So after the commercial break, the police have arrived, and bust down the cabin door, and disregarding their commands for her to step aside, Donna goes charging down the steps to where Noah is sprawled on the floor and starts shaking him. “Noah! Noah, it’s me, Donna! Noah!” and the paramedics push her aside as she struggles and keeps sobbing “Noah!” and they roll him over all tangled in the blanket and there’s a pool of bloody effluvia and one of them shakes his head and Donna screams “No! Oh, God no!” and crumples into a heap sobbing as a cop picks up a generic bottle marked POISON, shaking his head. And while Donna sobs, he says, “Looks like suicide. There’s no sign of forced entry, his wallet and keys are all still here so robbery isn’t a motive. This stuff’s bad news... he must’ve suffered a lot before he finally died....” and while Donna’s heartbroken sobs drown out the seagulls, the camera pans to outside, and lurking behind one of the other boats, holding a gun in one hand and another bottle of the POISON in the other hand is Kara/Tara, with her Kelly’d short blond hair, ratty jeans, and a smile of deep satisfaction. “That’ll teach you, you bastard,” she says in her Laryngitis Voice.
Scene: Brinda’s new apartment. It looks much cozier with all of the furniture in place, the kitchen fully stocked, shelves in the living room full of Brinda’s film collection as well as numerous stacks of books on drama and the theatre, and, of course, the baby’s area with the mobile twisting a little, the brightly colored plastic fish gleaming in the sunlight. There are a few framed prints on the walls, including one that Brinda touches briefly and sentimentally as she passes it: the California University production of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof, directed by Roy Randolph and staring Brenda Walsh as Maggie the Cat. Brinda, in a bright sweatshirt and jeans, with her short hair caught back in a bandana, smiles a little, then goes about unpacking the last few boxes, stacking dishes in the cupboard with a groan as she stretches up to reach the shelf.
“Ow, hey, calm down in there,” she says to her round belly. “I’m almost done, and then we’ll fix something to eat-” But her conversation with the Unborn Child is cut short by the doorbell.
Holding her back, she goes to the front door and opens it. A young guy in a navy-blue uniform is there. “Miss Brenda Walsh?” he asks.
“That’s me,” says Brinda.
“World Wide Courier Service,” he says. “I have a letter for you. I need you to sign here... and here,” he instructs, pointing to forms on a clipboard before he hands her the sealed envelope.
“Thanks,” says Brinda, taking the letter and closing the door. She flips it over, but there’s no return address, no postmarks, just “Miss Brenda Walsh” typed on the front. Puzzled, she opens it and takes out several thick sheets of paper, jumbled with legalese. Lucky for We the TV Viewer, she murmurs the important bits aloud: “... ‘representing Dylan McKay... transferring his ownership of The Peach Pit in lieu of child support... condition that never contact again... contesting sole custody of child...’ What does this mean?”
The phone rings, and Brinda snatches it up. “Hello? ...Mr. Finch! ...Yes, yes I just got it.... I don’t know, I haven’t heard from Dylan before this- ... Yes... yes, I’ll be there in an hour. Thank you.”
Hanging up the phone, Brinda grimly squares her shoulders, then curves her hands around The Baby. “It looks like we’ve got a bigger fight on our hands than we thought,” she says with a heavy sigh.
Scene: The Beach House. All traces of the Lovely Shower are gone. There is no festive air about the place. Instead, only Donna, crumpled on the adorned-with-Kelly’s-pillows sofa, sobbing into a handful of tissues. All her bright lipstick is gone, and her hair hangs limply around her pale face. She’s wearing that pale-blue chenille bathrobe with the puffy dot things on it, and Kelly, coming in from the kitchen with two cups of tea, is companionably wearing the white version of the same robe.
“Thanks Kel,” Donna manages to whisper when Kelly Taylor, Psych Major and Best Friend, hands her the white mug.
“How’re you doing?” asks Kelly.
“Oh Kel...” chokes Poor, Heartbroken Donna. “I just can’t believe it....”
Kelly does the soothing pat-one-shoulder thing. “I know, I understand,” she coos.
“No you don’t!” sobs Donna with Uncharacteristic Vehemence, because she’s so distraught. “You’ve never found your boyfriend dead! You’ve never had someone you love kill himself!”
“Nooo,” admits Kelly, “but I *have* lost people I love. I call it the ‘Jimmy the AIDS Guy Syndrome.’”
“It hurts to lose them, put part of them is always with you, so they’re really still alive, as long as you have them in your heart,” continues Kelly.
