Chapter 6
Chapter Six
“Good morning, little one.” Remi breezes into the room, hands full of products that she efficiently unloads into drawers. She looks up at the glossy headshots. “What do you think?”
“It’s strange. I look like myself, but don’t.”
She snorts. “My husband was playing with artificial intelligence and having it create pictures of us. I thought the same thing about those fake pictures he showed me of myself. I mean, I wish I was that perfect!”
I laugh because I think she is. Her skin tone is rich and velvety, and her hair gleams under the lights.
From across the room, a man yells, “You are more perfect than those silly AI photos, love.”
“Wait.” I spin in my chair to face into the room. “Is that your husband?”
Remi nods. “The fool.” But the steamy look she shoots across the room says otherwise.
“He’s Sally’s makeup artist.” I’m sure she knows that already, but for some reason I feel required to point it out.
She frowns at me as she busily opens and closes drawers, plucking products and brushes and sponges and setting them on a tray like a surgeon prepping for surgery.
“My sister. He’s my sister’s makeup artist.”
“Oh, yes! We’re exceptional at doing families. Because we’re soulmates.” She nods like this is a perfectly normal explanation. Maybe it is.
She shakes out a hairdresser’s cape and lets it float down over the front of me before wrapping it around my neck. “Ready to watch the magic?”
I snort. It’s not like she’s completely transforming me or anything. “Sure.”
But, man, was she right. It’s like she erases all my features and then rebuilds them the way she wants them.
When my makeup is done, she takes another hour to make my hair look like I haven’t combed it since waking up.
By the time she removes the cape, I feel like I’m in a state of disbelief.
Again, it’s me, but not me staring back from the mirror.
“Wow. You are amazing.”
“I know.”
I laugh. “We’re done, right?”
“Yes, dear one. You are free to report to wardrobe. I’ll see you on the set.”
“You will?” It sends a shiver of relief through me knowing she’ll be there. I’ve only known her for twenty-two hours, but she’s already become a safe harbor for me.
“Yes, I always hang out in case of emergencies. Yesterday was an exception since I needed to figure out your look.” She steps back and examines me. “Yep, I think this is perfect. You look like a spunky, slightly obnoxious thirteen-year-old.”
“Just like old times.” I wave as I head toward the exit, pulling up Jenny’s instructions. I follow the complicated list of twists and turns and enter a huge room exploding with color and vibrating with drama.
“I swear, if that intern takes my booty tape one more time, I’m going to eviscerate her.” I grimace as the grumbling woman stumps past, looking like a grumpy troll coming out from under her bridge.
Scanning the room as large as a football field, I glance down at my instructions again.
No indication of where I go now. They need a concierge gleefully offering to point me in the right direction.
Everyone I see is actively involved in something.
There are people doing alterations to clothing already on people’s bodies, and others running supplies to frantic dressers.
People shouting. Discarded material, buttons, trim, and clothing all over the floor. It’s complete chaos.
Then I see him. A very calm Crispin Moore leaning against the wall, studying his phone, as if he’s alone on a desert island.
Remembering his dismissive tone the first day, I really don’t want to ask him for help.
I scan the room again, but he’s literally the only person not knee-deep in some sort of wardrobe emergency.
Putting on my most professional face, I straighten my back and walk over to him. “Excuse me, can you tell me where I’m supposed to go for my wardrobe?”
He blinks a couple of times like I’ve pulled him out of deep thought and back into reality.
It makes me want to lean forward to see what is on his phone screen.
But then his gaze scans me from head to toe, and his expression hardens over.
“Extras go over there.” He points. “See the big sign that says, “Extras”?”
I look even though it doesn’t apply to me, because now I’m wondering if there might be a big sign with my character’s name on it. But I don’t see anything. I shake my head and turn my attention back to him as I say, “No, I’m playing a supporting character.”
His attention is already back on his phone. I sigh. I realize I look like a grubby thirteen-year-old right now, but shouldn’t he treat everyone with respect? I glance around again, hoping to see someone else standing around or seeming more approachable than Iceman here.
