsche’s scream for the sound of an enemy predator, because its beak shot toward her heaving chest with the power and precision of a martial artist.

QUAAAAA­AAAAAAACK! QUAAAAA­AAAAAAACK! QUAAAAA­AAAAAAACK!

Bentley’s heart stopped. She couldn’t listen to another word. She felt herself pulling away, letting the chaos of the rooftop restaurant dissolve around her. Before she knew it, she was plugging her ears. She couldn’t bear it. Her whole world—everything she’d thought she understood, every fixed point of her known, dependable universe—had all just gone into free fall.

“Bentley”—Bach leaned in toward her, a look of genuine concern in his sparkling green eyes—“I think we’re losing it. What are we supposed to do?” He sounded shocked, like he’d been slapped in the face, which was increasingly likely, given the flurry of avian and human limbs.

Do?

How was she supposed to know?

Did Bach think this was in the Bentley Bible? Because it wasn’t—and that was about all she knew for certain. They were off the map, in uncharted Royce family waters.

This is what’s going on, she wanted to say. The Royces are not all right.

Each person in their family was even more terrified than the poor, thrashing duck in front of them now—and that was what really scared Bentley.

If Mercedes and Porsche are like this now—what will they be like if we don’t make it?

If we do get canceled? If we have to move?

How could they survive that?

Bentley had no clue. She didn’t know what to say or even think. Instead, she found herself beginning to hum.

Times are bad and getting badder, ain’t we got fun?

She closed her eyes, blocking out her screaming mother and her crying sister and her thrashing duck brother and her dumbstruck human one.

In the meantime, in between time, ain’t we got fun?

She imagined her mother driving the RV down the dusty I-15, singing to stay awake while the three of them lay on the bed in the way back.

The rich get richer and the poor get poorer…

She could picture Porsche running ahead of her into the Dairy Queen. Mercedes laughing, carrying Bach on her hip, behind them. Counting out enough nickels and quarters and dimes at the register for four chocolate-dipped cones. Bent could hear the sound of the coins hitting the counter—hitting and falling and rolling right across the sticky aluminum steel. They sounded like love.

Ain’t we got, ain’t we got, ain’t we got fun?

Porsche screamed—and Bentley opened her eyes just in time to see Hope the Duck attack again.

“STOP THAT!” Mercedes yanked its leash. Now the duck whirled around, this time going for Mercedes’s gold-studded Hermès collar, shrieking as it did.

“Watch out—” Bach yelled.

“OH, NO YOU DON’T! NOT THE HERMÈS!” Mercedes swung her purse at it. “THINK AGAIN, YOU FILTHY ANIMAL!”

QUAAAAA­AAAAAAACK!

The leash went flying. The duck went flying.

Porsche knocked it back toward her mother, who swung again, smacking it clear into the air with a single adrenaline-powered surge.

QUAAAAA­AAAAAAACK! QUAAAAA­AAAAAAACK!

Hope the Duck spun into the cloudless blue sky. The cameras swung to track it.

“No—no, no, no—” Bentley shouted, suddenly realizing what was happening. She lunged after Hope again—the leash only a fraction of an inch from her outstretched fingers—

But it was too late.

They all watched—Royces and crew alike—as the poor duck went soaring over the stone balustrade that edged the rooftop of Barneys.

The cameras stayed on it.

It arched into the sky and desperately began to flap—

If only ducks could fly.

At most, ducks could get off the ground a few feet, then settle down. They certainly couldn’t carry their weight this high in the air—especially not with the additional heft of the leather Hermès collar and leash—oops!

QUAAAAA­AAAAAAA­AAAAAAA­AAAAAAA­AAAAAAA­AAAAAAA­AAAAAAA­AAAAAAA­AAAAAAA­AAAAAAA­AAAAaaa­aaaaaaa­aaaaaaa­aaaaack­kkkkkkk­kkkkkkk­kkk…

Mercedes, Porsche, Bentley, and Bach stood helplessly by as Hope plummeted five stories down. It was right then that Bentley Royce had an epiphany, and not just that her family needed to make a rather large donation to the ASPCA.²¹

She had no choice but to face two facts—and they stuck with her the whole time she winced and waited for the inevitable thud.

First, someone had to do something. Even if keeping Rolling with the Royces on the air was no easier than teaching a duck to fly, it was the only chance they had.

And second, the Royce family had finally hit rock—

THUD.

Bottom.²²