“With all of Sally’s good humor gone, she waited right in the middle of the empty factory floor for her potential aptitude results, her right heel tapping to keep time with her increasing impatience!”

“Mr. Narrator,” I replied. “I thought I said you didn’t hafta narrate!”

“I’m just setting the mood,” he advised. “Though I wouldn’t want to be the one to tell your final score.”

Well, you wouldn’t make me wait like this, now would ya?

Tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk-tk.

The sound came straight out of those newsroom scenes back at the picture house; a mean machine gun-like rattle of someone documenting a big breakthrough.

Brring!

Except it was a teletype shooting out of a wall slot, hanging on the edge of a little metal stand for dear life. A paper strip rose and curled over its frame just before it finished typing its heart out. As soon as I ripped the paper off from its base, the teletype was pulled back in with a ratcheting clatter and final-sounding ding.

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

APTITUDE ASSESSMENT: S. SALAMANDER

STUNT: Stellar, for where you are right now.

BANTER: Buzzworthy.

TAKES: Take it or leave it.

GAGS: A strong contender.

RHYTHM: Real rough.

System Says: Step 1: Take your takes to another level!

═════════ ✦ ✦ ✦ ═════════

“Well now…” Mr. Narrator said with a bit of a warble. “That’s very…”

“Uninformative?” I supplied. “Useless, even? Like maybe going through the works wasn’t worth the work?”

I pressed my finger into the page at the stunt line. “And see here! Stellar, for where am I now? This whole thing was supposed to be about potential, wasn’t it? But these results ain’t that. They’re…”

“Actual.”

“Yeah. Actual. But actual what, even? Buzzwords? I can’t tell where I stack up. Instead of one-liners, shouldn’t there be numbahs—and don’t make some crack about one-liners being numerical. I had my schoolin’; when you take a test, you get a percentage, you know. Made of numbahs. So how can I trust the System’s advice if the evi-dence ain’t dense or even dere?”

Yeah, the accent comes out hard when I get agitated.

“Now, now,” a speaker near the ceiling blared. “No need to get sore, kid. We have all the information we need to talk about a girl like you might do, going forward. Helps the School here know what classes to put you in. And we agree with the System!”

Of course, you agree with the System. You’re probably part of the System!

“Oh, so you have all the information?” I asked, looking up with wide, hopeful eyes. “Really and truly?”

“Of course! Leave it to us to—”

“Then show me the rest of the numbahs. I want to see what I scored, out of what was possible.”

“Well, that’d be…”

“Your pleasure?” I prompted as I punched my fist into my hand.

“It’s only…” The voice paused again. “Girls sometimes have trouble with figures. Of course, it's nothing to be ashamed of. It’s just how it is. We’re only looking out for you.”

“Malarkey,” Mr. Narrator called it. “I’ve never heard something so absurd in my life.”

For me, this is pretty normal. But just watch.

“Try again, pal. Maybe with the truth, this time?”

There was a long moment of silence before the voice started up again. “Potential scores are confidential and are used by the School of Hard Knocks to inform optimal placement of all qualified attendees based on limited shared resources. Characters seeking enrollment are given real-time scores as a courtesy. The School of Hard Knocks is a subsidiary of Miracle in Motion Pictures Studio and conforms to all requirements as mandated by its parent company. In other words, toots—”

“Nah, I understand what you said,” I replied. “You shoulda just said it that way in the first place, instead of dismissing me on account of my gender. Now I’m not sure I want to enroll here. Maybe a letter from Madame Bovary to Studio Management on what happened here today might be in order—”

“Now wait a minute, Sally!”

Bing!

An exclamation mark appeared over the speaker’s front. “Just—let’s talk about this in person.”

I heard scrambling footsteps and things being knocked over across the floor above.

Thud—Thud—Crash!

I knew Madam Bovary's name would have pull here.

Within moments, the dog who had been at the counter burst through a door at the far end of the room.

“H-how about a free trial?” he said with a wheeze, trying to catch his breath. “To show there’s no hard feelings and no obligation?”

I pretended to consider it, tapping my finger on my temple. “Only one class? The one you’re telling me I ain’t got no choice in? But what if you’re wrong? I won’t have anything to compare it to.”

The dog flinched. “You’re… Asking me to comp two classes?”

I nodded. “No hard feelings, of course. And no obligation. But I can’t be the only one out here doubting the process, right? So, I’ll just ask Madam Bovary to help me send that telegram to Studio Management—”

“Actually!” The dog then paused. “Ah, actually, it just so happens I have two free trial courses with your name on them?”

“Yeah?”

He pulled out a fountain pen and scribbled my name on both. “On the house!”

“Why, sir, I applaud your service. Now I can’t imagine needing to write that telegram after all.” I paused to let him relax for a moment, though you can be sure I didn't clap. “Oh. And one more thing.”

“Only one?” he asked, sarcasm and annoyance filling in the cracks of his voice.

“If you’re not giving me numbahs on my actuals, just rank my skill categories, will ya? You know, best to worst? Don’t let it up to my imagination or interpretation.”

He took a deep breath. “From the top: stunt, banter, gags, takes, and far, far down below, rhythm.”

“Uh-huh.” Then I looked at the free class cards. One was for basic takes, and one was for gags. “So shouldn’t I round myself out a little by taking a basic rhythm class—where I’m weakest?”

