Sixteen During Sweeps

“My first broken heart had a production schedule.” [Intro — lonely fingerpicked acoustic guitar.] Halfway through fifteen. Season Two finale. That's when I met him. Or... that's when they decided I should. [Verse I ] He wasn't like the boys they usually put around me. Didn't pose when cameras turned. Didn't call me FuFu like the name was something shiny he wanted to hold. He called me Rebecca once. [small pause] God. That was enough. Fifteen years old and stupid in exactly the way fifteen's supposed to be. He made me laugh between takes. Shared his fries. Remembered how I took my coffee even though I wasn't supposed to drink it. And when they wrote our first kiss for the Season Two finale— I didn't know they wrote the way he looked at me afterward. So I believed that part. [Verse II ] They called it chemistry. I called it Tuesday night. Sneaking out after wrap just to sit somewhere without lights. His jacket around my shoulders. My head against his chest. Talking about absolutely nothing. [quietly] Still some of the best conversations I've ever had. There were no monsters there. No portals. No blood. No producer screaming that we needed another take. Just a fifteen-year-old girl falling stupidly in love with a boy she thought was falling too. And maybe he was. That's the part I'll never fucking know. [Verse III — slightly darker] Summer became fall. Fall became sixteen. And somewhere in an office they were planning sweeps. They knew my birthday episode would pull the biggest share. So somebody asked: "What if he leaves her there?" Someone else said: "Perfect." And just like that, my first heartbreak had a meeting. A draft. A revision. A shooting date. Probably fucking catering. And everybody knew. Wardrobe knew. Hair knew. Camera knew where to stand. He knew. [long pause] I didn't. [Verse IV — vocal cracks ] Sweet sixteen. Cake on the table. Candles waiting offscreen. They told me the scene had changed but wouldn't give me the pages. "Trust us." Yeah. There's a phrase that aged beautifully. He wouldn't look at me before they called action. I thought he was nervous. I reached for his hand. He pulled it away. Then the director whispered— "Rolling." And the boy I loved looked straight into my eyes and told me he didn't love me anymore. No monster ever hit me quite like that. [Verse V — sparse again] I waited for cut. That's the stupid part. Some little piece of me kept waiting for cut. Because then he'd smile. He'd apologize. He'd tell me it was a scene. We'd sneak away afterward and laugh about how convincing it looked. Instead— "Keep rolling." Because apparently the crying was incredible. I couldn't breathe. "Push in." I asked him why. "Beautiful, FuFu. Stay with it." I begged him not to go. "Camera two, tighter." He walked away. And somewhere behind the monitors somebody probably whispered— "We got it." [Verse VI —turns colder] They aired it three weeks later. Happy birthday to me. Millions watched my heart break between advertisements. Fan magazines called it the moment FuFu grew up. The network called it our highest-rated episode that year. And I learned much later there'd been pages. Whole fucking pages. His lines. His exit. My birthday. My tears. All sitting neatly in a script while I was still buying him a present. [pause] I wonder if he kept it. I wonder if that was scripted too. [Bridge] Here's what still bothers me. Not that he left. First loves end. Sixteen-year-olds break hearts. That's ordinary. I would've liked ordinary. I would've liked crying into a pillow while somebody told me boys were assholes. I would've liked hating him for a couple months. Writing terrible songs. Getting over it. Maybe seeing him years later and realizing neither of us remembered what the fight was about. Instead I don't know which memories belong to me. Which kisses were his. Which were blocking. Which nights he stayed because he wanted to. Which ones kept him under contract. Whether the first boy I loved ever actually loved Rebecca— or whether he was just really fucking good at playing FuFu's boyfriend. [Verse VII —painfully gentle] But there was this one night. No cameras. At least... I don't think there were. We bought ice cream from a place near the studio. Mine melted down my wrist. He laughed so hard he nearly dropped his. I shoved mine against his nose. He kissed me anyway. I felt his life slipping away Two dumb kids missing curfew. Nobody said action. Nobody said cut. But the lesson FuFu can't kiss unscripted But I've decided— [softly] That one was mine. I don't care anymore whether I'm right. [Outro] Halfway through fifteen. Season Two finale. I met a boy. Sweet sixteen. During sweeps. He broke my heart. Those are facts. Everything between them? [pause] I guess I'm still figuring out which parts happened and which parts were written. But that night with the ice cream... [small, sad laugh] No. You don't get that one. You got the birthday. You got the tears. You got your fucking ratings. I'm keeping that night