Page 18 of Marisol Acts the Part
“This is Bruiser.”
As if on cue, a snot bubble dribbles out of Bruiser’s left nostril. Great first impression, Bruise. “She’s cute most of the time,” I reassure him, carefully adjusting my grip so her bodily fluids don’t rub off on my shirt. “Well, some of the time,” I mutter, more to myself than to her. She’s kind of a walking disaster—but who am I to talk?
Any protests Jerome may have had are swallowed when my dad, finally recharged from his harrowing journey up the stairs, reappears in the entryway to the hall. “What a cutie,” he says with a grin before petting Bruiser on the head, grimacing when his hand—somehow—comes back wet. “Well, what do you think?” he asks after wiping his hand on his jeans and giving me an eager smile.
“It’s…”
Too small. Up five flights of stairs. Not the Manhattan paradise I thought it would be. “Amazing,” I finish. Because even though my dad and I barely know each other, I don’t have it in me to break his heart.
He lets out a clap of excitement, urging us all to step out of the cramped hallway and back into the also-cramped kitchen/dining/living room. “We’re so excited to have you here, munchkin. I know your mom said you might be looking into finding a new place to stay once you’re settled, but you’re welcome here for as long as you want.”
Jerome gives me a vigorous nod of agreement.
“Thanks…” I hesitate, unsure how to actually address my dad now that I have to. “Dad,” I say, going with the least controversial option even though it still doesn’t feel quite right.
Well, better late than never, I guess. My dad is now officially…Dad.
His expression shifts subtly, something I can’t quite read. Before I can tell if he’s upset or elated, he puts his more neutral smile back on and hands me back the plate of food I’d abandoned in favor of exploring my new closet—room.
“We’ll give you some space to get unpacked and settle in. We’re in here if you need anything.”
I give him a weak smile, struggling to keep Bruiser from wriggling her way out of my arms. Once I set her back on the ground, she follows close behind me as I head back to my room. I sit on the ground, taking up the last stretch of available space, and try to distract myself from another panic spiral by grabbing my plate from where I left it on the windowsill and shoveling rice into my mouth. As expected, it’s delicious.Light and fluffy with flecks of cilantro and cut-up chunks of avocado so creamy I wouldn’t be surprised if they were scientifically engineered in a lab, all perfectly blended together with a mix of spices I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before.
Well, my room may be a literal closet, but at least the food is top-tier.
Beyond my tiny window, a flock of pigeons perched on an AC unit battle over an abandoned pizza crust. A woman pushes a cart of sliced mangos dusted with chili powder down the block. Kids race onto the playground between two apartment buildings, tossing their backpacks aside as they swing themselves onto the monkey bars.
Without thinking, I pull my phone out of my pocket and take a photo of the view, strategically setting up the angle. No visible street signs or murals. I’ve learned the hard way that when you have over three million followers, even the most minute details can land you in hot water. Definitely don’t want an overeager fan standing outside the building—because it’s happened before. More than once.
Instead, I keep the photo focused on the way the sky is painted soft orange and pink as the sun sets behind the jagged skyline of office buildings, apartments, and skyscrapers. First I send it to Mom and Lily and Posie with an assurance that I made it to Dad’s, and then I post it on my socials, complete with a subtle but effective filter and a simple caption.
Please be nice to me, NYC
Chapter 6
Everyone knows the first table read sets the tone for the rest of the season. Whether the cast will get along. If any castmates might turn into something more. Who the troublemakers and divas are, and who’ll play by the rules.
And, most importantly, who the MVP will be.
Not to brag—okay, maybe a little—but I wasAvalon Grove’s MVP for all four seasons. The only person who didn’t immediately tell everyone if you shared a secret? Me. Need a shoulder to cry on? Moi. Or a backup outfit after one of the infamous crafty ketchup packets exploded all over yours? I’ve got you.
Taking my career in a new direction doesn’t mean I have to change everything about who I am. I can still be a consistent, reliable, and friendly castmate even if I’m spending most of my days tearing people down and crying on camera instead of falling in love with them and worrying about a chem test.
And what better way to start things off than with cupcakes?
Doughnuts are my one true weakness, but Dad and Jerome insisted that Magnolia Bakery is the way to go, promising me that they have the best dessert in the city. So far, I definitely don’t disagree. The red velvet cupcake I had before dinner—because obviously I had to taste-test them myself first—might be the best cupcake I’ve ever had. Still doesn’t beat a doughnut, but it gave Krispy Kreme a run for its money. Light, fluffy chocolate cake with the perfect amount of rich cream cheese frosting. If that was the last bite of food I ever had in my life, I wouldn’t complain. I even sent a text to Mom with a photo of the cupcake and a message readingwhen I die bury me with this,which got me a very prompt phone call warning me not to joke about dying.
But seriously, they’re that good.
My precious cargo of two dozen cupcakes is strapped into the seat beside me in the car production sent to pick me up from home. The driver beams when I offer him one on my way out, happily accepting a double chocolate one for himself along with a promise to meet me out front once the table read is over.
The studio production rented for the table read is one of a dozen on the same block. I don’t know much about Brooklyn, or Red Hook specifically, but the brief impression I get after I step out of the car lines up with everything I’ve been told. The street we turn down is entirely refurbished warehouses, faded paint commemorating them as former factories and canneries. A few restaurants and breweries take up the first floor of several of the buildings—sectioned-off picnic tables and umbrellas lining the streets. Around the corner, bikes go whizzing down the path along the water. My heart leaps when I spot aglimpse of the Statue of Liberty, her torch rising above a large brown brick building.
Sadly, the interior of Greenbelt Studios isn’t as exciting as the exterior of the block. Production assistants and producers go whipping past me carrying scripts, clipboards, and precariously stacked to-go trays of coffee. I move through the madness with practiced ease, keeping my elbows tucked close to my chest and dodging a few close calls with the people whose eyes are glued to their phones.
I may feel out of my element when it comes to acting in a serious drama, but the chaos feels comforting. Almost like home. The rule book for being on set is one I know like the back of my hand. Beginning with Rule Number 1: Stay out of everyone’s way. Navigating a film set is a fine art that can take years to perfect.
And based on the crashing sound on the other end of the room, someone hasnotmastered it yet.
