Page 33 of Marisol Acts the Part
There’s no caption, just a tagged account hovering over the half-eaten caprese sandwich on the table beside her. I tap it, a flutter blossoming in my stomach as I realize it’s Jamila’s.
Her profile is unusually sparse for someone our age. She only has a dozen posts and around six hundred followers—though that’ll change soon, once the cast announcement is up next week. The most recent photo on her account is of her and who I’m assuming are her parents and older sister, posed in front of a wooden cabin in matching shirts readingI GOT CRABS IN LAKE ANDREAS.The photo itself is adorable, even with the quirky shirts, and Jamila’s smile stands out from the crowd. Wide and jubilant, eyes scrunched up and mouth thrown open like they caught her midlaugh.
Most of the photos on her account are of her with her family, mainly her older sister. Fatima, I learn. Photos of the two of them at a café in Morocco, having a picnic in the park, on Fatima’s first day at NYU. Scrolling through strangers’ social media accounts is a favorite pastime of mine, but somethingabout going through Jamila’s feels oddly intimate. Like I’m staring through a window directly into her home.
By the time I’ve scanned all twelve posts on her page I can easily picture her living room—the tapestries on the wall and vase of dried roses on the dining table—and the way the plant on the windowsill in her bedroom paints monster-shaped shadows on the wall at sunset. The way her eyes sparkle when they catch the light, the slight upward curve of her lips in every selfie—even when she’s not trying to smile. It’s easy to get lost in the photos of a life I wish I knew, family trips and nights with a sister who’s more a best friend than anyone else will ever be. I can’t help smiling at the selfie of Jamila before her junior prom. Her curls are pulled back into a loose bun, showing off the long, elegant expanse of her neck and the locket at the base of her throat. Whoever designed the red off-the-shoulder gown she’s wearing deserves a Nobel Prize, the fabric clinging to her curves like it was made with her in mind. I tap the heart beneath the photo and move on to look at the—
Wait.
I tapped the heart button.
On an account I don’t follow.
On a photo from seven months ago.
Holy mother freakin’ shit.
My hands tremble as I race back to the photo, untap the heart as quickly as my shaking hand lets me, and then drop the phone like a hot potato. Everything should be fine. That like was up for barely ten seconds. By now the notification will have disappeared from her phone, and she’ll never know.
My phone starts ringing.
I squeal, convinced Jamila somehow tracked down my number to tell me off for being a creep. And I wouldn’t blame her. Seriously—who doesn’t know not to like a photo when you’re social media stalking? That’s Social Media 101.
But it’s just a FaceTime from Lily. Breathing a sigh of relief, I prop my phone up on a decorative vase and answer thecall.
“Mari!” Lily and Posie exclaim in unison. It’d be creepy—how on each other’s wavelengths they are—if I wasn’t so used to it. “How’s New York?”
“Smells kinda like pee, like everyone said,” I say with a sigh, some of the pressure in my chest fading now that I don’t feel like I have to be 100percent positive and upbeat constantly. If Delia or Mom knew I was struggling even a tiny bit, their pressuring me into quittingThe Limitwould go into overdrive. Proof that I’m a better actor than they’re giving me credit for: they still don’t know I’m not having the most amazing time of my life.
“Gross,” Posie says, wrinkling her nose. It’s not until that moment that I realize they’re seated together in what appears to be…an airplane?
“Are you guys flying somewhere?” I ask, scanning my memory for any texts that mentioned them going on a trip last-minute.
“We are,” Lily replies with a coy smile, sharing a knowing glance with Posie before breaking out into enormous grins.
“We’re going to Paris!” Posie exclaims, and Lily immediately follows with, “To film our new show!”
I nearly choke on my rice. “Wh-what?” I gasp out once I’m sure I’m not actually choking. The last time we talked, their options were seemingly as bleak as mine. It’s hard enough tofind opportunities that call for twins, let alone make yourself stand out when you have someone who looks exactly like you in the audition room.
“Remember that pilot we shot forever ago about the sisters who trade places at a Parisian boarding school and a dance academy?” I nod, easily remembering the two weeks they were off filming and we had to write their characters out ofAvalon Grove.“They got a full series order! We’re flying out to Paris now, but we’re also going to shoot a couple of episodes in the Alps, and maybe Amsterdam too!”
They say it all so quickly, it takes my brain several seconds to process, my mouth hanging open in shock. “Oh my God, that’s amazing!” I blurt out once I finally catch up, my body so unsure of what to do with my excitement that I wind up flailing my hands around. “Seriously, no one deserves this more than you two!”
And that really is true. My relationship with Miles aside, Lily and Posie are by far the best part of my time onAvalon Grove.Things weren’t as easy for them as they were for me and Miles—playing the villains everyone was meant to love to hate. Except some fans didn’t know how to separate the characters on-screen with who they were in real life. Throw in the bigots who showed up out of the woodwork when the writers chose to have Posie’s character transition—matching Posie’s own real-life experience transitioning two years ago—and they’ve had to deal with more hate from full-grown adults than anyone our age should have to.
They deserve the lead roles. The trips to Paris. The swoony love stories where they’re as adored on-screen as they shouldbe in real life. The moment to be in the spotlight and show everyone how special they are.
They deserve good things.
“Love you, Mari,” Posie coos. “I wish we could’ve told you in person.”
“And they had this amazing supporting role that you would’ve beenperfectfor!”
“Ugh, yes.” Both of them pout. “Apparently, they begged your agent to let you read for it, but she said it wouldn’t work with your schedule forThe Limit.”
My call earlier this week with Delia rings in my ear.There’s this HBO series that’s shooting in Paris that would love to get a self-tape from you.
The same one I’d shot down. “R-right. Yeah,” I reply with a nervous laugh. “But you don’t need me! I’m sure you’ll have an amazing time.”
