Chapter 22
“That’s a wrap!” Mileidy announces, and the crew lets out a collective sigh.
Fluorescent lights suddenly sizzle to life as the neon-colored lights onstage die down circuit by circuit.
My mother, who’d been standing tall and proud in a sequin pantsuit, slouches.
She pushes a loose wave of caramel hair out of her face as she exits the stage.
My throbbing feet and pulsing lower back are begging for a chair.
My body is knotted up in aching muscles from standing all day; I can’t help but slouch.
When I get home, I’m going to take the longest, hottest shower in the history of showers.
I’m going to order pizza, and I’m going to eat it in bed rewatching New Girl. I almost start drooling at the thought.
Fingers snap in front of my face twice, bringing me back to the imperfect world I actually live in.
I blink, tracing the hand all the way back to Simón.
A bemused smile dances on his lips, matching the flash of delight in his eyes.
He’s changed out of his shooting outfit and is back in the Caballo de Troya hoodie he’s been wearing to work every day of this week.
He pushes his sleeves up to his elbows, right one first, revealing the watch he wears literally every day.
I swallow hard.
“Are you okay?” His eyes scan my face in a series of micro-movements—forehead, eyes, nose, lips, and back up. He has the you-have-my-full-attention/I’m-only-looking-at-you thing down pat.
I clear my throat. “Mm-hm.”
Simón leans against the table covered corner to corner in radios and microphones, casually crossing his arms in a motion that he must know makes the muscles on his forearms flex.
“What do you need?” I ask, rearranging the radios into perfectly symmetrical lines to have something to do.
“You.”
I knock one of the radios down and the rest follow, falling like dominoes. “Me?”
I curl and uncurl my fingers as I take a step away from the table and clap my hands together so they stop moving. Holy crap, relax.
Simón pushes off the wall, amusement glinting in his eyes.
I don’t want to know what he sees written on my face, which is flaming.
I miss my long hair and the protection it used to provide for me in these situations.
Now I can only hope he thinks it’s about knocking over the radios and not about the way his grin has my stomach fluttering out of control.
“Viviana arranged for some of us to go to dinner,” he explains. “She asked me to get you.”
Oh. I sigh, relieved. Okay. “Um, sure, let me just—”
“Maria Antonieta.”
I whirl to the voice that will surely be plaguing my nightmares tonight.
Mileidy looks younger under the fluorescent lights of the loft.
Not a surprise, considering she’s probably absorbed what’s left of my good years.
She hugs a binder to her chest, shifting her weight from one leg to the other, in the exact opposite way I hug binders to my chest and shift my weight from one leg to the other.
Almost in boredom instead of anxiety. It screams, I have better things to do.
“I need you back in the office.” There it is. “Apparently there’s been some mistake with the scripts, and I need someone to proofread and reprint in time for tomorrow’s shoot.”
She must be joking. It’s almost nine. Proofreading, not to mention revising and reprinting, will take me all night.
Why do we even print stuff anymore? iPads exist. Hell, I bet she could smuggle a couple hundred of those cheap tablets the government gives to public schools into the office. Everyone ends up selling them anyway.
“Can’t I proofread the scripts at home and print in the morning?” I ask instead.
“No.” She doesn’t even pretend to consider it. “Too many variables. You could die tonight.” What? “Or traffic could slow you down tomorrow morning. Don’t leave for tomorrow what you can do today.”
I fight the urge to check my watch. Today has like three hours left. And this isn’t something I can do in three hours. It’s too much work. I’ll have to spend the entire night at the office. By myself. My only company the flickering fluorescent lights.
I take a step closer to her. “Mileidy, is that really necessary?” I don’t understand why she’s doing this. We’re all exhausted within an inch of our lives.
“Yes,” she says, then turns to me with a barely there smile. “I knew we could count on you.”
She leaves before I can protest again. Simón is staring at Mileidy’s retreating figure in disbelief.
His apparent outrage warms my heart to the point of tears.
But I will not cry in front of my boss. I am a competent employee, and I do not burden my employers with personal problems…
that much. I am receiving a salary for this job, and this job is financing the roof I sleep under, the cereal I inhale every morning, and the article that will ultimately get me my old life back.
I square my shoulders (even though it hurts), swallow the lump in my throat, and blink away the sting in my eyes.
