Page 20 of Marisol Acts the Part
“You’re sure you’re feeling okay about this?” Delia asks for what feels like the hundredth time.
“Absolutely,” I reassure her yet again. “This show is really special, and the experience has been amazing so far.”
If by amazing, I mean forcing me to completely change my physical appearance and wardrobe, getting yelled at in front of the entire cast, and needing actors to pay for their own car ride home to make room in the budget for Rune’s script changes, then yes.
This has been an absolutely amazing experience.
My first week shooting The Limit has been rough.
It’s definitely more intense than what I’m used to—both the environment and the content of the show—but this is a learning experience on how to memorize lines on the fly, how to handle eccentric directors, and how to deal with production budget cuts.
Avalon Grove was my first real experience on a full-scale production.
Most of the other projects I’ve worked on have been smaller-budget indie projects.
I’ve had a handful of roles in bigger-budget stuff too, but those parts were so small I can barely even remember working on them.
If this is the road I’m going to go down for the rest of my life, I’ll have to work through some rough patches here and there.
While I’ll miss the sweet driver I only got to know for two days, the ten-minute walk to the subway helps me clear my head.
Plus, there probably aren’t any paparazzi trolling the New York subway system.
Still, I adjust the brim of the ball cap holding my hair up and out of my face.
Coupled with my oversized sunglasses, it’s my favorite disguise.
It’s not foolproof, but no one’s actively seeking actors riding the subway in the middle of the day.
“I’ve got a few more leads on rom-com projects,” Delia continues. “There’s this HBO series that’s shooting in Paris that would love to get a self-tape from you. And a cable sitcom about a mom-and-daughter duo who rob men for a living.”
I roll my eyes as I balance my phone between my ear and my shoulder, struggling to properly swipe my MetroCard through the turnstile.
TOO FAST SWIPE AGAIN
“I’m fine, Delia. Seriously,” I interject, cutting off her list of potential projects.
I’d be offended by her lack of faith in me if I wasn’t so overwhelmed by her throwing other possibilities at me every time we check in.
It’s not like I can quit now. We’ve already started filming.
And I worked way too hard on memorizing all of these line changes to give up.
“I’m having a good time, I promise,” I reassure her, putting as much emphasis on the promise as I can while swiping my MetroCard for a second time.
TOO SLOW SWIPE AGAIN
“C’mon,” I mutter under my breath, glancing over my shoulder nervously at the line starting to form behind me.
Delia stays silent on the other end of the line, as if she’s still not convinced. I’m prepared to call her out on her doubt in my acting abilities while I swipe the card (hopefully) one last time.
INSUFFICIENT FARE
“Keep it moving!” a disgruntled man at the back of the line shouts.
Fine, I haven’t nailed the art of swiping a MetroCard yet, but in my defense, what subway station only has one turnstile?
I duck out of the way, letting the person after me go next while I rush over to the machine at the opposite end of the station to refill my card.
“If you ever feel uncomfortable on set, or worried about anything, you call me ASAP, all right?” Delia’s voice is soft, light. Some might even say vulnerable. A complete one-eighty to the usual no-nonsense tone I’m used to.
It should feel comforting, knowing that my straight-to-business agent is opening up, making sure I have a safe space in her, but it only grates on my already-frayed nerves.
The calls, the check-ins, the constant emails with self-tape requests and a subject line reading Not too late to switch to this if you’re interested!
Why is everyone around me treating me like I’m a ticking time bomb?
Like they’re waiting for me to inevitably implode?
If the person who gets 15percent of all my earnings doesn’t even want me to do a big-budget prestige drama, how the hell am I supposed to believe in myself?
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot a man walking off the platform through the emergency exit door.
Meanwhile, the MetroCard machine continues its struggle to process my credit card.
Double-checking over my shoulder for any roaming cops or subway employees, I quickly cancel my transaction and snatch back my subway and credit cards, then dart through the door before it can close.
Less than a week in New York and I’m already a delinquent.
“Thanks, Delia. I have to hop on the train. I’ll talk to you later.”
“You’re taking the subway?” Delia makes it sound like I told her I’m headed to the moon.
“Duh, I’m a New Yorker now,” I reply with an actual note of cheeriness.
