Page 17 of Take It Till You Make It
It takes me a second to realize Crispin is Jeff. I smirk. “No problem.”
When Crispin narrows his eyes at me, I give him my most innocent smile, but I can see he’s still suspicious, so it isn’t too big of a surprise when he tosses his jacket directly onto my head.
“No, Crispin, onto the back of the couch, not onto Stella,” the director says. “Hair!”
Remi rushes in to fix my hair as I stay seated on the couch. The look she gives Crispin is enviable. I should practice that evil eye.
In the next shoot, he tosses the jacket perfectly. It lands on the back of the couch next to me. So close, the wind it creates ruffles my hair. The evil look I give him is my first attempt to copy Remi’s. Apparently, it’s good enough because the director lets the scene continue. Sally and Crispin run their lines. When Crispin takes Sally in his arms, I pretend to stick a finger down my throat even though that isn’t in the director’s notes. Otherwise, I glance up at them occasionally and page through my magazine. I don’t have any lines in this scene, but at the end of the scene, Crispin has a line that calls Sally by some ridiculous pet name, so I grimace and roll my eyes.
“Cut! Arabelle, that was excellent.”
“Hey, what about us?” Crispin panders.
“You guys were perfect.”
I love that the director sounds distracted and dismissive as he says it. Crispin gives me another dirty look, and a little thrill goes through me. Suddenly, I want to be the most convincing, annoying little sister in the history of movies if it means I can keep Crispin grumpy.
Though everyone else seems to keep working, I’m done for the day. I trudge back to wardrobe to change back into my street clothes. I have no idea if I’m supposed to remove my makeup or if they even care. I do take the stupid pigtails out and drag a brush through my hair. I should probably put some makeup remover wipes and hair products in my bag so that I can de-Stella myself at the end of my day. I don’t need to be mistaken for a thirteen-year-old when I’m driving down the freeway.
As I drop into my car, exhaustion hits me. It wasn’t even that long of a day. When Mom and I drove out here, I would drive for ten to twelve hours straight and not be this wiped out. But the stress of not knowing where to go or what was expected of me really wore me down. As I pull out of the parking lot, waving to the gate attendant, I promise myself to email Jenny and ask her what else I don’t know – like the app Sally promised to go over with me first thing tomorrow.
Mom stands in front of the living room window, staring at our peek-a-boo view when I get home. Queen Brie rubs against my leg. I lean down and scratch her behind the ears. “Good to see you, old lady.”
Straightening, I say to Mom, “Hey!”
I toss the car keys onto the kitchen counter and drop my bag onto the couch. Stopping just behind her in case my presence scares her back into her room, I speak quietly, “Nice to see you up. Did you go outside too?” I doubt it based on the wrinkled pajamas and crusty hair, but a girl can hope.
Her head barely turns in my direction, but it’s enough for me to know she’s heard me. With a heavy sigh, she finally speaks. Her voice is pitched low, like her throat is too unused to channeling noise to develop any volume. “Your dad would have loved it here.”
I jerk forward at the unexpected response, my head reeling from the sudden change in subject. I look around the room, with the leftover unpacked boxes stacked along the still bare walls, and only one picture hung because I ended up making a big hole in the wall when I tried to hang the second. Would he have? I doubt it. He came from a suburb of Indianapolis. He loved our small town. He thought running into people you know everywhere you go was the best. Loved the lack of crime. “I’m not sure he would have enjoyed the stop-and-go traffic. And the blocks of houseless people and all their belongings lining the freeways would have broken his heart.”
Slowly, she turns, her brows pulled low. “Houseless? Are there that many?”
I nod, hurt but not surprised that she doesn’t remember the conversation we had about it on our way into town the first day. “In certain pockets of town, absolutely.”
She turns back to the window. “No, he wouldn’t have liked that at all. He would be out there introducing himself, shaking their hands, and asking about their lives, hoping to solve their problems.”
I squint at the back of her head, trying to imagine Dad doing any of that. I can’t. Did we even know the same man? Something about the question sends a painful wave of loneliness through me. I miss him so much, but I also miss my mom. The woman standing at the window isn’t the woman who raised me. That mom was walking sunshine and someone who was convinced there was no challenge that couldn’t be overcome with a glue gun and pinking shears. She used to help with my BellyLaughs costuming. She could repurpose a simple t-shirt so many times that you forgot what it looked like originally.
“I’m pretty tired,” I say. “I was just going to boil up some chicken for dinner. Want to help me?”
Mom shakes her head, crosses her arms over her chest, and scans the view one last time. “I’ll be in my room. No need to make anything for me. I don’t have much of an appetite.”
My head pounds as I watch her disappear down the short hall. I guess it was too much to expect she’d suddenly be chatty and care how my day went. I shuffle into the kitchen to make dinner, even though it’s a little early for it. I’m going to need to get to bed early if I want to be coherent tomorrow, and I still need to review tomorrow’s lines. That is, if the info Jenny sent in her email is accurate.
That reminds me. I wanted to follow up with Jenny. I stop in the middle of the tiny kitchen and pound out an email with my thumbs, asking her if there is anything else (like the app) a newbie like me should know about. When I re-read it, I cringe at my tone. I go back to the beginning of the email and start out by thanking her for the detailed instructions on how to get from place to place. That really has helped, and I want her to know that. I finish it by asking if I’ll ever actually see her around the set. Satisfied that the communication isn’t too salty, I hit send and then start dinner cooking, while Queen Brie walks around my feet yowling for a taste of chicken.
“Good to have you back again, Queenie.”
While I work, I call Glory, but her phone goes to voicemail.
“Hey girl, it’s me. I was just calling to gab. You know, catch up on hometown gossip, maybe complain about my first day on set.” I groan. “I made every mistake I could, I think. But hey, the director liked some of my background work, so yay me! Call me back or drop me a text. I miss you!”
When dinner is finished, I cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces and add it to cottage cheese along with sliced green onion and chopped tomato. I take a bowl in for Mom and set it on her bedside table, because she appears to be asleep again in the gloom of the approaching evening. Then I sit at the dining room table and watch the sun sink through the pink and gold sky into the Pacific and try not to rethink the day’s mistakes while I eat. I assure myself I did pretty good for a novice. And that I’ll do better tomorrow. Then I smile, because that’s what Dad would have said to cheer me up.
Chapter Nine
By morning,I have an apologetic response in my inbox from Jenny. She admits to not having a good understanding of what her responsibilities are regarding me. That the babysitting gig was foisted on her at the last minute. I cringe at the “babysitting” term. She invites me to ask as many questions as I run into because that’s basically the only way she’ll know what I need, admitting she doesn’t work closely with the talent, so she doesn’t have any idea what our day-to-day is like.
