On Screen & Off Again

Then Wilhelmina

Then WILHELMINA

O n a Tuesday morning, my phone rings.

“Wil? Hulu loved you. You booked it!”

It was the last audition I submitted before my agent, Sherrie, suggested I take a break. I’ve been preparing myself to retire as some Hollywood has-been recluse, jumping out at passersby to yell about how I used to be on lunch boxes. But with Dax at Yale and nothing but club-hopping to keep me going, I let myself get excited about this chance to reinvent myself.

It’s weird not having the warmth of studio-audience laughter in your ears after every funny thing you say once the cameras start rolling. Weird, and delicious.

No one peels me away from set to go to school. I’m not fussed over. I’m not babied. And the costumes? Holy shit. No more kindergartner-who-got-dressed-in-the-dark aesthetics. Hulu has me in fitted jeans and a crop top like a whole-ass adult woman. Filming this pilot, not even knowing if it’ll go to series, but being here and trying and, as far as I can tell, succeeding, feels incredible.

The cast is sick. Talented, hilarious women. I watch the scenes I’m not in being filmed and take a thousand mental notes.

“You’re funny,” Katie Port tells me as we load up plates of catered lunch. Katie fucking Port, stand-up queen. “I didn’t think you’d be funny because of the whole kids’ show thing, but you’re awesome.”

“Oh my god, thank you,” I say. “Please know this is going straight to my head.” We laugh. It’s easy here. Hair and makeup are kind and accommodating; the script is tight and funny with heart. I think it has legs to get picked up. Fuck, I hope it gets picked up.

“Wil, come meet our producers,” says my director, Salma, on our last day. She guides me across our base camp lot where the trailers are parked towards the craft services table. “This is Chris Sherman, Gloria Lee and Harris Bastian. Everyone, this is Wilhelmina Chase.”

No .

Fuck .

I force myself to smile. Be normal. Shake hands. Down the line I go, until I get to Harris, who reaches his hand out to shake mine, an overly familiar grin starting on his lips. My hand flops into his. Sweat starts at the back of my neck as his fingers tighten too hard around mine.

“I know Wil,” he says, his eyes on me. Then he turns to Salma. “Known her since she was a kid. We worked on Marnie, Maybe together.”

The way he says it, I get a chill like a thousand spider legs crawling down my spine. I smile and give a little laugh. Ishould keep the mood light. Nothing’s set in stone here. If there’s one person you keep happy in this business, it’s your producer.

“We’re thrilled to have her,” says Salma.

“Thrilled to be here,” I quip. Everyone laughs. Harris’s eyes drop and linger at my chest. The pores on his red nose are huge, but I can’t look away. “I’m gonna get back to my trailer,” I hear myself say after what feels like an hour. “Prep for the next scene. Nice to meet you all. Thank you for this chance.” I walk away gagging.

The inevitable knock an hour later sends a flush of ice through me. There are a dozen people it could be, I know that—an assistant, a costumer, anyone—and yet, I know that it’s Harris.

I hesitate. He knocks again. I take a breath and count to five. Just answer the door, see what he wants, and move on.

“Yes?” I ask, the door half-open.

Harris takes in what he can see of my trailer behind me. “Nice digs. Mind if I come in?”

“I’m running through some lines. Maybe later...” Even though it’s the only word in my head right now, audibly shouting NO is so fucking hard for some reason.

“Come on, just five minutes.” He puts his foot on the first step up to the door, and it makes me back up.

“Um, I guess,” I say. My heart is pounding in my ears. You want a long career? You don’t throw an executive producer out of your trailer. I don’t want to make a thing of this. I don’t want to draw attention. I sit on the stool at my lighted vanity, facing him. “What’s up?”

He runs his hand along the top of the leather sofa across from me. “I just got word that the show’s going to series.”

“Seriously?” My screaming heart leaps into my throat. “Oh my god. That’s amazing.” A series. A full season. Maybe more. I’m looking at job security, at a chance to break myself out as more than a kid actor. I get this flash of stage lights and glittering gowns. Someone hands me a tiny statue made of gold. Nobody remembers Marnie. No one looks at me and sees her.

