Page 53 of Marisol Acts the Part
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 inHollywood 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 whomight 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. Hedoesn’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 ournewplan. 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 youdidagree 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.
“Are we sure this is necessary?” Jamila chimes in, having raced over from her seat. She gently grasps my arm, standing opposite me so I’m safely squeezed in a “my ex and my current girlfriend” sandwich. Which would feel hilariously awkward if I didn’t feel like I was seconds from passing out.
“Doesn’t seem that complex to me,” Dawn chimes in, as if we asked for her opinion.
She preens when Rune gives her an appreciative smile before he turns to us, his expression morphing into a frown. “Well, why don’t we see what Marisol thinks?”