Taking the subway does feel daunting, and maybe the slightest bit unsanitary, but it’s a core part of New York City.
This summer is about pushing myself out of my comfort zone.
Which includes heading into a station alone.
Right before our call, I narrowly avoided touching a suspicious brown liquid that one could only hope was soda.
Delia gives me a skeptical goodbye and one last reminder to call her if I need anything. Just in time, the A train comes rumbling into the station seconds after I tuck my phone back into my pocket. The doors open, and I step inside, only for something to yank me off the train.
“Get off!” I’m prepared to reach into my bag for the can of Mace Mom insisted I carry. I whip around to shove off my attacker only to come face-to-face with Jamila.
“It’s me!” she cries out, holding her hands up in surrender.
Several eyes watch us warily, a group of women idling on the staircase, until I relax and pull my hand out of my tote bag.
I breathe a sigh of relief that I realized it was her before I could act.
Both because I’d feel guilty as hell for pepper-spraying the only person in the cast who’s been nice to me, and because I can’t imagine Rune would be too happy with me almost blinding his lead actress.
“Stand clear of the closing doors,” the automated subway voice announces.
“Sorry, I have to get home.” I turn around, prepared to bolt onto the train and apologize for brushing off Jamila the next time I see her, when she grabs my arm again, spinning me back around like we’re tangoing on the dance floor.
“That train is going farther into Brooklyn,” she explains. “You’re going back to Manhattan, right? You said you’re staying in Washington Heights.”
“Oh, yeah, right,” I reply quickly, not letting myself dwell on how she remembered that small tidbit I’d mentioned briefly in passing during the read-through. “Thank you. I totally missed that.”
“Happens to the best of us,” she says with a shrug. “I’ve lived here my whole life, and I still accidentally wind up deep in Brooklyn every few months.”
I shudder at the thought. We fall silent as the old-school train pulls away, the screech of the tracks making both of us wince. When the rumble settles and the platform has gone quiet again, I give her a tentative smile. “I think getting lost in Brooklyn would have broken me. You’re a lifesaver.”
She arches one of her well-defined brows coyly, and it takes biting down on my lip not to ask her what her brow routine is because hot damn. Anyone who can make something as simple as brows this attractive has major skills. “Big praise coming from someone who critiqued my cupcake-eating skills.”
“Well, I never said you were perfect,” I reply.
Something rattles within me when she laughs in response. Either my heart or my lungs or my stomach is doing somersaults. It’s the lightest I’ve felt in weeks. A flutter of a feeling I haven’t experienced in years.
“Thank you again,” she says, changing the subject. “For the cupcakes. You’re pretty much my sister’s favorite personever.”
“I wish it was always that easy to win someone over,” I say, more to myself than to her. If everyone was as easy to win over as Jamila’s sister, I’d be the MVP of the cast like I’d planned.
“I mean she likes you, ” Jamila explains. “From the other show you were on.”
“O-oh.” It shouldn’t feel unusual. Avalon Grove was the number-one teen drama on cable all four seasons.
I have millions of followers, stan accounts made in my name, screaming fans at every event and season premiere.
But it feels like all of that was ages ago, some far-off dream.
A time when I wasn’t judged by my ex for the type of role that made my career.
“That’s so sweet. Tell her I said thank you,” I reply, but it doesn’t come close to the thanks I really want to give. To thank Jamila—well, her sister—for not making me feel ashamed of my acting career thus far, even for a few moments.
Before I can figure out how to sum that up without sounding like a weirdo, the uptown train comes barreling into the station on the opposite track, whizzing past us so quickly it almost knocks me back.
“Are you…?” I ask, gesturing to the train as it slows to astop.
“Going to Washington Heights too, yeah,” she finishes forme.
We stay quiet as we let others off the train first—unlike some heathens—before boarding. I run for two seats at the end of the updated spaceship train car, prepared to offer the other to Jamila only to see her standing a safe distance away.
“We don’t have to sit together,” she suddenly blurts out as the train doors close.
“Or talk. I know there’s always this weird, awkward tension when you run into someone on the platform and don’t know if you should stick together or leave each other alone the rest of the ride.
Because sometimes you’re not in the mood to talk.
Or you want to read a book, or listen to a—”
“We can sit together.”