Chapter Two #2
It was just after seven in the evening. Pickles would tide her over, and then, maybe she’d take herself out for dinner.
Cheer herself up—and celebrate the movie—with a big bowl of pasta and a bigger glass of wine.
In sneakers. When was the last time she’d allowed herself that? The thought almost made her giddy.
Lola’s phone rang. It was Kevin, the hungry L.A. agent who’d wooed Lola off the stage and onto the screen, seven years ago. The next logical step, he’d said. And dream chasing implied ascension, didn’t it? Forward momentum.
She tapped Accept. “Hey, Kev.”
“Wilson. How’d it go today?”
Lola scooped up her phone and jar of pickles and padded over to her long white sectional, sinking gratefully into the soft cushions. “Think I really moved the needle on sci-fi space skirmishes as a metaphor for our divided world.”
He chuckled warily. “Well, I’ll look forward to a call from Kimberly about that. Anyway, I’m calling because I have news.”
“About?”
“Hood.”
A blockbuster reboot of the English folktale, but this time, Robin had superpowers and his merry men were ripped.
Working tagline: A legend reborn. A hood unmasked.
Lola was up for the role of Maid Marian, who did not have superpowers but did have the line, “I’d look under his hood.
” It was down to her and a total unknown, Sabina Waters.
The role offered an embarrassing amount of money and was starring opposite Clay Russo, the good-guy A-list action hero who the internet drooled over.
“Oh?” Lola bolted upright, alert. “Yeah?”
Kevin let out a sigh of defeat. “I’m so sorry, dude, but they went with Sabina.”
“What?” Lola felt a punch of shock. “But—all those auditions.” Four rounds, all in L.A., each in front of more and more gatekeepers. “All that effort.” For nothing.
“I know!” Kevin moaned. “Those fuckers. But we’ll get the next one.”
Lola waited for the crush of disappointment, the urge to burst into tears or demand that Kevin get her another shot. But all she felt was…relief.
Which was the wrong reaction. Completely wrong.
She’d been asked a dozen times today if she’d enjoyed making Saturn Rising.
She’d answered in the affirmative, but each time, the words felt more hollow.
Acting in front of a green screen while poured into blue spandex didn’t feel like making art.
It felt like making money, and everyone involved understood the assignment except her.
Sure, her theater years had been physically demanding and financially starved, but at least they meant something.
Rehearsals were a time of passion and persistence, where every word was thoughtfully analyzed, every movement carefully considered.
Feeding off a live audience during a performance used to make Lola feel profoundly alive.
But now her life was an endless treadmill of fighting for roles with no substance and no soul.
She hadn’t enjoyed Saturn Rising’s preproduction. Hadn’t enjoyed filming. Hadn’t enjoyed the big, fancy press day. All that was left was the premiere, which from experience Lola suspected would be a too-long night of fake smiling in another uncomfortable dress.
Was this it? Was this…the dream?
An alarm sounded in her chest. One Lola hurriedly shut off.
Instead, she inhaled a defiant breath. It was far too late to turn back now. The sunk cost was titanic. Starting over? Impossible.
“You’re right, Kev.” Lola forced herself to sound optimistic. “Their loss.”
“That’s the spirit!” Kevin’s tone became upbeat. “Let’s talk about what’s next.” Shuffling papers sounded over the phone. “Oh, this is gonna be huge. Super edgy thriller that’s like Chucky set in a Build-A-Bear Workshop. You’re the unlucky hottie who picks the wrong bear.”
“Pass,” Lola said.
“All right, okay, what about…Moon People? Massive ensemble drama set in the first moon colony. Really gritty and grounded, maybe even Oscar-worthy!”
“And I’m one of the colonists?”
“No, you’re the scientist who stays on Earth and just watches the colonists.”
Lola rolled her eyes so hard she risked fracturing an eyeball. “Pass.”
“Yeah, probably for the best, I think it’s a lot of you looking into a telescope. Ooh, this is up your alley. A biopic of—wait for it—Marie Curie.”
Lola perked up. “The scientist?”
“Exactly. The take is she’s brainy and a babe. Marie Curie: Radium Nights. Tagline: Science has never been hotter.”
Lola cringed. “The woman won a Nobel Prize.”
“Yeah, and imagine the poster. You in a lab coat, glowing. I have chills.”
