remind her. “I volunteer at the Cinematheque. I’m working the reception. Jesus, Mom, take some notes or something. I live on this planet, too.”
Mom’s face falls. She thought she finally had the key to getting in with me. I think she thinks she’s trying.
“Well, we can still make it kind of like a date. Won’t that be fun?”
“I’ll be there early.”
“Oh. Well then,” she says. “Okay.”
I retreat down the hallway and go to my room and throw myself on my bed.
I turn and notice my masks staring at me. They sit on the shelf, passing judgment. They are grotesque and accusatory and I deserve it.
When I was a little girl, my mom and I were always laughing together and doing goofy things. We actually got along. Then, one day, we suddenly lost the ability to understand each other.
Despite my tough exterior, my I-don’t-care attitude, my thick-skinned, slit-eyed meanness, I feel shitty about being horrible to my mom. She didn’t do anything except try to be nice to me.
I discover that my cheeks are wet and I am crying.
My prosthetic nose keeps dipping into the spoon and getting wet with vegetable soup. I told the makeup assistant person that I could take it off for lunch and put it back on by myself; I even told her I had the adhesive with me in my bag, but she didn’t believe I could do it.
I told her that I thought the makeup guy was not as good as my dad. I told her that even I could do the special-effects makeup on this TV movie better than her. I told the producer of the show, too. But the producer refused to be influenced by me.
I hate all the other extras on the set, so I bailed on the free bagels and wraps and went to the commissary. Here at least I can read my book in peace and not talk to all the wannabes and weirdos that make up the background players.
I pull the nose off, meaning the makeup people will be upset with me, but fuck it. It’s annoying to eat with, and I don’t want to sip my soup through a straw.
I open my bag and take out my book,
The Stars My Destination,
and begin to read. I should study my math, but it’s Saturday and for once I don’t want to do homework.
After lunch, I head back to the set and into the makeup trailer to put my nose back on.
“Hello?”
They must all still be eating lunch. I make my way up into the empty trailer and run my hands along the countertop. I examine all the stuff. There’s a clear tackle box full of ears. Another one full of noses. There are Styrofoam heads on shelves, with various latex parts pinned to them. The heads have the actors’ names emblazoned on their foreheads in black Sharpie pen.
I close my eyes and listen to the sounds from the studio. The golf carts. The crackle of walkie-talkies. The extras, the actors, the crew walking by the open door of the trailer. I feel good in the makeup truck. Like I can breathe.
I motivate myself and rummage in my bag until I find the adhesive to secure my nose. Then I sit in the chair and begin applying.
“What are you doing in here?”
I look up into the mirror, and standing behind me is the head makeup guy.
“My nose came off.”
“It shouldn’t have come off.”
“Okay, I pulled it off so I could eat my soup. I’m putting it back on.”
“Did you go through my drawers?” he asks, motioning at the open drawer.
“Yeah, you used a different kind of adhesive from the one I have in my bag.”
“Ah, you must be Victoria. Ursula told me about you.”
He comes over and examines my work. Makes a slight color adjustment of the nose, blending in the edges. Then nods to himself.
“Good work,” he says. Then he extends his hand. “I’m Jacques. I heard you were telling the producer you could do my job better than I can.”
I feel kind of stupid hearing my words thrown back at me, but I look at him even-steven.
“I know how to do this. My dad taught me, and he is the best.”
“I know who your father is. He’s
one
of the best. I am another one of the best.”
“Then
Mom’s face falls. She thought she finally had the key to getting in with me. I think she thinks she’s trying.
“Well, we can still make it kind of like a date. Won’t that be fun?”
“I’ll be there early.”
“Oh. Well then,” she says. “Okay.”
I retreat down the hallway and go to my room and throw myself on my bed.
I turn and notice my masks staring at me. They sit on the shelf, passing judgment. They are grotesque and accusatory and I deserve it.
When I was a little girl, my mom and I were always laughing together and doing goofy things. We actually got along. Then, one day, we suddenly lost the ability to understand each other.
Despite my tough exterior, my I-don’t-care attitude, my thick-skinned, slit-eyed meanness, I feel shitty about being horrible to my mom. She didn’t do anything except try to be nice to me.
I discover that my cheeks are wet and I am crying.
My prosthetic nose keeps dipping into the spoon and getting wet with vegetable soup. I told the makeup assistant person that I could take it off for lunch and put it back on by myself; I even told her I had the adhesive with me in my bag, but she didn’t believe I could do it.
I told her that I thought the makeup guy was not as good as my dad. I told her that even I could do the special-effects makeup on this TV movie better than her. I told the producer of the show, too. But the producer refused to be influenced by me.
I hate all the other extras on the set, so I bailed on the free bagels and wraps and went to the commissary. Here at least I can read my book in peace and not talk to all the wannabes and weirdos that make up the background players.
I pull the nose off, meaning the makeup people will be upset with me, but fuck it. It’s annoying to eat with, and I don’t want to sip my soup through a straw.
I open my bag and take out my book,
The Stars My Destination,
and begin to read. I should study my math, but it’s Saturday and for once I don’t want to do homework.
After lunch, I head back to the set and into the makeup trailer to put my nose back on.
“Hello?”
They must all still be eating lunch. I make my way up into the empty trailer and run my hands along the countertop. I examine all the stuff. There’s a clear tackle box full of ears. Another one full of noses. There are Styrofoam heads on shelves, with various latex parts pinned to them. The heads have the actors’ names emblazoned on their foreheads in black Sharpie pen.
I close my eyes and listen to the sounds from the studio. The golf carts. The crackle of walkie-talkies. The extras, the actors, the crew walking by the open door of the trailer. I feel good in the makeup truck. Like I can breathe.
I motivate myself and rummage in my bag until I find the adhesive to secure my nose. Then I sit in the chair and begin applying.
“What are you doing in here?”
I look up into the mirror, and standing behind me is the head makeup guy.
“My nose came off.”
“It shouldn’t have come off.”
“Okay, I pulled it off so I could eat my soup. I’m putting it back on.”
“Did you go through my drawers?” he asks, motioning at the open drawer.
“Yeah, you used a different kind of adhesive from the one I have in my bag.”
“Ah, you must be Victoria. Ursula told me about you.”
He comes over and examines my work. Makes a slight color adjustment of the nose, blending in the edges. Then nods to himself.
“Good work,” he says. Then he extends his hand. “I’m Jacques. I heard you were telling the producer you could do my job better than I can.”
I feel kind of stupid hearing my words thrown back at me, but I look at him even-steven.
“I know how to do this. My dad taught me, and he is the best.”
“I know who your father is. He’s
one
of the best. I am another one of the best.”
“Then
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