Page 21 of Marisol Acts the Part

I shift to the seat closer to the door, going to pat the one beside me, but deciding against it. I don’t know what butts have sat here. Instead, I gesture to the seat like a game-show host’s glamorous assistant. “If you want to?”

Jamila’s cheeks flush the loveliest shade of pink, and for a few brief moments, I wonder what brand of blush she uses, or if it’s another thing she’s won in the genetic lottery.

The second Jamila sits down beside me, an awkward silence fills the space between us.

A self-fulfilling prophecy. It’s not that I don’t want to keep talking to her.

But I’m too caught up in the way her knee is pressed against mine, and how if I lean back a little, we’ll be bare arm to bare arm, and that I can smell the perfume clinging to the collar of her T-shirt—Bloom by Gucci. Great taste.

“You were really amazing today,” I say to break the silence, and because if I sit there thinking about every single place our bodies are touching, I’ll lose my mind.

“I know I said that yesterday too, and I probably sound like a broken record, but I’m serious.

And the way you and Miles can memorize those line adjustments…

” I pause to make a hand gesture meant to mime my brain’s attempt to puzzle through memorizing lines.

“Learning my regular lines makes my brain short-circuit.” I finish my charade performance with a whispered explosion.

Jamila giggles, but the sound is lost beneath another screech as the train takes a hard left turn, our bodies pressed even closer together now.

“They taught us a bunch of great memorization techniques at my school. I could show you some of them if you want?”

I definitely want—I’ll take what I can get—but my stomach churns at the thought.

I know I shouldn’t be afraid to ask for help, but a twinge of fear creeps through me like a chill.

Fear that Delia and Miles are right to be so hesitant about me being here.

That I’m not cut out to be a prestige actor if I need tips from someone so green.

Production only started this week, so of course I’m a little off my game.

I haven’t even shaken the jet lag yet. I’m in a new city, working on an entirely new type of show, and dealing with the emotional whiplash of a breakup while having to live with the dad who I barely know.

I’m not easy on myself, but I can cut myself some slack.

Even a seasoned professional would feel a little rattled by that much change at once.

I need a little more time to get adjusted.

“You learned how to memorize lines at school?” I ask, praying Jamila doesn’t notice my subtle change in topic. I’m not ready to accept her offer, but definitely don’t want to turn it down either. I’ll just put it on the back burner.

Thankfully, she goes along without protest. “I go to a performing arts school. Near Lincoln Center.”

My brow furrows. “As in the one that a bunch of famous people went to?”

As in, the same school my Avalon Grove castmates wished they went to. Getting to live in New York, going to class a few blocks away from the heart of the city. It’s every teen actor’s wet dream.

“A few,” she shrugs, ducking her face bashfully, as if she didn’t casually drop the news that she goes to one of the best performing arts schools in the country.

It’s been clear since the day I met her that she’s seriously talented.

Like, once-in-a-lifetime talented. And her humility makes her that much cooler.

“So, you’re still in school?” I ask. Technically, I “graduated” this past May along with the rest of the Avalon Grove cast, but the last time I was in a real school setting was the last few months of eighth grade.

The closest I’ve gotten to a real high school experience was shooting our finale prom/graduation episode, and I can’t imagine a normal prom would be half as dramatic as a fictional one.

Or, at least I hope most real proms don’t involve two fistfights, a teen mom going into labor, and a called-in bomb threat.

“Going into my senior year,” she replies.

“So, have you done this before?” I ask, gesturing unhelpfully. “Like, been on a show?” I clarify.

“I did a few short films for undergrads at NYU, but…” She shrugs. “Nothing like this before.”

“Holy shit,” I blurt out, even though I already knew from her lack of IMDb page that she hadn’t been in anything major before.

Still, her first role before she’s even out of high school is a series regular—a lead —in a show that swept the Emmys last year?

That’s next-level impressive. “Sorry, I mean, that’s…

” I trail off, unable to find a word that encapsulates how enormous that kind of achievement is.

“Holy shit,” she finishes for me with a shy grin. “I said the same thing when I found out.”

