Page 35 of Marisol Acts the Part

No surprise, Diamond takes first place in the competition. But the thrill of the win is short-lived.

“This is unacceptable !” Dad shouts backstage, flanked by Jerome, who’s now half out of drag.

Thankfully, we weren’t found out until the closing ceremony.

After Diamond was crowned first place, accepting her bouquet of flowers and five hundred dollars cash, Dad and Jerome clocked her as Kevin seconds into her acceptance speech.

They let Diamond have her moment in the spotlight, bowing for the crowd before instantly pulling her into a dressing room and demanding to know how the hell she managed to pull this off. Minutes later, they found me.

Dad’s voice is a blur as I sit slumped on a stool at Jerome’s/Anita’s vanity beside Kevin, still dressed as Diamond, but all the confidence that won him the competition is long gone.

“We didn’t do anything wrong,” Kevin protests, his grip tightening enough that his bouquet begins to crumple.

“But you know we didn’t want you coming to the club for a reason. You’re teenagers. ”

“It’s an over-eighteen club, and we’re both eighteen,” Kevin snaps back instantly.

“That doesn’t change that you went behind our backs.”

The two of them keep at it, lobbing accusations and excuses back and forth while Jerome occasionally chimes in, but I’m numb to the world.

I’d attempted to chase after Jamila, but quickly lost her in the crowd.

All my worried texts to her have gone unanswered, and I know I should give her the space she clearly needs, but I want to know if she made it home all right.

“And you,” Dad says, suddenly turning his attention to me.

Begrudgingly, I look up to meet his scowl.

“I’m not sure what your mother lets you do out in LA, but we have rules you need to follow if you’re going to stay in our house.

You’re grounded. You go to set, you come straight back home, got it? ”

His tone makes the numbness fade and anger spark at his implication that Mom lets me do whatever I want.

I don’t like the way he said it—and I especially don’t like the backhanded jab at Mom’s parenting.

Which he has no right to comment on, considering he was barely a part of my life up until a few weeks ago.

I debate telling him he can’t ground me, that I’m eighteen and perfectly capable of finding my own place now that I’m settled, but decide against it.

The last thing I need right now is a move.

So I say nothing. I nod and accept my punishment. All the joy I felt less than an hour ago so far gone it feels like a distant memory.

And here I thought things couldn’t possibly get more awkward on set. Except, this time, it’s impossible to avoid my problems.

Well, problem.

I’m able to bypass going back to my trailer after shooting my first scene of the day—thankfully not with Miles or Jamila—by spending an extra twenty minutes deciding what fillings I want in my omelet at the crafty breakfast truck.

Then I camp out in hair and makeup for another half hour between scenes since Gianna, my usual hairstylist, recently redid the deck of her house up in Westchester and has plenty of photos she wants to share.

Who would’ve thought you could photograph wood from so many angles?

Avoiding Jamila may be exhausting, sure, and maybe a teeny, tiny bit immature, but it’s the only choice I have.

All my texts from that night at the club went unanswered, even the ones asking if she got home safely.

It got to the point that I was worried something happened to her.

I was convinced I’d show up to set on Monday to an announcement that Jamila had either gone missing or broken a leg heading down the subway steps, or some other travel-related catastrophe.

Instead, it’s as normal a day as any. Except for my exhaustion and mega eye bags, everything is business as usual.

I’ve basically been locked in my room since we got home on Saturday, but sleep doesn’t come easily when you have this much on your mind.

Dad, Jerome, and I have done a great job of avoiding each other in an apartment that can barely fit one person comfortably.

Kevin’s phone privileges were taken away by his mom—my aunt Alexia—once Dad told her the full story.

While she didn’t disapprove of him doing drag, she definitely didn’t like that he’d snuck out behind her back to a place that served alcohol.

My only human contact on Sunday is a video from Lily and Posie of them spread out on a beach in the South of France.

A fresh reminder that I could’ve been with them, soaking up the sun and eating twenty-dollar cheese with fresh baguettes.

According to the call sheet, Jamila arrived an hour before me, and based on the lack of adjustments to our schedule for the day, she made it in one piece.

Not that I can confirm, since I haven’t seen her.

