Page 50 of Marisol Acts the Part
I say it without thinking, without considering what it would mean to move in closer to her, to have her arm around my waist and her lips a breath away from mine. My lips part when she steps toward me, as she takes my arms and wraps them around her shoulders. I struggle to keep my balance whenher hands grip my waist. We’re swaying slowly, not at all in time with the rapid pace of the music, but the world starts to spin. All that matters is her, her touch, and the way it makes my heart race. The crowd cheers as the DJ transitions into a remix of Whitney Houston’s “I Wanna Dance with Somebody,” everyone around us pairing up and pushing the two of us closer.
Our foreheads rest together, the fabrics of our dresses clinging and catching on each other. I’m not sure who moves in first—her or me—but I don’t care now that she’s here. Close enough for me to feel every beat of her heart. Close enough that kissing her doesn’t feel impossible—it feels like fate.
And who am I to deny fate?
When I lean up on my toes to brush my lips against hers, she meets me halfway, grip tightening on my waist as our mouths collide with enough force to knock me back. But she holds me tight and doesn’t let go.
My fingers tangle in her curls while she cups my jaw, and at some point, I’m not sure where she ends and I begin. If I thought I was unsteady before, it’s nothing compared to leaning up to kiss her again and again until my chest tightens and begs for breath—but I can’t stop, never want to stop. Because her lips are as soft as her skin and she tastes like she smells, like oranges and chocolate.
We part only because we have to, both of us heaving for breath as the song finishes, and a new contestant is welcomed to the stage. The disco ball above us bathes Jamila in flashes of silver light, and I didn’t think it was possible, but she’s somehow even more beautiful.
Slowly, my hand travels down from her neck, my fingertipsskimming her arm, until I loop our fingers together. My cheeks ache from smiling, and my lips feel swollen, and my gloss is smudged, but I don’t care. Not about anything that isn’t kissing her again. I lean forward to do exactly that, tugging her toward me. First her hand slips out of mine, then her body, mine shivering from the loss of her warmth.
“I have to go,” she whispers, almost lost beneath the screech of a microphone.
And before I can ask her what she means, she’s gone.
Chapter 18
No surprise, Diamond takes first place in the competition. But the thrill of the win is short-lived.
“This isunacceptable!” Dad shouts backstage, flanked by Jerome, who’s now half out of drag.
Thankfully, we weren’t found out until the closing ceremony. After Diamond was crowned first place, accepting her bouquet of flowers and five hundred dollars cash, Dad and Jerome clocked her as Kevin seconds into her acceptance speech. They let Diamond have her moment in the spotlight, bowing for the crowd before instantly pulling her into a dressing room and demanding to know how the hell she managed to pull this off. Minutes later, they found me.
Dad’s voice is a blur as I sit slumped on a stool at Jerome’s/Anita’s vanity beside Kevin, still dressed as Diamond, but all the confidence that won him the competition is long gone.
“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Kevin protests, his grip tightening enough that his bouquet begins to crumple.
“But you know we didn’t want you coming to the club for a reason. You’reteenagers.”
“It’s an over-eighteen club, and we’re both eighteen,” Kevin snaps back instantly.
“That doesn’t change that you went behind our backs.”
The two of them keep at it, lobbing accusations and excuses back and forth while Jerome occasionally chimes in, but I’m numb to the world. I’d attempted to chase after Jamila, but quickly lost her in the crowd. All my worried texts to her have gone unanswered, and I know I should give her the space she clearly needs, but I want to know if she made it home all right.
“And you,” Dad says, suddenly turning his attention to me. Begrudgingly, I look up to meet his scowl. “I’m not sure what your mother lets you do out in LA, but we have rules you need to follow if you’re going to stay in our house. You’re grounded. You go to set, you come straight back home, got it?”
His tone makes the numbness fade and anger spark at his implication that Mom lets me do whatever I want. I don’t like the way he said it—and I especially don’t like the backhanded jab at Mom’s parenting. Which he has no right to comment on, considering he was barely a part of my life up until a few weeks ago. I debate telling him he can’t ground me, that I’m eighteen and perfectly capable of finding my own place now that I’m settled, but decide against it. The last thing I need right now is a move.
So I say nothing. I nod and accept my punishment. All thejoy I felt less than an hour ago so far gone it feels like a distant memory.
And here I thought things couldn’t possibly get more awkward on set. Except, this time, it’s impossible to avoid my problems.
Well,problem.
I’m able to bypass going back to my trailer after shooting my first scene of the day—thankfully not with Miles or Jamila—by spending an extra twenty minutes deciding what fillings I want in my omelet at the crafty breakfast truck. Then I camp out in hair and makeup for another half hour between scenes since Gianna, my usual hairstylist, recently redid the deck of her house up in Westchester and hasplentyof photos she wants to share. Who would’ve thought you could photograph wood from so many angles?
Avoiding Jamila may be exhausting, sure, and maybe a teeny, tiny bit immature, but it’s the only choice I have. All my texts from that night at the club went unanswered, even the ones asking if she got home safely. It got to the point that I was worried something happened to her. I was convinced I’d show up to set on Monday to an announcement that Jamila had either gone missing or broken a leg heading down the subway steps, or some other travel-related catastrophe.
Instead, it’s as normal a day as any. Except for my exhaustion and mega eye bags, everything is business as usual. I’ve basically been locked in my room since we got home onSaturday, but sleep doesn’t come easily when you have this much on your mind. Dad, Jerome, and I have done a great job of avoiding each other in an apartment that can barely fit one person comfortably.
Kevin’s phone privileges were taken away by his mom—my aunt Alexia—once Dad told her the full story. While she didn’t disapprove of him doing drag, shedefinitelydidn’t like that he’d snuck out behind her back to a place that served alcohol. My only human contact on Sunday is a video from Lily and Posie of them spread out on a beach in the South of France. A fresh reminder that I could’ve been with them, soaking up the sun and eating twenty-dollar cheese with fresh baguettes.
According to the call sheet, Jamila arrived an hour before me, and based on the lack of adjustments to our schedule for the day, she made it in one piece.
Not that I can confirm, since I haven’t seen her.
