Page 11 of Marisol Acts the Part
In my rush to get the hell away from that paparazzo, I completely forgot about my luggage.
I whip around and peer through the glass double doors at the carousel we ran away from.
Even from several feet away, I spot one of my hot pink suitcases.
Mom says they will attract too much unnecessary attention, but that’s the point.
Everyone’s luggage looks the same, so you’ve gotta stand out unless you want to go home with someone else’s underwear. Duh.
“I didn’t get a chance to grab my stuff,” I say with a sigh. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see the lone paparazzo lurking near the entrance to baggage claim, searching for any other notable faces who he can harass.
My dad follows my eye line, humming in thought once he spots the photographer.
He snaps his fingers, a smirk playing at his lips as he races over to a maroon car double-parked beside the curb.
He pops the trunk and roots through bags of fabrics, sequins, and several rolls of tulle before finding what he’s looking for: an NYU Drama hoodie and matching hat.
He quickly pulls them on despite the criminal ninety-degree heat—seriously, the air is so thick it feels like I’m inside of someone’s mouth—and throws on a pair of sunglasses for good measure.
“Radio’s busted, but the AC should work,” he says as he tosses me the keys to the car.
“If it doesn’t, slap the dashboard a couple times.
And if a cop comes and tells you to move, sniffle and tell ’em you’re here to pick up your estranged sister.
Works every time,” he says so quickly I’ve barely processed any of it before he’s gone.
New York is certainly eventful so far.
I set Bruiser’s carrier in the backseat, rewarding her for her patience with a couple of chin scratches and one of those dried bacon strips that make dogs lose their minds.
She goes to town on her well-earned prize while I shift my attention to getting some much-needed airflow going.
The inside of the car is as cluttered as the trunk—receipts and notepads littering the floor, boxes of shoes stacked in the backseat.
Very fitting, considering my dad is an Off-Broadway costume designer.
It takes several slaps and a well-placed kick to the dashboard to get the AC switched on.
The air is dry and a little musty, but anything is better than roasting like a Christmas ham.
By the time my dad returns, his slicked-back hair has fully broken free from its pomade shell.
That’s one thing we both have in common: our hair hates heat.
Though the similarities don’t end at our hair.
There’s no denying that we’re father and daughter, with our matching dark brown hair, eyes, and lightly tanned skin.
Thankfully, I also inherited his flair for fashion.
No offense to Mom, but she barely knows the difference between silk and satin.
Sweat lines the collar of my dad’s hoodie as he lugs my three oversized suitcases toward the curb, collapsing against the car with a groan.
“What’ve you got in here?” he asks as he struggles to catch his breath. “Bricks?”
“Shoes, mainly,” I reply, pulling my cap down enough to shield me from any lurking photographers before getting out of the car and helping him load my bags, which is a two-person job.
“You never know when you’ll need a three-inch, five-inch, or six-inch heel.
So I brought options,” I explain as I grip the other end of a suitcase, count down to three, and heave it into the trunk.
“At least you’re prepared,” he mumbles, more to himself than to me, as he eyes my remaining two suitcases with dread.
Thankfully, my sundress-and-makeup-essentials suitcase and sensible-crop-tops-and-shorts suitcases are easier to manage. It takes a surprising amount of brain power to figure out how to get the trunk to close, but after a few minutes of Tetris-ing my bags, we’re taking off onto the JFK exit ramp.
The hour-long drive to upper Manhattan is…awkward. Not made any easier by me choosing to sit in the backseat so I can keep an eye on Bruiser’s carrier. There’s nothing she loves more than a car-ride vomit session.
“How was the flight?” my dad asks.
“Not bad,” I reply. “I’m not great at flying, but I managed.”
“Your mom always hated flying,” he says with a wistful smile, peeking at me in the rearview mirror, but he doesn’t say anything else.
“You excited to start filming?” he asks twenty minutes later.
“Yeah,” I say with a smile that’s as stiff as my back after that five-and-a-half-hour flight. “Lot of lines to learn, though.”
“Better more lines than less.”
“Right.”
“Yeah.”
It’s like a terrible first date, but we don’t even have a movie or dinner to distract us.