“Oh, Kelly, how could he do it? If he really loved me, how could he kill himself? I could have helped him, Kel....” And Donna presses the tissue to her face again, because this is a Rilly Emotional Scene, and Tori’d be pulling out all the stops because, although she usually Does Comedy, she is also gifted in conveying Big Sad Moments too.
“Noah loved you, Donna, you know that.”
Donna snuffles. “I feel like I can’t live without him,” she whimpers.
“I know you do, but you need to look for reasons to live. There are so many good things ahead for you. Now we don’t have to go to that stupid rape trial anymore. You’ve got that modeling audition. And remember, my wedding’s coming up, and you’re the maid of honor!”
“Yeah, I guess you’re right,” says Donna with a wet, sticky half-smile, putting her head on Kelly’s shoulder, “but it’s just so hard,” she adds with a long, shuddering sigh.
“Thanks Kel... you’re my best friend.”
“And you’re mine,” says Kelly.
Scene: Peachy’s Gentleman’s club. It’s still daytime, so the raunchier nocturnal activities are absent, but even so, there’s plenny o’ action. In fact, despite the fact that Father Flannigan is nowhere in sight, it appears to be Boys Town – no, make that Boyz Towne. All sorts of hip, fly young guys are milling about while, at a small, round table near the front of the T-shaped stage sit Devon Dean and an enormously built, totally buff black guy dressed in black leather pants, an impeccable white silk shirt, and one single, conspicuous diamond pinky ring. Finally, the big guy stands up and calls to the fellas “Okay, these ten please stay: Mills, Franklin, Henderson, Walker, Moore, Peters, Murray, Carlotti, Hillman and Dean. The rest of you, thank you very much for auditioning.” And there are groans and “tough luck, man”s amongst all but ten of the dudes.
Into this cutthroat environment wanders David “Davy Dave” Silver, in his baggy jeans, swinging wallet-chain, and even baggier t-shirt. He jams his hands in his pockets, rocks on his heels, trying to look casual, and laughs at nothing. One of the disappointed guys – in a red tailored shirt and black trousers, obviously dressed to impress – brushes by him, shaking his head. “You’re too late, man, he’s already made the cut.”
“No, it’s okay, I’m already in if I want to be,” says Davy with false modesty, looking around and laughing, then scratching his neck. The disappointed guy huffs, shakes his head and storms off.
Devon Dean spies Davy and waves at him distractedly, then holds up one finger, mouthing “just a minute.” Davy shrugs, scratches and laughs through his nose, then leans against the railing to the upper level, waiting.
And into Peachy’s bustles another Frazzled Queen... no, actually, it’s just Skeevy Stevie Sanders, silky shirt unbuttoned too much, jeans too tight, hair too overly-blond and receding. Seeing Davy, he comes over. “Hey man, what’re you doing here?”
“Meeting Devon. What about you?”
“Same. He’s giving me some big bonus, you know, because the club’s running so well.” And Stevie waggles his eyebrows, makes a big cheesy grin and essentially acts like a 10-year-old. After two-dozen giant Pixie Stix.
“What kind of a bonus? Money?” asks Davy, scratching, twitching and laughing out his nose.
“I don’t think so. He said it’s someplace we have to go-” but before Stevie can elaborate, there is a tussling behind him, and in tumble Thing One and Thing Two... I mean, Austin and Ryan. Stevie heaves a dramatic sigh, as if he himself isn’t as annoying, immature and pathetic as these two untrained pups. “But my dad made me drag along the Monkey Twins,” he finishes, while Austin – or is it Ryan? – belches and Ryan – or is it Austin? – gives a great snort of laughter. While they give noogies and kung-fu fight or whatever else it is that Stupid Boys do, Steve resumes his conversation. “And after everything with Kara.....”
“Hey, yeah, how’re you taking it?”
“It’s gonna be tough, man. I really cared about her,” says Stevie, deeply wounded by the loss of love. Well, of course, he’ll be over her in, say, another half-hour, forty-five minutes.... “How’s Donna taking this thing with Noah? That jerk deserved to die for what he did,” adds Stevie self-righteously
“Yeah, but Donna’s really upset,” notes Davy. Between the two of them, they have more sensitivity than Mr. Rogers, Barney and Pa Ingalls combined.
“Yeah, well-” Thankfully, any bitchy comment Stevie might’ve made is cut off as DD bustles over to them. “Dave, Alfred can see you now,” he says, harried, then turns to Stevie. “Steven, I should be finished up here in- ah... ahem... ah...” and he trails off, speechless, as he observes Ryan – or is it Austin? – grab Austin – or is it Ryan? – by the waistband, heave, and give him a mighty wedgie.
