Markwell-Tweed

Acting Like Somebody in Love

by Holly Glass

As soon as I step inside the trailer, my stomach drops. The color drains out of my face. Arms weak, chest pounding.

There she was. The last person I ever wanted to see. A sworn enemy if I ever had one.

I don’t make a habit out of making enemies. Bad blood is a luxury that I simply can’t afford. The flush of hot anger in your cheeks, the satisfaction of swinging a punch. The physical gratifications that no actor can indulge. At least, not if she wants to be working.

Back in art school, when I started landing my first paid gigs, I figured out pretty fast that a working actor has to make herself agreeable. Smile a lot. Ask the right questions, but not too many. And when a director asks for something, anything, you figure out how to go with it.

Especially when you’re a woman.

Men always get to act by their own rules. If a guy gets stubborn about how he plays his part, then he’s just plain noble. An artist of the highest order. Uncompromising, obedient only to his principles.

Something like that.

But a woman is a different story even if she does all the same things. She’s written off as difficult. A drama queen. A diva.

Word always has a way of getting around in Los Angeles, especially words like that, and if even one director thinks you’re a piece of work, it won’t take long for everybody else to agree.

I don’t mind being agreeable. Just another professional necessity for those who don’t want to waste their careers doing commercials for local pet stores and used car lots. And after all, there’s only one person in this world I never wanted to see again, one bridge that I burned so thoroughly that even the memories crumbled like charred driftwood. The good times had long since turned to ash.

And none of that would have been a problem if she weren’t standing just inches away, staring at me with that same inscrutable look of hers.

The classic half smile, somehow soft and piercing at the same time. As if she were inviting you to a private party or letting you in on a good joke.

Parker Kane. She’d worn that very expression when we met years ago on our first day of art school. Some guy in our cinematography seminar had the balls to ask Parker if she knew how to read a light meter. Parker’s glance met mine and we rolled our eyes at the exact same moment. She sat next to me from that day forward.

She was the first friend I made in New York, back before I’d landed any gigs or met any fast-talking casting agents. Parker, the ambitious sculptor who paid rent by mastering the art of zombie makeup but wound up falling in love with the craft, and me, the kid from Spooner, Wisconsin, who wanted to be the next Gena Rowlands. We’d spent so many evenings together, huddled around a laptop, watching obscure art films that I’d never heard of. We made so many plans to make it big and bonded over all the obstacles that got in the way.

It wasn’t long before we quit school and lit out for L.A. We shared a tiny apartment and took all the jobs we could find, usually in low-budget student productions that were incredibly cheesy. After each wrap, we’d laugh about it and curse our bad luck, then wake up ready to do it all again.

Parker became my best friend, the only one who seemed to understand why I was so obsessed with staying in the industry even though I only managed to land garbage parts. Each Christmas, my parents would hint that I could come home to Wisconsin, that they could get me a job selling insurance with Dad’s cousin a few towns over. They didn’t see the point in hanging around L.A. and staying broke, especially when all the sacrifices weren’t really getting me anywhere.

I’d come back from those trips and Parker would hand me a beer and tell me to hang in there. That it would all be worth it someday.

Then there were the times when we felt like more than friends.

One August, the California heat was thick enough to clog your throat, so Parker and I jumped the fence at a nearby motel to take a desperate dip in the dingy green pool. I’d never felt so good, submerged in all the cold water, noticing how Parker’s eyes stayed on my body as my soaking wet clothes clung to my skin. I blushed back then, at first surprised and then pleased that she wanted to look my way.

We made a habit of it, breaking into pools when the heat became too much. Pretending not to notice each other’s eyes on each other’s bodies.

But then I’d met Ben. Charming Ben. Stupid Ben. That was the beginning of the end for me and Parker Kane, the best friend I haven’t spoken to in nearly three years.

Parker Kane, who’s still standing there, grinning at me. I don’t know how she can dare to smile after what she did to me. After she chose his side over mine. Then again, Parker always was the daring type. It was what I always liked about her.

How did I not see this? How did I not notice her name on the call sheet? I kick myself while I try to figure out how to make my face look steely and detached. Then again, would it have mattered if I had known that she’d be here? This is a real movie, a feature, and it has a decent director attached. The best job I’ve landed so far in my career. No way I’m going to give it up just to avoid crossing paths with Parker. I feel silly for even thinking about it.

I’m an actor, for God’s sake. If Parker can play it cool, then so can I.

She nods at a canvas chair that’s positioned in front of one of those corny dressing room mirrors ringed with bright naked bulbs.