Chapter 4
Chapter Four
I’m shaking as I drive home. The reading was a nightmare. They’ve changed everything about my character and made her into a joke. She was funny before. A little buffoonery, but now she’s an absolute clown.
As soon as I left the lot, I called Glory to complain, but she didn’t answer. Hearing her ringtone probably scared her. There’s no way I can text all of this to her. I hope she calls me back.
I don’t have to go back to the set for a week.
Then they have me coming in on the first day for hair and makeup only.
I don’t know what that means. I start filming the day after that.
I’m so relieved to have a weeklong break.
Sheesh, it was just one day, and I want to quit. But my daddy didn’t raise no quitter.
I take a deep breath and look around as I sit in stop-and-go traffic.
Along the freeway is mile after mile of buildings.
Office buildings, apartment buildings, houses, retail centers.
It never ends. If the buildings aren’t attached, they’re crammed close together.
So many are dirty or covered in peeling paint or tagged with graffiti.
I’ve seen several bright blue tarps acting as temporary roofs.
It’s funny that you don’t see this side of California in any of the brochures.
The movies make it seem like the entire state is filled with mansions and beaches.
Everything looks new and shiny. Not even the beach seems to sparkle like it does in the movies. Do they CGI that in?
At home, I call out to Mom as soon as I enter the house, but she doesn’t respond. I go straight to her doorway and find her lying in bed on her side just like she was this morning. “Have you moved at all?” That’s when I notice the protein drink I left for her is no longer next to her bed.
“Yes.”
“Did you eat anything?”
“I had a yogurt. Thanks for getting those.”
I bite my lip. It sounds like she’s the one reading from a script now. “Today was hard.”
“I’m sorry, baby girl.”
When she doesn’t ask what was hard about my day, I turn and trudge into my room and flop onto my bed.
Fighting off tears, I stare up at my ceiling and think about Dad.
He was quick to smile, loved to laugh, and gave the best hugs.
He could put a positive spin on anything, even liver and onions.
What I wouldn’t give to talk to him right now.
I can see him so clearly in my mind, and I still have a hard time believing he won’t walk in the front door at any moment.
He was such a hugely positive presence. I mean, I get why Mom is so depressed.
She was going to spend the rest of her life with him.
They had plans to go to Cabo San Lucas after I went off to college, to make the loft upstairs into a hidden library, to grow old together.
“I get it, Mom. I really do. But I need you,” I whisper.
I remember the two of them standing in the kitchen cooking dinner together.
One of them would spontaneously grab the other and start swaying to nonexistent music.
It would always end in a tender kiss or a full-on make-out session.
Most kids hate to see their parents kiss, but I loved how in love my parents were.
I lost a father. But Mom lost her life partner. The love of her life.
My gaze skims over the expanse of blank plaster above me, the crack running along the seam of the wall and the ceiling, and the oddly shaped shadows stretching across the ceiling, cast by the afternoon sun.
I see those things, but also—I don’t—as the memory of my happy father plays out like a film on the big screen.
His ever-present jovial laugh preceded him into a room as he pushed the glasses he’d only been wearing for a couple of years up his nose, his graying blonde hair framing his handsome face.
“I miss you so much,” I whisper, as tears course down the side of my face into my hair.
I’m surprised when I wake up to a darkening room. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but I guess it isn’t too much of a surprise. The day started unusually early, sucked, and then got worse. Who wouldn’t want to fall asleep and avoid more of that?
My stomach growls, so I head out to the kitchen to make something for dinner. I consider what to give Mom that she’s most likely to eat. Popping open a little container of cottage cheese, I shake some salt on the top and grab a spoon.
“Here you go, Mom.” I don’t expect her to answer, and since she didn’t ask for food, I don’t really expect her to eat it. But a girl can hope.
Back in the kitchen, I cook up a quesadilla with refried beans and lots of cheese.
I plop a dollop of sour cream onto the plate and take it back to my bedroom, curling up on the bed with dinner and my laptop.
I try not to dwell on how different life is since we lost Dad.
I’ve literally never eaten dinner in bed before. But there’s no one to care.
I have a texting app on my laptop, so I send a message to Glory, trying not to feel slighted that she hasn’t called me back.
Me: Today’s table read was a disaster. They’ve changed my character into a joke. When I spoke up, I got scolded in front of the entire cast. But, hey, you’ll be happy to hear that Crispin Moore is in the movie – last-minute thing.
After I send the message, I stare at it for a bit before I reach over and grab a section of my quesadilla.
Dipping it into the sour cream, I take a satisfying bite.
The crunch of the fried tortilla, the warmth of the beans, and the stretchy cheese all make me moan.
Generally, food isn’t a big thing for me.
There aren’t a lot of foods that I love, but this is one of my favorites.
It’s also one of the few things I know how to cook.
A notification pops into the corner of my computer screen. It’s a reply from Glory, so I click back into the message app.
Glory: Are you flipping kidding me!!!! Crispin Moore is in your movie, and you had a bad day? In what world can those two things co-exist?
I chuckle.
Me: Honestly, he’s sort of a jerk.
Glory: A hot jerk. With an honest-to-goodness EIGHT pack.
Me: Oh, yes, silly me. His 8 pack makes up for his dismissive attitude. He thought I was an intern. Tried to send me away.
Glory: Were you wearing the bun again? Please tell me you weren’t wearing the bun.
Me: It makes me look older.
Glory: No, Ari, it doesn’t. It makes you look like a freakishly young librarian who just discovered someone messed up the books on her shelves.
Me: I think you’re right. I wanted people to take me seriously, but I might have scared them a little instead.
Glory: Do you start filming tomorrow?
Me: No, I don’t have to be on set for another week.
Glory: What are you going to do in the meantime?
I look around my room at the bare walls and piled boxes.
Me: Unpack, I guess.
Glory: How’s your mom?
Me: If it’s possible, I think she’s worse.
Glory: Oh, no. Ari, I’m sorry.
I click the heart emoji on her last message.
There isn’t a lot I can say about what’s going on with Mom.
I don’t really understand it. I certainly have no clue how to take care of her or how to help her.
I let my head fall back against my pillow and stare up at the ceiling.
I’m so in over my head. I wish I hadn’t taken this role.
At least at home, Mom had friends to check on her.
To draw her out a little. Here we have no one.