Page 11 of Take It Till You Make It
The next morning,I arrive a lot earlier than I had to for the script read-through, and don’t recognize anyone in the makeup room. Must be extras or secondary characters like me. I wonder why Sally and Crispin aren’t out here today. I settle into the same seat I was in yesterday. An 8X10 of Chandra Miracle hangs at the top of the mirror next to an 8X10 of me. Squinting, I lean forward to study the picture of me. It’s me, but not me. It’s a marvel how much it truly looks like middle school me, with a grubbiness you would expect from a thirteen-year-old, but also a certain polish that can only be found in the movies. I suspect the audience won’t recognize the polish because the grunge is rather convincing. Perhaps I see it because it’s me. When I look at Chandra’s picture next to it, I don’t see any Hollywood polish. I just see a normal suburban mother. Pretty, but worn down from stress.
“Good morning, little one.” Remi breezes into the room, hands full of products that she efficiently unloads into drawers. She looks up at the glossy headshots. “What do you think?”
“It’s strange. I look like myself, but don’t.”
She snorts. “My husband was playing with artificial intelligence and having it create pictures of us. I thought the same thing about those fake pictures he showed me of myself. I mean, I wish I was that perfect!”
I laugh because I think she is. Her skin tone is rich and velvety, and her hair gleams under the lights.
From across the room, a man yells, “You are more perfect than those silly AI photos, love.”
“Wait.” I spin in my chair to face into the room. “Is that your husband?”
Remi nods. “The fool.” But the steamy look she shoots across the room says otherwise.
“He’s Sally’s makeup artist.” I’m sure she knows that already, but for some reason I feel required to point it out. She frowns at me as she busily opens and closes drawers, plucking products and brushes and sponges and setting them on a tray like a surgeon prepping for surgery. “My sister. He’s my sister’s makeup artist.”
“Oh, yes! We’re exceptional at doing families. Because we’re soulmates.” She nods like this is a perfectly normal explanation. Maybe it is.
She shakes out a hairdresser’s cape and lets it float down over the front of me before wrapping it around my neck. “Ready to watch the magic?”
I snort. It’s not like she’s completely transforming me or anything. “Sure.”
But, man, was she right. It’s like she erases all my features and then rebuilds them the way she wants them. When my makeup is done, she takes another hour to make my hair look like I haven’t combed it since waking up. By the time she removes the cape, I feel like I’m in a state of disbelief. Again, it’s me, but not me staring back from the mirror.
“Wow. You are amazing.”
“I know.”
I laugh. “We’re done, right?”
“Yes, dear one. You are free to report to wardrobe. I’ll see you on the set.”
“You will?” It sends a shiver of relief through me knowing she’ll be there. I’ve only known her for twenty-two hours, but she’s already become a safe harbor for me.
“Yes, I always hang out in case of emergencies. Yesterday was an exception since I needed to figure out your look.” She steps back and examines me. “Yep, I think this is perfect. You look like a spunky, slightly obnoxious thirteen-year-old.”
“Just like old times.” I wave as I head toward the exit, pulling up Jenny’s instructions. I follow the complicated list of twists and turns and enter a huge room exploding with color and vibrating with drama.
“I swear, if that intern takes my booty tape one more time, I’m going to eviscerate her.” I grimace as the grumbling woman stumps past, looking like a grumpy troll coming out from under her bridge.
Scanning the room as large as a football field, I glance down at my instructions again. No indication of where I go now. They need a concierge gleefully offering to point me in the right direction. Everyone I see is actively involved in something. There are people doing alterations to clothing already on people’s bodies, and others running supplies to frantic dressers. People shouting. Discarded material, buttons, trim, and clothing all over the floor. It’s complete chaos.
Then I see him. A very calm Crispin Moore leaning against the wall, studying his phone, as if he’s alone on a desert island. Remembering his dismissive tone the first day, I really don’t want to ask him for help. I scan the room again, but he’s literally the only person not knee-deep in some sort of wardrobe emergency.
Putting on my most professional face, I straighten my back and walk over to him. “Excuse me, can you tell me where I’m supposed to go for my wardrobe?”
He blinks a couple of times like I’ve pulled him out of deep thought and back into reality. It makes me want to lean forward to see what is on his phone screen. But then his gaze scans me from head to toe, and his expression hardens over. “Extras go over there.” He points. “See the big sign that says, “Extras”?”
I look even though it doesn’t apply to me, because now I’m wondering if there might be a big sign with my character’s name on it. But I don’t see anything. I shake my head and turn my attention back to him as I say, “No, I’m playing a supporting character.”
His attention is already back on his phone. I sigh. I realize I look like a grubby thirteen-year-old right now, but shouldn’t he treat everyone with respect? I glance around again, hoping to see someone else standing around or seeming more approachable than Iceman here.
Crispin finally notices I’m still standing there. His eyebrows arch. “Is there something else? Did you want an autograph or something?”
Ugh! As if. Though, getting one for Glory would make me a hero, but forget it now. “I’m playing Stella. Any idea where I might need to go?”
He narrows his eyes. “I read you’re seventeen and your dad just died.”
