Chapter 2
Priscilla
My new assistant, Erik, holds my phone with both hands, unable to hide his shock as he stares at all the notifications on the home screen.
“Have you ever read a single text in your entire life?” he asks. “Or opened an email? Or answered a call?”
“That’s why I need you, my dear,” I say. “Congratulations! You’ve been cast in the role of Cilla Cove! Feel free to do anything with the part that you please.”
“You don’t have any requests on messaging?” he asks. “Tone? I don’t know who or what matters to you in here.”
“That makes two of us,” I tell him with a laugh.
This is exactly what I hoped for when I hired Erik to help me through this awards season.
He’s a twenty-one-year-old gay kid who grew up in Los Angeles.
He understands there isn’t any need to treat working actors as some species other than human.
To him, actors are people like his friends’ parents or his classmates in school.
He believes in very little of the supposed glamour of this job.
“Just go through everything that’s unread from the last few days,” I continue.
“I deleted any past conversations that would make this job weird for you and I hid any pictures that aren’t for your eyes, so no worries about seeing something you shouldn’t.
You can commit me to whatever sounds like a good time.
Ignore any messages that seem like they’ve come from someone who only wants to talk to me because they think I might be relevant again.
And most of all, have fun with it. Feel free to make me dazzling. ”
Erik settles into a seat at my dining table to begin his work. I stand around for a while in case he has any other questions, but he never looks up. Even when he pauses to sip his iced coffee, he keeps his gaze on the screen, his other hand still typing and swiping without interruption.
I grab one of the forty-eight mangled bran muffins I baked last night to distract myself and slip into my office for a series of meetings I committed to before everything became too much at once.
When I check on Erik a while later, he’s right where I left him at the dining table, shoulders hunched, iced coffee sweating onto one of my coasters, both hands continuing to grip my phone for dear life.
“Anything good happening on there?” I ask. “By the way, do you want a muffin?”
He flicks his gaze to the forty-seven Frankenstein creations still crowding my kitchen counter, then immediately returns to looking at my phone screen.
“No thank you,” he says primly. “Lots of old friends have been dusting off your number, just like you said. There were some interesting brand requests and things like that in your DMs. I’ve forwarded them all to your publicist for review.
You had a few messages that seemed real enough to reply to.
I looked back through your old texts and did my best to mimic your style.
I’ve sent a lot of kissy-face emojis and red hearts.
Not what I would’ve chosen, but I didn’t want to stray too far from the path. Not yet, at least.”
“Look at you! A pro already!”
“Yeah,” he says in total agreement. “Your mom was really excited to get a reply from you.”
This sends a chill down my spine, but I do my best to mask it. “Was she, now?”
“You had about ten messages from her saying how proud she was. I saw you hadn’t answered her in over a year, though, so I just sent her a few hearts. When she replied right away, I gave it a heart react. That should stop her responses for a while. I get the vibe that’s what you’d want.”
“Don’t worry, her interest in me will pass,” I tell him. “It always does.”
“Anyway,” he says with a shrug. “It’s fun. I like being a part of the start of your relevance.”
“Sixteen years in this business, and I’m only at the start?” I question, too amused to be offended.
“You told me in my interview not to lie to you,” he replies.
“And I meant it. So keep it up. You’re not wrong either. Last week, half of this town didn’t even remember my name.”
He looks up, serious in a way I haven’t seen from him yet, bringing a blood oath level of gravity to the moment. “That’s how fast it can change. You were wise to bring me on now. I can keep you afloat.”
Ah. Yes. There it is. The confident, unflappable wisdom of a young adult. I remember it so well, being twenty-one and believing I understood it all. It warms my heart to see the same in Erik. Where would I be if I wasn’t once a kid who thought she knew absolutely everything?
Probably back in Iowa.
“Oh, actually,” Erik says. “There was one email I wasn’t sure what to do with.”
“After so confidently braving the minefield that is my relationship with my mother, I find that hard to believe.”
“I know. But it was something about coming to your old high school’s spring musical in May?
It seemed real, because I googled it and saw you actually went to the random school in Iowa where this email address originated from, and in your texts, you’d been talking to someone named Dallas, who this Marlowe person mentions by name.