“Hey, you two little creeps, cut it out!” barks Stevie, and Austin and Ryan stop their tussling momentarily, flicking long hair out of their eyes, straightening clothes and trying to look innocent. “What man?” “Yeah, what?” they plead in unison. Stevie glares. “What did I tell you? You’ve got to behave yourselves here or I’m taking you right back to Rush’s... after I knock your rotten heads together!”
Devon still hasn’t recovered. “Ah, who *are* those creatures?”
Stevie makes a face and groans. “My brothers, unfortunately.”
“And you... ah... had to bring them here?”
“Yeah, my dad’s out of town, so I got stuck babysitting.”
“Oh. Well. Um. Boys,” Devon tries to talk to the Monkey Twins, but one of them is trying to walk on the railing and the other is flicking lit matches at him, “why don’t you two get down and I’ll get you some nice, cold ginger ales? I need to have a meeting with your brother, but you boys can, ah, wait here with Pete, hnnn?”
Bevis and Butt-head look at each other, shrug, and, miracle of miracles, Austin jumps down from the railing and Ryan puts away his matches. “Okay, sure, whatever,” they chorus, and Devon, taking out a violet silk hanky and mopping his forehead, waves them toward the bar, where Pete the Bartender takes out two frosty bottles and points Mary-Kate and Ashley to barstools, watching them suspiciously. “Now, Steven, let us go.” And DD ushers Stevie out the back door. (Ahem)
Meanwhile, over at the round table, Davy is approaching DD’s friend, the big agent, while the ten boys who have been asked to stay wait and watch suspiciously.
“Hey, um, you’re Alfred?” asks Davy as he approaches.
The Big Guy pushes up from the table to shake Davy’s hand. “Alfred J. White, but call me AJ.”
“Okay... AJ” Davy says, laughing and looking around.
“So, Dave, Devon’s told you a little about what we’re looking for?”
“Uh, yeah, kind of. Um well, not really.”
“I’m auditioning local boys for a five-man musical group. I need five hip, cool guys who can sing, dance, and send the girls screaming. To put a twist on things, we’re calling the band The Beverly Hills Boyz, the BH Boyz. They’re all going to be from Beverly Hills, see? More of an upscale twist to the street music scene. Marketing potential is incredible, but first, we gotta have a band. Frankly, I like your work around here. I’ve heard your tapes, seen your moves, and I need you. I need a songwriter, a choreographer and someone to act as ‘leader.’ And you’re it if you want it. I have contracts all ready to go for you” and he pulls a big wad of papers out of a pocket. “Take ‘em home, look ‘em over, have a lawyer look ‘em over. We’re gonna take care of you, Dave. Beach house, home studio, cars, hotels, everything you could want.”
“Wow, um, yeah.”
“But we just gotta find four other band-mates for you. I’ve narrowed it down to those guys there. I just need your input on the final cut.”
“Yeah, um, wow. You’re serious, aren’t you?” And Davy laughs and shakes his head.
“One hundred and ten percent. You in?”
“Um, wow, yeah.”
“Then get behind those turntables and get some music for these guys, okay?”
“Okay!” And Davy scampers off to pump up da jam.
Scene: an airplane, the first class section. A flight attendant brings a tray of drinks and, with a cheerful smile, places them one by one. “That’s a martini for you Mr. Marchette, and scotch for you, Mr. McKay” before bustling off.
Tony Marchette holds his glass up. “Well, Dylan. Here’s to LA. May we accomplish all that we need to.”
Dylan’s brows move around his furrowed forehead before he semi-toasts, then gulps his much-needed drink, making the Hard Liquor Grimace. “Yeah,” he says.
“According to her doctor, Miss Walsh is due in three weeks. That should give us plenty of time to settle things. And then we’ll take the child with us to my home in Switzerland.”
“Yeah,” says Dylan.
Tony smiles. “It will be so good to have a baby in the house again,” he says. “I missed...” and he falters before continuing. “I missed your childhood when Iris took you away. I missed Antonia’s childhood because I was always working. But this will be different.”
“Yeah,” says Dylan.
“And we need to think about names for the baby,” continues Tony thoughtfully. “Something strong and powerful. Maybe Antonio. Or something more American, like Christopher or Thomas.... Have you given it any thought, Dylan? Have you thought about what you want to name the baby?”
“Yeah,” says Dylan, putting his scotch down and doing his twisty-head before meeting Tony’s eyes. “I wanna call him Jack.”
