Page 47 of Marisol Acts the Part
“Okay, what’s the matter?” Kevin snaps as he steps out of the dressing room in a green midi cling dress that I give an apathetic thumbs-down.
“It doesn’t do anything for your legs,” I explain, gesturing to the dress’s awkward length. He already has naturally glorious legs. No point in hiding them under fabric.
Kevin crosses his arms when I hand him the next option to try. “I meant with you.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ve been weird since we got here. Every other time I’ve seen you, your energy is at a ten, but I walked out in that neon-yellow feather monstrosity that made me look like Big Bird, and you didn’t even say a thing,” he explains, pointing to said feather monstrosity. I shudder as I take it in properly this time. Itdoeslook like Big Bird.
“I’m sorry, I’m just exhausted from shooting,” I apologize before burying my head in my hands, applying a gentle pressure to my temples that I hope will ease my building migraine and wake me up a little. I knew I should’ve gotten myself a latte before ordering my Lyft. New York seriously needs more drive-throughs.
Instead of dropping the subject and moving on to the next outfit, Kevin squeezes beside me onto the bench outside of his dressing room. “Did something happen?”
I shrug, hoping it comes off as nonchalant, but the way he keeps staring intently at me tells me he’s not convinced. “The director can just be really frustrating sometimes.”
“Did he say something to you?”
I snort, a humorless, bitter sound. “Not exactly. But he doesn’t need to say anything to make me feel awful.” My head drops, hanging limply as I run my hands along my bare arms, trying to warm them back up. “It feels like I’m never doing anything right. Even when I think I’m giving a fantastic performance, he still finds something to nitpick, like my hair, or my clothes, or the freaking perfume I’m wearing.”
“He sounds like a dick.”
“He’s a great writer, though.”
“That doesn’t mean he can’t also be a dick.” Kevin nudges his shoulder against mine. “Regardless of whatever he tries to put you through, you got this job for a reason: because you’re talented. Don’t let anyone ever tell you otherwise. Includinghim.”
“If the person who hired me doesn’t think I’m any good, then how am I supposed to believe in myself?” I reply, holding back tears as I voice the fear that’s been plaguing me ever since my first day on this show.
I know I’ve been putting my best foot forward. I know I’ve been giving this my all. IknowI’m giving a really great performance—possibly the best of my career. But it feels impossible not to doubt myself when Rune seems so determined to see me fail.
“Because it shouldn’t matter what anyone else thinks. It only matters whatyouthink,” Kevin insists, taking my hand in his and squeezing gently. “But for what it’s worth, I think you’re pretty damn amazing. I bingedAvalon Groveand that one holiday rom-com you did. Phenomenal. And I’m not just saying that because you’re my famous cousin.”
This time, my laugh isn’t bitter or hollow. It’s the lightest I’ve felt since the premiere with Jamila. I forget about who I’m trying to be and remember who I really am. A girl who loves pink and romance and fashion. A girl who isn’t afraid to be herself. “Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. You’re the one doing me the favors.”
That might technically be true, but helping him get ready for the competition has honestly been a welcome distraction from the pressures of shooting. Plus, my nails have never looked better. Rune hasn’t mentioned them once, which is honestly a great sign.
Kevin stands back up, grabbing the next option—the champagne jumpsuit I have high hopes for—from the pile beside me. “You got your ticket for this Saturday, right?”
Since Dad has been so adamant about me not going to any of Jerome’s shows, I made sure to book the ticket under an alias. I’m not sure how involved Jerome is in ticket sales, but I can’t risk them busting our operation before it can actually go into effect.
“Duh.” I pull up my confirmation email as proof with a grin. “Would you mind if I invited a friend?” I ask tentatively, suddenly very intrigued by a loose thread on my skirt. I’d had the thought to invite Jamila the night of the premiere, but chickened out at the last minute. Not because I don’t think a drag show is her scene, but because this feels…different. An invite to do something outside ofThe Limit, outside of showing her the ropes of celebrity life. A night to be who we are—hopefully without cameras lurking around every corner. Clearly, we’re friends when we’re on set, and we got along well the night of the premiere, but who are wereallywhen we’re off-screen?
Kevin narrows his eyes at me suspiciously but doesn’t pry for any details. “The more to witness my debut, the merrier.” He steps back into the dressing room, head peeking out of the curtain. “Now, I want you to give me your honest opinion on this next one. No thumbs-up or thumbs-down, okay?”
“Okay,” I assure him with my last thumbs-up of the evening before quickly pulling out my phone and texting Jamila.
Hey! So, my cousin is going to be part of an amateur drag competition Friday night—any interest in being my plus one? Give you a chance to experience the joys of going incognito in a crowd!
Yet another unfortunate lesson Jamila will have to learn sooner or later: public spaces like a nightclub aren’t your friend when you’re a recognizable face. The sooner she learns how to keep people from figuring out who she is so she can spend her night enjoying herself instead of fielding selfies and autographs, the better.
I hit send on the text before I can dwell too long on the wording—my plus-one, seriously? It’s not like we’re going to a wedding—and shove my phone back into my pocket moments before Kevin steps out in the jumpsuit.
“Oh. My. God,” I say, each word its own statement.
“It’s a little much, right?” Kevin shifts to face the full-length mirror nervously, tugging the V-neckline of the jumpsuit closer together.
“ ‘Too much’ isn’t in my vocabulary. It’sperfect!”
