Page 3 of The Spirit of Love
“Mmm?”
“I think I need to say this out loud to someone, to get it off my chest before the shoot. And you’re…here, so here goes—”
“You’re the one who put my silk bra in the microwave?” She points a finger at me.
“No—what? No. I met someone this weekend. His name is Sam.” Simply saying his name aloud makes me tingle. “And we had this—”
“Mind-blowing sex?”
“Yes!”
Aurora slaps me hard across the face.
“Ow! What the hell, Aurora?”
“Better?”
I touch my stinging cheek. As the pain fades, a new clarity emerges. “Yes. I think so.”
Aurora nods. “I’m glad you got boned. Your pores really needed it. But I need youfocusedtoday. Dialed fucking in. We all do. You read?”
I nod, wincing. “I read.”
“Good. Action, bitch!” she sings as she bounds away.
Rubbing my cheek, I approach the trailer of Buster Zamora,Zombie Hospital’s ten-year-old child star, who can easily go toe-to-toe with Aurora on the diva-style demands. But working closely with Buster last year, I stumbled upon a secret: All he needs to take the edge off is fifteen minutes of meditation first thing in the morning. I see him now, eyes closed, sitting on a vintage Oushak rug spread on the fake grass of his trailer’s front yard. His chest rises and falls with his breaths as his guru, Jane, handpicked by me and budgeted throughout this season, leads him through the low chanting of his mantra. Jane gives me a thumbs-up, and I exhale. If Buster is grounded, today will be much easier.
I invite myself to feel grounded, too. This weekend was a roller-coaster—a wild and gorgeous ride—but I’m here to work now, and I’m calm and collected. Maybe it was Aurora’s slap. Or maybe I’m just the right person for this job. I tell myself I’m ready to meet any challenge today with dignity and patience.
I dash up the steps to my trailer, decorated withZombie Hospitalposters and preschool portraits of my nephews. I have forty-two minutes until call, and after I check my teeth for raspberry seeds from the smoothie I inhaled in my car, I’ll take out today’s sides and review my plans for our scenes.
There’s a knock before I even make it to my mirror.
“What is it, Aurora?” I call.
The door flings open and our production assistant, Ivy Rinata, appears. Her long brown braids are damp with sweat around her hairline, and she’s out of breath. Strange. I’ve made the mistake of taking a “Highway to Hell” Orangetheory class with Ivy before, and she never once got winded, so this a little alarming. Where exactly did she run from, and why?
“Ivy, you good?”
“Did you lose your phone again?”
“No, why?”
“Didn’t you get Rich’s messages?”
I look down at my silenced phone, presently lit up with eight—no, nine—texts, all from my least favorite producer, and all sent within the last two minutes.
“What’s going on?” I ask, a lead anvil bouncing like a pinball in my gut.
“Follow me.”
As we jogacross the set in silence, I wonderWhat the fuck?on repeat. Rich wasn’t always my least favorite producer. Once upon a time, he hired me to be his assistant, fresh out of UCLA film school, and I actually liked working for him. I never likedhim, per se—my sixth sense always shoutedBoundaries!around Rich—but the job was just what I wanted. The ropes. Me learning them.
For two years, I drafted his emails, poked fun at his ridiculous coffee orders, watched every film he insisted was “canon,” and then galled him with my critiques. In turn, he did a halfway good job of mentoring me and also gave me tons of free tickets to premieres and concerts and plays. He spoke about the “Fenster Future,” when he said I’d be running this town.
But then, right around the time my fellow assistant pals onZombie Hospitalstarted either getting promoted or being recruited by other shows, I stayed right where I was—in line at Starbucks, waiting on a nitro stevia mocha with Rich’s name Sharpie’d on the sleeve.
I know I could have jumped up the ladder to another show myself. I had lunches and Zooms during that time, offering me more money and creative freedom than I had in my current job. ButZombie Hospitalhas always fit me in a way that felt personally significant, reflective of my life and passions. Plus, I’d already put in two years of hard, driven, quality work. I didn’t want to schedule that meeting with Rich to press him for a promotion, but it was well past time when I finally did.