Scene: a plush Santa Monica beachside street. Devon Dean, behind the wheel of a sporty black convertible, is chauffeuring Skeevy Stevie, who’s reclining like the cocky bastard that he is, mirrored sunglasses in place, the wind blowing his fluffy sparse curls. “So, Devon, aren’t you going to tell me where we’re going? What kind of a bonus is this?”
Devon ’s soft hands handle the steering wheel with skill. “I told you, Steven, it’s a surprise,” he says with a small smile, as he turns on a street and pulls his car to the curb in front of a large glass-paneled building. “Well,” he says, barely able to contain his excitement. “Let’s go inside.”
“Inside? What’s this all about, DD?” gabbles Stevie, leaping out of the car without opening the door and strolling into the huge, stark lobby of the building, whipping off the shades to stare around the place.
“Steven, it’s a surprise,” Devon repeats barely hiding his affection. Elevator doors slide open, and then shut. On the sixth floor, they open again. “Come along,” says Devon, leading Stevie down a long hallway. “Ah,” he finally says, “here we are.” Using a key, he opens the door to a spacious apartment with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. Persian carpets, low-slung leather furniture in barbaric colors, ethnic art and sculpture, tropical flowers in huge crystal vases, highly-polished wood, track lighting.
“Fine [pronounced, of course, “foine”] digs,” comments Stevie, looking around, impressed. “Is this your place?”
“Let me show you around,” evades DD. He gives Stevie an abbreviated tour of a fully-equipped kitchen, a dining-room with a huge teakwood table and cabinets, the wall-length entertainment center with top-of-the-line stereo equipment and hundreds of CDs and videocassettes, and finally, the bedroom: dark-wood furniture, walk-in closets already filled with designer clothes, artworks and tapestry, and... the bed. Enormous. Round. Quilted claret coverlet. Patterned pillows. Sable throw.
“Wow, this is great!” exclaims Stevie.
“And it’s yours,” says DD, handing Stevie the keys.
“Mine? This place? Mine? All mine?” And it’s hard to tell what is wider, Stevie’s Cheeze-Wiz grin or his receding hairline. “Yes! All right! My own place! Mine mine mine!” And he bounds around the room a couple times before flinging himself on the bed in a state of ecstasy and throwing pillows in the air and “woo HOO”ing.
Speaking of states of ecstasy... Devon Dean watches, smiling. Ah. Smiling.
Scene: Peachy’s Gentlemen’s Club, scene of the Big Audition for the BH Boyz music group. Up in his DJ booth, Davy “Big Baby Jesus” Silver, sweaty and focused, has been slammin’ the dope fresh jams, or whatever is homie-speak for “playing a lot of music on several turntables” while AJ the Agent looks on, nodding his head. On stage, several exhausted auditionees are going through a half-finished dance routine that they’ve obviously been working on all afternoon. “Sam, let’s hear you on the chorus this time,” AJ instructs over the DJ microphone, and, at the appropriate time, a curly-haired fresh-faced barely-legal-age kid slithers up to the stage microphone with mucho sass and attitude. “Girl, oh girl, you are the only one for me-e-e-e-eeeee,” he warbles with forceful hip thrusts and arm swings.
AJ turns to Davy with a questioning look. “Ah, I don’t know,” Davy says. “He’s a little over the top.”
“Yeah, he just ain’t workin’,” agrees AJ with a sigh. “What now? We gotta have five of you... so far, we only got four.”
Davy shrugs and laughs, hanging his headphones around his neck and letting just the rough main track of the audition song play on.
“I really wanted to have a three-song set ready in a month to showcase at the summer festival sponsored by Spice Records. That would be the launching of you guys, before the album is ready for a fall debut and small tour.”
Now that his hands are no longer occupied by two turntables and a microphone, Davy starts deedling, and opens his mouth to say something.
But AJ suddenly shushes him, looking out past the stage, his eyes growing very wide.
Back by the bar, still where Devon Dean deposited them, are Tweedledum and Tweedledumber – I mean, Austin and Ryan – hangin’ out and trying to look kewl. Austin, beady eyes nearly bugging out of his head, is engrossed in the swimsuit edition magazine that the bartender gave him to shut him up. But Ryan... Ryan, bored with Austin hogging the magazine, is up and moving around to the beat of the music, oblivious to his surroundings. While AJ and Davy watch, Ryan lurches and wriggles like a puppy on a too-tight leash, snapping his fingers. Of course, We the TV Viewer are ready to wet our collective pants and the sight of Randy Spelling supposedly possessing rhythm, but, with a certain, unspoken last name hovering in the air, AJ says to Davy “That kid back there... he’s got great moves!”
“You mean Ryan? Steve’s brother?” Davy laughs incredulously.
