Chapter Nine

            Mila plays chauffeur again, driving me out to Natalia’s house on the day I’m officially supposed to meet her. Despite the nosedive my life has taken recently, I’m pretty excited about this.

            Becoming does each introductory episode the same way. It’s always filmed at the celebrity’s home. And there’s always some sort of surprise waiting for the winner.

            The kid who was shadowing pitcher Johnny Epstein was suddenly pulled into a softball game with Johnny and a bunch of retired Reds players. The girl who followed diva Chantal Stephens was treated to a makeover at an exclusive spa. And in the episode with death metal legend Ace Cooper, Ace pretended to be so out of it that he didn’t know why there was a camera crew in his living room.

            Maybe he wasn’t pretending. Just say no, kids.

            Now I already know what the surprise is (homemade lunch and horseback riding), but I’m still excited. In less than an hour, I’ll be knocking on Natalia’s door. And she’ll let me in. Because we’re friends. Natalia and Shannon…

            “What the hell are you grinning about?”

            As usual, Mila drags me screaming back to reality. She’s smirking at me from the driver’s seat. I stop daydreaming and adjust my skirt.

            “Will you stop playing with your clothes already?” gripes Mila.

            “Sorry, this is all kind of new to me.”  It’s true. This skirt is shorter, it barely covers my knees. The breeze on my newly shaved legs makes it feel like I’m wearing nothing below the waist. My blouse buttons the wrong way. My new earrings irritate my skin. My shorter hair feels weird.

            Worst of all is the mastectomy bra that Mila bought for me. It has realistic inserts. They’re supposed to look and feel like the real things. I wouldn’t know, not even from second hand experience.

            “Look, honey, just act natural. Breathy voice. Don’t manspread. Stop messing with your bra straps. You’ll be fine.”

            Yes, I will be fine. Because as soon as I get Natalia alone, I’m going to tell her my secret. And then she’ll help me plan the best course of action.

            I’ll just have to catch her alone. Five minutes. That’s all I need.

            We quickly leave the crowded city and move out to the country. Growing up in suburban Des Moines, where people live and die by the greenness of their lawns, the lack of greenery in L.A. had been making me edgy. It was nice to get out to the sun drenched hills of California.

            Soon, we pass through the first of several security gates, each manned by a more and more official looking uniform. Mila’s I.D. and license plates are checked. I sit in terror, waiting for them to ask for my identification, but they never do, not even when they make Mila get out of the car while they radio someone. It’s not hard to see why they single her out. I’ll have a talk with Natalia about that, after I fix my own problems.

            I recognize Natalia’s house from a magazine spread. Sort of. In the photos, her estate was nothing but solar panels and composting gardens. In real life, there’s a lot of parking lots and outbuildings that were cropped out of the article. We quickly pass through the final security checkpoint. This is it. My first (of many) TV appearance.

            I’m a little disappointed when Mila doesn’t park in the large circle drive out front, but pulls around to a crowded lot in the back. I can’t tell if all the cars here belong to Natalia or people involved in the shoot, or what. I guess we need to do some sort of preparation before we ring the doorbell. Wait for the cameramen to set up.

            Mila exits the car and I follow. To my surprise, she approaches a rear entrance, says something into an intercom, and enters when the door opens. She holds it open for me as an afterthought.

            This is it. Today I’ll officially begin my friendship with Natalia Jenkins. Who knows what this could lead to? A break in the industry, a role in one of her movies, or…

            I’m probably flattering myself. But Natalia is only twenty. And she once said that Staff Sergeant D’Angelo Jackson, that soldier whose face was maimed in Iraq, was the most beautiful man she’d ever met.

            Of course the sergeant wasn’t wearing a padded bra and a skirt when he met her.

            We enter a large staging room, where about a dozen people mill about. I recognize Mr. Lawrence, the director, and that same cameraman. And…Natalia.

            She’s sitting in a makeup chair, reading a magazine, a towel around her head.

            Why is she here? This isn’t how the show works, we’re supposed to meet at her front door. Of course, we’ve already met, back at the studio. Maybe they’re trying something different?

            Mr. Lawrence corners Mila. No one else seems to notice that I’m here. 

            Maybe now’s my chance. Maybe I can ask Natalia if we can talk in private for a moment. Then I can tell her the truth. She can let me know if we should continue with the farce or demand that I participate in the show as the real me. I saw how everyone reacted to her at the studio. If she wants it, she’ll get it.

            Timidly, still trying to get used to walking in a skirt, I approach Natalia. She doesn’t look up from her magazine, even when I clear my throat.

            “Natalia?”

            Her head rises. Her eyes focus on me.

            She does not look happy. She does not look welcoming.

            I’ve made a mistake. Maybe we’re not supposed to talk until the cameras are rolling. I’ve gone and blown the introduction scene! I’m such an idiot! I feel like I’ve walked into a surprise party half an hour early.

            Fortunately, Mila saves me by grabbing my arm and dragging me away.

            “You need to pay attention, Shannon.”

            Mr. Lawrence hands me a piece of paper. “This is the script for today.”

            I must have misheard. “Script?”

            “Try to follow it closely, but you don’t have to repeat every word exactly. Just act natural.”

            But…this makes no sense. This isn’t a scripted show. It’s supposed to be all spontaneous, real life.

            “Wait…I don’t understand.”

            Mr. Lawrence turns to Mila. “Can she handle this?” he asks, not whispering.

            Mila playfully punches my arm. “Just a little stage fright. I’ll talk to her.”

            “Hey Harvey!” shouts Natalia from across the room, with a giggle. “Get your butt over here!”

            With a big smile, Mr. Lawrence leaves us.

            I turn to Mila, confused. “But Becoming is ‘life as it happens,’” I say, quoting the show’s tagline. “Why would we need a script?”

            Mila looks at me blankly for a second, then bursts into a peal of laughter. “OMG! Are you for real? Tell me you’re not serious, Shannon.”

            “I…” Oh God. Have I really just been naïve?

            “You’re not joking, are you? You really thought…oh, that’s too funny. But hey, it’s people like you who have kept us on the air all this time.”

            She’s messing with me. That’s it. Okay, I guess it was dumb of me to think that everything was the first take and that none of these episodes had a little behind the scenes nudges from the director. But I don’t enjoy this peek behind the curtain. I look at the script.

            NATALIA: (squeals in welcome)

            GIRL: Miss Jenkins, it’s a pleasure to…

            NATALIA (interrupting): Now none of this Miss Jenkins crap! Call me Natalia.

            GIRL: (Laughs nervously)

            NATALIA (takes girl by the hand): C’mon in! I hope you’re hungry.

            Okay, this is a lot less unscripted than I expected. But this is just the opening scene. My episode will be an hour long. This part is probably only a few minutes of actual on screen time.

            Mila tugs at my arm. “C’mon. Almost show time.”

            We walk past Natalia and Mr. Lawrence, who don’t look at us, and into a large, gleaming kitchen. Two stagehands are arranging food on some plates, while another mixes something green in a blender.

            Mila nods absently at the preparations. “Remember, they put a lacquer on the food so it shows up better on the camera, so don’t actually eat any of it. You can try that health shake if you want, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”

            Natalia’s special macrobiotic recipe.  I glance back to see the crewmember pour a bottle of lime Gatorade into the mix.

            I’m ushered out the front door. The cameras are already set up, outside and inside the house. Mr. Lawrence soon joins us.

            “Got that script memorized, Shannon? Great. We’re on in five.”

            So is it all fake? Did I sell out my manhood, my family, and my future so I could play an empty-headed dingbat for a scripted reality show?

            Has this summer somehow become even more disappointing? Have I ruined my life over nothing?

            Mr. Lawrence instructs me to stand on the porch, which is almost as large as my living room at home. This is the final countdown.

            “Ring the bell when I say go.”

