Page 27 of Marisol Acts the Part
I roll my eyes as I balance my phone between my ear and my shoulder, struggling to properly swipe my MetroCard through the turnstile.
TOO FAST SWIPE AGAIN
“I’m fine, Delia. Seriously,” I interject, cutting off her list of potential projects. I’d be offended by her lack of faith in me if I wasn’t so overwhelmed by her throwing other possibilities at me every time we check in. It’s not like I can quit now. We’ve already started filming. And I worked way too hard on memorizing all of these line changes to give up.
“I’m having a good time, I promise,” I reassure her, putting as much emphasis on thepromiseas I can while swiping my MetroCard for a second time.
TOO SLOW SWIPE AGAIN
“C’mon,” I mutter under my breath, glancing over my shoulder nervously at the line starting to form behind me.
Delia stays silent on the other end of the line, as if she’s still not convinced. I’m prepared to call her out on her doubt in my acting abilities while I swipe the card (hopefully) one last time.
INSUFFICIENT FARE
“Keep it moving!” a disgruntled man at the back of the line shouts.
Fine, I haven’t nailed the art of swiping a MetroCard yet, but in my defense, what subway station only hasoneturnstile?
I duck out of the way, letting the person after me go next while I rush over to the machine at the opposite end of the station to refill my card.
“If you ever feel uncomfortable on set, or worried about anything, you call me ASAP, all right?” Delia’s voice is soft, light. Some might even say vulnerable. A complete one-eighty to the usual no-nonsense tone I’m used to.
It should feel comforting, knowing that my straight-to-business agent is opening up, making sure I have a safe space in her, but it only grates on my already-frayed nerves. The calls, the check-ins, the constant emails with self-tape requests and a subject line readingNot too late to switch to this if you’re interested!Why is everyone around me treating me like I’m a ticking time bomb? Like they’re waiting for me to inevitably implode?
If the person who gets 15percent of all my earnings doesn’t even want me to do a big-budget prestige drama, how the hell am I supposed to believe in myself?
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a man walking off the platform through the emergency exit door. Meanwhile, the MetroCard machine continues its struggle to process my credit card. Double-checking over my shoulder for any roaming cops or subway employees, I quickly cancel my transaction and snatch back my subway and credit cards, then dart through the door before it can close. Less than a week in New York and I’m already a delinquent.
“Thanks, Delia. I have to hop on the train. I’ll talk to you later.”
“You’re taking the subway?” Delia makes it sound like I told her I’m headed to the moon.
“Duh, I’m a New Yorker now,” I reply with an actual note of cheeriness. Taking the subway does feel daunting, and maybe the slightest bit unsanitary, but it’s a core part of New York City. This summer is about pushing myself out of my comfort zone. Which includes heading into a station alone. Right before our call, I narrowly avoided touching a suspicious brown liquid that one could only hope was soda.
Delia gives me a skeptical goodbye and one last reminder to call her if I need anything. Just in time, the A train comes rumbling into the station seconds after I tuck my phone back into my pocket. The doors open, and I step inside, only for something to yank me off the train.
“Get off!” I’m prepared to reach into my bag for the can of Mace Mom insisted I carry. I whip around to shove off my attacker only to come face-to-face with Jamila.
“It’s me!” she cries out, holding her hands up in surrender.
Several eyes watch us warily, a group of women idling onthe staircase, until I relax and pull my hand out of my tote bag. I breathe a sigh of relief that I realized it was her before I could act. Both because I’d feel guilty as hell for pepper-spraying the only person in the cast who’s been nice to me, and because I can’t imagine Rune would be too happy with me almost blinding his lead actress.
“Stand clear of the closing doors,”the automated subway voice announces.
“Sorry, I have to get home.” I turn around, prepared to bolt onto the train and apologize for brushing off Jamila the next time I see her, when she grabs my arm again, spinning me back around like we’re tangoing on the dance floor.
“That train is going farther into Brooklyn,” she explains. “You’re going back to Manhattan, right? You said you’re staying in Washington Heights.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” I reply quickly, not letting myself dwell on how she remembered that small tidbit I’d mentioned briefly in passing during the read-through. “Thank you. I totally missed that.”
“Happens to the best of us,” she says with a shrug. “I’ve lived here my whole life, and I still accidentally wind up deep in Brooklyn every few months.”
I shudder at the thought. We fall silent as the old-school train pulls away, the screech of the tracks making both of us wince. When the rumble settles and the platform has gone quiet again, I give her a tentative smile. “I think getting lost in Brooklyn would have broken me. You’re a lifesaver.”
She arches one of her well-defined brows coyly, and it takes biting down on my lip not to ask her what her brow routine isbecause hotdamn.Anyone who can make something as simple as brows this attractive has major skills. “Big praise coming from someone who critiqued my cupcake-eating skills.”
“Well, I never said you were perfect,” I reply.
