Dia of the Dead (6 page)

I crashed on the couch, waking a sleeping Frank. He popped his head up, looking at me, sighe
d,
and curled back into a reddish-brown ball.

“Hello to you too, Dia Michell
e,
” Mom said as she closed the door.  “How’re you?” Her tone said ‘you better use your manners, girl.’

I straightened up from my slouch.

“Hi, mom. I’m fine.” I tried my best to sound cheery but a lingering sigh was still present in my voice.

“How was the party?” She plopped down on the sofa next to me, her brown eyes bright with anticipation as she waited for me to tell her how I crashed and burned.

“The party. . .” I paused and let out a heavy sigh. “Was. A. Disaster.”

“A disaster? What happened?”

I recounted what took place at the party, skipping over the more grisly deets like the color of the puke that covered the bathroom floor.

“Hm. I se
e,
” Mom said, her hand resting thoughtfully on her chin. “That sounds like a lot of drama for one party.”

“Yeah,” I sighed again.

“As your momager, where should I start? As a mom, should I ask about this Benjamin Baker? Or as your manager, should I address the nonsense Kaci told you?”

“It’
s
Brenda
n
Baker, mom.”

“Oh, well excuse me
.
Brenda
n
Baker. Since it seems like you want to talk about him, who is he?”

“This guy.”

“You’re blushing. Seems like more than just ‘this guy’.” She nudged my arm with her elbow.

I couldn’t hold back my grin any longer. “Okay, this guy that I have a huge crush on. He played Luke o
n
OMG
!
” I spilled.

“How old is he?” Mom wasn’t exactly wearing the same smile she wore when we spotted cute guys on Rodeo.

“Age is nothing but a number, mom.”

Mom raised a brow, frowning.

“How old is he?” she repeated.

“Eightee
n,
” I mumbled.

Mom cuffed her hand over her ear. “ I didn’t hear you.” She leaned in closer. “Sounded like you said ‘eighteen’. Did you say ‘eighteen’?”

I muttere
d,
“yes.”

“So he’s an older boy or should I sa
y
ma
n
?”

“He’s only a few years older than me, Mom.”

She frowned. “That may not seem like a big age difference when you’re sixteen but it’s a HUGE difference! Trust me, I know. Your dad was eighteen when I met him.” She was beginning to take the tone she used when she delivered long, embarrassing speeches about sex and junk. I wasn’t up for one of those. Not tonight.

“I know. I know. He was eighteen and you were sixteen. You guys dated for a couple months then he vanished never to be heard from again when he found out that you were pregnant with me. Even though you don’t like talking about Jamie Diaz, you sure love telling this story.”

Mom’s expression soured.

“Brendan is just a crush. Not a big deal. He asked me to dance, not on a date. It’s not like I could date him or anything anyway. Reagan has dibs on hi
m,
” I rambled on.

“This sounds like drama you don’t need to be involved in.”

“I don’t want to be involved i
n
an
y
off-screen dram
a,
but Reagan saw Brendan and I holding hands while we were trying to find help for Missy—he took my hand and dragged me off to find a security guard, by the way—then she had me and Kaci tossed out of the main entrance. We had to pretend to be heading to another club for the paparazzi. It was super embarrassing.” I looked at her for a minute. I could feel tears on the horizon. I blinked them away.

“I don’t know if I can do this, Mom.” Tears threatened to escape again.

“I know you’re not giving up so quickly.” She raised her brow.

“I’m—I’m not giving up it’s just….” I trailed off and sighed. “This is a lot harder than I expected it to be. I thought that once I got a role, I’d be able to just do what I love—act. But no. There’s always something more. Something extra. I have to be careful who I hang around. I have to figure out who’s friends with who. Who are enemies. Who has a crush on so-and-so. Who I should stay away from. Who I should be besties with. There are all these unspoken rules and I just…I just don’t think I’m going to be able to keep up.” I sank further into my seat and quickly wiped away a few tears before she could see them.