            All I have to do is take off my shirt and I’ll be on a plane home tonight.

            I’d be that simple.

            Mila is watching me. And for a moment, I think she knows what I’m considering. Realizes that she shouldn’t have mocked me. That she laughed at me when I needed a pep talk.

            But I won’t do that. Natalia Jenkins is my idol and inspiration. She’s done so much good in this world. And I’m not going to give up a chance to work with her, not yet.

            “Action!”

            I press the bell, which I don’t think is connected to anything. Natalia bursts out the door, all smiles and giggles.

            She looks so sincere.

            “Miss Jenkins, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

*

            It takes two hours to shoot about twenty minutes of real time events. Nothing but Natalia opening the door, inviting me to breakfast, and some seriously scripted banter. I also noticed the camera was on Natalia about ninety percent of the time. Not super surprising, the audience wouldn’t be tuning in to watch me. Still, it would have been nice to not be moved around like a prop.

            We’re now in Natalia’s stables. At least, they look like stables from the outside. Inside, they appear to be a storage building for the grounds crew.  While we’re preparing to ride, Natalia tells me all about her horse rescue efforts and the three mares she saved from abusive environments. She tells me this over and over again, facing a different camera each time.

            There are a couple of horses outside the stables, but their handler calls them Scotty and Chester.

            Not that I get to ride either of them. They make a big deal about how I foolishly wore a skirt to the shoot and would have to ride sidesaddle, but Natalia kindly loans me some riding pants. Embarrassingly, they’re too long. Everyone laughs as I slip getting into the stirrup and fall on my butt. They laugh each time I slip, over and over again, from different camera angles. By the time they’ve got all their shots, I’m getting kind of good at pratfalling.

            I ask Mr. Lawrence if we’re actually going to get to ride the horses. He says they have plenty of footage of Natalia. If they need shots of me for some reason, they can use a body double.

            And suddenly, it’s all over. Everything is packed up. Even the horses are loaded onto a trailer. Everyone is attending to their own business.

            Except Natalia and me. I notice her slip off behind the stables and no one follows her. This is my chance to talk to her alone. To tell her the truth. To ask her for advice.

            I quickly make sure Mila’s not watching me and I duck behind the building.

            Natalia is looking at her phone. And she’s smoking.

            I don’t know why this surprises me. All those PSAs she recorded for the Healthy Schools Initiative, but whatever. I almost laugh at the cliché of sneaking off for a smoke behind the barn.

            She looks up and frowns. My words fail me.

            “Yeah?” she asks, clearly not relishing my company.

            “I…I just wanted to say…”

            She makes a hurry up motion.

            “I wanted to tell you…”

            Her phone makes a noise. She looks at it and begins texting.

            “I wanted to tell you how grateful I am to be working with you.”

            She nods, distractedly. “You too, Sharon. Shannon.”

            “Goodbye…Ms. Jenkins.”

Chapter Ten

            I purposely sit in the back of Mila’s car on the drive back to the city. None of it was genuine. Just another scripted reality show, more slurry for the masses. I can’t believe I thought it was real. I can’t believe I thought Natalia was real.

            It’s time to cut my losses. I’ll track down Rochelle, have her shave my head and do something with my eyebrows. I have enough money for that, and for a ride to the airport. My parents will buy me a ticket home. Hell, I don’t deserve a plane ride. I’ll go Greyhound.

            Mila doesn’t try to talk to me. When we get to the hotel, she doesn’t drop me off at the curb, but parks. She swivels in her seat and faces me.

            “Kind of hard, that first dose of reality, isn’t it?”

            I don’t answer. She makes me feel like a chump who bought into the hype. Of course, that’s what I am, I guess.

            Mila keeps talking. “I remember the first time it really hit me.  It was last year. I had just started and they had me working with a certain actress…I’m sure you’d recognize her. And, well, one night I get this call to come to her hotel room. And when I get there…ah, I’m boring you.”

            Actually, I’d been listening intently and Mila knows it. “Go on.”

            “How about I tell you the rest over dinner?”

            Dinner? Why is she being so nice to me all of a sudden? I’m not sure how I should answer.

            “C’mon,” she insists. “I know you had a bad day, but the worst is over. At least for me. You’re doing the show and no one suspects.  Let’s celebrate a little.”

            I look down at my blouse. I really have no desire to go out like this. “Maybe some other night.”

            “I’m not taking no for an answer. C’mon, there’s a restaurant in the hotel, right? We’ll go there. Have a drink with me. I’ve got some good stories. Or maybe you don’t want to hear who I caught in the hot tub with Mr. Lawrence. Spoiler alert, it wasn’t Mrs. Lawrence.”

            “How can I say no to that?”

            Actually, it’s not the gossip that entices me. It’s that I worry Mila suspects I’m going to run off. Which is probably why she wants to keep me in her sights. Well, I’m hungry and I’m not in the mood to try to ditch her. I’ll wait until her guard is down.

            She holds the car door open for me. As I walk beside her, she stops me with a touch on my arm.

            “Put one foot in front of the other.”

            I’m not sure if this is life advice, or what.

            “I mean, directly in front of the other one,” she clarifies. “You walk like a guy. Watch me.”

            She trots up and down the sidewalk in front of the hotel.  Like any good student of the theater, I observe her. She’s right. Her feet don’t move side by side, but one in front of the other.

            “Now you.”

            “Mila, I’m tired.”

            “Do you want to be an actress or not?”

            “An actress? No.”

            She rolls her eyes. “You know what I mean. Now walk.”

            With a whiney sigh, I obey.

            “C’mon, head up. Chest out. Show off the goods. Oh, don’t give me that look, I paid for those knockers. There, you got it! Work it, girl!”

            I can’t help it. I laugh.

            “Can we go in already?”

*

            I’ve been living off room service sandwiches for the past few days, so it’s nice to eat out, my varnished breakfast notwithstanding.  The hotel restaurant is kind of a ritzy place, and I’m very aware that I’m still wearing Natalia’s too long riding pants.

            The place is crowded. I hear the maitre d quote a half hour wait. Mila pulls me aside.

            “Lesson number two. Men like to impress women. Go flirt with that guy, get us the next available table.”

            “Um…hell no.”

            “C’mon, Shannon. It’s one of the perks of the sisterhood. Bat those big cow eyes. Pout those liver lips. Maybe don’t talk too much.”

            I’m pretty sure she’s not serious. “Let me put it this way: hell no.”

            She shakes her head. “You need me to show you how it’s done? Fine. Watch and learn, kid.”

            Mila checks her makeup in her mirror, fixes her hair and adjusts her clothes.  Again, I’m kind of struck at how cute she is, in a frightening and intimidating way. She sashays over to the desk. The person manning it, a broad shouldered guy in his twenties, looks up.

            “Hey, big guy. Table for two please. And my friend made me promise not to tell you this, but she says she’s hankering for some beefsteak, and I don’t think she meant the Kansas City strip.”

            Mila waves at me. I want to run into traffic.

            The guy gives me a tolerant smile. “Twenty minutes, maybe a half hour.”

            Mila leans in. I can’t see her face, but I can picture her warm smile and friendly eyes as she examines his name tag.  “Ah, Ben, we’re kind of in a rush. Do you think you could…” She reaches over and touches his arm. “Damn, boy, do you work out?”

            Ben smiles wanly at the same stupid line she used on Michael. “A little.”

            “A little, he says. You got a license for those guns?”

            He shrugs. “Well, my husband and I like to lift together.”

            There’s a long pause. Mila stands there, I think because she doesn’t want to see me smirking at her.

            “Half an hour, you said?”

*

            It takes us twenty minutes to get a table. Then right when Mila’s name is called, she tells me she has to step out.

            “I’ll be back in a bit, Shannon. Go ahead and order without me. Just bill it to the room, NBS is covering the tab.”

