Now Wilhelmina
Now WILHELMINA
“N o fucking way.”
I’ve paced a squished, white trail into the carpet of my trailer, walking back and forth for the last half hour. Camera-ready, but stalling. Dax sits on my trailer couch. He has on that sober, worried face he makes when I’m spiraling, and he knows better than to get in the way.
“I know,” he offers.
“She doesn’t even fit the part.”
“I know.”
“And why the hell would Greg bring her onto this project knowing my history with her? It’s gotta be some PR bullshit thing, right?”
“Katrina’s got a really big team. I’m sure they pushed for this. Greg can only do so much.”
“What do I do? Do I quit?”
When I whip around, I catch Dax’s expression. And it’s the briefest, wildest sadness. It’s a look that makes my numb feet stop mid-step.
“No,” he says.
It’s not the word, it’s the way he says it that kicks my heart into gear. Firm and sure. Strong . I don’t have to arm-wrestle the decision or tiptoe around it—Dax just made it for me: I stay.
My feet bring me slowly to the couch. I lower myself down next to him, our thighs touching. My costume dress is soft against the rougher material of his costume’s pants. “Ican’t do this. How am I gonna do this?” The words spill out of my mouth in a whisper and disappear into the air between us.
Daxon’s hand brushes the side of my knee. “Listen to me, okay?” Our eyes connect. I nod. “This whole thing is a test. And Katrina? She’s that friggin’ essay question at the end where you think there’s no way I have it in me to answer this , but if you’re gonna pass? You have to.”
My eyebrows tug together into a knitted line. “The hell are you talking about?”
“Think Miss Kathy.”
I give an involuntary shudder at the name. Our on-set teacher all the years we worked on Marnie was this strange, awful woman named Kathy who exclusively wore denim dresses paired with eccentrically embroidered vests. She hated us. Mostly me. And every time we were called over the PA system to report to school, Dax and I would look at each other and pretend to vomit.
“I try not to,” I say, grimacing.
Dax grins. “No, I mean, those tests she gave us. The really hard ones? Remember?”
“I will go to my grave being haunted by those tests. They were college level! We were eighth graders.”
“Exactly,” says Dax, “but we had to pass.”
“What we had to do was torture ourselves via flash cards to cram for her annoying tests, on top of learning pages of dialogue for the next day’s scenes.”
“On top of trying to scrape the bottom of the barrel for any semblance of childhood,” Daxon adds.
“Don’t know her,” I say. We laugh.
“You can do this,” says Dax, more sure than I’ve ever heard him in his life, so sincere. “Because you have to. For your career, for this movie, for...”
“For what?”
I want to hear him say it. The fire inside my gut needs to hear him say the word us .
Which is completely useless, because there’s no us. We are not a thing. We are two humans who know everything about each other and grew up together in the same shitty Lost Boys vortex under a spotlight aimed right at our faces.
We’re two vines. Tangled at the root. Growing towards the sun without realizing that, hey, guess what? Our version of the sun is each other.
My eyes search his face.
He leans in quickly. Gently, softer than he would typically, to press a kiss like butterfly wings to my painted lips. And there’s my answer.
“But will there be Jell-O?” I murmur when we’ve pulled apart.
Dax takes my chin in his forefinger and thumb and grins. Nobody pranked like Daxon Avery back then. He’d swipe things off set, and the next day, we’d find them floating in the middle of a Jell-O mold. Or, my favorite, the time we filled Miss Kathy’s school bag with cubes of red Jell-O as our “senior prank” and watched gleefully as she left for the day, leaving drops of red, melting gelatin in her wake.
“There will always be Jell-O,” he promises.
There’s a firm knock at my trailer door and Dax’s eyes ask me if it’s okay to answer. I nod. He gets up and pushes the door slowly open. It’s one of our production assistants.
“They, uh, need you guys on set.”
Daxon glances back to me and I nod. “We’ll be five minutes,” he says. “Can we get hair and makeup?”
“They’re saying they need you right now.”
“We need five minutes.”
Adult Daxon has a confidence that my childhood Dax didn’t. But it’s more than confidence, it’s this mixture of maturity, patience, and unflappable kindness that he offers to everyone automatically. Craft services. Our crew members. Assistants. Producers. Anyone. Everyone. It makes me want to grab him and pull him in and never let go.
“I’ll send over hair and makeup,” says the production assistant. We watch him wander off, probably to massage his temples, wondering how he ended up here, babysitting emotionally damaged former child stars.
Dax shuts the door and leans against the kitchenette countertop across from my trailer’s sofa. “Do you need more time?”
“Why do we need hair and makeup?” I ask.
The left side of his mouth lifts into a smile that’s friendly. “You, uh...” he gestures at my face.
“What?” I get up and turn around to face the mirror hanging above the couch. Mascara has tracked its way down my cheeks on both sides. “When was I crying?” I ask, bewildered.
“When we came in,” says Dax.
“No, I wasn’t.” The absolute last fucking thing Katrina deserves from me are tears. She’s not getting anything from me—ever. My heart picks up the pace. I turn to Dax. I need him to know I’m strong. That she won’t break me. “I wasn’t.”
“Okay,” he says. And we both know it’s bullshit, but he lets me have this and that means more than anything.
TO THE STARS – OFFICIAL SCRIPT
EXT. THE PIER – NIGHT
NICK
So, you’re husband-hunting. That it?
LILA
Shhh. I can’t hear them.
