Page 32 of Marisol Acts the Part
In short: Ten out of ten. Perfection. Possibly the best meal I’ve had in my life. Including the Michelin-starred restaurants Miles and I visited back when we were dating.
“Good, ah?” Abuela says with a coy smile.
“Amazing,” I reply before I take an eager second bite, moaning around my fork as the flavor combo sends shivers down my spine.
“Don’t tell Jerome,” Dad says with a wink and a nudge to his mom’s shoulder. And here I thought nothing could beat the dinners Jerome has been cooking this week.
The cliché says there’s no food like a grandparent’s cooking—something I never really understood. My grandparents on mymom’s side both passed away when I was too young to remember them, and Mom’s cooking isdefinitelynot something to write home about. She regularly burns rice with the rice maker I bought her.
But now I definitely get it. A part of me aches as I demolish my food like I haven’t eaten in weeks, Abuela smiling proudly and encouraging me to have seconds, and even thirds, if I want. Dad sneaking bits of meat to Bruiser under the table. Salsa music playing from the radio on top of the fridge—the song unfamiliar, but the beat making me want to shimmy in my seat.
This moment feels fun in a way I didn’t think would be possible for me and Dad when I first got here. It feels…right.
I can’t remember the last time I had a home-cooked meal before I got here. Or ate one around a real kitchen table. For the past four years, my life has been running from set to interviews to shoots before crashing on the couch because I was too exhausted to make it to bed. And I loved that life. The rush of a packed promo day. The bone-deep exhaustion when I finally got home from an all-day shoot. But I’d forgotten how much I loved this side of life too. Spending time with Mom, the only family I had back then, curled up in the living room, eating frozen pizza. Not worrying about call times or memorizing lines or rehearsing answers for interviews.
And, maybe, I miss mundanity. A little bit.
“Your nails!” Abuela exclaims as I polish off my bowl. She takes my hand in hers and runs her fingers along my jagged, broken nails.
“I know, it’s horrifying,” I mumble. I’ll have to do a deep dive tonight to find a new go-to salon while I’m here.
“Kevin can fix,” Abuela reassures me with a nod, patting my hand before nudging Dad in the ribs. “You text him.”
“Kevin?” I ask.
“Your cousin,” Dad explains before pulling out his phone. “He can do all that stuff. Nails. Hair. Makeup.”
“Not makeup,” Abuela quickly corrects him, shooting me a vaguely horrified expression. “His makeup not good. Notyet.”
I stifle a laugh around my next bite of food. I can handle myself when it comes to makeup, but having a manicurist (and hairstylist, apparently) in the family is definitely convenient.
Once he’s shot off a text to Cousin Kevin, Dad excuses himself and Abuela from the table.
“I’m going to drop your abuela off, then swing by the club to help out with costumes for Jerome’s show,” Dad explains as he grabs his keys. “We probably won’t be back ’til late. Don’t wait up, but don’t try sneaking out. We’ll know,” he warns with narrowed eyes.
“Could I come to the show?” I ask eagerly, mouth full of rice. I’ve been dying to see Jerome live ever since he started posting clips of his performances on his socials three years ago. If he’s that captivating in a thirty-second clip, I can only imagine how great he must be in person.
Dad sternly shakes his head, making anuh-uhsound. “Noway.”
“But it’s an eighteen-and-up club,” I protest, having already done my research.
“And I still don’t wantmykid at a club that late at night,” he insists, more sternly than I thought he could be, considering he’s never felt like much of an authority figure in my life. “I won’t be able to keep an eye on you from backstage.And you’re a public persona. I’m not gonna let people start waltzing up to you and bothering you all night when I’m not around.”
He has a point—I’ve never been able to exist in public spaces the way regular people can. Still, that shouldn’t stop me from being able to support my family at a drag show. I pout, but don’t argue, and slump back in my chair.
Abuela wipes the pout off my face as she presses a wet goodbye kiss to my cheek.
“See you soon, mama,” she says before giving me one last kiss on the forehead and leaving the apartment with an armful of tote bags.
With the apartment to myself, I turn to my one source of entertainment: my phone. There’s a lot to catch up on in the few days since I last checked in. It’s tempting to post the selfie I took in the bathroom mirror at the salon, pouting as I tried to find an angle that didn’t make me look washed out. Sadly, this hair color makes that next to impossible.
I don’t mean to view Miles’s story. Seriously, I don’t. My feelings about him are more jumbled than ever now that we have to see each other consistently over the next three months, but the thought of him thriving in the city doesn’t ignite rage in me the way it used to. Because, technically, I should be doing the same thing. Off to a bit of a rocky start, but we’ll get there. Seeing Miles’s story while mindlessly scrolling through photos of lattes and acai bowls and trips to the beach shouldn’t upsetme.
But seeing a picture of Jamila does.
It was posted an hour ago, probably during their lunch break, Jamila curled up on one of the picnic benches at a bistro a few blocks from set. Her knees are pulled to her chest,her head resting on top of them as she smiles serenely at the camera. The midafternoon sun makes her brown skin glimmer like gold, the dark brown curls spilling over her shoulder so thick and luscious she could’ve easily walked off the set of a conditioner commercial.
I wasn’t on set today thanks to Rune not wanting to film any scenes with me until I got my hair done. With us being the youngest members of the cast by at least two decades, and Dawn acting like she’s twice our age instead of nineteen, them hanging out together isn’t unusual. But I still can’t ignore the nerves coursing through me, making my heart race and my hands clammy.
