Page 21 of Take It Till You Make It
I don’t want to share this information with her, but she so genuinely cares that I can’t stop myself from responding. “She’s kinda bedridden over it all.”
Understanding and shock lights in her eyes, and her back stiffens. “You poor thing.”
“No. I mean…I get it.” I sigh. “I understand.”
Hank yells for us to take our places, so Chandra pats my hand. “You tell me if you need anything, okay?”
I nod. But I can see she knows I would never impose on her.
Shooting goes well. When I’m not shooting, I sit in wardrobe and read or I watch podcasts. Though I can’t imagine doing it without Dad, I sort of miss the whole process of filming our videos. And watching podcasts lets me imagine what their process is and how I might do it if it were mine. Grumpy troll lady is getting used to finding me hunkered down in my makeshift dressing room when she comes to stage my next costume change.
Early on Thursday, I’m all made up for my next scene and seated on the plastic chair outside my curtained dressing room, waiting for call time, when she lumbers up with a sparkly purple gown draped over an arm.
“Ooo, who’s that for?” I ask.
She scowls as she hangs the gown on the wardrobe in the first position, which is reserved for whatever I’m wearing next. “You. For your photoshoot.”
I totally forgot about my photoshoot. As a matter of fact, I haven’t looked at the app Sally showed me once since we went through it together. I pull it up on my phone and see that this morning’s scene is supposed to take only a few hours. After that, Crispin and I go to makeup and wardrobe for the shoot while Chandra and Sally shoot one more scene. Then Sally gets all gussied up and joins us. I stare at the app. That means Crispin and I will be on this shoot alone together for at least an hour before Sally shows up? That’s weird. I would totally understand if he and Sally needed extra time for couple’s shots. But it isn’t like they’ll need photos of Crispin and me together.
I groan. That’s going to be awkward. But my curiosity gets the best of me, and I stroll over to check out the dress. It’s a sheath dress that is probably pretty form-fitting. Not that I have a lot of form to fit. It has a halter neckline with a keyhole cutout in front. The material catches the light beautifully. The color is a surprise. I wouldn’t put me in purple. Especially this shade. Is it violet? Berry? Plum? I don’t know. It just seems an odd choice. I can’t wait to see what Remi does with my makeup and hair.
On set, I’m feeling a little off because of the upcoming photoshoot and knowing Crispin and I will have all that time alone together. Well, clearly, we won’t be alone, alone. No one is ever alone on set since we’re always surrounded by a million people. And there will be a photographer. But as we shoot the scene, whenever he gets near me, my skin prickles and my stomach jitters with nerves over the afternoon ahead of us.
I’m so distracted that at one point I miss my cue. I realize it with a start, jerk, then make the face Hank wanted me to make.
“Cut!” Hank calls, and I open my mouth to apologize. “That was golden, Arabelle. You are really good with physical humor.”
I close my mouth and nod as if I’d planned it all along. As I turn to go back to my mark, I catch Crispin observing me. Something about his expression tells me he knows I just got lucky, so I shrug and give him a smirk. He actually laughs as he takes his mark again.
While I wait for Hank to call for action, I ignore the new sensations filling my belly in response to Crispin’s grin. Regardless of how drop-dead gorgeous that guy is, he’s an arrogant jerk. No tummy tumbling allowed.
I gape at my reflection.I’ve dressed myself up as a pioneer woman, blue alien, princess, street urchin, even as a glamorous movie star, but I have never looked like this. What a difference it makes to have the professionals do hair, makeup, and wardrobe. I stare at the keyhole cutout in my dress where it appears I have cleavage. I follow the sloping indent of my waist and the attractive swell of my hips—hips I didn’t even realize I have. Now I’m the one with the cheekbones that might cut glass if I get too near the mirror. My eyes are huge and somehow bluer than normal. But more than that, there is a maturity that feels genuine and not fabricated. My hair is sleek and shines like silk. What is this voodoo these women have performed on me?
My phone screen shows me it’s time to go, but I feel so conspicuous. Like I’m the one trying to look grown up even though I have the figure of a thirteen-year-old. Well, I thought I did.
With my head high, even though I’m not feeling as confident as I hope I look, I stroll toward the set where the shoot is. Distracted by the motion of the gown around my legs, I make two wrong turns and arrive late. The photographer and his assistants are still setting up, so I don’t feel too bad.
Crispin turns when he hears my heels clack on the hard floor. At the sight of him, looking like a young James Bond in a tuxedo, I miss my step and teeter on the side of my shoe. I quickly recover without turning my ankle, but Crispin saw the misstep. A sly smirk curves his lips until I step out of the shadows, and his expression freezes. With lips parted, his eyes raking me from head to toe. I almost want to cross my arms in front of me.
“Wow,” he says. “I guess you’re not thirteen anymore.”
“Not this afternoon anyway.” I chuckle awkwardly. “Remi is magic with those brushes.”
I’ve gotten so used to his hair being tamed for his character that I’ve forgotten what he looks like when he lets his natural wave take over. His bangs are long and just mussed up enough to imagine him first thing in the morning.
He makes a noncommittal tone, heated eyes still taking me in. He slides his hands into his pockets, and I roll my eyes. “What?” he asks.
“It’s just that you’re so naturally comfortable even in evening wear. It’s sort of annoying.”
He looks down at himself with a confused expression. “I mean, they’re just clothes. They’re no different than the trainers and sweatshirt I’d be wearing at home.”
For some reason, picturing him in that outfit makes my cheeks heat. With his artfully messy bangs, I’m totally able to imagine it. I shake the image out of my head before it settles in and change the subject. “Do you know why they wanted us here early?”
It seems like he has to drag his eyes away from me when he looks around to find the photographer. “No idea.”
I nod. Now I’m officially out of things to say and feel awkward standing here dressed up. I raise my hand to drag it through my hair, but then stop at the last minute. Remi would kill me if I mess up the silken waterfall effect she created. I drop my hand to my side and look around for somewhere to perch. There aren’t even any director’s chairs in this studio. Stuck standing, I swing my hands out and back, clapping them together. I repeat the action a couple of times until I notice Crispin staring at me with an arched brow.
“You nervous?” he asks.
