Page 15 of Marisol Acts the Part
WELCOME TO NEW YORK, MUCHKIN!is written in black marker, complete with several of my baby photos adorning the message like a frame. Including the one of me eating dirt.
The paparazzo jumps into action like a dog after a bone, racing up to my dad and snapping as many photos of the sign as he can.
“Are you her dad? Is she here to visit you?” the paparazzo asks, the questions coming out a mile a minute.
I swoop in before my dad can respond, loop my arm through his, and tug him toward the exit. “No comment!” I shout over my shoulder, hustling us onto the sidewalk in record time.
Anyone else who might’ve cared about my presence is too wrapped up in following the boy group to their black Escalades, but I still lower the brim of my ball cap until I can barely see what’s in front of me.
“Quite an entrance,” my dad says once we’re outside. He scratches his head in confusion as someone runs straight into oncoming traffic to catch up to the boy group.
My reply is swallowed by a car horn and shout of “Are you outta your mind?!”
“Is that all you brought?” he asks with a raised brow, jutting his chin toward Bruiser’s carrier.
In my rush to get the hell away from that paparazzo, I completely forgot about my luggage. I whip around and peer through the glass double doors at the carousel we ran away from. Even from several feet away, I spot one of my hot pink suitcases. Mom says they will attract too much unnecessary attention, but that’s thepoint.Everyone’s luggage looks the same, so you’ve gotta stand out unless you want to go home with someone else’s underwear. Duh.
“I didn’t get a chance to grab my stuff,” I say with a sigh. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the lone paparazzo lurking near the entrance to baggage claim, searching for any other notable faces who he can harass.
My dad follows my eye line, humming in thought once he spots the photographer. He snaps his fingers, a smirk playing at his lips as he races over to a maroon car double-parked beside the curb. He pops the trunk and roots through bags of fabrics, sequins, and several rolls of tulle before finding what he’s looking for: an NYU Drama hoodie and matching hat. Hequickly pulls them on despite the criminal ninety-degree heat—seriously, the air is so thick it feels like I’m inside of someone’s mouth—and throws on a pair of sunglasses for good measure.
“Radio’s busted, but the AC should work,” he says as he tosses me the keys to the car. “If it doesn’t, slap the dashboard a couple times. And if a cop comes and tells you to move, sniffle and tell ’em you’re here to pick up your estranged sister. Works every time,” he says so quickly I’ve barely processed any of it before he’s gone.
New York is certainly eventful so far.
I set Bruiser’s carrier in the backseat, rewarding her for her patience with a couple of chin scratches and one of those dried bacon strips that make dogs lose their minds. She goes to town on her well-earned prize while I shift my attention to getting some much-needed airflow going. The inside of the car is as cluttered as the trunk—receipts and notepads littering the floor, boxes of shoes stacked in the backseat. Very fitting, considering my dad is an Off-Broadway costume designer. It takes several slaps and a well-placed kick to the dashboard to get the AC switched on. The air is dry and a little musty, but anything is better than roasting like a Christmas ham.
By the time my dad returns, his slicked-back hair has fully broken free from its pomade shell. That’s one thing we both have in common: our hairhatesheat. Though the similarities don’t end at our hair. There’s no denying that we’re father and daughter, with our matching dark brown hair, eyes, and lightly tanned skin. Thankfully, I also inherited his flair for fashion. No offense to Mom, but she barely knows the difference between silk and satin.
Sweat lines the collar of my dad’s hoodie as he lugs mythree oversized suitcases toward the curb, collapsing against the car with a groan.
“What’ve you got in here?” he asks as he struggles to catch his breath. “Bricks?”
“Shoes, mainly,” I reply, pulling my cap down enough to shield me from any lurking photographers before getting out of the car and helping him load my bags, which is a two-person job. “You never know when you’ll need a three-inch, five-inch, or six-inch heel. So I brought options,” I explain as I grip the other end of a suitcase, count down to three, and heave it into the trunk.
“At least you’re prepared,” he mumbles, more to himself than to me, as he eyes my remaining two suitcases with dread.
Thankfully, my sundress-and-makeup-essentials suitcase and sensible-crop-tops-and-shorts suitcases are easier to manage. It takes a surprising amount of brain power to figure out how to get the trunk to close, but after a few minutes of Tetris-ing my bags, we’re taking off onto the JFK exit ramp.
The hour-long drive to upper Manhattan is…awkward. Not made any easier by me choosing to sit in the backseat so I can keep an eye on Bruiser’s carrier. There’s nothing she loves more than a car-ride vomit session.
“How was the flight?” my dad asks.
“Not bad,” I reply. “I’m not great at flying, but I managed.”
“Your mom always hated flying,” he says with a wistful smile, peeking at me in the rearview mirror, but he doesn’t say anything else.
“You excited to start filming?” he asks twenty minutes later.
“Yeah,” I say with a smile that’s as stiff as my back after that five-and-a-half-hour flight. “Lot of lines to learn, though.”
“Better more lines than less.”
“Right.”
“Yeah.”
It’s like a terrible first date, but we don’t even have a movie or dinner to distract us. We sit in silence. My stomach gurgles from a dangerous combination of motion sickness and hunger as we cross the bridge from Queens to Manhattan. I’m tempted to ask him to pull over as we drive along the East River so I can hurl directly into the unusually green water, but no need to publicly embarrass myself five minutes into my NYC residency.
