Page 40 of Marisol Acts the Part
Would love to go to that premiere you sent me last week
RSVP yes for me, pls & thank you!
“Done,” I say as the text is sent off. “Besides, I owe you for all the line tips. Let’s call it a trade—you help me study my lines, and I train you in the art of celebrity.”
Jamila’s smile returns, and I let myself give in to its magnetic pull. In a few minutes, we’ll be back on set preparing to shoot for another several hours, but for now I lean in a little closer to her, cheeks warm and aching from how often I laugh whenever we’re together. Premieres are another part of being an actress that loses its meaning over time. That feels more mundane than exciting after you’ve done a dozen in a month. But strangely enough, I’m feeling really excited about this one.
Chapter 13
It takes me twenty minutes to find Jamila’s apartment. When she’d texted me the address—after thanking me profusely for agreeing to meet up at her place instead of at the premiere—it hadn’t seemed complicated. That was until I got to the massive building towering over the entirety of the block. My Lyft dropped me off directly in front of it, and I still don’t know how to get inside.
The unit takes up the majority of this stretch of West 178th, composed of three buildings attached by a series of narrow hallways, complete with a whopping total of five separate entrances. Thankfully, Jamila guided me in the direction of the correct one. Once I got inside, though, I didn’t anticipate a winding series of staircases leading to one section of the building but not the other, each floor broken up into three, or sometimes even four separate segments, each with their ownstaircase.
It’s a logistical nightmare, and I have no idea how anyonecan order takeout without leaving the delivery person panicking like they’re navigating a maze.
There are sounds of general chaos when I finally make it to the correct apartment door and ring the bell. Frantic footsteps and murmured shouts, along with what may or may not be a scream before, finally, Jamila whips the door open. She sags against the doorframe, struggling to catch her breath like she ran a mile to answer the door.
“Hey,” she wheezes out. “Find the place okay?”
“Took me a second,” I reply while doing my best to wipe the sweat off my forehead without making it too obvious. It’s definitely an understatement, but she doesn’t need to know I can barely handle navigating a New York apartment building. Fortunately, this is a low-key premiere, so I’m not running up several flights of stairs in a ball gown. And I decided to keep my makeup on the simpler side tonight—it took thirty minutes nonetheless, but it’s not nearly as intense as my usual multi-hour pre-premiere routine. “But I’m here.”
“You’re here,” Jamila replies, her eyes widening slightly as she takes in my ensemble for the night. A satin lilac slip dress paired with white heels.
“You look amazing,” Jamila says with a smile that makes my cheeks go as pink as my lip gloss. “I definitely don’t have anything like that in my closet.”
Her frown says what she doesn’t as she steps out from where she’s hidden in the doorway, revealing her plain black lace top and boot-cut jeans. The outfit isn’t bad for a low-key premiere like this one. With toned arms and curved hips like hers, she can pull off anything—even a shirt and jeans. A loose gold necklace with a teardrop emerald—her birthstone, I’massuming—ties the outfit together and brings out the depth of her brown eyes. It won’t be the most exciting thing on the red carpet, but there’s no way it’ll be the worst either.
“I like it,” I reply, and it’s not even my usual lying-through-my-teeth-about-a-fashion-choice response.
It’s understated yet classy, pulled together in a way that feels very uniquely her. But I can understand why she might not be too eager about wearing something so understated to her first-ever movie premiere. She’s lucky she’s getting to dip her toes into the world of celebrity life with something lower stakes—a simple red carpet, maybe a couple of questions aboutThe Limit,and nothing else. Hopefully. My first premiere was for a Marvel movie, and I spent most of the night trying not to freak out about being a few feet away from massive A-list stars and struggling not to trip in my three-inch heels.
“I can look through your closet, if you want? To try to spice things up. Your outfit, I mean,” I propose, doing my best to keep my voice light, not wanting to pressure her into thinking I don’t like what she’s already wearing.
