Page 7

He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Always, always read the script.” He flails his arms wide. “How are you supposed to know what to do with your actors if you don’t know their place in the story?”

“Do you want me to redo it?” I venture, fiddling with the brush in my hand.

He looks at his Apple Watch then shakes his head. “We don’t have time. Wipe it off a bit and you’ll have to try again tomorrow. But for next time, more pale, less eye-popping, and very little on the lips, okay?”

“Uh, okay. And the hair?”

“Do it up in a bun—loose, messy, like she doesn’t care about it.”

“Okay.” Easy enough.

Jimmie switches his attention to the woman in the chair, brightening instantly. “Ellie, good to see you again. Everyone else will be ready for blocking in the coffee shop in ten, okay?”

“Sounds great, thanks, Jimmie!” the woman, Ellie, chirps.

Jimmie stalks away and I turn back to Ellie, embarrassed and a bit frazzled after such a public reprimand. I’ve been on set for all of thirty minutes and already it seems my future in the industry will be shorter than the filming schedule of this movie. Hopefully I can make up for it over the next couple weeks and get a good reference to work on something else. I’d take pretty much anything at this point—anything but another Christmas movie.

Ellie doesn’t seem to notice my discomfort. Her perfectly erect posture slumps as she gazes back at herself in the mirror. The sparkle in her eyes is diminished, and I can’t help but feel bad for her; nobody likes being told they have to blend in.

I take a makeup wipe and remove all the work I’d done on her eyes, and then her lips, leaving her looking very pale and plain, especially next to the other actors behind us who are making their way down to the set.

After a moment Ellie shakes off her mild moroseness, literally shaking her limbs, and switches back to her painfully wide smile and obnoxiously positive radiance. I tie her hair up in a loose bun, letting a couple of curly tendrils escape to frame her face, and then release her.

“Okay, done.”

“Thank you so much, Mariah,” she practically yells. “You are a doll. And so good with your hands!”

I refrain from making an innuendo. “Yep. No worries.”

“The way you put on my eyeliner was so practised and easy. I can barely get myself dressed in the morning. Oh! Speaking of—” She strips off her oversized Christmas sweater, and my eyes can’t help but catch on her dainty clavicle, the roundness of her small breasts. Her tank top underneath is practically soakedin sweat, making it transparent. Why the hell is she wearing such a big sweater? Has she never heard of heatstroke? “I have to bust my ass to get to costume,” she continues. “Thankfully it’s simple, just some regular clothes plus an apron and—”

I cut her off. “Okay, yeah, great. Better hurry.”

She snaps her fingers and grins. “You’re totally right, I’m running behind. We can chat more tomorrow. See you then, Mariah!”

She runs off with a flourish and the world seems ten times quieter with her gone. I rub my temples and close my eyes, taking a breath. I’m glad it’s a short day today, to ease myself into this nightmare. After cleaning my station, I throw everything I won’t be needing back into my giant duffel bag and haul it all down the stairs and out onto the street. The intense July sunlight glares in my face, and I pause to pull out my sunglasses before continuing. Unfortunately, I have to walk past the set to where I parked my car.

The street is grossly overcrowded, the film crew clogging it more than last-minute shoppers on Christmas Eve. Everything is covered in fake crap—from the green plastic garland, to the spray-on frosting on the glass, to the dingy off-white blankets that are supposed to pass as snow. The whole downtown core itself is fake. Brand-new, only built a few years ago, but supposed to look like some sort of old English town? This is Chilliwack, not Oxfordshire. It’s a far cry from the faded brick buildings and PencilFingerz mural, the downtown I grew up with.

Not that I’m sentimental about Chilliwack—I just hate fake shit and commercialism. Ironic, since I’m now forced to be amongst the fakest of fake shit and the commercialest of commercialism with this damn Christmas movie.

I get to my old silver Civic and turn the ignition, blasting the AC. After tossing my duffel bag into the back seat with my suitcase and pillow, I check the voicemail Mom left me.

“Hey sweetie! Dad and I are so excited to have you. And we figured, since you’re filming a Christmas movie and youcouldn’t make it home last year because of the weather, we could have a little Christmas redo of our own! I was thinking—”

I delete the message before it gets any further and thunk my head against the steering wheel. This is a nightmare. I’ve been avoiding Christmas with my parents for years. It’s easy to find an excuse.The roads are bad. I’m in Mexico. I’m spending it with my girlfriend—

God, I need a drink. It would certainly help with this headache. Not to mention dealing with my mom. Any excuse to put off going home for a few more hours is a good one. I just didn’t think, after all this time and so many years, I’d be back here.

Is there anything worse than having to live through an extra Christmas? One is hard enough.

Interstitial

Int. Brewed Awakening Café - Day

Annie enters the café. Interior has exposed brick, wood tables, and a glass display with very few items inside. Otherwise, the interior is void of decoration.

Brewed Awakening is silent and empty, except for a BARISTA, age thirty, standing at the till wearing a white shirt and green apron, and a MAN, age thirty-five, wearing jeans and a black collared shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms. He has stubble on his cheeks and dark rings under his eyes. He is seated in the back on a laptop and does not look up when Annie enters.