BAD ACTING

TRUST

        Bang. Bang! BANG!

        I opened the door and Leah stomped into my house screaming.

        "You can't keep ignoring me and hiding like this!"

        "I'm sorry"

        "What is going on?"

        "I lost my job."

        "How?"

        "When I flew to New York for that meeting. I missed work and they fired me."

        "Are you serious?"

        "Yes."

        "What really happened in New York?" Leah asked sitting against the wall in a heap.

        "I told you," I answered, sitting next to her.

        Leah looked at me, rolling her eyes.

        "Something happened in New York. What did Barry do?"

        "Nothing!"

        "That fucking bastard cunt piece of shit..."

        "Leah, Barry didn't do anything."

        "You're lying."

        I started to cry.

        "I just need a job."

        "Tell me the truth and I'll get you a job."

        "I can't."

        "Why not?"

        "I just can't."

        Leah took a deep breath, calming herself.

        "Why don't you trust me?"

        "I don't trust anybody."

        "What is wrong with you?"

        "Did you come over here to make me feel even more shitty?"

        "Maybe."

        I choked out a laugh.

        "I promise I won't tell a soul, but if you want my help I want the truth."

        "You promise you won't tell anybody?"

        "Yes!"

        I tried to find the words, but every sentence sounded wrong in my head.

        "Did he touch your bathing suit area? " Leah asked, drawing a circle around her crotch.

        "...yes."

        "Mother fucker, I knew it."

        The truth spilled out.

        "I've heard some gnarly stories about that dude, I should have warned you, but I had no idea you were meeting with him. And flying to New York? Jesus!"

        "I am done talking about it."

        "Ok."

        "I'm sorry."

        "Me too."

        Leah stood up.

        "Well let's go."

        "Where?"

        "Don't you need a job?"

        "Yes."

        "Karen is looking for a new assistant. I used to help in her high school, I hated it. She's a royal bitch... but what are your options?"

        Leah called Karen while I changed clothes.

        The two of us drove to the studio to meet with Karen. Karen explained the basics of the job. Making copies of scenes, checking in students, and running errands.

        "The position is yours if you want it," Karen said.

        "I do," I replied.

        "Leah. Teach him the ropes."

*

        Karen taught two classes each weekday and the rest of her schedule consisted of private coaching. For the classes, I sat behind a desk and checked students in. Parents dropped off their child actors and nannies picked them up. Leah and Karen introduced me to all of the students and their handlers. I studied the organized headshots memorizing each kid. I took copious amounts of notes on all the information thrown at me in a notebook.

        During classes, I made copies of scripts and sides, answered phone calls, and dealt with scheduling. Karen gave me a work cell that linked her personal schedule so we could update together and always be on the same page. I learned to cancel and re-schedule Karen's private coaching due to her elite client's constantly changing shooting schedules.

        Karen answered her own calls, but the ones she missed would go directly to my work cell. Karen color-coded her electronic schedule so I could organize the time slots available.

        I caught on quickly and after two weeks I flew solo without Leah.

*

        Working for Karen was a challenge.

        I loved it.

        I slowly became an asset to Karen and getting her approval fed my drive to excel.

        The young actors I met each day worked on all the top TV and Film projects for their age group. I enjoyed working around these young professionals, feeling connected to the industry.

        My confidence slowly rose a few notches as I stabilized in my new job.

        The Friday of my second work week, one of the teen girls slapped a magazine on the desk and pointed up to me.

        "This is you," she said, solving a mystery in her head.

        I looked down at the pages of Nylon magazine.

        "Yes. That is me."