Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Apparently, this movie is a whole bonding experience for Sally and Chandra because Sally is even sharing a trailer with her aunt.
Which means that I must find my way back to wardrobe on my own after lunch for a change of clothes.
Then Remi barges behind the curtain, not even caring that I don’t have a top on, and asks how I think I can keep her waiting like that.
“I didn’t know I was supposed to report to you!” I’m clutching my shirt against my chest, but Remi seems oblivious to my state of undress.
“You always report to makeup first. I must get your hair and makeup done for the next scene before you change! Now I’m going to be late for Chandra.” She grabs a robe I hadn’t even seen hanging on a hook. “Put this on and follow me.”
With her long legs, I’m forced to run along behind her to keep up.
I’m sure I look ridiculous, but luckily, no one seems to care.
By the time I’m sitting in her chair, I’m panting, and my forehead is slightly damp.
I’m sure she’s not gonna love that. In the end, it doesn’t matter, because she removes all my makeup and starts from scratch.
Seems excessive since my makeup still looked fine.
As soon as she finishes rebuilding my face, she wets my hair with a spray bottle and combs through until it’s nice and straight, just to dry it, mess it up again, and put it in low pigtails.
An hour and a half later, I look like a perfectly grubby thirteen-year-old.
Again. Just like I did before she plucked me out of wardrobe.
When she finishes, she doesn’t even speak; she just turns and hurries off.
As I trudge back to wardrobe, I try not to feel too guilty.
It isn’t like I’m a seasoned professional or anything.
Someone should be telling me what to do.
I haven’t even seen Jenny since the table read.
Isn’t she supposed to be chaperoning me?
Grumpy troll lady scolds me for leaving the outfit I was changing into heaped on a chair.
“I’m sorry, I was rushed out.”
“I don’t care if there was a fire. You treat your costumes better than that.
I ironed it.” She waves a hand in the direction of the rolling wardrobe where I see the t-shirt and shorts I’m supposed to wear hanging up in perfect condition.
It seems strange that Remi puts so much effort into making me look like I never shower or comb my hair, but that my clothes are pristine.
As soon as I change, the troll grunts and hands me sneakers. Then she wraps the same friendship bracelets and leather bands around my wrist but doesn’t give me rings to wear this time.
By the time I make it to the set, I’m frazzled.
The set is deserted, and I realize we must be shooting somewhere else.
The email I have from Jenny has instructions for the original scene, not for the change that was made.
I power walk back inside, looking for someone who might know where I’m supposed to go.
Nobody I ask knows or seems to care that my anxiety levels are about to blow the top of my head off.
I feel like this is one of those nightmares where I run and run and run but never get anywhere.
Finally, a lady gives me valid directions, and I stumble into the studio to find everybody waiting for me.
“There you are!” the director says. “Nice of you to join us.”
“My email from Jenny had instructions for the original scene. No one seemed to know about this change.”
“The app is updated regularly.”
I gape at him. “There’s an app?”
“I’ll show it to her!” Sally calls out.
I give her a grateful look. “I’m sorry. No one has really told me anything.”
Hank sighs heavily like my mere existence is a challenge. He spins toward the cameramen and calls, “Places.”
Though I read over the scene several times while Remi re-did my makeup, I’m too flustered to be able to concentrate. Then, to make matters worse, I see Crispin walking to his mark with a smirk on his face. How can Sally not see what a jerk he is?
I close my eyes to clear my head of his image and think of the script.
Oh, right. I’m reading on the couch. My eyes pop open as I surge forward and almost run right into someone crossing in front of me.
I pull myself up at the last minute, which stops me from plowing into them, but it also throws me off balance, and I end up stumbling.
Like an idiot, I put my hand out to stop my fall, and my wrist takes the brunt of my weight as I crash to the floor.
“Ow.” I groan. But because I feel completely stupid, I pop onto my feet and ignore the pain shooting up my arm. I hope I didn’t break anything.
I grab the magazine sitting on the coffee table and plop onto the couch. I rest my feet on the table and open the magazine, staring at it as if I’m really into it, hoping everyone is ignoring me.
“Arabelle, can you put your feet up on the couch instead?” I switch, but the director shakes his head. “How about sitting up and tucking your legs sideways?”
Not really sure what he means, I do everything slowly so that he can correct me if I’m wrong.
He shakes his head again. “Go back to your original pose.”
I stifle my sigh and do as instructed.
“Yep, that’s good. Now, Crispin, when you walk in, I want you to toss your coat onto the back of the couch, barely missing Stella. Stella, I want you to give Jeff a dirty look. Don’t say anything, though. But make the look obvious.”
It takes me a second to realize Crispin is Jeff. I smirk. “No problem.”
When Crispin narrows his eyes at me, I give him my most innocent smile, but I can see he’s still suspicious, so it isn’t too big of a surprise when he tosses his jacket directly onto my head.
“No, Crispin, onto the back of the couch, not onto Stella,” the director says. “Hair!”
Remi rushes in to fix my hair as I stay seated on the couch. The look she gives Crispin is enviable. I should practice that evil eye.
In the next shoot, he tosses the jacket perfectly.
It lands on the back of the couch next to me.
So close, the wind it creates ruffles my hair.
The evil look I give him is my first attempt to copy Remi’s.
Apparently, it’s good enough because the director lets the scene continue.
Sally and Crispin run their lines. When Crispin takes Sally in his arms, I pretend to stick a finger down my throat even though that isn’t in the director’s notes.
Otherwise, I glance up at them occasionally and page through my magazine.
