Page 7 of Marisol Acts the Part
After we wrapped Avalon Grove, Delia told me my career was only beginning, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel that way when everyone’s decided that one character is all I’ll ever be able to do.
And it doesn’t matter that I think that’s absolute bullshit.
That I loved playing Celia, or that I loved working on Avalon Grove even more.
It gave me and Mom financial security for the first time in years.
It gave me my best friends. It gave me Miles, and as much as it might hurt to think about him now, I still can’t find it in me to regret falling in love with him.
Was it the most groundbreaking and original show?
No. Was it the greatest performance of my career?
I hope not. But that doesn’t change that it was still something important to people.
An opportunity for teenagers to see themselves represented on-screen—not downplaying the emotional intensity of how it feels to fall in love at our age or brushing off our feelings.
That show meant something—to me, to my friends, to the world.
And I’m really freaking tired of people trying to make me feel like there’s something wrong with that.
Needless to say, with those thoughts swirling, I got about two hours of actual rest. I either needed to hop myself up on caffeine and sugar, or risk falling asleep mid-monologue.
That is, assuming they’ll have me read a monologue.
No one has actually told me what I’m supposed to be doing yet.
All I’d been told was to come as “open to the energy of the world” as possible.
I did twenty minutes of yoga this morning, which means I’m more open to the energy of the world than usual, right?
Did Miles have to go through this? Because I can’t imagine Miles “Studies his lines until he can say them forward, backward, and in Mandarin” Zhao wouldn’t have been panicking.
He’d been intentionally vague about his auditions, thanks to the NDA he, and now I, had to sign before our in-person auditions.
An NDA so long it may have demanded I sacrifice my firstborn if I ever talk publicly about the casting process, and I would have no idea—my eyes started to glaze over by page three. Of nine.
Still, the thought of Miles makes me hold myself with more pride.
I may feel out of my depth, but that doesn’t mean that I am.
Something the world seems to have forgotten is that Miles started in the same place as me.
Sure, he took a few extra acting classes during the summers, but that doesn’t mean he’s automatically leading man material while my career withers into dust. If Miles can pivot his career, I can too.
Rune whispers something to the casting assistant this time, careful to keep his mouth covered. Once Rune pulls away, the casting assistant nods and leafs through his clipboard before handing a half sheet to me.
“Please read this into the camera whenever you’re ready.”
It’s a short, typed passage. Barely three lines.
I scan them over and over, trying to memorize them as quickly as I can.
Remembering lines has never been one of my strong suits.
Miles used to joke that I wouldn’t remember my own name if I didn’t wear it around my neck every day.
These are even harder to nail down—none of the sentences flow together to create a cohesive narrative.
I am the goddess of the death. Tomorrow I’ll see what the world has in store for me. You mean nothing to me.
Definitely more intense than what I’m used to.
I inhale deeply, following the instructions from the yoga video I’d watched this morning to center myself and clear my mind. I can do this. I can be the goddess of death.
When I finish reading the lines to the camera, my panel of judges are completely stone-faced. It’s not unusual for the people you’re auditioning for to keep their reactions to themselves, but it does feel especially unnerving this time.
“That was great,” Marie says suddenly, as if she sensed my panic, while Rune turns back to his notebook. “Can you try it again, but a little bit slower?”
I nod, give her a shy smile, and walk myself through a round of breathing exercises before reading the passage again.
There’s no immediate response to my second read-through.
Marie looks warily over at Rune, who’s still writing in his notebook, while the casting assistant taps away at his laptop.
What feels like hours go by when Rune abruptly sits up, seemingly struck by a bolt of lightning, and stares me down with those electric blue eyes.
“Try it again, but with a more primal energy,” he says, his voice low and gruff.
When he stands up, I expect him to be close to seven feet tall, but he’s smaller than his aura projects.
His rumpled sweater hangs loosely around his willowy frame, his clavicle on full display where the collar dips.
With heels on, I’m only an inch or two shorter than him.
He comes to the other side of the table, crosses his arms, and keeps his attention so set on me, it could drill a hole between my eyes.
A jarring switch-up from him pretending that I don’t exist for the past several minutes.
He leans past the camera, so close I can smell the coffee and cigarettes on his breath when he whispers, “Harness your power.”
I nod, averting my eyes away from Rune’s invasive gaze and concentrating on the camera instead. Instead of launching right into the lines again, I close my eyes. Let myself stew in the emotions that have been stirring through me the past two weeks. Anger, resentment, guilt.
Fear.
Fear that I’ll never be enough. Fear that I’m too much. Fear that I don’t know who I am anymore, even though my millions of followers think they get me.
A rumble in my chest powers each word when I finally recite the lines again, my shoulders trembling from the force of my short performance. Tears blur the corners of my eyes as Miles’s voice swims in and out of my ears again and again. I’m ready to start taking myself more seriously.
I’ll show him serious.
When I finish, I will myself to stop shaking.
I don’t apologize, even though my gut tells me to.
It’s the most vulnerable I’ve ever let myself be in front of a camera—something my past roles never demanded of me.
If this is what makes me a “serious” actor, I’ll prove that I can do it, tears and all.
Carefully, I angle myself away from the camera to wipe beneath my eyes.
I didn’t think I’d need the waterproof mascara today, and the last thing I need is raccoon eyes documented on film.
The room goes silent. Not even the scratch of pens on paper. I can’t muster the strength to look at Rune, who’s still so close I can feel an uneasy prickle beneath my skin.
“Bring in the other,” he says before returning to his seat. I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath until I let out a quiet exhale when he speaks again, my body finally relaxing as the room fills with quiet noise again.
The casting assistant bustles out of the room while Marie flips through a binder in front of her.
I shuffle awkwardly off my assigned mark, composing myself in a corner while I wait for the casting assistant to return.
Moments later, he’s back with Ridiculously Beautiful Girl in tow, looking as confused as I was when I first stepped into the room.
“Marisol, this is Jamila El Amrani,” Marie pipes up, putting a name to the Ridiculously Beautiful face.
“Hi!” I say, sounding totally chill and not nervous to seeher.
The last time I had a callback with another person was when Miles and I read together for our final Avalon Grove audition, and I’m not any less awkward at the big age of eighteen than I was at fourteen.
I stick one of my hands out for her to shake, then immediately regret it when I realize how clammy it’s become in the few seconds since she walked in. And it’s probably obvious that I was crying minutes ago. Fantastic first impression.
Jamila takes my hand, and I try not to dwell on the softness of hers. Or the way the thin rose gold rings on her fingers slot perfectly against the silver ones on my own. Or how good she smells. Because she smells really good. Like cinnamon and oranges and honey. Fall in the middle of summer.
“Hi,” Jamila replies so quietly I wouldn’t have thought she’d said anything at all if I hadn’t seen the slight part of her lips. Maybe I’m not the only one who’s nervous out of their mind, which is a comforting thought.
The casting assistant hands both of us a new slip of paper. An actual scene this time, pulled from a script. It’s only a handful of lines—three each. But it at least has a setting and a couple of stage directions and context to help ground us in the scene.
“Jamila will be reading for Character A, and Marisol will read for Character B,” Marie instructs as the casting assistant hands her and Rune their own copies of the scene. Rune doesn’t bother to glance up from his notebook.
We settle on opposite ends of the room to study the scene. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see Jamila mouthing the lines like she did earlier.
I pry my eyes away from her and go back to my own paper.
Even with the additional context, I struggle to get a grasp on the scene. We don’t have names, or even character descriptions. For all I know I’m playing a middle-aged Italian man.