Page 35 of Marisol Acts the Part
“This is definitely an upgrade.”
“Anything’s an upgrade from nothing,” Jamila says, pulling on the mustard-yellow crocheted cardigan I saw her wearing last week—one of her costume pieces. “All we got on those short films was a foldable chair with our name taped onto the back and a water bottle. But this is definitely setting me up for disappointment in the future.” She collapses onto one of the beige leather sofas, throwing her feet up with a sigh. “I’m never getting a trailer this nice again.”
Probably true, but she’s too fresh-faced to have her dreamscrushed. “Until you win an Emmy next year. Then you can demand your own trailer.” Also true. I can easily picture Jamila sweeping awards season like Eli Rowan did.
Jamila flushes beet red, hiding her blush by folding her arm across her face. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“I can see it,” I continue, taking a seat on the couch opposite her, having way too much fun seeing her blush to give up. “You winning an Emmy, not you demanding your own trailer. You don’t strike me as the diva type. Yet, anyway.”
I don’t let myself linger on the possibility that something like that could be possible for me too—an Emmy nomination. A win, even. A chance to skyrocket my career and open doors I never thought I’d be able to walk through. If I give the performance I know I can, then maybe I’ll let myself dream—for real—about those possibilities. For now, I’ll keep them close to my chest. I’ve already been crushed enough this year. I have to save my heart wherever I can.
Jamila scoffs lightheartedly while I throw my hair up into a messy bun. No one warned me that bleaching my hair would turn it into hay overnight. I desperately need to do a hair mask.
“Well, you never know.” Jamila leaps up from the sofa, helping herself to an iced tea from the mini fridge. “Next week, I might be demanding only green M&M’s.” She rips open one of the fun-sized packets of M&M’s from the basket on the counter, holding up a palmful of green ones to prove her point.
“Fine by me,” I reply, swiping a Diet Coke for myself. “So long as you also demand they only stock Coke Zero.”
Seriously, how did they forgetthesuperior Coke product?
Jamila smirks, offering up her hand to shake. “You got it.”
Electricity courses through my fingertips when I slide my hand into hers to shake on it. Must be from the fuzzy sweater dress I’m wearing from my last scene—which is killing me in this heat. Neither of us reacts to the jolt, keeping our hands intertwined for what feels like a beat too long until, finally, she pulls away. Hiding her flushed cheeks, she gathers her script from the counter.
“You mentioned you had some tips for learning lines. From school,” I say before she can head back to set. “Think you could still share those with me?”
It’s not admitting defeat to accept that I might need some help if I want to do my best. Jamila has mastered some kind of sorcery that allows her to perfectly recite her lines, even when Rune changes them half a dozen times. Learning her secrets will improve my performance, keep production on schedule—despite the fact that we’re already massively behind because of script changes—and save both Rune and me from a summer filled with headaches. Win-win on all accounts.
And getting to spend a little more time with Jamila doesn’t hurt either. For cast morale. Obviously.
“Totally, yeah, for sure,” she says in one rushed breath, reaching into the wornNew Yorkertote bag on the counter. “Just give me your number. Or your email’s fine too, or I can DM it to you, whatever’s easiest. I can send them to you tonight.”
She hesitates with her phone in her hand, not quite outstretched, but definitely not keeping it close to her chest. Thankfully, she didn’t call me out on my social media blunder from yesterday. It would probably be easiest for her to DMme, considering we already follow each other. Instead, I take the phone from her hand with a smirk, holding it up to her face to unlock it, and send a text to myself.
my number is fine
Feeling bold, I create a contact page for myself too. Marisol Polly-Rodriguez, pink flower emoji.
Rune may have crushed my spirit and blocked me from wearing outfits with any semblance of color to set, but he can’t stop me from continuing to make pink my brand.
There’s a pounding at the door as soon as I hand my phone back to her. “Jamila! We need you on set in five,” one of the PAs shouts.
“Coming!” she calls back, briefly glancing down at her phone, which is open to our newly created text thread. A grin tugs at the corner of her lips, but she doesn’t let it linger. Tossing her phone into her tote and grabbing her script, she heads for set. I settle onto the couch, prepared to treat myself to a power nap before my next scene, when she abruptly turns around at the entrance to the trailer.
“I like the hair, by the way,” she says over her shoulder. “Blond suits you.”
Before I can respond, she closes the door behind her, and I’m left with the sound of my rapidly beating heart.
Chapter 11
For the second time in less than a week, I come home to a stranger in my house. The apartment should’ve been empty. I’d have no reason to be on high alert as I trudged up the five flights of stairs, taking my sweet time as I processed everything that went down on set today.
And yet, I find myself screaming as soon as I open the door, because there’s someone hunched over the dining table, sorting through several boxes. And this time there’s no spare umbrella sitting around for me to defend myself with. Bruiser breaks into a round of barks when the intruder lets out a yelp of their own, the room a cacophony of noise.
“Jesus, give a guy a warning,” the intruder says once his own screams have subsided, holding a hand against his chest.
He doesn’t look any older than me, might even be younger. He has a thin frame and only a few inches of height onme. Small enough that I should be able to take him down if I have to, especially if I throw in some biting. My teeth are viciously sharp.
Plus, I’m still buzzing from exchanging numbers with Jamila, and from the jitters I always get after wrapping for the day. Worries that I didn’t give enough variety in my takes, or that I didn’t push myself as hard as I could’ve. Worries I’ve never had about a performance before. First there was Miles. NowThe Limithas found a way to make me, someone who’s always felt confident and assured in their talent, doubt myself at every turn. What I’m saying is, I could take out a lot of emotions on this rando.
