Page 25 of Marisol Acts the Part

Rune loves my new hair. Which is great news for my career and terrible news for my self-esteem.

“It’s perfect,” he says in a low whisper, cupping my cheeks and staring deeply into my eyes, like he’s trying to communicate with me telepathically. I fight the urge to squirm, breathing a sigh of relief when Esther clears her throat and he finally releases me.

“Let’s reset,” he calls out to the crew, a signal to get everything prepped for the backlog of scenes I need to reshoot now that my hair is the “correct” color, and all of the new scenes I need to shoot to stay on schedule.

Just my luck, Rune changes up the script yet again. My brain feels as scrambled as a plate of eggs within the first hour of shooting after adjusting to the many curveballs he’s thrown at me.

At least I don’t seem alone in my annoyance. My fictional mom appears ruffled by Rune’s constant tweaks to the script, even though I’m getting the brunt of the edits. By the time we reshoot everything, I’m so exhausted from the rage I have to exert while in character that I could nap for hours.

“You can break for lunch,” Rune announces, waving us off absentmindedly before turning back to his marked-up-to-hell script.

The crew rushes to set up for the next scene, and I stretch my body until it starts popping like a sheet of Bubble Wrap.

“Whoa,” a voice behind me says, so unexpected I can’t help but gasp like a damsel in distress, whipping around with a hand pressed to my racing heart.

Miles holds his arms out, as if he’s ready to catch me if I faint.

“My bad, I, um…” He trails off, his cheeks flushing.

Impressive, considering the pounds of stage makeup we both have on right now.

“I was caught off guard by the new hair. You…don’t even look like you anymore. ”

“Yeah,” I reply sheepishly, tugging at the end of a lock of hair, still unable to process that the platinum blond strands actually belong to me and not a well-styled wig. “It’ll take some getting used to.”

An awkward silence settles between us. There was a time when I used to marvel at how comfortable silence felt with Miles. How being with him felt so joyful on its own that I didn’t need fun or adventure or excitement. He was enough.

How could so much change in so little time?

Miles’s lips part when a PA appears at his side, shuffling him toward set so he can take his mark for the next scene.

“I’ll talk to you later?” he calls out over his shoulder while being swept away.

“Totally,” I respond.

Welp. There goes all the emotional energy I had left.

Grabbing a bagel from crafty, I head out of the building and toward the row of trailers lined up on the block outside.

I haven’t had a chance to check out my trailer since they first set them up earlier this week, but I’m not expecting much.

On Avalon Grove, six of us were crammed into one RV-sized space for all four seasons.

It was basically a place to crash, gossip, and eat in between scenes.

With all of us coming in and out like a revolving door throughout the day, and no shortage of drama on- and off-screen, it was more like a constant slumber party than a home away from home.

Delia assured me that I’d be sharing with only one other person this time around.

Hopefully it’s not Dawn, though. She hasn’t spoken directly to me since our weird exchange the last time I was on set, but I can’t imagine she’d be too thrilled about having me as her trailer-mate, even if we barely ever see each other.

I walk into the trailer at the end of the block, my name printed in block letters on the left-hand side of the door, expecting to find a similar setup to my last trailer experience.

Definitely not a half-dressed Jamila.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry,” I blurt out, whipping around and covering my eyes after Jamila let out a quiet gasp.

I barely saw anything other than the strap of a black bra on her otherwise bare shoulder.

Our Avalon Grove trailer was so cramped that walking in on someone in their underwear—and sometimes less—was a regular occurrence.

So much so that I’ve clearly forgotten the rules of common decency.

“It—it’s fine,” Jamila stammers out, evidently as flustered as I was by my interruption. “I’m, uh…dressed now.”

Cautiously, I peek back at her to confirm that, yes, she’s fully dressed. “Sorry, I’m used to sharing a trailer with a bunch of people. We gave up knocking after the first few weeks.”

Jamila shrugs, tugging at a loose thread on the sleeve of her white cotton V-neck. “Guess that’s something I should get used to,” she replies, gesturing to the expanse of the trailer.

Following the path of her hand, I finally get to scan the rest of the double-wide trailer.

It’s twice the size of my last trailer. Beige leather seats line the wall behind a white dining table.

Deep on the opposite end of the trailer I spot a flat-screen TV mounted to the wall, beside a pull-out couch with several throw pillows.

Opposite the dining table is a kitchenette with a coffee maker, a basket of fruit and protein bars, and a mini fridge stocked with at least three cans each of every variation of Coke, Pepsi, and Sprite.