At that, he puffed himself up with his own importance. “That’s exactly the thinking that gets novices in trouble. Taking a rhythm class now, without fixing your take timing, won't pay off. An intelligent toon knows that these categories aren’t as cut and dry as they seem, and higher ranks will note that there's a certain order to growth, one that can only be guided by deep understanding that this prestigious school plants its reputation on—

“Okay, fine. Have it your way.” I slapped the cards on my open palm. “So, when do I get to start?”

“The first one starts seven sharp tomorrow night. Gag's is the same time the next day. Don’t be late and—” He glanced upwards dubiously —“mention this to anyone upstairs, understand?”

“Not a peep,” I agreed, heading for the door with a victorious wiggle of my tail.

Madam Bovary was back by the time I hit the doorstep, sitting at her kitchen table with none other than Katey Kat herself.

“Oh, welcome back, Ms. Sally!” Katey said with a smile. In fact, she pushed it even farther to the sides of her mouth, summoning a halo that gleamed and hummed.

“Now there’s quite the take for you,” Mr. Narrator quipped.

I’ll be sure to leave it.

Madam Bovary nodded primly, then took a small sip of tea. “Katey tells me you wanted to talk with me this evening?”

“Yeah, I—” I stopped to stare at Katey.

“Mmmm?” she purred as innocently as possible.

I clasped my hands in front of me. “I did so well they enrolled me in two classes—for free.”

The look on her face made it all worth it.

“What?!” she yowled. “What two? Tell me how you got them to comp you!”

“It was all thanks to you, of course!” I lied. “I showed them your card, they gave me the works, and well, here I am!”

Her eyes darted back and forth, calculating something unseen. “That… That… That doesn’t…”

I grabbed her hand tightly. “I definitely owe ya one!”

She blinked, then slowly pulled her hand out of my grasp. “Yeah… Yeah. Of course they comped you. Because of me!”

I grinned, though I could feel my eyes twitch. “Because of you.”

She cleared her throat loudly and stood up real quick. “Oh. Just remembered! I’m supposed to be somewhere else!”

“Anywhere else,” Mr. Narrator agreed.

I took her seat at the table while Madam Bovary watched her scram. “Hmmm…” was all she said over her teacup.

“Madam, ma’am, I completed my first job today.”

She nodded. “So Katey told me.”

What a gossipmonger.

I cleared my throat and leaned in. “I didn’t tell her about how I found someone’s bow tie in the supply closet.”

She set down her cup carefully. “Oh?”

“Ma’am. I smelled ammonia, and—”

Thud.

Her front hooves crashed on the table, tea spilling from her cup.

“Heavens,” she said to herself, taking a nearby towel to mop it up. “How do you know what ammonia smells like?”

I thought hard for a moment. “It came up a few times in the past, that’s all.”

She shook her head, cowbell ringing dejectedly. “You know it's banned here, Sally, right? I don’t know what shady things your old studio was up to, but mind—if you smell such a thing again here, go straight to the authorities.”

“It means someone was recently re-imagined nearby, don’t it?”

I wasn’t playing dumb, so much as testing her willingness to be truthful with me.

“Indeed.”

I patted the bow she gave me. “And that’s what happened to your friend too, isn’t it?”

She looked away, focusing on pouring herself another cup of tea. “Yes.”

“What was her name? What was she like?”

Her brows knit. “Sally—”

“I just don’t understand why you can’t talk about it at all. Death—uh, re-imagining is a natural part of life, but ignoring that it happens is—”

“Because I can’t remember.”

At first, I thought she was angry with me, yet watching her set down her teacup on the saucer with a heavy clink told another story. The long pause afterward felt cold and heavy.

“I can’t remember her. Not even her name.”

I waited, the silence stretching.

“It was a long time ago, wasn’t it?” I eventually asked. “Well—”

“No. It wasn’t. She was my rival. And my friend. We’d audition for the same roles and keep score. It was neck and neck, but then, suddenly one day—she was gone.”

Then Madam Bovary gave me a sharp stare. “Sally. Do you remember the bowtie owner’s name?”

“Well, sure. Mr. Benson said it belonged to—”

Wait. I’m sure he said it. It was…

Mr. Narrator gasped. “Melvin, Sally. It was Melvin.”

Are you sure? I can’t…

“Sure as rain. Melvin!”

“Melvin,” I said aloud.

Madam Bovary pulled out a journal from a drawer under the tabletop, then wrote the name down in flowing script. “Melvin. Species?”

“Oh, he was small…. He was a….”

“Mouse! Sally—why can’t you remember?”

If I knew the answer, I’d tell you.

“Mouse,” I added softly.

“Sally,” Madam Bovary continued after writing more in the journal and tucking it away. “Re-imagining takes its toll on those who are left behind. We don’t mean to forget them, but it comes on suddenly for some. Given that you didn’t know them personally, I’m surprised you remembered them for as long as you have. But the grief and frustration of knowing another, only to realize that you can’t remember them… We must hope instead that they’re starting anew, and that our struggle to remember is evidence that they’ve already moved on.”

It would've been a real nice thought, if that was all there was to it.

But I was a skeptic, and the fact that she wrote his name down suggested I wasn’t the only one questioning the line we were told to read.