Page 19 of Marisol Acts the Part
A girl in a headset, holding an empty Styrofoam drink container, is flat on the ground in a puddle of spilled lattes. Her A24 hat has been knocked askew, but her blond pony is still perfectly in place. I’ll have to ask what hair spray she uses. At least her all-black ensemble, while damp, is saved from any potential staining. Rule Number 2 of being on set: Don’t wear anything you don’t want to risk ruining permanently. Hence my choice of an outfit so last season it’s practically vintage.
The muscles in her jaw clench as she glares up at whoever ran into her, ignoring the coffee spreading across the floor, dangerously close to a stack of scripts sitting haphazardly on the floor.
The seamless flow of the room comes to a crashing halt,everyone frozen for a fraction of a second before recalibrating. Someone dives for the scripts and pulls them out of harm’s way. Another starts mopping the coffee puddle.
“I’m so sorry,” the person at fault says, kneeling down to pat the spill with a stack of tiny napkins.
My breath catches in my throat, my heart suddenly beating at double speed.
Because the chaos bringer is Ridiculously Beautiful Girl.
I shouldn’t be surprised to see her. I said myself that she was pretty much guaranteed a part on the show after that audition. A quick search for her on IMDb revealed that she either hasn’t been in anything before or hasn’t been in anything big enough to warrant her own page. Yet, anyway. The sight of her knocks something loose inside of me. Unlike last time, I don’t lose my confidence when her eyes meet mine, hers as wide as the buttons on her cardigan. Because this time, I’m in my element.
Carefully, I cross the room toward her, setting my boxes on a nearby folding table to kneel down in front of her.“Hi.”
“Hey,” Jamila replies with a shy smile, abandoning her fruitless attempts to mop up the coffee.
We hold there, eyes locked on one another, unsure what to say next, until the production assistant breaks the spell. “I can handle it,” she mutters bitterly, clearly trying to get us to move.
Cheeks on fire, I give her a polite smile and jump back up and grab my cupcake boxes. Before I can offer a cupcake to Jamila, the all-too-familiar scent of Jo Malone’s wood sage and sea salt cologne washes over me. In a Pavlovian response, my body shivers, the blood in my cheeks creeping down to myneck as I whip around and find myself face to face with none other than Miles “Heartbreaker” Zhao.
I wish I could say he looks terrible since the breakup. That the acne he fought so hard to cure finally cropped back up because he drowned his post-dumping-me sorrows in takeout and ice cream like I did. But his skin is as flawless as ever. He’s tanner too—artificially or naturally, I’m not sure, but it’s unfair that I can’t even tell. Normally he doesn’t let his hair get this long, the ends of it falling gracefully in front of his face, but the length suits him. The natural swoop framing his face shows off how genetically blessed he is. He’s swapped out his usual shorts and linen shirt to match the New York aesthetic: simple black jeans paired with a tucked-in designer white T-shirt and combat boots. He’s even got the classic blue-and-whiteWe are happy to serve youcoffee cup, even though I know for a fact that he hates coffee.
“Marisol?” he asks in confusion, taking a step back like he’s worried I might be a ghost.
“Oh, hey,” I reply as casually as possible, ignoring the fact that I’m sweating in places I didn’t even think it was possible to sweat. The baby-pink bodycon maxidress I picked out for the day seemed like the perfect choice at the time. A subtle, summer-appropriate cherry pattern that complements the natural blush in my cheeks, with a skintight fit that hugs the curves I inherited from Mom. Now, though, I’m realizing that there’s no way I’ll get away with hiding any sweat stains.
And there could be a lot of them.
“What’re you doing here?” Miles continues, thankfully not detecting my nervousness.
I carefully balance my boxes in one hand to reach into my Telfar bag and pull out a script. “I’m part of the cast. Duh.”
He takes the script from me to examine it more closely, needing to see the proof with his own eyes. I’d be offended by the shock written all over his face if it wasn’t so amusing watching him try to puzzle this out like it’s a physics equation.
“You got a part,” Miles echoes, gesturing toward the bustling production around us. “Onthisshow?”
I give him a delightfully puzzled look. “What, like it’s hard?”
The way his mouth parts in a silent gasp would be enough to make me cackle if I wasn’t so focused on my performance. After I’ve snatched my script back, I flip open the box on the top of the stack and hold it up to his nose. “Cupcake?”
He’s still too shocked to do anything other than numbly shake his head. I flip the box shut, give him a too-sweet smile, and head toward the conference room at the end of the hall.
“See you in a few,” I call over my shoulder, seamlessly avoiding a boom operator before turning a corner and disappearing from view.
The second I’m out of Miles’s sight, I press myself up against a wall and bite back a scream of excitement. I knew Miles’s reaction to seeing me would be priceless. Getting the call that I was on the show was incredible, sure, but seeing the gears turning in his brain was well worth the effort it took to get here.
Guess I’m not asunseriousas you thought, Miles.
With a triumphant smirk, I hold my head up high and waltz into the room where several tables and chairs are set up for the read-through. I set down my bag on the seat marked with my name—at Miles’s left, with Jamila on his right.
Beside a counter laid out with protein bars, muffins, and fruit, I spot Rune. He’s even more disheveled than I remembered. His royal blue sweater—a terrible choice given it’s almost eighty degrees out—is rumpled and stained. The edges of his sleeves are frayed, stray threads tangled all the way down to his rough, dry knuckles. He clearly hasn’t shaved since the audition, his few days of stubble now grown out into a full dark-blond beard, in harsh contrast to his unruly ice-blond hair and brows.
“Hi!” I say brightly, resisting the urge to tap him on the shoulder to get his attention. Something tells me he’s not the type to take kindly to unprovoked physical contact.
He blinks up at me from his script with wide, owlish eyes. His thick brows furrow; his chapped lips press into a thin line as if he’s trying to place who I am and why the hell I’m here.
“I’m Marisol,” I offer, doing the work for him.He probably didn’t recognize you,I tell myself as I hold my smile in place. Directors must see hundreds of actors a day, and it’s been almost two weeks since my audition. Plus, I have caramel highlights now. Totally different look.