And even a couple of Dr Peppers. Now, that’s luxury.

“This is definitely an upgrade.”

“Anything’s an upgrade from nothing,” Jamila says, pulling on the mustard-yellow crocheted cardigan I saw her wearing last week—one of her costume pieces.

“All we got on those short films was a foldable chair with our name taped onto the back and a water bottle. But this is definitely setting me up for disappointment in the future.” She collapses onto one of the beige leather sofas, throwing her feet up with a sigh.

“I’m never getting a trailer this nice again. ”

Probably true, but she’s too fresh-faced to have her dreams crushed. “Until you win an Emmy next year. Then you can demand your own trailer.” Also true. I can easily picture Jamila sweeping awards season like Eli Rowan did.

Jamila flushes beet red, hiding her blush by folding her arm across her face. “I wouldn’t go that far.”

“I can see it,” I continue, taking a seat on the couch opposite her, having way too much fun seeing her blush to give up. “You winning an Emmy, not you demanding your own trailer. You don’t strike me as the diva type. Yet, anyway.”

I don’t let myself linger on the possibility that something like that could be possible for me too—an Emmy nomination.

A win, even. A chance to skyrocket my career and open doors I never thought I’d be able to walk through.

If I give the performance I know I can, then maybe I’ll let myself dream—for real—about those possibilities.

For now, I’ll keep them close to my chest. I’ve already been crushed enough this year. I have to save my heart wherever I can.

Jamila scoffs lightheartedly while I throw my hair up into a messy bun. No one warned me that bleaching my hair would turn it into hay overnight. I desperately need to do a hair mask.

“Well, you never know.” Jamila leaps up from the sofa, helping herself to an iced tea from the mini fridge. “Next week, I might be demanding only green M&M’s.” She rips open one of the fun-sized packets of M&M’s from the basket on the counter, holding up a palmful of green ones to prove her point.

“Fine by me,” I reply, swiping a Diet Coke for myself. “So long as you also demand they only stock Coke Zero.”

Seriously, how did they forget the superior Coke product?

Jamila smirks, offering up her hand to shake. “You got it.”

Electricity courses through my fingertips when I slide my hand into hers to shake on it.

Must be from the fuzzy sweater dress I’m wearing from my last scene—which is killing me in this heat.

Neither of us reacts to the jolt, keeping our hands intertwined for what feels like a beat too long until, finally, she pulls away.

Hiding her flushed cheeks, she gathers her script from the counter.

“You mentioned you had some tips for learning lines. From school,” I say before she can head back to set. “Think you could still share those with me?”

It’s not admitting defeat to accept that I might need some help if I want to do my best. Jamila has mastered some kind of sorcery that allows her to perfectly recite her lines, even when Rune changes them half a dozen times.

Learning her secrets will improve my performance, keep production on schedule—despite the fact that we’re already massively behind because of script changes—and save both Rune and me from a summer filled with headaches. Win-win on all accounts.

And getting to spend a little more time with Jamila doesn’t hurt either. For cast morale. Obviously.

“Totally, yeah, for sure,” she says in one rushed breath, reaching into the worn New Yorker tote bag on the counter. “Just give me your number. Or your email’s fine too, or I can DM it to you, whatever’s easiest. I can send them to you tonight.”

She hesitates with her phone in her hand, not quite outstretched, but definitely not keeping it close to her chest. Thankfully, she didn’t call me out on my social media blunder from yesterday.

It would probably be easiest for her to DM me, considering we already follow each other.

Instead, I take the phone from her hand with a smirk, holding it up to her face to unlock it, and send a text to myself.

my number is fine

Feeling bold, I create a contact page for myself too. Marisol Polly-Rodriguez, pink flower emoji.

Rune may have crushed my spirit and blocked me from wearing outfits with any semblance of color to set, but he can’t stop me from continuing to make pink my brand.

There’s a pounding at the door as soon as I hand my phone back to her. “Jamila! We need you on set in five,” one of the PAs shouts.

“Coming!” she calls back, briefly glancing down at her phone, which is open to our newly created text thread.

A grin tugs at the corner of her lips, but she doesn’t let it linger.

Tossing her phone into her tote and grabbing her script, she heads for set.

I settle onto the couch, prepared to treat myself to a power nap before my next scene, when she abruptly turns around at the entrance to the trailer.

“I like the hair, by the way,” she says over her shoulder. “Blond suits you.”

Before I can respond, she closes the door behind her, and I’m left with the sound of my rapidly beating heart.