It felt a little too specific to be fake, but I wasn’t sure. ”
I pluck my phone out of his hands. “Let me see.”
“I made a tab called ‘For Cilla’s Review,’ ” Erik says. “You can find it there.”
Hello Cilla,
It’s Marlowe Jenkins. I got your email address from Dallas.
I’m reaching out to inquire about whether or not you actually intend to come to Spring Awakening in May. It’s best for me to know the answer now, so I can give the students ample time to process and our school security the ability to appropriately prepare.
Thank you,
Marlowe Jenkins
Beneath the stiff formality of the email, I can hear the battery acid coating her every word. Give the students ample time to process. The school security the ability to prepare. Process and prepare. I bet those two words get her wet.
“I’ll do this one,” I tell Erik.
Well hello there Marlowe Jenkins!
You don’t need to call me Cilla. We’ve known each other way too long for that.
I heard what you said about turning the show announcement into something about me.
I want to make sure it’s clear that was not my intention.
That moment fully belongs to the kids. I can still remember when Dallas told us about our production of RENT.
Jaz and I started throwing fistfuls of confetti around.
You got everyone to sing “La Vie Bohème.” I hope this group gets to celebrate just as big.
I do fully intend on coming to opening night, unless you think I’ll be a distraction. Please let me know.
While I have you, I wanted to ask something.
A few months ago, I reached out to the WRHS administration about making an even larger than usual donation to the drama department.
They were super appreciative, and they mentioned wanting to rename the theater in my honor.
In follow-up emails, they’ve expressed to me that due to internal pushback, naming the theater for me is no longer a possibility.
Do you happen to know who is pushing back? I would love to reach out to that person and discuss. I don’t need a theater named after me, of course, but if there’s something I’ve done to make the WRHS faculty think I’m not proud of my alma mater, I want to remedy that ASAP.
All my best,
Priscilla
“What did you say?” Erik asks.
“Just that I’ll go,” I tell Erik, still rereading my email, trying to imagine which frustrated face Marlowe might be making as she receives it.
Is it the one where her caterpillar brows burrow down so low they almost bury her eyes?
Or is she letting out an exasperated sigh, her lower jaw puckered forward so that the exhaled air blows the wispy pieces of her hair off her face?
On second thought, her hair is probably too short for that now—a dark brown shag that comes in above her shoulders with bangs scattered across her forehead—and her round, wire-rimmed glasses that are destined to slide down the narrow slope of her nose.
She must have thought of me whenever she finally got those glasses.
How many times had I told her she needed to get her vision checked?
She was always squinting at anything more than five feet ahead of her, which meant she never caught the way Dallas would subtly direct us by doing things like clacking his front teeth together when we went somewhere intriguing in a scene, or flaring his nostrils when we were being too obvious.
She’d always ask me how I knew what he wanted from me, and I’d say, “I just look at him.”
God, she hated that.
Right as my hand is reaching to return my phone to Erik, the device pings with Marlowe’s reply.
Hey Cilla,
That’s very generous to offer your presence on opening night. I’m sure it won’t be a distraction at all. Let us know all of the special accommodations you’ll need to pull it off.
I hadn’t heard about renaming the theater after you. Perhaps whoever spoke out thinks it would make more sense to name it after Dallas, the department head for the last thirty-two years? I will look into this and find out.
Warmly,
Marlowe
Warmly?
Oh yes, Marlowe Jenkins, always known for her warmth.
Marlowe,
Appreciate your prompt response! I will book my ticket for May. No extra accommodations necessary! And yes, please do investigate the theater thing, if you can. It makes total sense to name it for Dallas instead of me. Let me know if I need to throw my support behind that nomination to pull it off!
With unfailing gratitude,
Priscilla
Cilla,
Your support would be great.
Kind regards,
Marlowe
Marlowe!
Consider it supported!! I’ll email the admins right now!
Eternal blessings of prosperity and peace,
Priscilla
When Marlowe doesn’t respond right away, I look up at Erik, suddenly very aware of the fact that I’ve spent the last five minutes tunneled into my phone, and he’s spent the same amount of time watching me.
“Sorry about that.” I hand him back the device. “I won’t take your job again.”