Page 11 of Marisol Acts the Part
Fear.
Fear that I’ll never be enough. Fear that I’mtoo much.Fear that I don’t know who I am anymore, even though my millions of followers think they get me.
A rumble in my chest powers each word when I finally recite the lines again, my shoulders trembling from the force of my short performance. Tears blur the corners of my eyes as Miles’s voice swims in and out of my ears again and again.I’m ready to start taking myself more seriously.
I’ll show him serious.
When I finish, I will myself to stop shaking.
I don’t apologize, even though my gut tells me to. It’s the most vulnerable I’ve ever let myself be in front of a camera—something my past roles never demanded of me. If this is what makes me a “serious” actor, I’ll prove that I can do it, tears and all. Carefully, I angle myself away from the camera to wipe beneath my eyes. I didn’t think I’d need the waterproof mascara today, and the last thing I need is raccoon eyes documented on film.
The room goes silent. Not even the scratch of pens on paper. I can’t muster the strength to look at Rune, who’s still so close I can feel an uneasy prickle beneath my skin.
“Bring in the other,” he says before returning to his seat. Ididn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I let out a quiet exhale when he speaks again, my body finally relaxing as the room fills with quiet noise again.
The casting assistant bustles out of the room while Marie flips through a binder in front of her. I shuffle awkwardly off my assigned mark, composing myself in a corner while I wait for the casting assistant to return. Moments later, he’s back with Ridiculously Beautiful Girl in tow, looking as confused as I was when I first stepped into the room.
“Marisol, this is Jamila El Amrani,” Marie pipes up, putting a name to the Ridiculously Beautiful face.
“Hi!” I say, sounding totally chill and not nervous to seeher.
The last time I had a callback with another person was when Miles and I read together for our finalAvalon Groveaudition, and I’m not any less awkward at the big age of eighteen than I was at fourteen.
I stick one of my hands out for her to shake, then immediately regret it when I realize how clammy it’s become in the few seconds since she walked in. And it’s probably obvious that I was crying minutes ago. Fantastic first impression.
Jamila takes my hand, and I try not to dwell on the softness of hers. Or the way the thin rose gold rings on her fingers slot perfectly against the silver ones on my own. Or how good she smells. Because she smellsreallygood. Like cinnamon and oranges and honey. Fall in the middle of summer.
“Hi,” Jamila replies so quietly I wouldn’t have thought she’d said anything at all if I hadn’t seen the slight part of her lips. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s nervous out of their mind, which is a comforting thought.
The casting assistant hands both of us a new slip of paper. An actual scene this time, pulled from a script. It’s only a handful of lines—three each. But it at least has a setting and a couple of stage directions and context to help ground us in the scene.
“Jamila will be reading for Character A, and Marisol will read for Character B,” Marie instructs as the casting assistant hands her and Rune their own copies of the scene. Rune doesn’t bother to glance up from his notebook.
We settle on opposite ends of the room to study the scene. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jamila mouthing the lines like she did earlier.
I pry my eyes away from her and go back to my own paper.
Even with the additional context, I struggle to get a grasp on the scene. We don’t have names, or even character descriptions. For all I know I’m playing a middle-aged Italian man.
According to the stage directions, we’re in a living room, in the middle of a heated argument that starts with CharacterA bursting into tears. I breathe a subtle sigh of relief—at least I don’t have to pull out any more tears today. From what I can tell, something I said is what made her cry in the first place. What we’re fighting about is vague. So, I make up a quick backstory for myself—a jilted businesswoman confronting her husband’s lover—to help find my footing. I can’t imagine Jamila is older than me, so chances that we’re auditioning for any wife and mistress roles are slim, but hey. Whatever helps me harness my power.
“Whenever you’re ready,” I say to Jamila once I’ve got a decent handle on the lines, already hardening my stance andtensing my muscles, preparing to morph myself into a woman scorned.
Jamila nods, tucks the paper into her back pocket, and fixes her eyes on me. I don’t have time to be thrown off by the jolt that runs through me when her dark brown eyes meet mine.
Like the flick of a switch, her completely emotionless expression transforms into one of heartbreak. Her lower lip quivers, her shoulders hunch until she’s only barely holding herself upright, and tears stream down her cheeks. As in tears.Plural.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she pleads, her voice so choked and desperate I completely forget we’re supposed to be acting out a scene.
“Y-you…you deserved this,” I stammer out far later than I should. The backstory I created goes out the window as all the confidence I mustered leaks out of me like a popped balloon.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Jamila continues without missing a beat, almost choking on a sob as she takes a trembling step toward me.
I stumble backward, ripping my arm away from her grip, which, while accidental, is still in character. “But it did,” I snap, attempting to use my frazzled energy to my advantage.
Jamila shakes her head, her hands trembling as she curls them around herself and lowers her chin to her chest. Thick teardrops roll down her cheeks and splatter against the white tile floor. “I promise it won’t happen again.”
“Your promises don’t mean anything to me.” I use the opportunity to turn away from her, focusing on a chip in thewhite brick wall across from me instead. I cross my arms tightly in a display of control. Power.