            I’m more than a little annoyed. “Coming here was your idea. I’ll just eat in the room.”

            Mila cocks her head. “It’s just dinner. Were you this insecure in Iowa?”

            “I didn’t have boobs in Iowa.”

            She shakes her head. “Get used to it. Look, I’ll only be gone ten minutes. Just chill, okay?”

            And she’s gone. Once again, I’m alone.

            “Miss?”

            Dinner alone. Then back to my hotel room, alone.

            “Miss?”

            My family is probably having dinner right now. Mom or dad might be at work, but one of them would be home with Chris, eating and asking about her day. Maybe speculating about where I am.

            Or maybe not.

            “Miss!”

            I suddenly realize that the waiter is speaking to me. I’ll have to get used to that. I plaster on a fake smile and follow him.

            I order the cobb salad. Not because it’s low in calories and I’m watching my girlish figure. And not because I think it would be more fitting with my character.

            It’s because I cannot bring myself to spend more than $30 on a meal. I just cannot. I know the network is paying. I know I could order the t-bone and probably some fancy wine and no one would bat an eye.

            But here’s the thing. My family does not eat out. I mean, we’ll grab McDonalds every now and then, or go to Applebee’s for Mom’s birthday, but these restaurants with tablecloths and fifteen dollar appetizers are just not something we do. Ever.

            So I pick at my food and think about my options. The sane choice, of course, is to hop on a bus and go home. The thing is, the idea feels a lot less attractive than it did an hour ago.

            I’m angry. There was no call for Natalia to be that rude and dismissive of me. Maybe she was having an off day or something, but she could have taken the time to talk to me.

            It’s kind of funny, but acting like a girl is just a role, after all. I mean, kind of a long term one, but still. Imagine what would happen if I actually went through the whole show like this and then told the world what had happened after the episode aired? Talk about your publicity! Talk about your method acting.

            I could never do that of course.  Not without Natalia’s help. I’d been depending on that. But still, I could probably count on a few auditions afterward if I was really willing to go the distance. Really make female Shannon memorable. Someone who stole the spotlight. Someone who even outshone Natalia Jenkins who never even smiled at me off camera.

            It’s an impossible scenario. I’ll slip up, somehow. Mila’s confidence aside, I’ll screw this up. Or if I revealed myself afterwards, the show would sue me. And of course, I’d have a hard time convincing people that I spent the summer living as a woman for pure character development.

            The dream has died. Natalia rammed that home today. I’ll call home after Mila…

            There she is. I see her out in the lobby, just as I’m looking at the check. Only she’s not coming to join me. She’s headed for the hotel’s front door, pulling her suitcase. She must be checking out.

            Except she’s not staying here.

            That’s my suitcase she has.

            That’s my suitcase!

            I think I accidentally add an extra zero to the tip line as I scrawl my signature on the check, then dash out of the restaurant.

            Mila is at the front curb. The valet has brought her car around and I catch her just as she slams her trunk shut, my suitcase inside.

            “What the hell are you doing?” I bellow.

            “Watch the voice, Shannon. You almost sounded like a man there.”

            There are people hanging around so I can’t just wrestle the keys out of her hand. “Are you throwing me out of my room or something?”

            She laughs. “God, no. It’s prepaid, I told you that. And meals are on us, order all the room service you want. You can charge some delivery food to the room, too.”

            I shake my head to clear it. “Then what in the holy hell are you doing with my bag?”

            She glances at her car in surprise as if she hadn’t realized I’d want an explanation. “Well, it occurred to me that a fussy girl like you might decide to bail on us. So I liberated your clothes and things.”

            I’m nearly quaking. “And things?”

            “Your ID, your phone, your wallet…well, everything, really. I’ll have them shipped to you when all this is over.”

            Breathe, Shannon, breathe.

            “Mila, this isn’t okay.”

            She’s not even listening. “Call it a security measure on my part. I don’t want you calling mommy and daddy to come get you. I don’t want you hopping on a plane. You did good today, back at the ranch. And you’re going to keep it up for the rest of the month.”

            “I’ll call home collect. They’ll wire me money to come home.”

            “How will you claim it with no ID?”

            I’m starting to panic. “I’ll get it replaced. People lose them all the time.”

            “Yeah, have fun dealing with the DMV. You might as well finish the shooting. It’ll be quicker.”

            “I’ll—”

            She just smirks. “Look, I guess if you really wanted to, you could get home. Go back to Shitball Iowa with that haircut and your pierced ears and some Salvation Army clothes and try to pretend like none of this happened. But I’m going to make it hard for you. I made sure the hotel cut off your wifi and you have no privileges in the business center. No credit at the hotel shops. No cash, unless you want to try panhandling wearing Ms. Jenkins’s pants. I’m not going to tell Mr. Avery that we have to retool the entire episode because the contestant I begged for bailed in the middle of the shoot.”

            “But…”

            “No. I gave you an out. All you had to do was pretend your mother was sick. But you got all doe eyed over Ms. Jenkins. Tell me, Shannon, how’s that working out for you?”

            I open my mouth, but I have nothing to say. She’s right. Heartless bitch or not, I brought this on myself.

            Mila half smiles and takes out her keys. “I have to go. Just remember, I don’t have to be your enemy.”

            Cowed and miserable, I still have to argue that point. “I’ll never be your friend.”

            She opens the car door, then pauses to smile at me. “At last we agree on something.”

Chapter Eleven

            I spend two hours in the bathroom the following morning. Legs, smoothly shaved. Face, shaved twice. Eyebrows newly plucked. Through trial and error (and a lot of hairspray), I manage to recreate the hairstyle Rochelle made for me. I retouch my nails.

            Then, wrapped in a towel, I paint my face. Foundation. Blush. Line the eyes. Fluff the lashes. I try on several shades of lipstick. I wipe everything off and begin again. This is not like theater makeup, not by a long shot. But with a lot of practice, I think I get it right. Or less wrong.

            I slide into my bra. I try on several outfits from the wardrobe Mila has left. Since we’re going to the zoo, I go with some slacks, a sleeveless sweater, and the boots I was warned to wear. I grab my purse and look at myself in the mirror.

            Average looking. Too much of a brow, too much of a jaw, and no figure at all.

            But that’s a woman staring back at me. At least that’s what the world will think.

            The room phone rings. The car the studio sent around is waiting for me.

            Mila is going to play it like that, huh? Fine. She wins. I’m in for the long haul.

            But I’m not going to do it on Mila’s terms. I’m not going to be her little puppet who obeys from fear. And I’m not going to bow and scrape before the great Natalia Jenkins, drooling at the chance to be in her shadow.

            I’m an actor. This is a role. And I’m going to blow everyone away.

            And when the show airs, I’ll have proven myself. Mila will pay me back. I’ll see that she does. And if she won’t play ball, I can come out to Mr. Avery and Mr. Lawrence. Even Natalia. Show them what a great actor I am, and how I went the extra mile to make their show a success. They’ll all owe me if they expect me to keep my mouth shut.

            Maybe they’ll be pissed off. Maybe I’ll never work in Hollywood again. Maybe this is career suicide.

            But maybe not. Maybe I can show everyone that I can do anything, fill any role, handle any script. And keep a secret.

            I’m going to make the most of this.

            They say all publicity is good publicity.

            I’m going to find out.

            Stopping a moment to adjust my tits, I head for the door.

*

            The studio car takes me to a staff-only entrance to the Los Angeles Zoo. I’m instructed to enter a sort of office building, far from the public area. I find our staging area. Natalia isn’t visible at the moment, but I see Mr. Lawrence and other familiar crew members.

            And I see Mila.

            I’m not going to avoid her. I trot right over.

            One foot in front of the other, just like she instructed.

            “Hey, Shannon.” She holds up two Starbucks cups. “I didn’t know what you liked. Regular or decaf?”