“You know him?”
“Can he sing?”
“Switch off the music!”
And Davy does. The auditionees on stage stagger to a halt and look perplexed. With a sudden screech of feedback, AJ comes on over the intercom system again. “Okay, guys, thank you very much, but I need you to step aside for a moment..... You, kid... at the back of the room?”
But Ryan is still oblivious, shakin’ his groove thing despite the lack of music, lost in a world of his own. Austin, coming up for air from his magazine, sees all eyes focused in their direction, and hisses at Ryan. “Dude! .... Bro! Hey, they want you!”
And Ryan, coming out of his fog, looks self-conscious. “Huh?”
“They want you!” repeats Austin, bugging out his eyes and nodding in the direction of the stage and DJ booth.
“Uh, yeah?” squeaks Ryan.
“Come up here a second kid,” invites AJ.
With a bewildered look at open-mouthed Austin, Ryan heads for AJ and the DJ. “Um... yeah?” he asks, fidgeting nervously under the scrutiny of the big agent, Davy Silver and a half-dozen auditionees.
“I was watchin’ you move, kid,” AJ says. “You’re good. Really very talented. You take dance lessons?”
“Uh, no,” mumbles Ryan, looking sheepish.
“Can you sing?”
“Um, I dunno. I, uh... I like to sing. Along with my CDs. And stuff. Um, like, my brother and I used to take guitar lessons, but, um, my brother sucked at it. So I quit too.”
“So you *have* had musical experience?” AJ seizes on this bit of information.
“Well, uh, sure, yeah, some.”
“Have you been following the song the guys here have been learning?”
“Well, yeah! It’s a really cool song.” Of course, Randy- um, Ryan the Ingénue is being sincere, not a butt-kisser.
“Well then get up on that stage and let’s hear you!”
“Oh, no, not in front of everybody, I couldn’t, I just couldn’t-”
“C’mon, kid, just a quick run-through,” insists AJ in that pushing-an-oh-so-modest-Spelling-child into-center-stage way that is supposed to make us think they’re really modest and set it all up for us to be blown away by their artistic gifts.
So Davy pumps it up again, and Ryan, still nervous, makes his way to center stage in front of the microphone, and starts singing: “Girl, oh giiiirrrrrl-” and in about two seconds he’s overcome his stage fright in order to belt out the song in a strained falsetto and dance around and spin and kick and twirl the microphone stand over his head while Austin and AJ and Davy and the other auditionees look amazed at all the talent this one young man can possess and when the four lines of the song are over, everyone bursts into resounding applause and whistles and Ryan tries to look modest but it ain’t workin’ and a big grin splits his face as AJ rushes over and shakes his hand and says “Welcome to the band, kid” and Davy smiles and laughs and deedles and Austin is still staring, gape-mouthed, the girlie magazine forgotten in his slack hand.
Scene: the Peach Pit. It’s a lively night at the local hang-out, and the crowded table in back is even rowdier. There, squeezed together, are Davy, AJ, Ryan. Austin and three other Boyz. Nat comes bustling over with plates of food.
“So I hear we got new stars on our hands!” he cheers, distributing the Megaburgers, fries and BLTs.
“That’s right!” crows AJ. “I want you to meet Conner, Ben, Kyle, Ryan and David, the Beverly Hills Boyz! We got us a group here that’s gonna smoke up the charts and send the girls wild, right?”
And the newly-formed group cheers and high-fives. “Wow,” says Nat. “You’ll hafta give me an autographed picture for the wall of celebrities.” And he points to a pink-and-turquoise wall with small b&w pictures that We can’t see, along with the framed “Brandon” Peach Pit shirt.
The tinkling of the front door bell rings over the mayhem, and in bounds Skeevy Stevie, followed closely by Devon Dean. “Hey, guys! Guess what?” he carols. “I’ve got my own apartment on the beach!”
“Wow,” says Nat. “How’dja manage that?”
And Devon smiles possessively. “A little bonus from me for turning the Peach Pit After Dark into a profitable venue,” he says bitchily. Nat looks stunned.
But Ryan is turning the tables on Stevie. “Guess what? I’m in a band,” he says proudly, and Austin nods and chimes “That’s right.”
And as AJ and Davy start explaining, the front door tinkles again, and in come Brandon and Kelly with her wedding organizer.
“Come join the party, guys!” calls Davy, as the Dynamic Duo make their way over. “We got all sorts of news for you!”
But before anyone can say anything, Nat breaks in. “Actually,” he says “I got news of my own. I’m retiring and Joanie and I’re moving to Boca Raton.”
Aaaaand roll the end credits!