Page 14 of Marisol Acts the Part
Everyone knows the first table read sets the tone for the rest of the season. Whether the cast will get along. If any castmates might turn into something more. Who the troublemakers and divas are, and who’ll play by the rules.
And, most importantly, who the MVP will be.
Not to brag—okay, maybe a little—but I was Avalon Grove ’s MVP for all four seasons.
The only person who didn’t immediately tell everyone if you shared a secret?
Me. Need a shoulder to cry on? Moi. Or a backup outfit after one of the infamous crafty ketchup packets exploded all over yours? I’ve got you.
Taking my career in a new direction doesn’t mean I have to change everything about who I am.
I can still be a consistent, reliable, and friendly castmate even if I’m spending most of my days tearing people down and crying on camera instead of falling in love with them and worrying about a chem test.
And what better way to start things off than with cupcakes?
Doughnuts are my one true weakness, but Dad and Jerome insisted that Magnolia Bakery is the way to go, promising me that they have the best dessert in the city.
So far, I definitely don’t disagree. The red velvet cupcake I had before dinner—because obviously I had to taste-test them myself first—might be the best cupcake I’ve ever had.
Still doesn’t beat a doughnut, but it gave Krispy Kreme a run for its money.
Light, fluffy chocolate cake with the perfect amount of rich cream cheese frosting.
If that was the last bite of food I ever had in my life, I wouldn’t complain.
I even sent a text to Mom with a photo of the cupcake and a message reading when I die bury me with this, which got me a very prompt phone call warning me not to joke about dying.
But seriously, they’re that good.
My precious cargo of two dozen cupcakes is strapped into the seat beside me in the car production sent to pick me up from home.
The driver beams when I offer him one on my way out, happily accepting a double chocolate one for himself along with a promise to meet me out front once the table read is over.
The studio production rented for the table read is one of a dozen on the same block.
I don’t know much about Brooklyn, or Red Hook specifically, but the brief impression I get after I step out of the car lines up with everything I’ve been told.
The street we turn down is entirely refurbished warehouses, faded paint commemorating them as former factories and canneries.
A few restaurants and breweries take up the first floor of several of the buildings—sectioned-off picnic tables and umbrellas lining the streets.
Around the corner, bikes go whizzing down the path along the water.
My heart leaps when I spot a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty, her torch rising above a large brown brick building.
Sadly, the interior of Greenbelt Studios isn’t as exciting as the exterior of the block.
Production assistants and producers go whipping past me carrying scripts, clipboards, and precariously stacked to-go trays of coffee.
I move through the madness with practiced ease, keeping my elbows tucked close to my chest and dodging a few close calls with the people whose eyes are glued to their phones.
I may feel out of my element when it comes to acting in a serious drama, but the chaos feels comforting.
Almost like home. The rule book for being on set is one I know like the back of my hand.
Beginning with Rule Number 1: Stay out of everyone’s way.
Navigating a film set is a fine art that can take years to perfect.
And based on the crashing sound on the other end of the room, someone has not mastered it yet.
A girl in a headset, holding an empty Styrofoam drink container, is flat on the ground in a puddle of spilled lattes.
Her A24 hat has been knocked askew, but her blond pony is still perfectly in place.
I’ll have to ask what hair spray she uses.
At least her all-black ensemble, while damp, is saved from any potential staining.
Rule Number 2 of being on set: Don’t wear anything you don’t want to risk ruining permanently.
Hence my choice of an outfit so last season it’s practically vintage.
The muscles in her jaw clench as she glares up at whoever ran into her, ignoring the coffee spreading across the floor, dangerously close to a stack of scripts sitting haphazardly on the floor.
The seamless flow of the room comes to a crashing halt, everyone frozen for a fraction of a second before recalibrating. Someone dives for the scripts and pulls them out of harm’s way. Another starts mopping the coffee puddle.
“I’m so sorry,” the person at fault says, kneeling down to pat the spill with a stack of tiny napkins.
My breath catches in my throat, my heart suddenly beating at double speed.
Because the chaos bringer is Ridiculously Beautiful Girl.
