Page 42 of Marisol Acts the Part
Like a burn, the pain doesn’t hit until later. Not until I’m home, curled up on the couch sobbing into a pillow while Bruiser gives me sympathetic licks on my arm. Walking away was easy. Facing reality is hard.
I can’t bring myself to tell Delia yet. I’m not sure if she’ll be pissed or relieved or vindicated.
All of her and Mom’s worrying was warranted.
I couldn’t handle this show—it was never meant for me.
What felt like strength an hour ago feels like weakness once I’m alone with nothing but my thoughts and Bruiser’s occasional grunts.
Months ago, I’d thought getting dumped by Miles was my lowest point, but I was wrong.
Once again, I’m not even granted the luxury of privacy to grieve the upheaval of my life.
Dad comes stumbling in through the door, muttering under his breath about pain-in-the-ass actors, already tugging his tie loose when he spots me on the couch.
“Munch, what’s the matter?” he asks, racing to my side, checking me for any signs of injury or illness.
Instead of bottling my feelings up, pretending everything is fine the way I have been for weeks, I tell him everything—about Rune, about Jamila, about how horrible my experience on the show has been—in between hiccupped sobs.
His anger grows with every passing word, wrinkles lining his forehead as his brows knit tighter and tighter together.
Red trickles through his cheeks down to his neck, and the hand running circles along my back gets more forceful with every passing second.
“This is ridiculous,” he says when I finally finish my story, culminating in my firing. “You should have told us from day one how this director was treating you.”
“I—I’m sorry. I thought I could handle it,” I apologize meekly, flinching at his tone.
Quickly, he softens. “It’s not your fault, munchkin. None of this is your fault.”
It’s such a simple phrase and yet so soothing. Reassuring after weeks of thinking I was to blame for everything going wrong with the perfect life I’d planned out, because I wasn’t talented or strong-willed enough. None of this is my fault.
Dad stands up and paces the narrow length of the room as he massages his forehead until the wrinkles start to recede.
“We can sue the guy for harassment, maybe. Get a lawyer involved.” He stops in his tracks and groans, rubbing his eyes like he’s trying to massage all the tension out of his body.
“I’ll talk to your mother and see if we can get your agent on the phone.
She’ll know more about this than either of us does. ”
At the mention of Mom, he hardens again, the anger he worked out of his body coming rushing back.
“I told her getting you involved in acting so young was a mistake. God, you’re barely eighteen.
You should be going on college tours and picking out a dress for prom, not dealing with this.
She never listened to me and look what happened.
” He gestures to my crumpled form like I’m something to be ashamed of.
“Hey,” I snap, even startling myself at the force in my voice. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”
Dad steps back, blinking up at me like he doesn’t recognize me. And I don’t either—this new, forceful part of me that isn’t willing to stand by and let someone, not even my biological father, talk about my mom.
“Mom did everything for me. She worked three jobs to make sure the lights stayed on and still found time to drive me to dance practice, and playdates, and all my auditions. Acting was my idea. Not hers. And I’ll never regret doing it because it gave us stability for the first time in years.
Not that you would know—since you were never there.
” It’s a low blow, I know, and I’ll probably regret it in the morning, but I can’t help it now.
“I wouldn’t even be here right now if she didn’t suggest it.
You don’t get to step up now and decide Mom was in the wrong.
You don’t get to judge how I was raised eighteen years later. ”
Everything I’ve ever wanted to say to Dad is out in the air.
The progress we’ve made this summer goes swirling down the drain as the color leaves his face.
I’m too frustrated to feel guilty for taking out my anger on him.
He doesn’t deserve to get the sharp end of my emotions, but he’s not innocent either.
While I could’ve phrased it more gently, he doesn’t get to bad-mouth Mom.
Not when he pops into my life whenever he wants to, like I’m a plant he waters sporadically instead of a child.
“Mari, I—”
I don’t let him finish. Turning on my heels, I stomp back toward my room, waiting for Bruiser to catch up before slamming the door behind me.
Tomorrow I can pick the pieces back up, put my life back together again like I did when Miles dumped me.
But not tonight. Tonight, I bury my face in my pillow and stare out my window at the skyline of a city I thought held so much promise, and cry.
I cry because I came here for a job I ended up hating.
I cry because I hurt my dad. I cry because everything is falling apart.
Never mind what I said earlier. This is my lowest moment.