Crispin finally notices I’m still standing there. His eyebrows arch. “Is there something else? Did you want an autograph or something?”
Ugh! As if. Though, getting one for Glory would make me a hero, but forget it now. “I’m playing Stella. Any idea where I might need to go?”
He narrows his eyes. “I read you’re seventeen and your dad just died.”
I jerk back as his sharp delivery pierces me right in the heart. When my shocked hurt ebbs, anger takes its place. “Thanks for your compassion. You must be known for that. Any help on the wardrobe thing?”
“But seriously, you’re seventeen?”
I stare at him, considering snarky comebacks, but in the end, I swallow my anger, shake my head, and turn away. I’ll just wander.
“You’ll probably want to head that way.”
I glance over my shoulder at Crispin and see the direction he’s pointing. I don’t acknowledge his assistance, though, because I had to work way too hard to get it.
In the midst of the chaos, I stumble into an aisle and follow it toward the back corner where Crispin pointed me.
I think about the scenes I know we’re shooting today and wonder if all these people are the extras.
I guess we’ll be in a retail center for the first scene.
Mom and Christa, a.k.a. Chandra and Sally, get into a fight which embarrasses me, so I act like an idiot to draw attention away from them.
I literally hate the scene. At least on paper.
Maybe it’ll play out differently when we act it out.
That used to happen with Dad’s scripts sometimes.
I would hate the direction he took with a character until I was acting it out, and it felt much more genuine.
An iron grip wraps around my upper arm. “It’s about time!”
Naturally, I struggle against the grumpy troll lady who is now dragging me across the aisle and behind a black curtain. Just before I disappear inside, I see a small sign pinned to the curtain at about waist height that says, “Stella.” That’s helpful.
“You act like I don’t have seventy people to dress this morning,” grumpy troll lady says. “Taking your time. Sauntering! You were literally sauntering.”
Her outrage is so misplaced, but I’m feeling rather out of my depth, and I’m afraid if I explain that I had no idea where to go, she might find fault in that too. So, I stand there and wait for her to finish her ridiculous rage session.
“Hello, my name is Arabelle, I’m playing Stella. I’ve never worked on a motion picture before. Is this where I report for wardrobe every day?”
“Did you expect to get a trailer like the principals?” Troll lady pulls out ripped denim capris and a cap sleeve shirt from a line of clothes hanging on a rolling wardrobe. “Put these on. I’ll be back in five.”
She storms out while I’m still juggling the clothes, trying to keep them from falling onto the floor.
I turn as if I’ll see her storming away, or whatever she’s doing, but only the faded black curtain greets me.
I crane my neck, trying to release yet another burst of anger.
Seriously, if everyone here is going to treat me like crap, I’ll quit. I can stay home and feel like this.
But I won’t be getting a ridiculously large paycheck.
I look up at the ceiling and mumble, “Please, movie gods, help me to remain calm.”
Far longer than five minutes passes before the troll returns. I consider asking her name so I can stop thinking of her as the grumpy old bridge troll, but she could be polite and offer it, too. Screw her. She’s “troll lady” until she earns another distinction.
She examines me critically and finally pulls out a pair of no-show socks and scuffed and grass-stained white Keds for me to don.
Then she ties no fewer than seven friendship bracelets onto my left wrist and finally shoves cheap bubble gum machine rings onto the ring and pointer fingers of my right hand.
“Are these going to turn my finger green?” I ask.
“If we’re lucky.” She scans me once more. Then, walking toward me, she shoos me with both hands. “Okay, go.”
Feeling rushed, I fumble with my phone so I can find Jenny’s next instructions. I stumble out of the curtained area into the aisle while troll lady stomps off, shaking her head.
My heart and head are both pounding with frustration and nerves as I make my way to the set.
Outside of wardrobe, they have set up what looks convincingly like a retail square.
As I approach, the crew are the only people bustling around inside the square, but I can totally see how it will look like we are at a mall in the shot.
It’s clear they haven’t started filming, so I stand back from all the hustling people and dig my script out of my bag to go over my lines one last time.