Page 54 of Marisol Acts the Part
The venom in his voice makes it clear Idon’thave a choice here. I’ve already caused enough trouble on set with him—from my colorful outfits to my issues learning lines to my migraine-inducing perfume. I’ve already gotten three strikes, and I can’trisk another one. Esther’s words from our first week of filming echo in my ears. About how it’s practically a rite of passage for him to fire you. She’d been talking about PAs, but that doesn’t ease the panic swirling in my gut. What’s stopping him from getting rid of me next?
I can’t get kicked off the show now. Not when I busted my ass to get here, then worked even harder to stay here. It’s more than a matter of pride at this point. As frustrating as this experience has been, I know I’m giving a career-best performance here. The kind that could completely change the trajectory of my career—set me up for award nominations and lead roles with the type of directors who would’ve scoffed at my résumé two months ago. I’m not willing to give up and have all my hard work go to waste.
Besides, I can take this as another opportunity to prove myself as a performer—as terrifying as it might feel. While my stunts onAvalon Grovewere limited, I was always eager to take them on myself. This is simply another stunt. A much, much, much tighter and darker and eerier stunt. I’m here to push myself out of my comfort zone, though—and what better way to do that than by putting myself in the least comfortable place possible?
“I—I can do it,” I stammer, doing my best to hide the tremor in my voice.
Rune either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care, but Jamila and Miles certainly do. While Rune whips around, calling out instructions for the crew to get everything set up for the shoot, Miles and Jamila turn to face me.
“Mari,” Miles whispers, “you don’t have to do this.”
To my right, Jamila nods in agreement. “We can try to talk to him again. Or get one of the producers to step in, or—”
“I’ve got it,” I interject, my voice more confident this time. I’ve mastered the art of learning lines on the fly. I’ve also learned how to harness my inner mean girl through my character. This is another thing to check off the list of my developing acting skills. “Seriously, I’ll be fine.”
Jamila and Miles don’t seem convinced. They look at one another, having an unspoken conversation with their eyes and the twitch of their mouths before Rune shouts for everyone to clear set for shooting.
Before they leave, Jamila reaches for my hand one more time, the pressure of her fingers in mine comforting enough to ground me for a few seconds. “You’ll be okay. Remember to breathe,” she says, holding my gaze until I give her a nod before letting go and returning to her seat. She shoots Dawn a glare as she does.
As I approach the box, I glance over my shoulder at where Jamila and Miles are settled back down in their seats on the sidelines. There’s something calming in seeing them there. Knowing they’re only a few feet away.
But that peace goes out the window as I step into the dark, narrow box. The set designer carved a narrow hole for me to enter through, which casts the box in total darkness as soon as it’s sealed shut again. Above me, a bright white light flicks on, bathing me in the most unflattering lighting known to man. It doesn’t do much to ease the tension. Each of the walls is painted black, making the space feel more like an endless void than an enclosed space. Which is even more terrifying to think about.
“There are cameras to your left and right,” Rune calls out, his voice muffled from the plywood holding the box together. I glance up, blinded by the lights above me, and spot a small blinking red light before I flinch away, black spots clouding my vision. “Don’t pay attention to them, though,” Rune continues. “Focus on your emotions. The rage.”
I nod numbly as the voices beyond the box fade into a hum. Vague murmurs about cameras rolling, a call for quiet on the set, and finally, action.
Get it together, Marisol.
The room is silent. I can only hear my heart pounding in my ears, the blood rushing through me as I lift my hands to the wall in front of me, hitting once, then twice, to make sure it’s steady. Panic travels up my throat until I worry I’ll be sick, tears stinging and blurring the world in front of me. But it doesn’t matter. There’s nothing to see anyway.
I’ve got this, I’ve got this, I’ve got this.
I repeat the words to myself until they begin to lose meaning. This is just like my first day on set when I panicked about all of Rune’s line adjustments. Or the time I had to pretend to fall out a window for that holiday rom-com. I’ll be fine—I’m always fine. If Miles or Jamila or Dawn was asked to do this, they’d do it without any protest, so I should too.
All the confidence I work up leaks out of me the second Rune shouts that we’re rolling.
I can’t remember any of my lines, what this scene is about, or why I’m here. Instead, I’m reliving the choking feeling of being trapped in that closet thirteen years ago. Pounding on the doors with my tiny fists while I cried until my throat gave in.Collapsing in a heap on the floor, holding one of Mom’s dresses to my nose and letting the smell of her perfume comfort me to sleep. The way Mom wailed when she found me, cradling me to her chest as she cried that she thought she lostme.
I’m not sure when I start screaming. I’m not even sure if anyone on the other side of the box can hear me. My skin burns from my fists colliding with the walls, my throat raw as I let all of my fear pour out of me. I swear the room starts closing in on me, the space getting tighter and stuffier with every passing second. It’s hard to breathe, and my chest tightens to the point that my screams turn into gasps for breath.
Every part of me is trembling as I’m pulled out of the box by a team of PAs; a flock of producers and more PAs surround me with portable fans and water bottles. My screams finally die down as my eyes adjust to the sudden burst of light. I can’t make out anything among the jumbled voices talking over each other except for my own desperate gasps for breath.
“I need a minute,” I manage to say, operating on instinct as I scramble to my feet. The crowd parts for me like I’m infected, no one following as I stumble my way off the set and out to the sidewalk.
Free of the building, I suck in desperate gulps of fresh summer air and collapse against the wall behind me, letting my eyes slip closed. I let my senses ground me. Cars honking, birds chirping, dishes clanking at the bistro across the street. Motor oil and car exhaust, fresh bread and something deep-fried. Cinnamon and clove.
My eyes fly open to find Jamila standing in front of me.
She runs a hand through my hair, then down my cheek,scanning my body like she’s checking for injuries. “Are you okay?”
I muster a weak “mmm-hmm” before my body collapses into hers and I weakly grip at the hem of her shirt for purchase. She has enough strength for both of us, wrapping her arms around me and holding me against her where I feel warm and soft andsafe.
“You’re okay,” she whispers, this time against the crown of my head. “Esther said you can go home for the day. We’ll deal with Rune.”
Relief floods through me, making my body sag more than I thought was possible. I stifle a sob as I nod slowly. I’ve never wanted to go home to my dad’s cramped apartment so badly. To curl up on my air mattress with Bruiser, letting Dad and Jerome comfort me with sliced fruit and words of affirmation.
The tenderness of Jamila’s touch is suddenly gone as someone appears at her side. Miles, I realize as I quickly wipe my damp cheeks.