NICK
I didn’t think the Pattersons ever actually came out all this way, but this makes sense.
LILA
What?
NICK
Myrtle is good as anywhere to find somebody from money. Plenty of oil tycoons with summer places out this way. Then you’ve got the fishing families—at least, the ones bringing in the big bucks.
LILA
We’re here on vacation. That’s all you need to know.
NICK
’Course you are. So’s every one of ’em.
(gesturing to the crowds walking along the pier)
Difference is, they’re dressed for it. You, on the other hand...
LILA
Excuse me?
NICK
I missed the invitation to the Royal Ball.
LILA
You’re dressed like you deliver newspapers and I haven’t pointed that out.
NICK
You literally just did.
(gesturing to his clothes)
And this is grocery delivery boy, at least.
LILA
Be quiet, please. And be useful, for god’s sake. Can you see them?
NICK
Listen, I don’t know you.
LILA
What a shocking revelation.
NICK
I don’t. I don’t know you. But what I know is that you can’t push people into anything they don’t wanna be pushed into.
LILA
And what does that mean?
NICK
Your sister over there? She’s gonna wind up doing what it is she wants to do. You can’t stop her. Not really.
LILA
Is that so?
NICK
Yes, ma’am, it is.
LILA
And how are you so sure?
NICK
I know people. Know how they work.
There’s a beat. LILA takes in the boardwalk, the night air rippling through her pinned-up hair. NICK takes in LILA.
LILA
So, you deliver groceries, that it?
NICK
Matter of fact, no. I don’t.
LILA
Milkman?
NICK
Nope.
LILA
Enlighten me, won’t you?
NICK
I work with cars.
LILA
Cars?
NICK
Cars.
LILA
You’re a chauffeur?
NICK
Mechanic.
LILA
And you like cars?
NICK clocks AMY and FRAT BOY a few booths away, where FRAT BOY is leaning in to whisper something in AMY’s ear.
NICK
Look at that, he’s making a move.
LILA
What?
LILA looks around and gasps.
LILA
She couldn’t make this any harder for me, I swear.
NICK pulls a quarter from his pocket and flips it, catching it deftly with one hand.
NICK
Watch this.
LILA
What are you going to do?
NICK
Have a little faith.
LILA
Absolutely not.
NICK raises his hand and flings the quarter. LILA cries out. It sails forward to clang off the side of the game booth where FRAT BOY and AMY stand close together. They jump apart, startled.
NICK
You’re welcome.
Katrina isn’t filming tonight, but she lingers on set, waiting, watching from behind Greg like this is her movie.
Every time Greg calls cut, this clawing feeling scratches its way up my body from my stomach, wrapping strong, spindly fingers around my throat because it’s absolutely only a matter of time before she tries to talk to me.
Or worse: What if she doesn’t talk to me at all?
I don’t want her to talk to me. I’d rather eat an opossum. But somehow the notion that she wouldn’t, given the chance, makes me want to puke. There’s this enormous iceberg bobbing in the water between us, it feels like. Made of memories of years ago.
Of weeks ago, with the arrest, the breaking and entering.
Around one in the morning, we break for a meal. I stop at crafty to load up on tacos and licorice, and as I’m debating whether or not I need more guacamole, a hand touches my shoulder.
“I have my bib-thing, don’t worry, the costume’s safe.” Iturn around, assuming it’s costuming.
Except it isn’t.
“Hi there,” says Katrina. The smile on her thin lips is calm and confident, but not friendly. I can feel my organs shriveling.
“Katrina,” I say, my heartbeat deafening in my ears.
“Isn’t it funny,” she says, “they always say if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. And you’re living proof of that. Nice to see you booked something after such a long time.”
There aren’t a lot of people who intimately knew me in the early days after Marnie where I couldn’t book a job. Dad and Katrina watched me fall apart, every day another chunk of me falling to the ground when the phone refused to ring.
It’s funny how I wanted to shed Marnie like a second skin and step away someone new, someone that was wholly me, but she didn’t budge. I was walking around without an identity, Marnie’s shadow glued to my heels like I was Peter Pan.
I was screaming at the top of my lungs for someone to notice me and care.
When my agent suggested I take a break from auditioning, I started going out. All the time. For hours and hours, club after club, bar after bar. I was eighteen. Nobody cared. Thankfully, that was when I met Margot. She was the reigning queen of the LA scene back then, a place where it was hard to find someone trustworthy. In that way, Margot was rare.
But Katrina?
I look into her pale, venomous eyes. “Thank you.” The words come out of me mechanically. Icily. I’m vaguely aware that my plate has started to shake slightly in my hand.
“You know, I’m really looking forward to this. You and I have our first big scene on Wednesday, bright and early.”
“Can’t wait.” My tone is as even as I can make it.
“It’s amazing what strings you can pull in this industry if you’re at my level. Anything you want, you can get.” Something in her eyes flashes and I have my confirmation.
Hahahahaha, shit. Mystery solved.
She sought this role out. I wouldn’t be surprised at all to find out she manipulated her way in. Forced whichever actress was originally playing Lila’s mother out on her way-worthier ass.
“Neat,” I say, and the sound is dry as cracker dust. I glance at my quaking plate. “I’m gonna go.”
“See you tomorrow,” says Katrina. And weirdly, or maybe not so weirdly, given that it’s her , she makes that sound like a threat.
When I’ve turned my back to her and started to walk away, the panic starts bubbling in my stomach. What if I can’t do this?