No. 20: đđžđ„
Your costar invites you to a party in the Hills as a friend. You later find out it was with the motive of making his ex jealous. Sheâs stunning, an Italian Rosario Dawson with Angelinaâs jawline. You go out for the same rolesâin fact, you booked the role you both auditioned for to play your costarâs love interest. He confesses bashfully that, at first, he was bummed his then-real-life-girlfriend didnât get the part. Now that sheâs broken up with himâ âI sobbed, like, snot dripping down my face sobbed, the whole 10 freeway home,â he tells youâheâs so relieved itâs you heâs working with.
Sheâs over there under the fake candlelight of a 1930s chandelier, chatting with a dude while clearly ignoring the ex who clearly showed up with you for no other reason than so sheâd see you both. She does, gives you a kind but dismissive once-over, and turns back to her conversation with unruffled confidence. Your friendâs heartbreak is palpable. âLetâs leave,â he says with all the ache of Romeo in Act Five, Scene Three. Mission failed.
He takes you in his BMW convertible to the FOX 2004 Fall Lineup party. You didnât know there would be a red carpet and you certainly werenât planning on walking one if there wasâyouâve never done so beforeâbut there is and all of your costars are urging you to walk it with them. âYouâre part of the show now,â they coax, as warm and inclusive as any recurring guest star should want them to be. Before you can protest further, you find yourself giving the PR lady the spelling of your name as she ushers youâoh goodnessâto a real red carpet. You have no more time to think.
Loudness crashes your ears like waves. Brightness pierces your eyes like floodlights. Youâre stunned, shocked, flinching. Itâs louder than a stadium and theyâre all shouting your name, fighting for you to look at their camera.
âOver your shoulder!â they yell.
âTo your left!â they cry.
âRight into my lens, doll, look right this way!â
You have the urge to throw out your hands and yell, âOne at a time, youâll all get your turn!â in your firmest older sister voice, imagining the rowdy photographers quieting down in an orderly fashion like Sunday school. Somehow you know, thatâs not how this works.
As the camera flashes give way to retina-stunned squares of purple, you steady your breath and decide to craft your own sense of order amid the mayhem. You walk three feet, stop. Smile left to right. Walk another three feet, stop. Smile left to right. You throw an over-the-shoulder on the fourth measure and the FTH-FTH-FTH of shutter clicks escalates. They love this angle for some reason.
The gauntlet ends just in time for the arrival of a FOX star far bigger than you. Lenses whirl to catch the final tug of a mini dress before this professional beams widely, hand on hip, a total pro. You take notes as you watch her, grateful her walk-pause-smile routine isnât so different from yours. Maybe one day you wonât totally suck at this part of the job.
On the cold, dark walk from the carpet to the party, self-consciousness seeps in. What were you thinking agreeing to be photographed? Was there anything in your teeth? Has the fog layer turned your hair into a shag carpet? And what are you even wearing? You donât know, you found this cozy woolen fishnet of a wrap at Wasteland on Melrose and couldnât resist its blankety comfort. You now realize you look like Little Mermaidâs witchy sister.
Inside the party, you glimpse stars from The O.C., the older gentleman from Arrested Development, and that girl named Olivia Wilde whose name youâve seen on sign-in sheets. Sheâs brighter than all the flashes put together. Imposter syndrome takes hold. You know you donât belong here, a pimpled teenager with a terrible sense of fashion and overgrown hair because you canât afford a haircut. The stylists in LA want over $100 for just a layered trim. People think your hair is part of your âlook,â a deliberate choice to set you apart from shoulder-flipped blondes. Youâre just poor.
Your costar friend compliments you on your first red carpet. âA natural,â he says, offering you a plastic glass of champagne. Youâre eighteen but you drink it like Welchâs and when you get home, you practice poses in the mirror. You learn never to attend a party without assuming photographers will be present. You never quite learn how to dress yourself.
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