            I just stare at her. She robs my hotel room and now she’s bringing me drinks? No.

            “There’s, um, hot chocolate if you like…”

            I walk right past her, toward the director.

            “Mr. Lawrence? Good morning! So what’s in store for us today?”

*

            The shoot goes predictably. Natalia arrives about ten seconds before we start shooting, dressed like she’s about to go clubbing rather than take care of animals. Zoo employees, who spend their days shoveling animal crap and getting bitten and scratched, fall all over themselves to make her comfortable, to show her this or that. I follow along, imitating the great one.

            One foot in front of the other.

            But today, I am not a prop. The episode may be titled Becoming: Natalia Jenkins, but Shannon Ferguson is there too. Natalia makes faces at the gorilla through the glass. I pay attention to the zookeeper’s instructions and look away from the ape as a sign of respect. The gorilla places its palm on the glass and I follow suit. I’m sure Natalia would have loved to have been in that shot.

            Natalia brushes the water buffalo for as long as it takes to get a good shot. I listen to the handler’s instructions and help him clean its teeth. It sneezes on me, covering me in buffalo boogers. But it’s kind of hilarious and is captured on camera.

            I just laugh. I’m versatile. I can work under difficult conditions.

            Natalia cuddles the adorable baby koala. I listen to the zookeeper, who’d been repeatedly ignored by Natalia, discuss habitat loss. Ask a few questions. Make a few points of my own.

            I’m not here to look good. I’m here to help. To learn. I’m not just a pretty face (obviously).

            It’s all going to end up on the cutting room floor. No one cares about Shannon Ferguson, not when Natalia Jenkins is in the room. But when they edit me out, they’ll be losing quality footage. And maybe more of me will stay in the finished product.

            And then it happens. Right when we’re packing up to leave.

            Natalia is sitting in a chair in some manager’s office, recording a spiel for the World Wildlife Fund. Half the crew has gone home. The door behind her opens. In comes a zoo employee, a young skinny dude with a lazy eye. He’s carrying a four-foot-long rat snake.

            Natalia doesn’t notice. I glance over at Mr. Lawrence to see how he reacts to this intrusion. He nods to the man and gestures at Natalia. He’s planned this in advance.

            The snake handler sneaks up behind Natalia. And without warning drops the serpent around her shoulders.

            “So log on to wwf.org to….YAAAAAAAAA!”

            That was not a stunned scream, or a hammy scream. That is the scream of someone who is very afraid of snakes.

            “Get it off me! Get it off me!” Natalia, her eyes almost as huge as her screaming mouth, leaps from her chair. She’s gesticulating and flailing so wildly the zoo guy can’t get near her. We all glance at each other, waiting for someone to do something.

            “GET IT OFF ME!” Real tears. The snake, frightened, has coiled itself around her arms and is hissing. This does not calm her.

            She’s going pale. She wobbles.

            I leap to my feet. I grab her by the shoulders.

            “Natalia, don’t move. Look at me. Look at me!”

            She focuses her wide, terror-filled blue eyes on me.  I think she wants to cry, but is too scared.

            I carefully reach out and snag the snake under its head. With my other hand, I unwind it from her arms and neck. It coils around my own arm. I release its head and it just kind of hangs there.

            Natalia collapses into the chair, hyperventilating. Not everyone does well around snakes, and I can’t believe Mr. Lawrence would think a prank like this was funny.

            Mr. Lawrence, in fact, does not look amused. “What the hell were you thinking?” he bellows at the snake guy.

            “But you told me—”

            “Get him the hell out of here. Now!”

            A crewmember grabs the hapless zoo employee by the arm and hustles him out the door.  I hope he doesn’t lose his job over this.

            Natalia has come back to herself. She turns to the cameraman. “Get rid of it. All of it. I mean it.”

            “Do you want to try the commercial again?”

            She angrily shakes her head. Staggering to her feet, she rushes from the room, supported by her makeup artist.

            And with the focus gone, everyone turns their attention to me, standing in the middle of the floor, holding the now docile animal.

            “Um, they’re really nothing to be afraid of.  It’s a rat snake. They’re not poisonous, they don’t bite unless they’re provoked.” As if on cue, the snake slithers up my arms and seems to look curiously at my face.

            I think back to my 4-H training. “Rat snakes are really very helpful.  Like the name says, they feed on rats and mice and other vermin.”

            “How do you know so much about snakes, Shannon?” asks Mr. Lawrence.

            “Oh, you learn a thing or two about nature in Iowa. Plus my sister loves to catch them and drop them down my shirt.” I notice that the camera is trained on me. “Hi, Chris!”

            A woman in zoo khakis enters with a canvas bag. I unwind the snake and place it inside. Not sure if the camera is still rolling, I still can’t resist hamming it up a bit. “To learn more about our reptile friends, visit the Los Angeles Zoo today!”

            The cameraman gives me a thumbs up. Mr. Lawrence smiles. “Good work, Shannon. Thanks for helping out. Very cool in a crisis.”

            “Thank you, sir.”

            As I head out to the car, I smile. And that, ladies and gentleman, is how to grab an audience. Even if Natalia Jenkins is in the room.

*

            Mila catches me before I leave the zoo. She holds something out to me. A purse.

            I’ve only been a woman for a week, but even I can tell it’s a battered, secondhand thing. Is this some kind of peace offering?

            She flips it open before thrusting it into my hands. Inside are my cell phone and wallet.

            “I’m sorry, Shannon. I went too far. That wasn’t right.”

            Wow. This may be the first time she’s ever shown genuine regret. And I know, after everything she’s forced me through, it’s the only time she’s ever apologized to me.

            I take the purse and walk away.

            “You did good back there,” she calls after me.

            I turn.

            “With the snake,” she continues. “I told Mr. Lawrence that wasn’t a good idea, but he thought it would be funny. Something cute for the outtakes reel.”

            I shrug and keep walking.

            “Hey! I’m trying to be nice here.”

            I whirl. “Good for you, Mila.”

            She quickly closes the distance between us. “What do you want from me, huh? I’m trying to tell you that you handled yourself well today.  You really stepped up.”

            Where was this encouragement a few days ago, when I really needed it? “Thanks,” I snap. “Though I’ve been stepping up all week, if you hadn’t noticed.”

            Her eyes take on the familiar hardness. “It’s not all about you, Shannon. I’ve fought and wrecked myself to get where I am. You’re just…” She trails off.

            “I’m just what?” We’re standing close now. Less than a foot apart.

            She looks like she’s about to backtrack, then changes her mind. “This is just a vacation for you, but it’s my career.”

            I take a step back, trying to calm down. “A vacation? No, Mila, this was my shot! My break! My one chance! And now, thanks to your screw up, I have to go back home and not even tell anyone I was on TV.”

            She smirks. “You know what you look like to me, Shannon? A rube. A well-scrubbed, hustling rube with a little taste. You’re not more than one generation from poor white trash, are you? What’s your father do? Is he a farmer?”

            I’m shocked. “Wow.”

            “Truth hurt?”

            “No, it’s just that you stole that from Silence of the Lambs. I mean, like word for word.”

            She opens her mouth, but doesn’t say anything. She didn’t expect me to catch that. I take the advantage.

            “And I guess I’m not the only one trying to escape their past. How about you? Did you grow up here in Los Angeles, Mila? Did you have to keep your head down and your eyes open on the way to school? How many classmates wound up as chalk outlines? How many neighborhood boys went to the lockup? And you, you just dreamed of that other world.”

            She cocks her head. “And you stole that from ‘Requiem for a Player’.”

            Damn. “I’m not wrong, though, am I?”

            She laughs. “You got me, Shannon. Poor little Black girl, trying to make it in the rich people’s world. But let me tell you something. I’m your only ally here, so stop acting like you don’t need me. You do.”

