Page 37 of Marisol Acts the Part

The more my personal life thrives, the worse life on set becomes. Rune must have some kind of machine that senses whether or not I had a good night or weekend and decides how to best terrorize me the following day.

After spending the night watching a movie with Jamila over FaceTime—my saving grace now that I’m not allowed to leave the house and am avoiding Dad like the plague—I showed up to set exhausted but invigorated.

Within ten minutes of stepping onto the lot, Rune declared that all phones were officially banned from set.

Apparently, someone had leaked a couple pages of the first episode script, screwing the rest of us over by forcing us into total lockdown mode.

By the end of the day, the PAs rolled out the new protocol: collecting our personal phones as we arrive and keeping them locked securely in a back office until we leave for the day.

The phone ban is more annoying than anything else.

I’ve gotten into the habit of texting Jamila whenever our shooting schedules don’t overlap, sending her selfies and memes and dozens of random thoughts because she always seems to appreciate them.

Unlike a certain ex of mine, who always told me off for being such an overzealous texter.

Not that I’m comparing. Though it’s nice to be able to text the person you’re seeing to ask them if they’d like you if you were a worm and get an actual response ( only if I get to dress you up in cute little worm outfits ) instead of a dismissal ( why do you always ask such weird questions? ).

Our first day of shooting without access to our phones is boring and uneventful.

Our schedules never line up, so Jamila and I can’t even sneak away to our trailer for some time alone before we wrap for the day.

On the few days that we’re shooting on location, exploring the area surrounding our base camp isn’t anywhere near as fun without her.

I don’t have many scenes this week, and the ones I do have are with Miles, while she has to spend most of her week with her on-screen parents and Dawn.

Better her than me, though. One saving grace is how little Dawn’s character interacts on-screen with mine.

Being a few feet away from Jamila but never getting to communicate, much less touch her, is frustrating—especially when we’ve finally admitted that we’re…something. We’re figuring out what that something is. With lots of kissing. So much kissing.

Thankfully, Jamila, bless her, is an innovator.

“This is for you.” Esther hands me a folded-up piece of notebook paper.

“Who’s it from?” I ask as I unfold it, bracing myself for yet another one of Rune’s weird directorial habits to emerge.

Esther shrugs coyly, suddenly becoming extremely interested in the empty bottle of water on the table beside me.

Written in loopy handwriting so pristine it could easily be a font, is a short message.

Hi, you’re cute : )

My cheeks flare as I glance up from the note toward the bedroom set on the opposite end of the room.

Jamila and Miles are debriefing with Rune after their latest run-through of their first scene of the day.

For a flash of a second, Jamila looks away from Rune, long enough to give me a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it wink before turning her attention fully back to him.

I quickly scribble back a message of my own, folding the paper up again and handing it back to Esther.

“I’m not a messenger pigeon, you know,” she replies while tucking the note into the breast pocket of her flannel.

“It’ll be the last one, I promise,” I say with my best puppy-dog pout.

Esther gives in with a grumble, stomping off to deliver my message.

It is not the last one. Sorry, Esther.

To be fair, Jamila and I spread our messenger duties among the rest of the production crew.

Sometimes we even pass them ourselves, sliding notes into each other’s hands as we pass by, holding back smiles and lingering touches.

It becomes a running joke between us and the crew—that they’re aiding the star-crossed lovers, kept apart by a lack of cell phones.

Slowly, we push the boundaries. A week after we start sending the notes, Jamila’s hand twitches toward mine beneath the picnic table we’ve settled at for lunch.

I don’t bother hiding my smile as we link our fingers out of view of our castmates.

Subtle touches evolve into stolen kisses, quick and breathless behind closed doors.

Longer when we’re in the privacy of our trailer.

It’s not very discreet, but Jamila assures me that she doesn’t mind. Set is our own little world where we’re free to be ourselves.

“We’re allowed to have this,” she says one afternoon as we lounge together on the pull-out bed in our trailer, trading slow kisses and careful touches. “Our little utopia.”

Our little utopia quickly becomes the highlight of my day.

Suddenly, I don’t mind not having my phone every minute of the day anymore.

