Page 13 of Marisol Acts the Part
With my bags shoved against the wall there’s barely enough space for me to shimmy into and out of the room.
Bruiser gives up on trying to find a place to settle and heads out to explore the rest of the apartment.
I try to hide my panic as I take in the room— my room—properly this time.
If I stretch my arms, I can touch both walls with my fingertips.
There’s the smallest closet known to interior design in the corner that looks like it can barely hold two pairs of jeans, so unless I want to leave designer tops and dresses scattered on the floor, I’ll have to keep most of my stuff in my suitcases.
There’d better be an iron around somewhere—I can not be seen out in public in wrinkled clothing.
With a sigh, I sit down on my largest suitcase because the brainpower it’s taking to figure out how I’ll unpack has zapped me dry.
I have no idea where Bruiser’s dog bed’ll go, let alone where mine will.
Thankfully, I don’t have to figure that out yet, since Jerome lets out an ear-piercing screech.
“What is that?!” he shrieks, pointing at where Bruiser is attempting to nuzzle her head on the end of a Persian carpet runner.
I rush into the hallway, scooping Bruiser into my arms and nuzzling her until she finally stops trying to escape from my grip.
Jerome must have thought her carrier was a regular purse—happens all the time, ever since I customized mine to a much more eye-catching hot pink fabric.
If I ever decide to quit acting, I bet I could make a killing working in dog carrier design.
There’s no reason dogs shouldn’t be able to travel in style too.
“This is Bruiser.”
As if on cue, a snot bubble dribbles out of Bruiser’s left nostril.
Great first impression, Bruise. “She’s cute most of the time,” I reassure him, carefully adjusting my grip so her bodily fluids don’t rub off on my shirt.
“Well, some of the time,” I mutter, more to myself than to her.
She’s kind of a walking disaster—but who am I to talk?
Any protests Jerome may have had are swallowed when my dad, finally recharged from his harrowing journey up the stairs, reappears in the entryway to the hall.
“What a cutie,” he says with a grin before petting Bruiser on the head, grimacing when his hand—somehow—comes back wet.
“Well, what do you think?” he asks after wiping his hand on his jeans and giving me an eager smile.
“It’s…”
Too small. Up five flights of stairs. Not the Manhattan paradise I thought it would be. “Amazing,” I finish. Because even though my dad and I barely know each other, I don’t have it in me to break his heart.
He lets out a clap of excitement, urging us all to step out of the cramped hallway and back into the also-cramped kitchen/dining/living room.
“We’re so excited to have you here, munchkin.
I know your mom said you might be looking into finding a new place to stay once you’re settled, but you’re welcome here for as long as you want. ”
Jerome gives me a vigorous nod of agreement.
“Thanks…” I hesitate, unsure how to actually address my dad now that I have to. “Dad,” I say, going with the least controversial option even though it still doesn’t feel quite right.
Well, better late than never, I guess. My dad is now officially…Dad.
His expression shifts subtly, something I can’t quite read. Before I can tell if he’s upset or elated, he puts his more neutral smile back on and hands me back the plate of food I’d abandoned in favor of exploring my new closet—room.
“We’ll give you some space to get unpacked and settle in. We’re in here if you need anything.”
I give him a weak smile, struggling to keep Bruiser from wriggling her way out of my arms. Once I set her back on the ground, she follows close behind me as I head back to my room.
I sit on the ground, taking up the last stretch of available space, and try to distract myself from another panic spiral by grabbing my plate from where I left it on the windowsill and shoveling rice into my mouth.
As expected, it’s delicious. Light and fluffy with flecks of cilantro and cut-up chunks of avocado so creamy I wouldn’t be surprised if they were scientifically engineered in a lab, all perfectly blended together with a mix of spices I don’t think I’ve ever experienced before.
Well, my room may be a literal closet, but at least the food is top-tier.
Beyond my tiny window, a flock of pigeons perched on an AC unit battle over an abandoned pizza crust. A woman pushes a cart of sliced mangos dusted with chili powder down the block.
Kids race onto the playground between two apartment buildings, tossing their backpacks aside as they swing themselves onto the monkey bars.
Without thinking, I pull my phone out of my pocket and take a photo of the view, strategically setting up the angle.
No visible street signs or murals. I’ve learned the hard way that when you have over three million followers, even the most minute details can land you in hot water.
Definitely don’t want an overeager fan standing outside the building—because it’s happened before. More than once.
Instead, I keep the photo focused on the way the sky is painted soft orange and pink as the sun sets behind the jagged skyline of office buildings, apartments, and skyscrapers.
First I send it to Mom and Lily and Posie with an assurance that I made it to Dad’s, and then I post it on my socials, complete with a subtle but effective filter and a simple caption.
Please be nice to me, NYC