Jamila lights up, the worry melting from her face as she eagerly throws the door open and invites me into the apartment, beckoning for me to follow her to her bedroom.
The El Amrani apartment is full of homey touches. The long hallway off the entrance is adorned with photos of the family through the years—some as recent as last year and some stretching so far back they’re stiffly posed black-and-white portraits. Oil paintings of old stone buildings and markets in Marrakech, faded postcards from friends and family in Italy, New Zealand, and Japan, and hand-painted tiles and vases hanging between the photos. So many different colorsand patterns and textures that seem like they should clash, but they complement each other beautifully.
We pass through the living room, and I resist the urge to stop and breathe in the scent from the honey-and-spice candle burning on the coffee table. Like most New York apartments, the room is small, but they’ve made the most of the space. Handwoven throw blankets are strewn across the gray sectional surrounding a flat-screen TV that’s currently displaying a painting of a woman in a garden. It’s the type of room I saw myself curling up in after long days on set when I first agreed to stay with Dad over the summer—cute, cozy, and extremely New York.
Like the living room, Jamila has done a lot with the little space she has in her bedroom. “I share with my sister,” she explains as we step into the room.
Immediately, it’s clear which side is hers. The twin bed on the left side of the room is adorned with hot pink pillows and a dozen different types of stuffed animals, while the simple white comforter on the opposite bed is pristinely made with a single pillow. Not that her older sister Fatima’s side isn’t adorable—definitely more my speed—but I can’t imagine Jamila sleeping in a peach patterned bedspread surrounded by Squishmallows every night. There’s no candle burning in this room, but there’s an aroma that still stops me in my tracks. The sharp sting of clove and sweet touch of cinnamon. Oranges and dark chocolate. An intoxicating scent that is undeniably Jamila.
“If you don’t find anything, I can probably borrow something from Fatima,” Jamila says as she steps over to the closet, snapping me back to reality.
The single closet is neatly split in two, the clear difference in Jamila’s and Fatima’s wardrobes marked by the various colors and patterns transitioning to blacks and grays. Shoes are stacked on a rack beneath the hangers, rows of Doc Martens and rag& bone Chelsea boots along with ballet flats and vibrant neon-colored pumps.
Making two almost-adult women share a closet should be a crime against humanity.
I take my time combing through my options, starting with Jamila’s side of the closet. True to her word, there’s not much that screams “red carpet debut” in her wardrobe. Mostly it’s turtlenecks and sweaters—which I would never let her go outside in. Not on a fashion basis, but for the sake of keeping her from dying of heatstroke. I stifle a gasp when I stumble upon the perfect option, running a hand along it to make sure I didn’t imagine it before pulling it out of the closet.
“How about this?” I hold up the sequined dress to Jamila’s frame. It’s in her signature color—black, of course—with a Vneckline that isn’t too scandalous but still gives her the chance to flaunt her gorgeous arms and collarbone.
Jamila’s cheeks flare as she takes the hanger from me and examines the dress. “I don’t even remember buying this.” Her brows scrunch as she scans the label attached to the size tag. “Fatima must’ve gotten it for me at some point, and I never got around to wearing it.”
“What better time to break it out than tonight?” I ask, both because I think the dress will look great on her, and I shamelessly want to see her in it.
Jamila nods, sheepishly excusing herself to the bathroom. I carefully perch on the edge of her bed, feeling guilty aboutdisturbing the creaseless sheets. It’s a struggle to resist the urge to scan every inch of the room to learn more about Jamila. Still, there’s plenty to see from the bed. Posters of Los Angeles and Seattle. SignedPlaybills from more Broadway shows than I can name off the top of my head. The bookshelf beside her bed is stacked with well-loved copies of Jane Austen’s entire bibliography, a worn copy ofPride and Prejudicesitting on the nightstand. Between the rows of books—ranging from romance to poetry to memoirs—are gold plastic trophies. Everything from Best Monologue to Actress of the Year from various competitions, both within her school and from citywide competitions.
