Page 18 of The Singapore Stunt

Chapter Thirteen

Kimberly

It’s now or never.

After our ninth try on the mat, we took a brief break and then moved to a high-wire rehearsal space on the edge of town.

Sixty feet in the air on a long platform used by trapeze artists. The platform is covered in markings of masking tape, the exact dimensions of the Marina Bay rooftop, the familiar trampoline bolted in position and Mattias standing near the edge.

The difference between here and the compound is what hangs behind Mattias. A ladder.

The ladder is weighted, the exact specifications that will be used in the stunt. The additional weight, Mattias explained, is to prevent it from swinging in the high winds found fifty-seven stories above the ground. The cold, hard ground.

Every rung on the ladder is coated with a colored talcum powder that will appear invisible on camera. Here at the facility, we have a safety net below us. Something that won’t exist on shoot day.

My pulse kicks up as Mattias waves me over toward him. “We’ll start slow,” he says, and I bite my tongue. He points two feet behind me. “Get a little running start and leap to grab the ladder. I know we practiced this a little at the compound, but it’s going to feel different here.”

I nod, too afraid to say a word. During every break this morning, Mattias tossed a weighted bar at me to snatch from the air. The bar is the same weight and dimensions as the rungs on the ladder. “Muscle memory,” he chanted anytime he thought we had done enough.

My nervous feet take two steps backward as Mattias steps to the side. “The day of the shoot, it will be hot. You will sweat from the fight sequence. There will be water from the pool everywhere. Make sure you wipe your hands against your swimsuit before you reach me. Dry hands are essential.”

This isn’t the first time he’s given me this warning. He mentioned it at least three times over dinner and twice more on the drive over. I think back to Ariana’s foot slipping off the balcony in LA. She had Xavier there to help brace her fall. I won’t have that luxury.

I nod, wiping my hands against the bottom of my shorts on either hip.

“Whenever you’re ready.” Mattias’ voice is soft, calm, and professional. It is the right combination.

I break into a sprint and leap. One Mississippi, two… I grab the ladder, both hands snapping tight. I sway and let a loud laugh escape. I did it. I freaking did it. On the first try.

I place my feet on a rung of the ladder and punch the air with my right fist and turn to catch Mattias’ reaction. He is standing at the edge of the tower, arms crossed against his magnificent chest. I expect pom-poms but only receive a half smirk. He points down to the safety net for me to fall and return to the tower.

Giggles escape my mouth as I trust fall to the safety net, bounce five times, and swing off the edge to the solid ground. I race back up the steps to the platform, eager to receive a Mattias hug.

He’s waiting for me when I reach the top. “Nicely done. That one was for your nerves. Now let’s see you do it again.”

I skip to keep up with him. That’s when I notice. The ladder is moving further away from the edge of the towel. A mechanical hum of machines at work fills the air. I hold my breath as it moves further and further away. I don’t breathe again until a loud click causes me to flinch.

“Fifteen meters.” Mattias reminds me of the exact distance the ladder will be positioned for the shoot. The precise distance I will need to fly without a harness or net to reach safety. 3.7 seconds.

You’ve got to be kidding.

“For all stunts with an elevated risk, every member of the stunt team must complete an exercise we call the dozen.”

Mattias counts his strides, stepping from the edge back along the platform. “I’m going to mark a spot for you to race from. Leap off the edge and grab the ladder. When you can do it twelve times in a row without falling, we’ll then move on to performing the complete sequence.”

“Twelve times?” I ask, familiar with Mattias and Xavier’s approach of repetition to build muscle memory.

“In a row,” Mattias reminds me. “If you miss, start back at one.” Mattias stops a few feet past the trampoline. He rips a piece of masking tape from the roll in his back pocket and points. “Starting position.”

I don’t ask, knowing how much preparation he’s put into this marking. Into every element of the exercise. Stunt coordinators are like engineers. They calculate an actor’s weight, their running speed, wind condition, and a half dozen other elements that would put a brain surgeon to shame. They not only master body compositions and movements, but must be experts in physics and math.

My gaze locks on Mattias’, a fierce determination in his eyes. He’s watching everything, and I remind myself he holds the final assessment of whether or not we do this stunt. I have to succeed.

I take off down the platform, careful not to overstride. Consistency, Mattias drilled into me that first night. Every take has to be the same. Every movement will be repeated two dozen times until the director deems it worthy. Be prepared to do it over and over.

My right foot hits two inches from the edge, and I leap. I whirlwind my arms, not for momentum, but for the camera that doesn’t exist. This may be a stunt rehearsal, but I’m also an actress. I can’t show fear; my character will not have any.

I’m free-falling, flying like an eagle high above the world. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four… My hands hit the ladder, and I squeeze. My left hand clamps on, but the fingertips of my right hand slip out. I swing awkwardly, holding the ladder with one hand.

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