I hate this job. But screaming it at the top of my lungs isn’t going to help my case. And I signed a contract that binds me until the end of the shoot. I remember the job application I sent last night, the one I’ve been trying not to think about because if I got it…
I sigh, rearranging the falling radios.
“Marianto.” Simón shifts so he’s facing me with his whole body.
Right then, one of Irina’s assistants walks up to him and wraps an arm around his elbow.
Simón freezes at the contact, and I feel my eyebrows rising, my expression changing.
Um, what the hell? Why is this tall woman, gorgeous from every angle, touching Simón like they’re…
not even friends, like they’re together, like she does it all the time?
I scan her. I’d bet my future wedding she’ll be on Miss Venezuela next year.
Simón, to his credit, looks slightly panicked but he also isn’t moving away from her, so he can’t be that uncomfortable.
“We’re all about to leave,” she informs him. “Are you coming?”
Simón, eyes on me, untangles himself from her grip. The man is a mind reader. “No. I’ll stay.”
A sick little sense of satisfaction sparks in my chest, making me stand up straighter. Wait. Am I jealous? My cheeks flush. The embarrassment I feel is instant. Humans are horrible creatures.
“Oh.” She rubs the back of her neck. “I thought we were all cleared.”
Simón tsks. “Not all of us. Maria Antonieta and I need to go back to the office.”
Irina’s assistant eyes me and snickers. “Well, she can always ask her mother to talk to Mileidy. Isn’t that how she got the job in the first place?”
I take one step forward. “Excuse me?”
She shrugs one shoulder, feigning innocence. “Couldn’t hurt.”
Before I can say anything else, she turns on her stilettos and leaves.
My eyes snap up to Simón. “You don’t have to stay with me.”
“And what do you suggest I do instead?” he asks. “Go eat a fancy, paid-for dinner with a pleasant group of peers? You insult me.”
I gather my belongings and head toward the door.
This is exactly why I could never follow in my mother’s footsteps.
It doesn’t matter where I am, if she’s also there, if she knows the producer or director or anyone in a position of authority, then my presence is automatically linked to her intervention.
There would be no merit, no achievements of my own.
Simón catches my elbow, pulling me back. “Come on, don’t listen to her.”
“You do know we won’t meet them after, right?” I say.
Simón’s gaze softens. “Sí.” He adjusts the strap on his back with one swift movement. “Let’s go. You’ll finish faster if we do it together.”
Okay. It’s math. 2 + 2 = 4. If Simón helps me, I’ll finish faster. But still…
“Only if you let me buy you dinner.”
Simón grins. “Only if I can choose the menu.”
I laugh. “Deal.”
—
Midnight finds us on the floor. The office is deserted except for the security guard posted at the front gate.
And probably a ghost or two. The only lights on in the entire building are the ones on this floor and the stairs.
We’ve set up camp in the only office with a panoramic view of Caracas.
Thousands of lights twinkle out the window.
It’s like Christmas. Come sunrise, we’ll see nothing but poor neighborhoods with mud and brick houses, old buildings with faded paint and mold stains.
But at night, Caracas puts on her best clothes.
A little ball of neon pink paper hits me on the cheek. I look away from the window with a gasp to find Simón laughing as he covers his mouth with one hand.
“I’m sorry,” he says, backing himself closer to the wall on the opposite side of the office.
We’ve been playing this game for at least an hour.
The goal is to see how far we can throw a paper ball made of Post-its.
Once either of us hits the mark, we answer a question or move farther away.
So far I’ve learned Simón hates to cook and that he’s the only person in his family that doesn’t have a college degree.
“Montserrat, my sister, decided to get a degree too,” he told me. “And she’s also in the band, so I have no excuse.”
“Why didn’t you get a degree?” I asked.
He shrugged. “I always knew what I wanted to do. I didn’t need a degree, I just needed to do it. It doesn’t mean I don’t take it seriously.”
“That’s very artsy of you,” I said.
He yawned, throwing his head back. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I shook my head. “It’s not.” And, surprisingly, I meant it.
“What do you want to know?” I ask him now.
Simón puffs his cheeks, looking up, pretending to think. His legs are stretched out, he’s leaning back on his elbows. Exhaustion oozes from him, but to his credit, he’s a good actor. I almost believe that he actually wants to be here with me instead of sleeping peacefully in his bed.