Page 28 of Marisol Acts the Part
Something rattles within me when she laughs in response. Either my heart or my lungs or my stomach is doing somersaults. It’s the lightest I’ve felt in weeks. A flutter of a feeling I haven’t experienced in years.
“Thank you again,” she says, changing the subject. “For the cupcakes. You’re pretty much my sister’s favorite personever.”
“I wish it was always that easy to win someone over,” I say, more to myself than to her. If everyone was as easy to win over as Jamila’s sister, I’d be the MVP of the cast like I’d planned.
“I mean she likesyou,” Jamila explains. “From the other show you were on.”
“O-oh.” It shouldn’t feel unusual.Avalon Grovewas the number-one teen drama on cable all four seasons. I have millions of followers, stan accounts made in my name, screaming fans at every event and season premiere. But it feels like all of that was ages ago, some far-off dream. A time when I wasn’t judged by my ex for the type of role that made my career.
“That’s so sweet. Tell her I said thank you,” I reply, but it doesn’t come close to the thanks I really want to give. To thank Jamila—well, her sister—for not making me feel ashamed of my acting career thus far, even for a few moments.
Before I can figure out how to sum that up without sounding like a weirdo, the uptown train comes barreling into the station on the opposite track, whizzing past us so quickly it almost knocks me back.
“Are you…?” I ask, gesturing to the train as it slows to astop.
“Going to Washington Heights too, yeah,” she finishes forme.
We stay quiet as we let others off the train first—unlike some heathens—before boarding. I run for two seats at the end of the updated spaceship train car, prepared to offer the other to Jamila only to see her standing a safe distance away.
“We don’t have to sit together,” she suddenly blurts out as the train doors close. “Or talk. I know there’s always this weird, awkward tension when you run into someone on the platform and don’t know if you should stick together or leave each other alone the rest of the ride. Because sometimes you’re not in the mood to talk. Or you want to read a book, or listen to a—”
“We can sit together.”
I shift to the seat closer to the door, going to pat the one beside me, but deciding against it. I don’t know what butts have sat here. Instead, I gesture to the seat like a game-show host’s glamorous assistant. “If you want to?”
Jamila’s cheeks flush the loveliest shade of pink, and for a few brief moments, I wonder what brand of blush she uses, or if it’s another thing she’s won in the genetic lottery.
The second Jamila sits down beside me, an awkward silence fills the space between us. A self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s not that I don’t want to keep talking to her. But I’m too caught up in the way her knee is pressed against mine, and how if I lean back a little, we’ll be bare arm to bare arm, and that Ican smell the perfume clinging to the collar of her T-shirt—Bloom by Gucci. Great taste.
“You were really amazing today,” I say to break the silence, and because if I sit there thinking about every single place our bodies are touching, I’ll lose my mind. “I know I said that yesterday too, and I probably sound like a broken record, but I’m serious. And the way you and Miles can memorize those line adjustments…” I pause to make a hand gesture meant to mime my brain’s attempt to puzzle through memorizing lines. “Learning my regular lines makes my brain short-circuit.” I finish my charade performance with a whispered explosion.
Jamila giggles, but the sound is lost beneath another screech as the train takes a hard left turn, our bodies pressed even closer together now.
“They taught us a bunch of great memorization techniques at my school. I could show you some of them if you want?”
I definitely want—I’ll take what I can get—but my stomach churns at the thought. I know I shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help, but a twinge of fear creeps through me like a chill. Fear that Delia and Miles are right to be so hesitant about me being here. That I’mnotcut out to be a prestige actor if I need tips from someone so green.
Production only started this week, so of course I’m a little off my game. I haven’t even shaken the jet lag yet. I’m in a new city, working on an entirely new type of show, and dealing with the emotional whiplash of a breakupwhilehaving to live with the dad who I barely know. I’m not easy on myself, but I can cut myself some slack. Even a seasoned professional would feel a little rattled by that much change at once. I need a little more time to get adjusted.
“You learned how to memorize lines at school?” I ask, praying Jamila doesn’t notice my subtle change in topic. I’m not ready to accept her offer, but definitely don’t want to turn it down either. I’ll just put it on the back burner.
Thankfully, she goes along without protest. “I go to a performing arts school. Near Lincoln Center.”
My brow furrows. “As in the one that a bunch of famous people went to?”
As in, the same school myAvalon Grovecastmates wished they went to. Getting to live in New York, going to class a few blocks away from the heart of the city. It’s every teen actor’s wet dream.
“A few,” she shrugs, ducking her face bashfully, as if she didn’t casually drop the news that she goes to one of the best performing arts schools in the country. It’s been clear since the day I met her that she’s seriously talented. Like, once-in-a-lifetime talented. And her humility makes her that much cooler.
“So, you’re still in school?” I ask. Technically, I “graduated” this past May along with the rest of theAvalon Grovecast, but the last time I was in a real school setting was the last few months of eighth grade. The closest I’ve gotten to a real high school experience was shooting our finale prom/graduation episode, and I can’t imagine a normal prom would be half as dramatic as a fictional one. Or, at least I hope most real proms don’t involve two fistfights, a teen mom going into labor, and a called-in bomb threat.
“Going into my senior year,” she replies.
“So, have you done this before?” I ask, gesturing unhelpfully. “Like, been on a show?” I clarify.
“I did a few short films for undergrads at NYU, but…” She shrugs. “Nothing like this before.”
“Holy shit,” I blurt out, even though I already knew from her lack of IMDb page that she hadn’t been in anything major before. Still, her first role before she’s even out of high school is a series regular—alead—in a show that swept the Emmys last year? That’s next-level impressive. “Sorry, I mean, that’s…” I trail off, unable to find a word that encapsulates how enormous that kind of achievement is.