We sit in silence. My stomach gurgles from a dangerous combination of motion sickness and hunger as we cross the bridge from Queens to Manhattan.
I’m tempted to ask him to pull over as we drive along the East River so I can hurl directly into the unusually green water, but no need to publicly embarrass myself five minutes into my NYC residency.
Traffic thins the farther uptown we go. The bustling crowds and towering skyscrapers I’ve come to expect from New York City are replaced by worn brick buildings and kids perched on stoops, trading bags of chips and candy.
There’s even actual greenery, much to my surprise.
Large trees cast shadows across the block my dad pulls onto, all of them perfectly spaced apart.
At the tree in front of his building, stones painted with names like Manny and Zhaniya are gathered along the trunk next to a sign reading DON’T EVEN THINK ABOUT LETTING YOUR DOG SHIT HERE.
Fire trucks whiz past us as we park in front of a gray prewar building.
Even through the piercing screech of ambulance sirens, I can hear more commotion coming from the city—the rumble of the subway, two men arguing on the corner about who owes the other a round of drinks, a delivery driver shouting into his phone that an order was packed incorrectly. “It said no beef, not extra beef!”
It’s chaotic, and messy, and absolutely beautiful.
“Home sweet home,” my dad announces as he parallel-parks so smoothly it should be shown in driver’s ed classes.
I don’t know what to say as I take in the street I’ll be living on for the next three months.
Should I ask if the pierogis at the Ukrainian place across the street are any good, or if the fire hydrant outside of it is supposed to be spewing water like that, or where that incredible smell of fried meat, spices, and something I can’t quite place is coming from?
My stomach answers for me, rumbling so loud it could probably be heard back in LA.
My dad lets out a quiet laugh, nodding his head toward the building. “Head in. Jerome made lunch.”
“Don’t you need help?” I cast a wary glance at the trunk.
He shakes his head, tossing me a ring of keys. “I’ve got it. Go get settled. We’re in five-E.”
While he heads for the trunk, stopping to make small talk with the women playing dominos across the street, I carefully pull Bruiser’s carrier out and head for the building—the biggest on the block.
It’s not one of the picturesque brownstones I’d been picturing when Mom told me he lived in upper Manhattan.
There’s no plant-covered stoop, or bay windows facing Central Park.
But it’s close to public transportation, doesn’t cost four figures a night, and accepts Bruiser, so it has everything I need.
Over my shoulder, notes of my dad’s conversation trickle over to me on a breeze.
Their Spanish is too rapid for me to follow, some words clipped short and others spread out, the meaning behind it muffled like a song playing in the next room.
I’m able to catch a couple of familiar words as I fumble with the keys to find one that fits into the lock.
Hija. Visitando. Un ratito. It’s not a secret that they’re talking about me, but it feels odd not to be able to put together the pieces.
Not for the first time, I bristle and try to shake off that nagging, uncomfortable feeling that I’m not a part of something I should be.
My worries go straight to the back burner once I throw the door open.
A mix of intoxicating smells hits me like a tidal wave as I step into the entryway.
Smoked meats, fresh bread, and the sharp tang of garlic.
My nose pulls me in a dozen different directions, but I ignore my senses and stay on course, scanning the hallway for an elevator.
Except there isn’t one.
Okay. No problem. I should’ve seen that coming. New York is notorious for its walk-ups. LA may have spoiled me when it comes to in-unit laundry and elevators, but a couple flights of stairs won’t kill me. Plus, it’s free cardio. Five fewer minutes on the elliptical every day.
I head up to the second floor, scanning the hallway for any sign of 5E. Nothing. Not on the third floor either. It’s not until I get to the fourth floor that I realize why I haven’t found their apartment yet.
It’s on the fifth floor.
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath as I start the trek up to the next floor, my calves burning and shoulder aching from having to carry Bruiser too.
She wriggles in her carrier, as upset about the climb as I am.
Stars dot my vision as I heave for breath on the fifth-floor landing, my tank top soaked in sweat, the baby hairs at my temples curled tight as springs. So much for that keratin treatment.
The door to 5E bursts open before I spot it, Jerome stepping into the hallway followed by a deep-fried scented cloud.