I struggle to think of a response and am saved from finding one when several passengers file onto the train as we barrel through the busiest stops in Manhattan. We offer up our seats to two elderly women carrying several tote bags as the rest of the car fills up quickly.

It’s difficult to find a place to stand where I can keep holding on to the pole—which I definitely need unless I want to fall into someone’s lap.

There’s barely any room to move as the door attempts to close around the throng of people, the conductor warning everyone to pack into the train as tightly as possible, but we’re able to settle on the opposite side of the open doors, where a man is shoved so close to me I’m practically pinned to the wall.

Normally, this size crowd would trigger my claustrophobia.

I’ve never done well in tight spaces, especially when other people are involved—hence, fear of planes.

Throw in the possibility of a fiery death and you have a recipe for disaster.

But there’s a certain wonder to this closeness, to the way everyone moves and sways with the train’s jerky path down the track, the hum of conversations and the turning of book pages and muffled notes of music and podcasts leaking from headphones throughout the car.

The way I can glance over at Jamila, admire the dimpled curve in her chin, and pretend I’m studying an ad for a divorce attorney in Long Island over her shoulder instead.

“Does it ever get less magical?” I ask as we pull into the next stop. “Living here?”

Her brows knit together as she considers the question. “It gets frustrating sometimes,” she finally answers. “Rats. Train delays. High-ass rent.”

I shudder three times in quick succession. Even Dad and Jerome’s rent-controlled place costs way more than anyone should pay for what’s basically a bedroom and a closet.

“But those things don’t outweigh the good,” she continues, smiling and gazing off into the distance nostalgically.

“Like getting lost in Central Park. Or trekking to Brooklyn way too early in the morning and watching the sun rise over the river. Having the best meal of your life from a food truck at midnight. Those kinds of random experiences make living here worth it.”

My mouth waters, not at the thought of the food, but of letting loose in the city. I salivate over the adventures I haven’t had yet, and how there could be something magical waiting for me around every corner, on any day, at every hour.

“Think I can do all of that before I head back to LA?”

Nothing about New York has been what I expected since I touched down at JFK a few days ago.

The eternal optimist in me has grappled with holding on to that idea of a fun, exciting summer in the city with every single curveball thrown at me.

But now, thinking about spending a day getting lost in a park, I feel that hope again.

When Jamila readjusts her grip on the pole, her hand briefly brushing against mine, I swear she takes another step closer to me.

Or maybe it was me. Or maybe it was the both of us, drawn together like gravity.

Whatever the case, I can feel heat radiating from her, that familiar scent of oranges and cinnamon nestled above her perfume—autumn in summer—washing over me as she replies. “Only if you have a good tour guide.”

Before my heart can lurch into my throat at what her response might mean, the train beats me to the punch.

We slide into the station so abruptly it throws everyone off their rhythm.

Even the seasoned natives stumble—a man curses to himself as he spills his coffee, an apple rolls toward us after it tumbles out of a woman’s bag.

Jamila, pressed chest to chest against me.

She puts her hand onto the wall behind me in time to save our heads from knocking together, but she’s still close enough for me to feel her breath against my lips.

Our heartbeats pound in frantic unison, mine threatening to burst right out of my chest. Heat spreads down my cheeks to my collar and lower and lower until I must be as pink as half my wardrobe.

“Sorry,” she mumbles under her breath, whatever she says next lost beneath the sound of the conductor announcing the stop before the doors fly open.

In a blink, she was pressed up against me. Another blink, and she’s gone, swept up in the swarm of people bustling onto the platform.

“I’ll see you later,” she calls out, craning her neck to see me above the crowd rushing to get off the train.

“See you,” I reply weakly, knowing she’ll never be able to hear me over the chaos of the station.

With the sweet smell of cinnamon and oranges gone, replaced by general BO funk, I’m able to snap back to reality and examine the pillars around the station.

The heat and excitement built up inside me drains away as I realize in horror-movie slow motion that I don’t recognize this station or its name.

And that, according to the map above my head, we just passed my stop.

“Son of a—”

“Stand clear of the closing doors.”