            While I try to think of a comeback, a car honks at us. As I turn to get out of the road, I realize a limousine is pulling up next to us. And not one of the generic ones the studio owns. This is sleek and well cared for. The passenger window rolls down and Natalia Jenkins sticks her head out.

            “Hey, Iowa! Good show today. Where did you learn to handle snakes like that?”

            I return her smile. “My cousins live in the country. Kind of second nature to me.”

            “Well thanks for having my back. Harvey Lawrence just thinks he’s so funny, so edgy. I’ll see you at the next shoot. We’re going to have fun!”

            I wave as her car pulls away. Then, with a subtle nod and cruel smile to Mila, I go off to find my own ride.

Chapter Twelve

            When I return to my hotel room, there’s a message from Mr. Avery waiting for me at the front desk:

Looks like rain tomorrow, so we’re going to have to put the kibosh on the trip to the Observatory, at least for a while. We’ll start filming again on Monday, Mila will have the details. Take some time to do some sightseeing or something.

            I’m disappointed about not being able to go on that hike. But more than that, I’m disappointed by the prospect of a day and a half on my own.

            Even with my wallet back, I have less than a hundred dollars in cash, and that’s going to have to last me all month. If I hadn’t smarted off to Mila, she might have floated me a loan. Too late for that now.

            I try to power up my phone to see if anything is going on in the neighborhood, but it’s dead and I don’t have the charger. And either Mila still has it or housekeeping accidentally threw it away, because it’s not here. Probably for the best.

            So…thirty-six hours of TV it is. Here in Los Angeles. City of Angels. City of dreams.

            This is my first time west of the Rockies. And I’m just going to sit around a hotel room.

            Not that I can go out. Mila still has my boy clothes. And I can’t very well be seen coming and going as myself anyway. Nope, I’m just going to take it easy here in my room. See what’s on the tube. Practice my stage presence

            Half an hour later, I’m walking out of the lobby. I’m still in girl mode and then some. Mila left me mostly skirts and blouses and dresses. I mean, women wear jeans and t-shirts, right? I guess she didn’t want my disguise to fail.

            So now I’m all dolled up like I’m ready to hit the nightclubs. But I don’t care. I can’t sit alone in that room with my thoughts.

            Just a cup of coffee or two. A magazine. A couple of hours of people watching. No one will notice me. I deserve this.

            I find a little hole-in-the-wall place. An indie coffee shop.

            We didn’t have these in my little slice of suburban hell in Des Moines, at least not near where I live. In my house, coffee was something you drank in the morning, not in the afternoon, and if you wanted to go out for some, there was a place where you could get an Egg McMuffin at the same time.

            I brace myself, then stride through the door. The aroma of coffee beans overwhelms me. The tables are small. The chairs are mismatched. A cat dozes in the corner. About a dozen customers talk, read, and work on laptops. Though no one is playing, a small stage contains microphone stands and speakers.

            I approach the counter with false confidence. I’m about to order a black coffee when I realize I’m not here with Chris or my father and I can order a damn mocha latte if I want. And I do want.

            There’s a stand filled with random coffee table books. I grab a photography journal, sit on a well worn loveseat, and sip my drink.

            It’s cozy in here. My drink is sweet and filling. And if I started coming here every couple of nights, I’m guessing that I could meet people and make friends. Get a job somewhere. Find some roommates and live here full time.

            This is the life I’ve dreamed of for years.

            I cross my legs and glance down at my smooth calves and sensible shoes.

            There’s just one tiny catch.

*

            Today we start filming Darkness in the Daytime. Well, Natalia starts filming. I get the impression they’ve actually already started. But I get to watch. And maybe participate a little.

            The studio car drives me to the soundstage where I’m met by a guard who leads me inside. I have to admit, I glance around for any faces I might have seen on the big screen.

            When I’m led into the green room, I’m a little surprised at how small it is, compared to our past locations. Then I realize that this is the work space for Becoming. The prep area for the movie would obviously be much larger.

            Mr. Lawrence sits at a table with Mila. They’re going through some papers and I’m pleased to see he seems annoyed with Mila. They look up when I walk in.

            Mr. Lawrence frowns at me and my smile dies on my lips. “You’re lucky they didn’t start without you.”

            I swallow the ‘what?’ on my lips and respond with a more feminine ‘I’m sorry?’

            “I needed to talk to you this morning, but you weren’t answering your cell. You can’t really afford to do that, Shannon, we’re on a schedule.”

            He’s not happy, and I can’t really explain why I’m avoiding talking to my parents. “I’m terribly sorry. I left that phone at home. The contract says I’m to stay away from social media while I’m here and I wanted to avoid the temptation.”

            For a second I think he’s going to get angry, but suddenly he laughs. “Are you hearing this, Mila? Shannon, you may be the first kid who actually read that contract, let alone tried to follow the rules! It’s nice to know you can listen to directions. I knew you’d be easy to work with. Mila, can you believe this girl?”

            Mila stares at me icily. “A real peach, this one.”

            Mr. Lawrence shakes his head. “Go pick her up a disposable one. Actually, buy her one of those new Cyborgs.  And tell publicity, let them figure out how to place it.”

            “Yes, sir.”

            “Oh, and Shannon, we can’t send the car for you anymore, so take a taxi or an Uber, okay? Just charge it to your NBS card.”

            I look at him, not understanding. He whirls on Mila.

            “You did get her a company charge card, right?”

            She swallows. “I wasn’t aware that—”

            “Damn it, Mila, this is your responsibility. Just give her yours for now.”

            I think Mila is about to object, but stops herself. She opens her purse and pulls out a charge card with the studio’s name on it.

            “You can use that for meals and such, too. But don’t go buying a bunch of souvenirs though, they do monitor it. Try to limit it to, say, $200 a day.”

            I swallow. That’s about half of what my mother earns in an entire week.

            Mr. Lawrence has already returned to his papers. “Mila, go tell Aaron I need to see him. And grab me another coffee while you’re up.”

            With angry dignity, Mila walks to the door, not glancing at me. But Mr. Lawrence isn’t through.

            “Shannon, can she get anything for you?”

            I know I should decline, but I can’t resist. “Yes please. Coffee, half caf. Two sugars.”

            Mila’s smiles at me as she leaves, but her knuckles are clenching white. I feel a little guilty, but not much. And I’ll have to remember not to drink that coffee, which I’m sure will be liberally seasoned with Mila’s spit.

*

Despite Mr. Lawrence’s sense of urgency, Natalia doesn’t show up until half an hour later.

Everyone stands when she walks in, as if she’s a religious figure or royalty. Which, I suppose she is. She immediately heads for the coffee urn. Three crewmembers rush to fetch her a drink.

            I wonder what it’s like. To be in your early twenties and to have your face on the cover of every magazine. To have millions of dollars. To have fans groveling at your feet. To be the fantasy of every teenage guy in the US.

To have a teenage guy pretend to be a teenage girl just to work with you.

I approach Mr. Lawrence. “Do you have today’s script?”

“No script today. You’re going to go through makeup with Natalia.”

“And then?”

“That’s all. The big movie makeup routine. Smile a lot. Maybe giggle. Let me hear you giggle.”

I giggle.

“Just smile. Look, Shannon, you’re obviously a talented young lady, but remember, every girl in America would love to be in your shoes. It’s okay to act a little awestruck.”

Kiss ass. Got it.

Natalia throws her cup in the trash. “So are we doing this today, or what?”

Everyone jumps to attention. Natalia nods at me, but doesn’t smile.

*

Natalia and I sit side by side in makeup chairs, wearing identical white bathrobes. Changing clothes had been kind of harrowing for me. I think I offended the female wardrobe person when I asked her to leave the room when I put it on, but I couldn’t very well have her seeing me topless. I have the robe cinched up tighter than a straitjacket.

