Page 14 of Marisol Acts the Part
Because I’m going to prove Miles, those anonymous commenters, the casting directors who passed on me,everyone,wrong.
Chapter 5
I’m going to die. Any minute now the engine is going to bust, and this plane is going to go spiraling to the ground. Or we’ll run out of gas and start plummeting out of nowhere. Or—
“Pretzels before we land?” a flight attendant asks, snapping me out of my panic bubble.
I take the packet she offers me with a queasy smile, grateful to have something to occupy my attention. Even my ultimate comfort movie—The Devil Wears Prada—couldn’t soothe my nerves. Attempting to sleep left me alone with my thoughts, staring out the window, and preparing for disaster. The “ultra-soundproof” headphones Miles left at my place didn’t do much to help either. Honestly, the sound quality isn’t even that great. For half a grand, I should be able to hear the music in my bones. These could barely muffle the sound of Bruiser’s snores.
According to the screen in front of me, there are only thirtyminutes left until we touch down at JFK. Excited as I am to finally get the hell off this plane, my stomach is still uneasy at the thought of what’s waiting for me when we land.
Well,who.
My dad had a more enthusiastic response to Mom suggesting I stay with him and his partner at their place for the summer than I’d originally thought. At most, we text once every couple months. Last year I don’t think I communicated with him at all outside of the occasional Instagram like. I wouldn’t blame him for not wanting to house a teenage starlet who gets stalked by paparazzi on the regular, genetics be damned. But according to Mom, he’s waiting for me with open arms.
It’s not that I don’t like my dad. Or that he doesn’t like me. Things are…weird between us. Granted, our family situation has been sort of weird since the moment Mom decided she was tired of waiting for the right guy to come along to start a family. She hadn’t even finished her spiel when my dad, her platonic bestie since kindergarten, agreed to help her. Nine months and several long-winded explanations to their friends and family later, they were blessed with the ultimate early Christmas gift: me.
There was a time when we lived together in a cramped two-bedroom in Inwood, but all I have from that period of my life are the photos in the baby book Mom keeps in the living room. Shortly after my second birthday, Mom packed up our stuff to pursue her own acting passions in California, while my dad stayed in New York, the place he’s called home his entire life.
It’s not like something shifted between us as I got older. There was never any romantic tension between my parentssince my dad is extremely gay (his words, not mine). There was no huge explosion. No massive fight that tore our family apart. It didn’t take long for me to realize my origin story was unusual. Even as I looked around at my classmates’ different families—single moms and dads and grandparents or uncles as parents and blended families full of half siblings and stepsiblings—I never saw one that mirrored ours. It wasn’t that my dad left or didn’t care about me. He’s always sent gifts or cards for my birthday and messages around the holidays. We’ve had dinner a handful of times when I’ve had to go to New York for press or shoots. He even sent me a gif of the Minions holding a glitter banner readingI’M SO PROUD OF YOUafter I came out as bi on my Instagram. Which, while cringy as hell, was very sweet.
We feel like…friends. And not even good friends. The type of friend you keep in touch with after you moved away, but it never feels the same because you’ll never have the good ol’ days back. Except I don’t even remember the good ol’ days.
Mom shot down my hesitance at staying with him over the summer, insisting that it would be fun and he would love to see me. I gave in eventually because, well, I don’t really have anywhere else to go. All the apartments I reached out about were snatched off the market before I could even ask about putting in an application. Miles always talked about how cutthroat the NYC rental market is, but I can barely even finish swiping through photos of a listing before it’s been rented by someone else. And I really don’t want to spend over five hundred dollars a night on a hotel room that Bruiser will probably destroy because she hates new spaces (which I sympathize with).
Thanks toAvalon Grove,I have more than enough in my savings account to get by, but I’ve never really felt comfortable shelling out that kind of money for something so temporary. Not when Mom and I spent pretty much my entire childhood living paycheck to paycheck. You never shake off that kind of frugality.
It doesn’t matter that I don’t even know what to call my dad because “Dad” seems too intimate and “Carlos” feels too formal. I won’t say (aloud) that I’m still pretty pissed at how he’s never really beentherefor us, even when Mom was working two jobs and doing an online gig on weekends to make ends meet. I can’t care about sharing a space with someone who barely knows me, even though he helped create me. He and Mom may still be best friends, but that doesn’t mean the same applies to me and him. None of this is relevant, I know, because I’m getting to live out my dream. My latest one, anyway.
“You two can bond!” Mom said before throwing a parka into my suitcase because “it can get cold in June.”
At best, I come back home in three months with a dozen casting agents knocking on my door and a renewed relationship with my estranged dad. At worst, I come back with nothing to show for my cross-country adventure except an agitated dog and some dry skin. Cross-country flights are horrendous for my acne.
While the plane starts its final decent, I do my best to distract myself by playing word games on my phone. The flight attendant gives me a sympathetic smile as I grip the armrest of my seat for dear life while she does her final walk-through. The attention has thankfully been off me for most of the flightthanks to the K-pop boy group—who are as handsome in person as they are in their music videos—seated in the rows behind me.
I hold my breath, recite the alphabet in my head, and tap my foot so hard it goes numb until the plane finally touches down on the sweet, sweet ground. Bruiser lets out a quiet bark in celebration as we slow to a stop. Gravity has never felt so amazing.
A flurry of notifications pops up as soon as I switch my phone off airplane mode. Responses to my Insta story—a shot of my legs folded on my suitcase at the airport lounge with the captionsee ya later LA—asking where I am or wishing me a safe flight. Multiple texts from Mom, Lily, and Posie wishing me luck and smooth travels. And one from my dad.
Waiting for you on the other side! Welcome to New York
I do my best to swallow my nerves as I text back Mom, Lily, and Posie, like a few of the fan messages, and walk myself and Bruiser’s carrier off the plane. I’m not sure what to expect at the end of the hallway leading to baggage claim. My dad in his favorite Mets cap, most likely, with his partner, Jerome, maybe. But, in a nightmarish twist of events, it’s none of those things.
It’s a swarm of paparazzi.
High-pitched screams drown out the photographers’ questions, and I’m left frozen in place by the sudden onslaught of attention. White spots cloud my vision, the crowd barely visible as the camera flashes pick up with every step I take.I can’t make out faces, only shapes. Young girls huddled in packs holding up signs and banners written in…Korean?
Oh.
Several burly men in crisp black suits push past me, rushing to the real center of attention. The K-pop boys move quickly through the crowd, bowing politely and giving a few waves as their security guards guide them toward the exit. The fans move with them, following at a borderline inappropriate distance, the guards barking orders at them to stay back.
“What brings you to New York, Marisol?” someone asks before snapping a photo so close to my face it blinds me for several seconds. Just my luck: one singular paparazzo decided to stick around.
Before I can give him a vague nonanswer, a familiar voice cuts in.
“Mari, over here!”
We both turn and find my dad is holding a sign of his own.