Not when I can spend that time writing terrible sonnets about the way Jamila’s eyes sparkle like a sunrise on the back of Chipotle receipts or letting her play with my hair while I rest my head in her lap.

This morning, I was too busy shamelessly gazing into said eyes to actually hear what she was saying to me.

“Does that work?” she asks, bringing me back to reality.

I quickly shake myself off and scan the set of questions Fatima wrote up for the senior staff writer who will be interviewing Jamila for her profile piece in Hollywood Today.

Jamila was panicked about the idea of her first-ever professional interview, even if it had been set up by her sister, so I took up my celebrity-guru mantle once again to show her how it’s done.

Except I’m obviously very distracted by her eyes. And her lips. And her everything.

“Try relaxing,” I suggest, remembering how stiff she was when she started answering the first question on the list (How did you get your start in acting?).

She sounded like she was reading off a teleprompter.

I can definitely understand nerves getting the best of you—it happened to me plenty of times early in my career.

“And be yourself. Remember that you can always stop and start over again if you have to. This isn’t on camera, and these questions are all written by someone you know and trust.”

I know it’s easier said than done. But Jamila gives me a nod and prepares to start her answer over again when a large group of crew members wheel an enormous white wooden box onto set.

“What’s that for?” I whisper out of the corner of my mouth.

“No idea. It’s not in any of my scenes.” She quickly flips through her script, confirming that there’s no spooky box involved in anything she needs to shoot today.

I’m about to flip through my own script when Rune appears from behind the box. “Marisol!” he calls out, beckoning for me to come join him.

That can’t be good.

Jamila and I exchange a worried look as I slowly slide off my director’s chair.

During one of our rambling trailer conversations, after she’d told me about a car accident she’d been involved in as a kid that left her still terrified of driving, I’d told her about my claustrophobia.

A nervous reaction that developed over time after I accidentally got stuck in Mom’s closet when I was five.

Jamila reaches out before I can walk away, giving my hand a reassuring squeeze—not caring who might see.

Off to our right, Dawn finally glances up from her script to watch me make my way to set.

Naturally, today is the day when she wants to acknowledge our existence.

“We’ve made a couple changes to your scene for the day,” Rune explains once I approach. Miles stands a few feet away, eyeing us curiously.

That’s not surprising, but the presence of the box definitely is.

I quickly scan my script again. Besides a couple of moments with Miles, Jamila, and Dawn, the only other scene I have is on my own.

After an argument about my meddling in his life, Miles’s character winds up locking me in his bedroom to try to slip away and meet up with Jamila’s.

“We want to really emphasize the upset and terror you feel when Will abandons you. We’re going for a more stylistic approach—an all-black, windowless moment.

So we’ll have you in here.” He pauses to gesture to the box, which stands well over fifteen feet tall, nearly touching the spotlights hanging above us, but it can’t be any bigger than five feet wide.

Fear rockets through my body, sweat breaking out across my forehead and hands within seconds. “O-oh, well—”

“She’s claustrophobic,” Miles cuts in before I can finish, saving me from having to explain myself. “Can’t she do the scene in the bedroom like we originally planned?”

I didn’t expect Miles to jump to my aid, but I’m grateful either way.

He stands firm beside me, presenting a united front.

The more I study the stark white box towering behind Rune, the woozier I feel.

Having someone beside me to potentially hold for balance is reassuring.

The last thing I need is to pass out in front of half the cast and crew.

Rune’s rare smile falters and morphs into a frown.

He doesn’t sneer at Miles the way he often does at me, his expression calmer and measured as he tightens his grip on the rolled-up script in his hand.

“It’d be best if she did the scene according to our new plan.

For the integrity of my artistic vision. ”

Miles’s mouth opens, but no words come out. I’m not sure how to respond either, how to argue against Rune’s “artistic vision.”

“And you did agree to being locked in tight spaces,” Rune adds, holding up a copy of the form I’d filled out at my audition months ago. One question pops out.

Would you feel comfortable being locked in an enclosed space for up to ten minutes?

Goddammit. I knew I should’ve said no.