Though I’ve worn makeup for my previous two appearances, I’m supposed to act like this is all new to me. I ponder asking Natalia for advice, but although she’s laying back less than two feet from me, I know better than to speak to her without permission.

The cameras fire up. Mr. Lawrence shouts ‘action.’ Like flipping a switch, Natalia’s face goes from sullen and annoyed to bubbly and friendly.

And I turn on my Iowa hick persona. We’re both actors, after all. And we do it well.

An older woman named Madge does our makeup. I act like it’s the most exciting thing that’s ever happened to me since River City got ‘lectricity.

I’m worried when Madge uses wipes to remove the cosmetics that I put on that morning. Will anyone read me?

Foolish me, the camera stays pointed at Natalia. My own makeup is kind of an afterthought.

I’m reminded of my sophomore year production of Little Abner. I killed in the audition for Senator Phogbound, but the role went to Derek Hinds, a basketball player who decided he wanted to be in the musical. I ended up working as the prompter, feeding him the lines he was too busy to memorize.

I had them memorized.

When we’re finished, the camera finally points to me for more than five seconds. It’s because Natalia has her arm around my shoulder, our cheeks pressed together.

“Sisters!” she giggles. I can tell she’s giving me the rabbit ears.

I smile and smile and smile.

And then it’s over.

Natalia leaves without a goodbye. Mr. Lawrence tells me they’re done with me for the day, but to help myself from the craft services table.

And that’s it. As I head to the changing room, I feel a hand on my arm. It’s Madge, the makeup artist.

“Shannon, is it? May I have a word?”

“Um, okay.”

Madge looks around the room, but we’re alone now. I’m getting nervous, what does she want?

“I know it’s not any of my business,” she begins.

Oh shit.

“And if I’m overstepping myself, just tell me. But when I was doing your makeup, well, I couldn’t help but notice something.”

Shit. Shit. Shit. She knows. She read me. Why wouldn’t she? She’s like Rochelle, skilled in covering things up and creating illusions.

“Maybe you know what I’m talking about?”

Fortunately, she doesn’t seem to be blackmailing me or wanting to out me. But then why mention it? I’m too flummoxed to answer. She continues, shyly.

“Shannon, it’s nothing to be embarrassed about. Lots of girls have a bit of a problem with facial hair. And honestly, if I hadn’t been so close, I wouldn’t have noticed.”

Wow. Years of shaving when I didn’t need to, scanning my skin with my mom’s magnifying mirror, that humiliating time Chris caught me drawing on a mustache with an eyebrow pencil, and nothing. But the first time I don’t want whiskers, someone notices.

“Like I said, it’s none of my business. But I heard you talking about how you wanted to be an actress. It’s a detail like that that can cost you a role. Just some friendly advice, you might want to invest in a waxing kit or visit an electrologist.”

I breathe an internal sigh of relief that I haven’t been figured out. “Um, thank you. Yes. I’ll do that.”

Madge tilts her head. “You have such a, um, distinct face. I just want you to have every advantage.”

*

I change back into my skirt (and am disgusted with how second nature that’s becoming). As I try to figure out the way out of the studio, I spot Michael, the goofy intern.

When he recognizes me he waves.

“Shannon! How did it go?”

It is actually nice to have someone talk to me.

“Not bad. They did my makeup today.”

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Looks good.”

I’d actually washed off the stage makeup and reapplied my cosmetics, but I don’t tell him this.

“So are you going to watch the filming?” he asks.

“Filming?”

“Darkness in the Daytime,” he says, excitedly. “They’re doing the coffee shop scene today. C’mon.”

He doesn’t have to ask me twice. I follow him down several corridors, then stand behind him as he shows his ID and leads me on to a sound stage.  Even though I know what’s coming, I’m still a little overwhelmed. The lights, the microphones, all the behind the scenes hustle, fully visible in front of the little stage set to look like a cozy, New York City coffee shop.

Michael leads me to the back of the room, to some seats behind the cameras and crewmembers. I’m surprised to see Mr. Lawrence and Mila back here with us observers. Of course, this isn’t Becoming. It’s a movie and they’re not officially involved.

“Pretty, impressive, huh?” asks Michael. “Did you know that shots like this aren’t usually filmed in real restaurants?”

“I did know that, actually.”

“Now this isn’t the beginning of the film. More toward the middle. You see, they don’t film movies in chronological order.”

Wow. “Yeah, I know.”

“They’re going to try to shoot all the scenes here at once. It’s a lot easier this way.”

“Yeah, I get it.”

“Now you see over there? That’s a boom mic…”

Fortunately, shooting begins before he explains what the boxy things with the lenses are. The scene, which probably only represents four minutes of actual screen time, is mostly of Natalia’s character having an upset phone call in the coffee shop. We watch quietly as she distractedly orders her drink while reacting to a text message.

I’m not focusing on her, but on the actress playing the barista. She has two lines. She’ll stand here all day, unnoticed, and it’s entirely possible her bit will be cut.

How many people did this woman have to beat to land a role in a Natalia Jenkins movie? To have her name in the credits? To be listed in the IMDB in the Darkness in the Daytime entry? Will this be her one time on screen? Will she constantly pop this movie in for her guests to show them how she was in a real life movie once?

Would she jump at the chance to trail Natalia Jenkins for a month? Even if it meant dressing as a man?

Whenever there’s a break in shooting, Michael ramps up his monologue about filmmaking. I can’t say I blame him, if I worked here, I’d want to impress people with my insider knowledge. Of course he hadn’t told me a thing I don’t already know.

I glance over at Mr. Lawrence and Mila, who are leaning against the back wall, watching something on his device.

“Hey, Michael?” I interrupt. “What do you know about Mila?” If I’m going to be sparring with her for a month, I need to know as much as I can about my rival.

Michael’s face breaks into a big, dopey grin. “Well, she’s worked here for about a year. Youngest assistant producer in the studio’s history. Full scholarship to UCLA film school. Her senior project was a documentary on the lives of—” He suddenly stops talking, realizing that he’s giving me more information than I probably want. “Her favorite color is lilac, her birthday is February 3rd, and she knows how to let a guy down easy.” He shrugs.

“Yeah, but…doesn’t she strike you as kind of…harsh, sometimes?”

To my surprise, he doesn’t argue. “Sure. But you have to be, in this business. And besides…” He looks over at Mila, then back to me. “Her background is kind of different from yours and mine, if you know what I mean. I think she’s trying to prove that she got this job on her own. No special considerations.”

Makes sense, I suppose, but it doesn’t make me feel any warmer. I didn’t exactly grow up in the lap of luxury.

“So how about you, Shannon? Tell me about yourself.”

“Oh, not much to know. I’m from Iowa, my father is a cabbie, and I’ve always wanted to work on stage.”

            “Have you been in anything before?”

I roll my eyes. “Not a lot of opportunity in Des Moines. I almost landed the role of Hamlet in a community theater production last summer, but they went with someone manlier.”

He cocks an eyebrow. “You wanted to play Hamlet?”

Damn it. “No! I mean, I…” Shit.

“That’s great! I think it’s wonderful you’d stretch yourself as an actress like that.”

Whew. “Thanks.”

“You know, men used to play all the women’s parts in Shakespeare’s time.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Real women weren’t allowed to be on stage, you see.”

“Yes, I know, Michael.”

His phone buzzes. “Geez. Gotta go. You can stay here if you like. Just don’t leave while they’re shooting.”

“Bye, Michael.”

“Any noise out here gets recorded, you see.”

            “Thanks.”

I hang around for a while, but seeing the same scene over and over gets tedious, even starring the great Natalia Jenkins. I wait for a lull in the filming and grab my purse.

As I go to leave, I happen to glance at the back wall.

Mr. Lawrence is speaking to Mila. And even from a distance, I can tell it’s not kind. He’s waving some kind of file and jabbing his finger at her face.

