Praise Me: Lumberjack (Praise Me Daily)

1. Jenna

JENNA

Y ou’re probably wondering how I ended up here.

Chained to an oak tree in the middle of the forest. Naked.

Believe me, I’m wondering that myself.

The bark is digging into the flesh of my buttocks and back. The chains are restrictive and heavy, making it difficult to breathe. My manager, agent, an editorial team and a dozen assistants stare back at me, waiting for me to take the social media shot of the century.

We flew here on a private jet. To commemorate Earth Day.

Even I see the irony.

Maybe being chained to this tree was inevitable, though.

Child actors are supposed to go down a wild and confusing path on their quest to be taken seriously, right?

The transition is never seamless. It’s bumpy and often humiliating.

A coming-of-age story playing out under the microscope of judgment.

I played an iconic role on a long-running sitcom called Hey Betty and now, unless I do something out of the box to prove I’m an artist and a grown woman—instead of a fifteen-year-old with a catchphrase—I will be irrelevant by next week.

Or so my manager, Dustin, tells me.

“Look passionate, Jenna! You are trying to save the tree from being chopped down,” shouts the photographer. “Dare them to come take it from you!”

“Who is them?”

“Them is me,” booms a voice from the back of the crowd. A collective jolt goes through the group, and they step aside, allowing the speaker to come forward.

And suddenly, the fact that I’m naked takes on a whole new meaning.

It’s one thing for the makeup artist, photographer and manager to see me naked. They’re a bunch of desensitized Los Angeles natives.

But this man, this giant man with a chainsaw, with his robust frame, makes me feel truly exposed in my nudity.

Flustered and antsy. My hips automatically drop at an angle, cocked, my back attempting to arch off the tree.

An involuntary preen. The chains are covering my breasts and sex, but only barely, and every inch of me besides that is on display.

My stomach and cleavage and the highest points of my thighs.

My arms are restrained, otherwise I might actually fix my long chestnut-colored hair as this man approaches—he’s that compelling in all his square-jawed, exasperated masculinity.

“Y-you’re here to chop down the tree?” I ask him as he draws closer.

God, he’s so tall. Blends right in with the mighty oaks on all sides of us.

They don’t make men like this in LA.

Not only is he unique in stature, but he’s trying not to ogle me. With all his might.

There’s a deep furrow between his black brows, his breathing growing just a hint shallow as that intense gaze sweeps my thighs and tummy.

Then he clears his throat. Hard. And turns to address my manager instead of me.

“This tree and three others are scheduled to come down today,” he says in that low, brusque voice.

“Unless you have a permit for this…whatever it is, I’m going to need you to unchain the girl and get the hell out of my forest.”

“ Your forest?” I ask, blinking. “You own the forest?”

“I’m as close as it gets.”

How is it that I feel his voice in my stomach? “Care to explain?”

He sighs. “Ever heard of a lumberjack? I’m here to harvest these trees. Where do you think the wood comes from that built your pretty little house. Out of thin air?”

“I have a condo,” I say uselessly.

“Good, Jenna!” exclaims the photographer. “Get pissed. Tell him the tree isn’t coming down on your watch. Not on Earth Day!”

My face heats. “Don’t you think there are better ways to get our point across?” I call to Dustin.

“Yes,” deadpans the man with the chainsaw. “I do.”

“Like, maybe…a donation?” I add, unable to meet the giant’s eyes.

But I feel them on my body, nonetheless.

Reluctantly raking up and down, followed by the sound of him swallowing.

“Okay,” says the photographer, lowering his camera. “We have some great shots of Jenna solo, then squaring off with the lumberjack. What else do we need to get?”

If I blinked, I would have missed the sly look between my agent and manager.

But I didn’t. I saw it. And it causes my muscles to tie themselves in knots.

“Jenna,” says Dustin, floating forward and gesturing with his phone. “We’re here to celebrate Earth Day and that’s all well and good, but we both know there’s a bigger picture. Our goal is to have the public view you as an adult, instead of Hey Betty, right?”

“Jesus,” laughs the lumberjack without humor, dragging a hand down his face. “I thought that was you.”

“You watch Hey Betty ?” I ask.

“My daughter watches it,” he corrects me. “The reruns play on a loop in our house.”

Daughter. This man is old enough to have a child? How old does that make him? Thirty? Thirty-five? I just turned nineteen last week and I barely know how to pour a bowl of cereal, let alone consider having babies. His world is vastly different than mine.

“So…you’re married?”

I don’t know why I ask that. But it seems important, seeing as how I’m naked two feet away from him.

“Divorced,” he grumbles.

“Oh.” I’m definitely not relieved . That would be silly. Right? With an effort, I drag my attention off the lumberjack and refocus on my manager. “You were saying…?”

“Right.” He punches out a quick text. “We’re trying to break free of this Hey Betty image, are we not?

” He doesn’t wait for me to respond. “Would it benefit us to…let the chains slip a little? Maybe leak a few shots of you struggling in the chains and…oops, there’s a nipple slip.

Or maybe a flash of something…lower? Just a peek, babe.

To show everyone you’re not a child actor anymore. You’re a serious artist.”

My heart is pounding a thousand miles an hour. I was chained before, but now I’m trapped. “How does a wardrobe malfunction make me a serious artist?”

“You know what I mean,” says Dustin. “We’re launching you as a sex symbol!”

I’m suddenly very aware of my position. Chained to a tree with a dozen men staring at me, waiting for me to make a decision. They all came here knowing I would be asked to do this, didn’t they? I’ve been played. I’m a commodity. A body. A paycheck. Not a living, breathing human being with a soul.

In this business, people will climb on your shoulders to reach the next rung.

Not only in business, though. The same thing has happened in my personal life.

My parents were humble, supportive people once upon a time.

Until they were blinded by dollar signs and started draining my bank accounts to make “investments.” Cosmetic surgery, trips to the south of France, shopping sprees at Saint Laurent.

Almost like they were in a race to spend my hard-earned money before I got old enough to claim it for myself.

Instead of protecting me from the dangers of this job, they became the danger.

Now my only option is to protect myself.

“I don’t want to catch a wardrobe malfunction on camera,” I whisper. “C-can someone unlock the chains and cover me up?”

“Don’t be precious about this, Jenna.” My manager is rolling his eyes, and I have the strongest urge to cry. “It’s not like we’re doing a full frontal.”

“She asked you to unlock the chains,” rasps the lumberjack. “Do it. Now.”

“You’re not in charge here,” blusters Dustin.

The lumberjack looks him dead in the eye and revs his chainsaw. “The fuck I’m not.”

“Okay. Okay.” My manager backs away, hands aloft in surrender. “Someone get Jenna out of those chains.” Under his breath, he says to the photographer. “You know what to do. Get the shot.”

Helplessness rattles in my limbs, a glopping tear rolling down my cheek, as one of the personal assistants rushes behind the tree to unlock the chains.

I have no control. They’ve taken my control.

Right before the chains drop away, which will leave me completely naked and vulnerable to the camera—not to mention, everyone’s phones—the lumberjack drops his chainsaw and steps in front of me, blocking me from view.

“I’ve got you, baby.”