This is going to change my life.

“Seriously,” says Harris. “And I wanted to see if you’d like to come out and celebrate with me tonight.”

Right about here is where my heart turns to coal and sinks. I get it now. This is practiced. Planned out. Checkmate.

I know what the career-focused person in my place should do here. Harris is laying out this ugly, messy thing as neat and pretty as he can. But when I look at his face, feel the burn of his eyes on me, I’m thirteen and doubling up on sports bras, ashamed of myself for a reason I can’t even say out loud.

“No,” I say, my voice suddenly hoarse. Quiet. Weak, maybe. “No, thanks.”

Harris blinks at me. His mouth twitches. It turns into a smirk, but it isn’t handsome or kind. “You sure?”

“I’m sure,” I say to the wall beside his head.

The way the look in his eyes shifts from faux-friendly predator with a clear-cut agenda to dangerously bruised ego is enough to set off a dozen alarm bells in my brain. “Okay,” he says, and the word is loaded. “Take care, Marnie.” Harris slips out of my trailer, shutting the door too hard behind him.

I’ve fucked up. Even if I did the right thing, I’ve fucked up. Majorly.

On Sunday, Margot and Cassie argue over how long to set the microwave for popcorn while I pull up the Emmys on the living-room TV. Katrina’s nominated for her sitcom Apart Together , which in my opinion is overly precious and hardly funny, but hey, I’m not in charge of the nominations.

I don’t care about that, though. I’m watching for the red-carpet coverage. For my dad.

“I still think you’re being paranoid,” Cassie calls to me. “Like, this isn’t a movie, Wil. People don’t do crazy shit just because you turn them down.”

Cassie, who has never lived in reality, likes to tread as uncarefully as she can on my last nerve. I would toss her out if she wasn’t someone who means a lot to Margot.

That’s when the knock on my door sounds.

“Did we actually order that pizza?” I ask, heading towards the foyer. But when I check the peephole, it’s my agent, Sherrie. The hair at the back of my neck prickles. I undo the lock and turn the knob. “You making house calls now?”

“Hey, Wil,” she says. The smile on her face is tight and too small, like the kind they paint on dolls. There’s a secret behind her teeth. Something bad. “Can I come in a sec?”

I pull the door wide and she steps in. “What’s up? You wanna sit down? We’ve got the Emmys on. Red-carpet stuff.”

“I can’t stay,” says Sherrie. “But let’s sit a minute.”

So, I sweep her into the living room and mute the TV. Sherrie sits in the plush, vivid green armchair, and I perch on the edge of the magenta couch. If a room isn’t violent with color and life, I don’t want it.

“Everything okay?” I already know the answer. My lungs barely inflate as I take tiny, useless breaths.

“We’ve never had this happen before, you and me, so I’ll just tell you upfront what the deal is.”

My stomach, my kidneys, my heart, my everything turns upside down and inside out as the blood in my face drains. “What happened?”

“Hulu is letting you go. They’re recasting your role.”

And right as she says this, the camera pans the whole of the red carpet and lingers, just for a moment, on Harris and the far younger woman glued to his arm.

“Wil, this is stupid,” Cassie whines.

I pull over to the curb across the street. It’s not a neat parking job. It’s like if you gave your car keys to a kid and said have fun .

But in this moment, chaos thrumming through my veins, I don’t give a shit about parking nicely. I don’t give a shit about anything—except revenge.

Without answering her, I shove the gear into park and kill the engine. It’s a dark street. Limited streetlights. Private driveways. The night is warm and the moon is low as Margot hands me the carton of eggs. The wind prickles across my throat and cheeks, and it’s freeing knowing that there’s no one, no Dax, here to stop me. Nobody’s going to talk me out of this. This revenge is mine , and I get to decide how much or how little to take.

“Be careful,” she says, but I don’t answer her.