Mila just stands there, unsmiling, not reacting.

Mr. Lawrence slams the file on the ground. Papers fly everywhere. He storms off.

Silently, Mila stoops to gather the papers.

I almost, almost walk over to help her, before stopping. Not out of pettiness, I just don’t think she’d appreciate my presence at the moment.

So Mila isn’t a walk on water, do no wrong goddess in the eyes of Mr. Lawrence.

I wish I could say the image of Mila down on her knees, rushing to pick up Mr. Lawrence’s papers gives me a good warm feeling of triumph.

But it doesn’t. Not really.

Chapter Thirteen

            It was a mistake to come here. From the street the bar looked quiet and isolated. I thought it would be a good place to sit and relax and avoid the hotel room.

            Instead it’s loud and crowded, but not so crowded that people didn’t notice when I walked in. The man at the door stared at me. I had a choice between darting out into the street, or strolling in like I actually wanted to be in this sweaty hole. I strolled in.

            I thought maybe they’d kick me out when I ordered a beer, but they served me, no problem. I remember reading that male to female transgender people tend to look older than they really are. Maybe that effect was working for me as well.

            Except now I’m alone at a tiny table, sipping my beer and contemplating the incredibly odd turn my life has taken. On the bright side, I’m living in Los Angeles. I’m hobnobbing with celebrities and making real connections in the TV and movie business.

            On the down side, I cannot possibly put any of those connections to work, ever. And I’m starting to get shoulder pains from these ridiculous boobs Mila bought me. She couldn’t have let me be flat chested?

            I toy with a coaster and try to take a mental inventory. Honestly, can I blame all my problems on my gender bending? I mean, say I had been accepted on Becoming as a male. Natalia would still be stuck up and distant. And if they’d placed me with a male celebrity, wouldn’t things be pretty much the same? Would any big star be impressed by Shannon Ferguson?

            A group of raucous girls at the booth next to me interrupt my thoughts. They’re playing some kind of electronic trivia game against other tables, and are laughing and having the time of their lives. Probably college students. All young, all pretty. I’d love to talk to them. I know the answers to some of the questions they’ve been debating. But what’s the point of trying to make friends as a girl?

            If I were here as a boy—I mean, a man—would things be any different?  Say I was sitting here in all my masculine glory. Would I have the courage to go introduce myself? To brag a little about being in a TV show?

            No, of course not. I’d just sit here and stare at them until they got uncomfortable and changed tables. And if I did swallow enough liquid courage to actually approach them and offer to buy them a drink, they’d just roll their eyes and laugh.

            It’s the school cafeteria all over again. I’m not destined to sit with the popular kids. And no amount of makeup or clothes or theater experience is ever going to change that.

            I take a gulp of beer. I’d leave right now, but this drink wasn’t cheap and I have approximately five dollars left in the bottle.

            The trivia girls are loud. I can’t help but overhear.

            “Sherona! Stop looking at your phone! They’ll disqualify us.”

            “Okay, okay. What was the question again?”

            “What does it mean when someone gets an EGOT?”

            Oh, too easy.

            “EGOT? What the hell’s that?”

            “Maybe it’s a French word. E-go.”

            Jesus.

            “I think she’s right. Hey, isn’t that kind of a French food?”

            “You’re thinking of escargot. Maybe it’s like an expression, you know?”

            C’mon, how can you not know this?

            “No, I’m sure it’s a kind of food. Put that down. A French appetizer.”

            I can stay silent no longer. I turn to the girls.

            “It’s an acronym. Someone who's won an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar, and a Tony.”

            The girls stare at me like I’ve grown another head.

            What the hell was I thinking, jumping in like that? They couldn’t care less what I think. Even if I happen to be right.

            Humiliated, I hunch over my beer.

            Thirty seconds later, I’ve been pulled over to their booth. I’m now the team captain.

*

            We come in dead last. Despite my knowledge of entertainment questions, none of us know anything about sports or old music. But that doesn’t seem to bother my three companions. They look to me for confirmation after every question and don’t seem to mind when I blow it.

            Now we’re sharing a pitcher of margaritas and exchanging life stories. I was right, they’re all college students, members of the same sorority.

            “So what about you, Shannon?” asks Sherona, a petite, short-haired brunette whose nose crinkles in the most adorable way when she laughs. “You’re not from L.A., are you?”

            “No, Iowa. I’m in town to…” Dare I mention it? “To film an episode of Becoming.”

            “Get out! I love that show! Who are you shadowing?”

            “Natalia Jenkins.” I say it all casual like. Me and Natalia. We go way back.

            I’m barraged with questions.

            “What’s she like?”

            “Is she that pretty in person?”

            “Is she nice? Or is that just an act?”

            I smile. “She’s super sweet. She took me horseback riding and we went to the zoo together.”

            The girls squeal. Sherona squeezes my hand.

            “Okay, picture time!”  We all scrunch together and smile at Sherona’s phone. It’s only after she snaps a photo do I have second thoughts. I mean, what if someone sees this and recognizes me?

            Then again, what possible friends would we have in common?

            The party breaks up around midnight. Sherona holds my arm as we walk toward the door. I can almost squint my eyes and pretend I’m not wearing breasts and that we’re on a date.

            “Shannon, are you free this Saturday? We’re doing karaoke!”

            “Oh, I don’t know.”

            “C’mon. I won’t take no for an answer. We’ll meet here at eight o’clock.”

            “I’ll try to make it.”

            The girls all wave as they climb into a taxi. I watch them go.

            I finally made it to the popular kids’ table.

*

            The next day at the studio, Natalia’s leading man is on the set. It’s James Gunderson, irrepressible bad boy, and widely regarded as the worst autograph giver in Hollywood. He stops and says hi to me. I’m filmed as I pretend to fangirl all over him.

            All I can think of is how bad my chest itches. It’s these stupid falsies. They get sweaty and gross and I so want to scratch. I need to scratch. How is it women never scratch? How do they never fart or belch or pick their teeth or have eye boogers or any of the other biological functions that come so naturally to us?

            I want to rip off this stupid bra. I want to tear off this blouse and pull out these earrings and run shirtless through the studio proclaiming that I am a man.

            “Here.”

            Mila jams something into my stomach. It’s a brand spanking new Cyborg 6000 phone.  The kind that goes for $1,500, and that’s without this sleek silver case emblazoned with the NBS logo and my name.

            “Keep that with you,” she says, already walking away. “Publicity is going to want to take a few shots of you using it.”

            “Thanks,” I mumble, already playing with it. I never thought I’d own anything this nice, at least not until my first movie deal. I guess this is why I got up early today to shave my armpits. There are rewards.

            The director of Darkness in the Daytime calls for quiet on the set. I settle into my chair. We’re still using the coffee shop set, though now it’s for one of the final scenes in the movie. The big, last minute reconciliation scene between Natalia’s character and James’s.

            It does not go well. I can’t tell if Natalia is exhausted or hungover or just plain doesn’t like the guy, but her delivery is flat. She flubs her lines. She barks at the extras. After over an hour, they’ve yet to film a usable take.

            James, I have to admit, gives his lines flawlessly. I’d almost believe he really was trying to convince his platonic college roommate that what happened last week wasn’t a mistake and that if she was going to spend a semester in China, then by God, he was coming with her.

            He laughs nervously every time Natalia blows a scene. I can tell the director, who is as big as Orson Wells in more ways than one, is getting frustrated.

            After another half hour, things finally gel. Natalia turns on her charm. Turns on the tears. Hits every line. The relief in the room is palpable.

            Then, right when we’re in the home stretch, right when she’s giving the second to last line, someone’s cell phone rings. Loudly. A full volume blast of ‘Who Let the Dogs Out?’

            It’s my phone. Everyone, including some of the most powerful people in Hollywood, glare at me as I fumble to turn it off.

