Chapter One
Charlotte
“Cut! That’s a wrap. Fantastic job. Everyone go home and love on your families. I know this was a tough shoot for all of us, but I want everyone to know how much I appreciate all your hard work.”
The production bell rang, and everyone scattered. Directors and assistants were off to meet with producers to work out the post-production schedule, lighting crews descended to disassemble the rigs, sound assistants yanked up the gaffer tape holding down all the wires, and I hobbled over to the makeup trailer and collapsed in the chair. In moments, a makeup artist and three assistant artists went to work on me, taking the extensions out of my silvery wig and then getting me out of the hot, heavy wig altogether. Once my natural coppery strands were freed of the wig cap, I felt infinitely more like myself.
Then they went about de-latexing me, rubbing my shoulders, neck, and the back of my hands with isopropyl alcohol so they could pry up the shimmering blue scales it had taken five hours to apply plus who knows how long to actually mold and paint. I was used to the routine, and before they stood me up to strip me out of my padded clothing, I kicked off my shoes, mourning my blistered, calloused toes. They looked like they’d been in a boxing match, not like they belonged on one of the most sought after, highest paid, “it girl” actresses of the moment.
“Do what the ballerinas do, honey. Just put ‘em in an ice bucket when ya get home. That’ll take the swelling down. Keep your blisters covered in liquid Band-Aide and stay off of them as much as you can. They’ll heal themselves in no time.” Jen, the makeup artist smiled at me. “Don’t worry. They’ll be just as pretty as they were before you know it. Well, until the next shoot I guess.”
I sighed as all four of them went to work peeling the skintight suit with padding in the hips, ass, and boobs off my athletic frame. Until the next shoot. The makeup artists words echoed in my thoughts. I was so lucky. So goddamn lucky. Scouted on the street by a modeling agency at nineteen, I balanced shoots, go-sees, and full class schedule at Cornell in international studies and humanitarian work, all while knowing modeling was only the stepping stone.
I wanted to be an actress. My whole body ached to perform, and in those early days of rude photographers who said I didn’t know how to move, or arrogant clients who said I wasn’t right for their brand, I always pushed through, because I knew there was something on the other side, something I was working toward. I scraped and struggled and worked my way up until I made a name for myself in the modeling world. Then I did it all again the film industry.
But now, seeing myself in the harsh, stark white light of the commercial makeup mirrors lining the trailer, I wasn’t sure if this was what I still wanted. Did I have another movie in me?
“No, no. You have to pull it taut, like this,” Jen said to one of the assistants.
The four of them pulled and yanked and rolled the leather suit down an inch at a time. Once de-suited, which took forty-five minutes, I collapsed into the chair again, slinging a robe over me as I did.
“You know,” Jen said as she began taking off the extensive cream paint on my face. “I don’t normally read the scripts for the movies I work on, but this one seemed like a real winner to me.”
I smiled at her. Jen always seemed to know when I needed cheering up. “Yeah, it should be something special. What could be better than a space opera with dragons?” I picked off a flake of residual latex from my collarbone.
“Hm, you know, honey, I can never tell if you’re being serious or not.”
“I’m sorry, Jen. It was a very difficult shoot.” That was putting it mildly. The makeup and thirty-pound wig weren’t so bad. I’d done enough period pieces and been stuffed into enough corsets to be intimately familiar with the pain associated with beauty. It was the hanging around in a harness from my inner thighs while the crew redid lights and changed cameras for three weeks straight that really got under my skin. It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The script, which for the record I loved and did actually think was something special, called for a massive power failure, and that meant no artificial gravity on the ship. But my legs were so bruised and swollen, they didn’t resemble legs anymore. “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. You’ve been nothing but sweet to me.”
“Hey, no worries, Char. This business is a machine—a big toothy one that chews up pretty people like you and spits them out. Don’t you worry. I’ll get you outta here as quick as I can, so you can get back home and get yourself fixed up. Deal?”
“Deal,” I said, watching her strip away layers of iridescent blue paint. When my own freckled skin finally emerged, I came to terms with what had been rumbling within me for at least the last year.
I did not want to be an actress anymore.