Page 18 of Reel Love

“I know no such thing. You’re Layna Freaking Vargas. Or whomever we both know you really are. You can do what you want. Call the shots, Miss Hollywood. Have some fun outside that secret lair of yours.”

He’s joking, but there’s a seriousness to the way he holds my eyes with his stare. He’s challenging me. And we all know how much I love a challenge.

“We’ll see,” I say, before I grab my duffle from his outstretched hand and turn to walk down the dock toward Ken.

I slip into the back seat of the black Town Car and Ken takes shotgun once my door is shut. Our driver, Miguel, greets me and takes off for the offices in Studio City. The drive to LA goes quickly, but once we’re within the city limits, traffic slows to a crawl. Our windows are tinted, so I roll up the divider and change into my dress and heels while we’re moving slower than a sleep-deprived snail.

Miguel parks in front of the nondescript office building and Ken exits the car, holding my door for me. In my opinion, I could slip through LA far more stealthily without Ken, the tank, by myside. Ken draws attention. He’s massive and magnetic, like a boulder of lodestone. People turn and look at the two of us, but no one stops, snaps a photo or rushes us. Celebrities are a dime a dozen in this part of LA. We’re close enough to the studios to be a common sight.

Once we’re inside, Ken remains in the hallway while I enter the room where the creative team fills a table much like any other board room. Casting calls happen on studio lots, in trailers, in offices like this one, and even at directors’ houses sometimes. There can be couches and charcuterie boards, which no one will touch, or we can be seated around tables. General auditions are more like cattle calls than casting calls, but there are tiers to this process. Thankfully, I am well beyond the point of nervously huddling along hallway walls reciting lines next to other anxious wannabes.

An advanced, offer-only meeting like this one only happens for those of us who have made a name for ourselves. The director hand-picks his A-listers and gives them first dibs. The producer has a type in mind. An actor or actress is invited if they fit the type. Sometimes a script is even crafted around a lead. The creative team gets lucky if that actor or actress accepts the role by the end. If not, the search is on for the closest approximation.

My seat at the table is empty. I settle into it wordlessly and glance around at the faces of the men and women present. Some I know. A few are new to me. A young woman places a glass of ice water in front of me. I thank her. She blushes and scurries toward the back wall.

At my level in the industry, I’m not here to audition, per se. If anything, this meeting is a type of informal screening for both parties. I’ll listen to their vision for the film and the role they want me to fill, making sure we’re on the same page creatively. They won't make a formal offer until after this meeting has occurred. On their end, this meeting is more of a formality. They want me. Mother has made that clear. After all, my father’s company—our family’s company—is producing thefilm. But, thankfully, they didn’t pick me solely based on nepotism. I have to carry my weight. And I always do. My name and reputation along with my skills make me a sought-after commodity. I’m aware of how many people long to be in my shoes every time I walk into one of these curated, invite-only audition sessions. Still, privilege often comes with some steep price tags.

“Welcome, everyone,” Stan, the casting director, calls out once we’re all seated.

We go around and make introductions. People smile at one another politely, or not.

“We’re here to discussOnly the Remnantwith Alana, specifically we’re talking about the role of Ember, the lead female. Alana, I take it you’ve read the script.”

“I have.” I smile at Stan.

“You’ll be among the small population of humans who survived the decimation of Earth. The role would require you to hone your martial arts skills and sword handling.” Stan pauses and looks down at his iPad. “You know Taekwondo and Kendo?”

“Yes. Black belt in each. And I’ve studied Capoeira as well, but I only have an azul marinho belt.”

Stan looks confused, so I clarify. “I have the mid-level belt—in a Brazilian martial art combining a variety of movements for both show and actual fighting. Depending on what you’re going for, the dance element of that discipline works well on film.”

Conversation after this minor clarification flows as if I’m not there. People talk about me, and occasionally I’m addressed. Stan’s seen my work. But he wants me to read with the actor who’s already locked in by contract to play the male lead part of Jericho. About a half an hour before we adjourn, Benson Stiles shows up. We’ve never officially worked together, but we’re familiar enough with one another’s bodies of work.

“Alana Graves. What an honor.” He takes my hand and grasps it firmly while shaking it gently.

“Same here, Benson. Congratulations on the SAG award.That’s one I’d place in the center of my mantle. Oscar could sit next to him.”

Benson laughs a full laugh. “Well, the awards from our peers do mean more, that’s true. And thank you.”

We get down to business. Benson and I feel one another out as we read our respective lines. He’s good. A natural with training and experience, obviously. And our professional chemistry works. I’d cast us. But I’m secretly pining away for another role right now. And that’s the trouble. As much as this film might be a big blockbuster and could even result in an actual coveted golden statue on my shelf, I want something else even more.

I’m privately considering a script forShe’s Impossible, a film based on Shakespeare’sTaming of the Shrew. It’s not as prosaic as the typecast nanny role I already turned down last week. It’s a good middle ground. I’m not sure I want to perpetuate my notoriety as an action-adventure star.

The meeting wraps up with everyone saying things like, “We’ll be in touch,” and “Let us know what you think,” and “I’ll be calling Mitchell this week.”

On the car ride home, I purposely talk Ken’s ear off. He sits quietly staring out the front window.

“Meryl Streep morphed into multiple roles. She was fluid and able to do whatever a director set in front of her. No one typecast Meryl Streep. You know who she is. Right, Tank?”

I call Ken by the nickname Tank when I want to get under his skin. I’m the equivalent of a little sister poking at her older brother. I think he secretly loves it.

Tank’s silence fills the car like a resounding boom.

“I know. I know. You’re right, Tank. Meryl’s roles were nearly always dramatic. Good point.”

He doesn’t budge. I know he’s still alive. His chest rises and falls, but otherwise, he’s a statue.

I catch Tank’s glance in the rear view mirror. Stoic. Unflinching. Neither upset, nor amused.

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