Lola had to laugh or she’d scream. It was bizarre that even though her career was peaking, she had so little control over it. “C’mon, Kev.”
“Hey, these are all solid roles that pay well.” Kevin sounded defensive. “Marie Curie will be massive! I busted my ass to get you in the mix!”
Lola rubbed her temples, feeling torn. “But like I keep saying, I want to be in things that are smart. Adventurous. Meaningful.”
“I’m trying, dude! But you gotta play the game. One for you, one for them.”
The idea that artists alternated one project for themselves, and one for “them”: studios, mainstream taste, palms that needed greasing. “Feels like we’re making every choice for ‘them,’ ” Lola muttered.
“Because we’re still breaking you out,” Kevin said. “But Saturn Rising’s going to destroy opening weekend and then, we’re gold, baby. In the meantime…”
The sound of more shuffling papers. A pause.
“You did actually get an adventurous invitation this week. Your old friend Chazz—or was it Jazz? No, I think it was Chazz—sent something. Here we go.” Kevin began reciting.
“Lola, Please meet me at the Rhodes Playhouse this Sunday at four o’clock.
I have something very important to discuss.
Fondly, Jazz. Oh,” Kevin added. “Guess it was Jazz.”
Lola had turned into Alice, tumbling headfirst down the rabbit hole, her world tilting into the surreal.
Jazz Whitaker. The first person to believe in her talent.
Lola recalled, with absolute clarity, the way the colorful director had looked Lola in the eye after her very first audition and said, with rapt delight: Oh, you’re a real actor.
Jazz was enthusiastic and supportive; she was Lola’s first mentor.
When Jazz learned Lola was interested in directing as well, she’d taken Lola under her wing, let her shadow the production.
And Jazz was the first person Lola knew who lived openly as a lesbian, proudly and without shame. Jazz changed everything.
“This Sunday?” Lola said. “She wants to meet in person?”
“At four,” Kevin said. “My assistant tried to make it a Zoom, but he couldn’t find a contact. Looks like the Rhodes Playhouse has been closed for years.”
In her mind’s eye, Lola saw the red velvet seats fanning out from the wooden boards of the raised stage. The silly but fun preshow warm-ups. The adrenaline-fueled anticipation of walking onstage. Five minutes to places!
Lola hadn’t been back to Rhodes in twenty years.
Was Annie Lightfoot still there?
Just thinking her name felt like conjuring a spell. Wishing for something impossible. Picturing Annie’s sweet, open face evoked a muscle memory of longing and desire. Which hardened instantly into pain and sadness.
Annie had stolen her heart and had never given it back. Lola swore she’d never speak to her again. A promise, thus far, she’d kept.
“And it’s just an invite for me,” Lola clarified. “On my own?”
“Only addressed to you,” Kevin said.
Lola felt a push-pull of relief and disappointment.
Annie Lightfoot. Vicky Fang. Dylan Rogers.
They’d all been so close that summer. The closest, Lola realized, that she’d ever been to a group of friends.
Before it all imploded. At the closing night after-party.
When everything fell apart, for all of them.
The drama scattered the tight quartet to the wind.
To Lola’s knowledge no one stayed in touch.
“Not to sound crude,” Kevin said, “but odds are Jazz wants money, or some other favor, now that you’re big-time.”
“That’s not Jazz’s style.” Lola spoke out of loyalty, but Kevin might be right.
“Well, if I had to guess,” Kevin said, “a rinky-dink theater is trying to profit off your name, but of course, it’s up to you.”
Lola’s heart thumped. She didn’t just hear it—she felt it: every what-if, every if-only. She pictured Rhodes, with its charming cobbled main street and mom-and-pop shops. You always saw so much more sky, out of the city.
A siren outside wailed, making her jump. She was in Tribeca, in busy New York City, one hundred miles from her sweet and sleepy hometown. That was the past, one full of painful memories. And Lola had enough to deal with right here in the present.
“You don’t have to worry,” Lola said. “I’m not going back to Rhodes.”
“Good. Now, do me a favor. Read Marie Curie tonight.”
“Tonight?” Lola exhaled. “I was about to grab dinner.” Pasta. Wine. Sneakers.
“Order in! This is your moment, Wilson. Things are gonna change. I can feel it!”
Who could argue with that? She was on a hard-won path, and everybody knew that meant sacrifices. “Fine.” Lola relented. “Send Marie my way.”