I shouldn’t be surprised to see her. I said myself that she was pretty much guaranteed a part on the show after that audition.
A quick search for her on IMDb revealed that she either hasn’t been in anything before or hasn’t been in anything big enough to warrant her own page.
Yet, anyway. The sight of her knocks something loose inside of me.
Unlike last time, I don’t lose my confidence when her eyes meet mine, hers as wide as the buttons on her cardigan. Because this time, I’m in my element.
Carefully, I cross the room toward her, setting my boxes on a nearby folding table to kneel down in front of her.“Hi.”
“Hey,” Jamila replies with a shy smile, abandoning her fruitless attempts to mop up the coffee.
We hold there, eyes locked on one another, unsure what to say next, until the production assistant breaks the spell. “I can handle it,” she mutters bitterly, clearly trying to get us to move.
Cheeks on fire, I give her a polite smile and jump back up and grab my cupcake boxes.
Before I can offer a cupcake to Jamila, the all-too-familiar scent of Jo Malone’s wood sage and sea salt cologne washes over me.
In a Pavlovian response, my body shivers, the blood in my cheeks creeping down to my neck as I whip around and find myself face to face with none other than Miles “Heartbreaker” Zhao.
I wish I could say he looks terrible since the breakup.
That the acne he fought so hard to cure finally cropped back up because he drowned his post-dumping-me sorrows in takeout and ice cream like I did.
But his skin is as flawless as ever. He’s tanner too—artificially or naturally, I’m not sure, but it’s unfair that I can’t even tell.
Normally he doesn’t let his hair get this long, the ends of it falling gracefully in front of his face, but the length suits him.
The natural swoop framing his face shows off how genetically blessed he is.
He’s swapped out his usual shorts and linen shirt to match the New York aesthetic: simple black jeans paired with a tucked-in designer white T-shirt and combat boots.
He’s even got the classic blue-and-white We are happy to serve you coffee cup, even though I know for a fact that he hates coffee.
“Marisol?” he asks in confusion, taking a step back like he’s worried I might be a ghost.
“Oh, hey,” I reply as casually as possible, ignoring the fact that I’m sweating in places I didn’t even think it was possible to sweat.
The baby-pink bodycon maxidress I picked out for the day seemed like the perfect choice at the time.
A subtle, summer-appropriate cherry pattern that complements the natural blush in my cheeks, with a skintight fit that hugs the curves I inherited from Mom.
Now, though, I’m realizing that there’s no way I’ll get away with hiding any sweat stains.
And there could be a lot of them.
“What’re you doing here?” Miles continues, thankfully not detecting my nervousness.
I carefully balance my boxes in one hand to reach into my Telfar bag and pull out a script. “I’m part of the cast. Duh.”
He takes the script from me to examine it more closely, needing to see the proof with his own eyes. I’d be offended by the shock written all over his face if it wasn’t so amusing watching him try to puzzle this out like it’s a physics equation.
“You got a part,” Miles echoes, gesturing toward the bustling production around us. “On this show?”
I give him a delightfully puzzled look. “What, like it’s hard?”
The way his mouth parts in a silent gasp would be enough to make me cackle if I wasn’t so focused on my performance. After I’ve snatched my script back, I flip open the box on the top of the stack and hold it up to his nose. “Cupcake?”
He’s still too shocked to do anything other than numbly shake his head. I flip the box shut, give him a too-sweet smile, and head toward the conference room at the end of the hall.
“See you in a few,” I call over my shoulder, seamlessly avoiding a boom operator before turning a corner and disappearing from view.
The second I’m out of Miles’s sight, I press myself up against a wall and bite back a scream of excitement.
I knew Miles’s reaction to seeing me would be priceless.
Getting the call that I was on the show was incredible, sure, but seeing the gears turning in his brain was well worth the effort it took to get here.
Guess I’m not as unserious as you thought, Miles.
With a triumphant smirk, I hold my head up high and waltz into the room where several tables and chairs are set up for the read-through. I set down my bag on the seat marked with my name—at Miles’s left, with Jamila on his right.