After wrapping my last scene for the day, I make a beeline straight for the exit.

No point in stopping by my trailer to wipe off my full face of makeup when I can easily do that once I’m home.

While I can’t avoid Jamila forever, considering we have a handful of scenes left together before we wrap next month, I can at least stay away from her until I’m able to think about the way she ran off on Saturday without feeling like I’ll burst into tears.

“Marisol!” Esther calls out, chasing me down before I can slip off set unseen. “Rune made some adjustments to your scenes for tomorrow. I left the new script on the table in your trailer.”

Well, there goes that plan. I give Esther a tight-lipped smile and “thank you” and head toward the trailers instead.

No need to panic. Jamila’s next scene isn’t for another half hour, but that doesn’t mean she’s hanging out in the trailer.

She could be grabbing lunch at the bistro she loves down the street or hanging with Miles or with the wardrobe department because one of the costumers always brings in fresh-baked cookies for Monday morning shoots.

But no. She’s sitting smack in the front of the trailer when I walk in.

“Hi,” she says, eyes locked on me the second I come through the door, as if she was waiting for me.

It’s then that I spot the lack of a script on the dining table beside her. My brow furrows as I put the pieces together, realizing I may have walked directly into a trap. “Did you get Esther to trick me into coming here?”

“I need to talk to you,” she says instead of directly answering my question, standing up but not approaching me.

I scoff, crossing my arms and leaning against the closed door behind me. The smart thing to do would be to leave, but she has this way of luring me in. “Doesn’t seem like we have much to talk about.”

“I’m sorry. I was an asshole on Saturday.” Her eyes close as she exhales slowly, like she’s doing a grounding exercise mid-conversation. “I…panicked.”

“Because we kissed?”

That much should be obvious, but I don’t understand it.

I can understand if maybe I misread the vibes between us; I’d apologize for making her uncomfortable and be extremely embarrassed, but would move on nonetheless.

What I can’t understand is her completely ghosting me.

To the point that she couldn’t even tell me if she was alive.

I’d spent all night lying awake in bed, waiting for her to text back.

“No. I—I mean yes. I mean…it’s complicated.”

“Are you not out?” I ask in a whisper, as if someone could overhear us, though it seems unlikely.

There were several photos of her at different Pride events on her socials.

Even the confidence she’d had when she told me she was a lesbian, and that there was nothing to worry about between her and Miles.

Nothing about her has ever screamed “buried deep in the closet.”

“No, I am. Everyone I know is well aware that I’m very, very gay…

.” She collapses back onto the couch, running her hands down her face before looking back up at me.

“When I first signed with my agent, I told her I really wanted to focus on queer roles. Characters that felt like me—the kind I didn’t get to see growing up.

And she said that was fine, we could try for those types of roles later down the road. But…not now.”

I step farther into the trailer, though keep my guard up. “Why not now?”

“Because it’s hard. Because there are barely any projects that have sapphic leads out there, and the ones that do wind up getting canceled after a season or two if they’re lucky enough to get picked up.”

“What does that have to do with us?”

Jamila swallows hard, avoiding my gaze to focus on her hands instead. “She said I should keep my personal life private. For a while.”

“She’s making you go back into the closet?!” I don’t mean to say it as loud as I do. I also don’t mean to launch myself into the seat across from her, our knees almost touching and my hands almost grabbing hers to force her to look at me and get that this is not okay.

“No, I mean…I guess. Sort of?” Jamila groans, rubbing the back of her neck. “It’s not like I can’t tell anyone I’m a lesbian, but she doesn’t want me shouting from the rooftop about my gayness. Or…dating anyone super publicly. She doesn’t want me to be typecast into one role.”

Then it clicks into place. Maybe if she’d kissed another girl that night, it wouldn’t have been a problem.

But she kissed me. A girl who couldn’t even go to a nightclub without having to wear a disguise.

Who has millions of followers and knows how to walk a red carpet like the back of her hand.

Whose most recent breakup was splashed all over the news.

It’s me. She shouldn’t be dating someone like me.

I bristle, but don’t say anything.

“That’s bullshit,” I mutter bitterly after several seconds of silence. Both because, duh, it is, and…because it sort of makes sense.