Starring Adelyne Cruz

words by Cayla Celis, art by Danielle Zhang

I shouldn’t be here.

The script I hold is thicker than anything I’ve held before. My throat is tight, virtual strangulation, but I’m still breathing, breathing the same air that the James Rooney breathes as we sit in front of the people who will decide whether he gets another credit for his filmography and whether I will restart my acting career. 

Maybe Mom was right. I shouldn’t be here.

“Even at age eleven, I wanted to be them. I wanted to be something else other than myself.”

One of the casting directors speaks. “I’m so glad you two could join us! Especially you, Adelyne. I watch LightHouse all the time, it’s like my comfort movie. I’ve always wondered what happened to you. What made you want to audition?”

My first instinct is to blurt out something revealing, something like “I have never hated a character as much as I hate Michelle. She acts entitled and expects everything to be easy. She’s nothing like me. But that’s exactly why I audition again and again even though I fail again and again. Because it wasn’t enough for me to read about characters going on adventures, even at age eleven. I wanted to be them. I wanted to be something else other than myself.

But I don’t.

I know what they want to hear. “Reading the script made me really like Michelle. She spoke to me, she felt like me, and I knew after finishing reading, I just had to audition!” When I finish speaking, I notice that half my script has wrinkled from my sweaty grip. I eventually unclench (unclench, please unclench) my fist from my script, and I smooth it out as much and as fast as I can.

“Only fifteen, Judy already looked like a movie star, our generation’s very own Marilyn Monroe.”

I haven’t been this nervous since the first play I’d ever done: Snow White. Minutes before the play’s premiere, I found my script unreadable after gripping it tight for hours. To calm down, I thought of my mom. If she knew that I was panicking, she’d use this as an opportunity to pounce, to berate me. My efforts didn’t matter. After the show, my mom was nowhere to be found.

It must be awhile since I’ve spoken, because James quips, “Adelyne? Are you still there with us?” The casting directors chuckle. I laugh a second after.

I can see why people like him. Charismatic and pretty, he's a male version of Judy, Judy Synger. He’s someone destined to play the main love interest, the main character. Meanwhile I knew that I would never play roles like that when I was twelve, always pulling at the fat on my cheeks, my stomach, my thighs. But Judy seemed like she had it all made. When I met her during auditions for Lighthouse, Judy was tall and slender, no blonde hair out of place, all pretty in pink. Only fifteen, Judy already looked like a movie star, our generation’s very own Marilyn Monroe. And yet she let me sit next to her as we waited to prove ourselves for our first big movie roles, my heartbeat steadying more and more over time as I debated with myself in my head about my character’s speaking habits and tics.

“Resentment. It’s a word all too familiar to me. ”

I flash a polite smile. “Sorry, it’s been awhile since I last auditioned.”

The casting directors in return look at me in pity. “That’s alright. We’ll give you some time to prepare. For some context, the scene you and James will do is during the film’s climax, where Michelle fights Luke. It is here that they confront the resentment brewing in each of their hearts.”

Resentment. It’s a word all too familiar to me. It’s been there since Judy came up to me one time after filming, her eyes lacking the confidence it normally had. I still remember what she said to me then. Please, I’m not good at this whole acting thing like you are. Tell me what I need to do to be good. Please. Her begging soon became a tradition, a late-night, an early-morning sort of custom. What do I do in this role? I’ve never done anything like it before. Please. You’re the only one that I can talk to who knows anything. And so, the more roles I helped her get, helped her keep, the less roles I got over the years. And when I turned eighteen, I decided to focus on something more practical and become a drama teacher, something my mom would make fun of slightly less.

I feel my jaw tighten. 

“Maybe you’d earn more if you acted like Judy Synger. ”

And yet, I helped Judy without asking for some credit, compensation, so that I could leave some illegitimate legacy behind. Anything to leave a legacy that wouldn’t be tainted by Mom. I coached Judy for hours at a time, just for her to not contact me for weeks. Eventually I stopped responding to her messages after I turned 21. Making detailed actor performance reviews and planning class activities had overtaken my life, and I didn’t have the heart to coach Judy more once Mom saw my salary. Her voice still rings in my ear. Maybe you’d earn more if you acted like Judy Synger. 

I remember the words Judy said to me when I found her on my doorstep on New Year’s Eve, drunk and in tears. Adelyne, I know I haven’t been good to you, and I hate it. I hate it so much. Let me make it up to you. Let me do some good for you. I’m going to tell everyone, my manager, the directors I know about you and retire. Let me act good to you. It’s been weeks since, and she did good on her promise. I’m here in this room now, and without her, I wouldn’t be.

“I let go of the person I was to become the person I need to be, what the script wants me to be.”

The comfort movie casting director catches my eye. “Since you have the first line, you can start whenever.” Her smile reminds me of Judy’s own warm smile, the one that made me feel I could belong in Hollywood.

Maybe I can belong here again.

So I take it slow.

I breathe.

I let go of the person I was to become the person I need to be, what the script wants me to be.

I don’t retrieve myself, I can’t retrieve myself until the act is done.

But it’s all worth it. Because I hear claps. Applause even. The kind where, for a moment, I’m filled with hope, with clarity on who I’m supposed to be, who I want to be. I can be someone who doesn’t teach drama but someone who enriches themself in fictitious personal dramas for a living. I can be someone who is a genuine friend to Judy. I can be someone who has the courage to break free from their mom forever.

So I will be that someone—not act, but be, if only one line at a time.