I don’t have any lines in this scene, but at the end of the scene, Crispin has a line that calls Sally by some ridiculous pet name, so I grimace and roll my eyes.
“Cut! Arabelle, that was excellent.”
“Hey, what about us?” Crispin panders.
“You guys were perfect.”
I love that the director sounds distracted and dismissive as he says it. Crispin gives me another dirty look, and a little thrill goes through me. Suddenly, I want to be the most convincing, annoying little sister in the history of movies if it means I can keep Crispin grumpy.
Though everyone else seems to keep working, I’m done for the day.
I trudge back to wardrobe to change back into my street clothes.
I have no idea if I’m supposed to remove my makeup or if they even care.
I do take the stupid pigtails out and drag a brush through my hair.
I should probably put some makeup remover wipes and hair products in my bag so that I can de-Stella myself at the end of my day.
I don’t need to be mistaken for a thirteen-year-old when I’m driving down the freeway.
As I drop into my car, exhaustion hits me.
It wasn’t even that long of a day. When Mom and I drove out here, I would drive for ten to twelve hours straight and not be this wiped out.
But the stress of not knowing where to go or what was expected of me really wore me down.
As I pull out of the parking lot, waving to the gate attendant, I promise myself to email Jenny and ask her what else I don’t know – like the app Sally promised to go over with me first thing tomorrow.
Mom stands in front of the living room window, staring at our peek-a-boo view when I get home. Queen Brie rubs against my leg. I lean down and scratch her behind the ears. “Good to see you, old lady.”
Straightening, I say to Mom, “Hey!”
I toss the car keys onto the kitchen counter and drop my bag onto the couch. Stopping just behind her in case my presence scares her back into her room, I speak quietly, “Nice to see you up. Did you go outside too?” I doubt it based on the wrinkled pajamas and crusty hair, but a girl can hope.
Her head barely turns in my direction, but it’s enough for me to know she’s heard me. With a heavy sigh, she finally speaks. Her voice is pitched low, like her throat is too unused to channeling noise to develop any volume. “Your dad would have loved it here.”
I jerk forward at the unexpected response, my head reeling from the sudden change in subject.
I look around the room, with the leftover unpacked boxes stacked along the still bare walls, and only one picture hung because I ended up making a big hole in the wall when I tried to hang the second.
Would he have? I doubt it. He came from a suburb of Indianapolis.
He loved our small town. He thought running into people you know everywhere you go was the best. Loved the lack of crime.
“I’m not sure he would have enjoyed the stop-and-go traffic.
And the blocks of houseless people and all their belongings lining the freeways would have broken his heart. ”
Slowly, she turns, her brows pulled low. “Houseless? Are there that many?”
I nod, hurt but not surprised that she doesn’t remember the conversation we had about it on our way into town the first day. “In certain pockets of town, absolutely.”
She turns back to the window. “No, he wouldn’t have liked that at all. He would be out there introducing himself, shaking their hands, and asking about their lives, hoping to solve their problems.”
I squint at the back of her head, trying to imagine Dad doing any of that.
I can’t. Did we even know the same man? Something about the question sends a painful wave of loneliness through me.
I miss him so much, but I also miss my mom.
The woman standing at the window isn’t the woman who raised me.
That mom was walking sunshine and someone who was convinced there was no challenge that couldn’t be overcome with a glue gun and pinking shears.
She used to help with my BellyLaughs costuming.
She could repurpose a simple t-shirt so many times that you forgot what it looked like originally.
“I’m pretty tired,” I say. “I was just going to boil up some chicken for dinner. Want to help me?”
Mom shakes her head, crosses her arms over her chest, and scans the view one last time. “I’ll be in my room. No need to make anything for me. I don’t have much of an appetite.”
My head pounds as I watch her disappear down the short hall.
I guess it was too much to expect she’d suddenly be chatty and care how my day went.
I shuffle into the kitchen to make dinner, even though it’s a little early for it.
I’m going to need to get to bed early if I want to be coherent tomorrow, and I still need to review tomorrow’s lines.
That is, if the info Jenny sent in her email is accurate.
That reminds me. I wanted to follow up with Jenny.
I stop in the middle of the tiny kitchen and pound out an email with my thumbs, asking her if there is anything else (like the app) a newbie like me should know about.
When I re-read it, I cringe at my tone. I go back to the beginning of the email and start out by thanking her for the detailed instructions on how to get from place to place.
That really has helped, and I want her to know that.
I finish it by asking if I’ll ever actually see her around the set.
Satisfied that the communication isn’t too salty, I hit send and then start dinner cooking, while Queen Brie walks around my feet yowling for a taste of chicken.
“Good to have you back again, Queenie.”
While I work, I call Glory, but her phone goes to voicemail.
“Hey girl, it’s me. I was just calling to gab. You know, catch up on hometown gossip, maybe complain about my first day on set.” I groan. “I made every mistake I could, I think. But hey, the director liked some of my background work, so yay me! Call me back or drop me a text. I miss you!”
When dinner is finished, I cut the chicken into bite-sized pieces and add it to cottage cheese along with sliced green onion and chopped tomato.
I take a bowl in for Mom and set it on her bedside table, because she appears to be asleep again in the gloom of the approaching evening.
Then I sit at the dining room table and watch the sun sink through the pink and gold sky into the Pacific and try not to rethink the day’s mistakes while I eat.
I assure myself I did pretty good for a novice.
And that I’ll do better tomorrow. Then I smile, because that’s what Dad would have said to cheer me up.