Chapter 3: I Guess I'm Doing This

It's obvious, now. Anyone who's subject to the endless stream of celebrity news on social media or in line at the grocery store knows about the Fontaines. They're probably the most famous family in Hollywood, and every single one of them is involved in the movie industry somehow. Luca Fontaine is arguably the biggest star - and the only one who pursues acting full time - but all of his brothers are famous in their own ways. Dante, the oldest, is renowned as a screenwriter. Rafe has done everything from modeling to voiceover work to motocross racing. Orlando is the youngest - and arguably the one who's spent the least amount of time in the spotlight, which is why I didn't recognize him on sight - but most people still know his name. He's been focusing on directing, much like his father, the legendary Charles Fontaine.

I blush as the hair and makeup team begins their work. When you've been unemployed for as long as I have, you somehow end up reading a lot of clickbait articles about famous people, just to take a break from sending out resumes. Most of the focus is on Orlando's brothers, but there have been a handful of rumors about him, too. Some of which are...interesting, to say the least. Like the one that he turns into a complete sex fiend whenever he's working on a movie. They say that the stress gets to his head, and that he eases it by having torrid affairs with supermodels. I wonder how much of that is actually true. It's only too easy to imagine him as some sort of sexual god, turning that powerful fervor I saw in his eyes toward a night of passion and pleasure...

It's not until someone bends over me with a makeup brush in hand that I recognize where my thoughts have strayed. I clear my head and try to focus on the here and now. On the fact that I've blown off my interview for the opportunity to be in a movie.

The makeup artist working on me is named Penny, and she has bright red hair extensions and eyelashes to die for. She gives me some fake lashes of my own before applying a crap-ton of concealer and powder.

"You actually have great skin," she tells me. "This is just so all the lights don't bounce off your face."

"Don't worry," I tell her. "I know I sweat like a swamp beast."

She laughs as she continues her work. Meanwhile a skinny man with a faux hawk puts something in my hair to smooth down all the frizz and then redoes my ponytail. I'm sad that they aren't doing anything too dramatic to my appearance, but I guess if I'm going to be playing someone's assistant, I don't need purple lipstick or big, glamorous waves in my hair. Still, I steal peeks at myself in the mirror beyond Penny's shoulder, and I'm pleased by how huge my blue-gray eyes look beneath my new false lashes. At some point a frazzled-looking assistant pops by with some form for me to sign, and I scribble down my signature as Penny spreads a pale pink gloss on my lips.

When they're finally done, I look polished and pretty. Definitely nothing like the hot mess who stumbled into the lobby this morning, the girl who had an unevenly cooked frozen dinner for breakfast and only shaved her legs up to the knee so she didn't look like Sasquatch in her pencil skirt. Now, from certain angles, I almost look hot.

Karen must have a sixth sense for these things, because she appears in the tent only a moment after the makeup team announces they're finished with me. With her is a woman with a handful of shirts hung over her arm.

"Take off your top," Karen tells me. "We're putting you in a different blouse. One that doesn't have pit stains."

My face turns a dozen shades of red. I'd hoped that I was just being paranoid about how bad my armpits were. But there's no denying it now. I quickly shrug out of my blazer.

No one moves away as I begin unbuttoning my shirt, and I tell myself that people are used to seeing each other in various states of undress on a movie set. Everyone's a professional here. Still, it's hard not to feel embarrassed as I slide my top off my shoulders. Especially considering the state of my bra. New bras aren't exactly a top priority when you're unemployed and on a limited budget. I'm currently wearing the only one of my bras that still fits me properly, but it's barely holding together. The underwire has popped out on one side, and the once peach-colored fabric has faded to an old, musty taupe color, with darker patches near my armpits where the sweat has soaked through. Yeah, I know everyone has at least one crappy old bra that still finds its way into their rotation, but it's not exactly the sort of thing you want strangers seeing.

Karen grabs a shirt from the woman at her side and shoves it in my direction. "Try this one first. And while you're at it, I need you to take off your underwear. Unless you want a visible panty line in your big film debut."

She says it without a hint of emotion, as if talking about a stranger's underwear is just another ordinary, boring part of her job. Maybe it is. But I'm pretty sure I blush even harder. I had no idea my panty line was that obvious. And I thought showing these people my bra was bad, but showing them my panties is even worse. My bra looks pristine next to the five-year-old period panties.

But I'm not about to miss out on the chance to be in this movie - and Karen is right, I don't want a panty line on camera - so I decide to suck it up and do as I'm told.

I slide my arms into the sleeves of the new blouse, just to cover myself for the moment, then try to figure out how to sidle out of my panties without pulling up my skirt. Maybe I can get them off without anyone getting a good look at them.

As I pinch at the fabric around my hips and try to wiggle my panties down my thighs, I'm aware that I've started sweating again. I pray that it doesn't soak through my new blouse. It takes a few tries, but I finally manage to push my underwear down my legs, and once they get past my rather curvy thighs, they fall into a sad little pile around my high heels.

And then the last voice on the planet that I want to hear right about now reaches my ears.

"Okay, Karen, where is she?"