            It’s one of those moments where you feel too stupid to apologize and those you’ve angered are too pissed off to even say anything. But everyone is frowning.

            Except for Mila, who smiles and waves her own phone at me.

*

            After three increasingly miserable hours, they call it a day. Natalia lets out a loud groan and begins to march off stage, ignoring an extra who tries to talk to her.

            Mr. Lawrence stops her before she can leave.

            “Miss Jenkins, we do need to do a couple of shots for Becoming. If you don’t mind.” He quickly adds.

            Natalia looks over at me and winces. “Do we have to do this shit today?”

            Quite frankly, I’d just as soon pass as well. I’ve sweated through my clothes and I really have to pee. But Mr. Lawrence gestures for me to join them.

            Natalia barely looks at me. “James!” she barks. “This is Shannon from Iowa. Run lines with her or something for a couple of minutes, would you?” She then sits down on a barstool and begins texting.

            James looks almost embarrassed. “So how do you like the big city, young lady?” he asks as Mr. Lawrence sets up the shot.

            “Oh, it’s wonderful.” And how’s your probation going? Finished your community service yet?

            Mr. Lawrence puts his hand on my shoulder. I know better than to squirm away.

            “Okay, kids, let’s give Shannon a chance to do some real acting. How about that last line?

James’ll give his little spiel and then Shannon, you say ‘no’.”

            One word? I hope they have a teleprompter or something.

            “You got that Shannon?”

            “Yes.”

            “No. You say ‘no.’”

            “Right.”

            I thought James would just be reading his speech, but no, he decides to put his all into it. Which means, just like with Natalia, he’s gripping me by the upper arms. Kind of roughly, actually. With each point he makes, he shakes me like a rag doll. Our foreheads almost collide once.

            Not that I’m phoning it in. I only get one word. Fine, I’m going to make it count. I put on my best I know I shouldn’t be in love with this man but he’s made me feel things I never thought I could, experience feelings I never thought were possible, and how can I move across the globe knowing that I may be giving up on the best thing that ever happened to me since my high school boyfriend was tragically killed on prom night? expression. I’ve read the script.

            James leans toward me, still shaking me around to the point of motion sickness.

            “Rainflower, look at me! I’m dying here! Is that what you want?”

            He leans in closer.

            “You’re destroying me. Destroying what makes me a man!”

            Closer still. I can feel his breath on my face.

            “Rainflower, answer me! Do you want me out of your life?”

            Closer still. Way too close. His voice drops to a whisper.

            “Do you want me to—”

            “NO!” Before I can stop myself, I shove him away with both hands.

            He’s not expecting this and he kind of stumbles. Everyone, including Natalia, is looking at me in shock.

            James does that nervous laugh thing, though he looks a little hurt. “What? Do I have bad breath or something?”

            Well, I can tell you’re up to two packs a day, but that’s not it.

            “No! It’s just…”

            Everyone is staring. And I’m already on thin ice about the phone thing.

            “It’s just that I read the script. Um, your character is sort of…well, he’s sort of a jerk. He kind of plays with her. I mean, would she just take him back after a two minute speech?”

            I brace myself, waiting for Mr. Lawrence or Mila to yell at me. But James breaks into a huge smile. “You know, I thought the same thing. Seriously, what the hell kind of guy breaks up with a woman while she’s in the shower?”

            I sign internally. “I know, right? I just thought, well, you know…”

            “She’d make him beg!” finishes James. “I mean, not beg, but kind of let him squirm a little. You know, maybe this scene isn’t right. Natalia, I could tell you weren’t into it. What do you think?”

            Natalia is still sitting on the barstool. She looks at us with a smile. “I think Iowa here has a good future in screenwriting.”

            I smile and shyly bow my head. I’m not really pretending to be bashful at this point.

            James claps his hands. “Great. Let’s talk it over at the next production meeting. Shannon, it was a pleasure.” He shakes my hand. He and Natalia walk out together. Mr. Lawrence shoots me a thumbs up as he leaves as well.  I stand there beaming, long after they’re gone.

            “You want some advice?” Mila has joined me and is looking at me in that disapproving way. I’m not going to let her get to me.

            “If it’s about turning off my phone, I’m way ahead of you.”

            “I’m serious. You’re making a big mistake.”

            There’s something in her tone that makes me listen. “How do you mean?”

            “Well, you really impressed everyone today, with your ad libbing. I think James was amazed by a girl who wasn’t all gaga about him. Mr. Lawrence says you’re the best guest we’ve ever had on the show. And I’ve heard other people talking about you. They think you’re doing great.”

            “And my big mistake is…?”

            Mila glances over her shoulder at the emptying studio. “Ms. Jenkins. You can’t be making enemies like that.”

            I blink in confusion. “Making enemies? The woman has barely spoken two words to me off camera.”

            Again, the nervous glance. “That’s not what I mean. Look, Shannon, Natalia is used to being the center of attention. Ever since she was seventeen. And as long as you act all worshipful and awestruck, she’s going to be your best friend. But once you start looking good around her, impressing her costars and putting a little attention on yourself, she won’t like it. She’s done it before. Gotten actresses cut from a production because other people noticed them. One word from her and they got the axe.”

            I try not to show how flummoxed I am. “Well, it’s a good thing I’m not actually getting paid, so I guess she can’t have me fired.”

            “Would you be serious, Shannon? Just toe the line, okay? Do what they ask, nothing more. You don’t want to make anyone jealous.”

            “Well…” I look at my growing nails. “Someone is jealous.”

            “What’s that supposed to mean?”

            “Nothing at all, Mila.” I smile. I smile wide.

            She shakes her head. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you. And Shannon? Use that charge card. You can’t keep showing up in those same two outfits.”

            I watch her go. Mila was just being paranoid, right? I mean, I know Natalia is self-absorbed, but I’m so beneath her notice, I seriously doubt she’d care that I made a suggestion. Heck, I only went off script because I was afraid James was going to plant a big wet one on me.

            One thing she was right about, I do need some new clothes. Too bad I know jack squat about women’s fashions. And I have no one who can advise me.

            Unless…

*

            “Rochelle, thank you again for all your help.” We’re walking down the street toward my hotel, both of us staggering under the weight of several clothing bags.

            “Sweetie, it’s my pleasure. I always wanted a daughter that I could take shopping.”

            “Are you sure I can’t pay you?” I was surprised when she offered to help me pick out some new clothes without accepting money for her time.

            “Shannon, I’m having fun. And I didn’t exactly do this for free.” She pats a bag. I’d paid for more than one flashy outfit in Rochelle’s size.

            We’d hit a half dozen stores, mostly small places and consignment shops. They all seemed to know Rochelle there. Everyone noticed my flamboyant companion. No one looked twice at me.

            We stop in front of my hotel. “I couldn’t have done this without you, Rochelle.”

            She winks. “It’s my pleasure to help out such a sweet young lady.”

            I kind of take offense at that. “You know I’m not a lady. I’m just trying this out.”

            She cocks a pencil thin eyebrow. “You spent over six hundred dollars just to try things out?”

            I grimace. That’s way over my daily allowance, but when you look at it on a weekly basis, I’m still way under budget. And what right does she have to psychoanalyze me?

            She raises a manicured hand before I can object. “I’m sorry, that was rude of me. None of my business.”

            I shrug. “Well…I have my reasons. But it’s too bad you don’t have a daughter. She’d be a lucky girl.”

            Rochelle shoulders her bag and looks at me in a strange way. “Good night, Shannon. Call me if you need any more help.” She begins to walk, but pauses.

            “And for the record, I do have a daughter. I guess I meant that I wish that I had a daughter who would let me take her shopping. Or accept my phone calls.”

            I sadly watch her walk off into the night, head held high, her gait perfectly feminine.

One foot in front of the other.