My feet carry me quickly across the black road, crickets calling. I open the carton, pluck an egg, and hurl it gleefully, giddily, grinning in the dark, at the black Tesla parked on the driveway.

It’s one of those circle driveways with bushes for privacy but no fences. No gates. No gun towers or trolls or whatever really wealthy famous people have guarding their homes. Getting close is easy. I waste half the carton on the car, throwing like something mechanized. Slow and deliberate.

“That’s good,” Margot murmurs, appearing at my side. She touches my arm, my hand searching blindly for another egg. “That’s enough.”

I look at her. The way her eyes widen slightly tells me that the expression I must be wearing is carnivorous and fanged. Hungry.

“It really isn’t,” I hiss.

My fingers close around another egg and I pull my arm back and let it fly towards the house, splattering yellow, vomity yolk across a picture window. Again and again and again and again, egg after egg, windows and the front door and the siding, the shutters. I throw until my fingers search the carton and come up empty.

“Wil, you’re shaking. Come on.” Margot tugs softly at my elbow.

“No,” I whisper. “No, it’s not enough yet.”

How hard would it be to open a window? I could climb the tree growing out of the patio space beside the front walk. Icould get up there. Maybe a window’s open. Maybe a lock is loose. I let the empty carton fall to the asphalt, and start circling the tree. It’s all about finding your footing. Find a place to start and go from there.

“Wil, Jesus Christ. Come on.” Margot jogs to the base of the tree when I’m five feet off the ground, fitting my boots into holds among the branches wherever I can find them. “This is stupid.”

I don’t answer her. I keep climbing. Up here, the branches thin out. But I’m a few feet from the ledge of a bedroom balcony. It’s all wood, and the railing is short. I can make it if I stretch, if I really push.

The tile roof is close enough now that I can touch it. I can get a little bit of a grip. One hand on the roof, one hand locked around a thin branch, I hear the slow, deadly sound of splintering wood. This isn’t a climbing tree.

Maybe that’s what Harris was counting on when he planted it next to his house then left for the evening with the balcony doors ajar.

I can see the curtains blowing. Beckoning. Slowly, carefully, ignoring the hissing of Margot and the whining of Cassie, I get a good enough hold on the oval tile shingles and pull myself from the leaves onto the edge. Next is a deep breath and forward momentum to grab the wood balcony rail. I work myself to a standing position.

One leg over and I’m there.

No alarms, no attack dogs. Just the blackness of an empty house. The sharp, adrenaline smell of moving through a place you shouldn’t be. Do I have a plan? Not at all. What I know is that this asshole took something from me that I can’t replace—twice.

The first time was my dignity.

The second time was my livelihood.

All to serve what made him comfortable. What made him rich . What I need to do now is steal something precious from him, something he can’t get back.

At the landing, outside of the room I came in through, framed and hanging on the wall, is a magazine. It’s an old Playboy . The discoloration, the font and color choices, register as seventies to me. I reach up and pluck it slowly from the wall, carefully bringing it down to examine. The woman on the front is beautiful and young, blue eyes and mouse-brown hair with fluffy, straight-across bangs. BARBI BENTON it says in curly, yellow font. It’s signed, too.

I tuck the whole thing under my arm and take the stairs as fast as I can. My heartbeat squelches in my ears, my stomach swooping low. What I’m going to do with it, I have no idea.

Rip it up and leave it here in his foyer for him to come home to? No. There’s no mystery in that. It’s a question with an immediate answer. And as far as revenge goes, that’s no fun.

I’ll take it home with me. I’ll burn it.

And Harris Bastian will wonder forever who took his precious autographed seventies porn.

He’ll walk up and down those stairs and look at the empty wall where the paint is lighter in the shape of a missing frame, and feel that emptiness that comes with losing something you can’t replace.

Like girlhood, tender and bright, so easily extinguished.

As I open the front door, prancing out to show off my loot to Cassie and Margot, all I hope is that, for years, whenever he’s missing this once-in-a-lifetime gift, he thinks of me.