“Calm down, sweetheart. Take a breath.” Mom scooted closer, wrapping an arm around my shoulder—pulling me near her—and rested her cheek atop my head.

“You worked really hard to get where you are. I know that it can be a little much for a sixteen-yea
r-
old to handle. Hell, sometimes it’s a bit much for me to handle. I’m thirty-two and I’m not even the one in the spotlight.” She released me from the half-hug and pulled away a bit so she could look at me fully.

“I know you have a lot on your plate at the moment but do you remember when you told me you wanted to be an actress?”

“Yes.” I nodded, wiping away a few more tears that somehow escaped.

“Do you remember what I said that day?”

“You asked me if this was what I really wanted to do.”

“Uh huh. And what else?

“You gave me all these warnings about Hollywood and stuff.”

“Do you remember what you said?”

“I said I knew it would be tough but I couldn’t see myself doing anything else.”

“That was all I needed to be convinced. There’s something inside you, Dia. A light. It lit up and shone through in those beautiful big brown eyes of yours when you talked about acting. I’d never seen you as passionate about anything before. I sacrificed
—
w
e
sacrificed a lot to get here. Remember how we slept in the car our first week here?”

I nodded as more tears fell.

“Look where we are now.” She motioned a hand toward the apartment. “I
f
Dia of the Dea
d
gets picked up—great. If it doesn’t, that’s okay too. You still have that light, dear. We’ll find another opportunity to let it shine. You know I have a plan B.”

“You do?”

“Yes, ma’am.” She got up from the couch and disappeared toward the back of the room, where her home office took up the entire corner across from the kitchen. She returned with a stack of papers and dropped them in my lap.

“They’re scripts. Allen sent them over earlier. There were more but I narrowed them down to these. The rest were trash.” She sat on the couch, tucking her leg under her butt.

I picked up the one on the top of the pile. “Angela” was written in mom’s messy handwriting on the title page.

“Allen didn’t send it over for you to read for the part of Angela but I felt like you could. It sucks that not many parts are written for young Afro-Latinas, or young women of color at all. And the
pickingsare slim for roles tha
t
aren’
t
 
stereotypes.” She paused and sighed.

“You’d think things would be different now but things are just as difficult for actors and actresses of color as they were in the past. There are fewer roles and more hoops to jump through. You have to go over and beyond to prove you’re just as—if not more—talented than your peers.
 You lucked out with Dia Muerto but that’s not to say there aren’t other roles out there for you. We just have to find the right one. One that represent
s
u
s
well.”

I knew her “us” meant more than just Trisha and Dia Summers. She was referring to the rest of the girls in the world that looked like me. Little girls that had begun sending fan mail my way saying they couldn’t wait to grow up to be like me. I moved the stack from my lap and onto the coffee table.

“Plan B is to start auditioning again?” I asked.

“It’s time to start thinking about the future. If I learned anything from your Grandma Claire, it was to always have a plan. It doesn’t hurt to start working on something.”

“I guess it doesn’t.”

“
Dia of the Dea
d
’s ratings are good enough. You’re probably doing all this worrying for nothing.” Her smile made me feel a little better.

“You had a long night. Why don’t you go get some res
t.
  Since filming has wrapped on the show and you don’t have to be at the studio until the afternoon for the announcement, I thought that we could spend the morning hanging out—the two of us.  We haven’t done that in a while. I’ll make pancakes and we can relax.”

“Blueberry pancakes?” I perked up.

“If that’s what you want.”

“I do!” Just the promise of Trisha Summers’ blueberry pancakes made from scratch was enough to make me mope a little less. 

“I think I’m gonna try to get some sleep.” I picked up the script mom gave me and kissed her on the cheek.

“Goodnight, sweetie.”

“Night.” I headed off to my room and hoped that everything would be better in the morning.

*

The sweet smell of batter woke me from a restless sleep. Mom came through on her promise of blueberry pancakes. Though I couldn’t catch the quality of z’s I needed, I knew the pancakes would make things at least 60% better. I hopped out of bed and followed the smell down the hall and into the kitchen. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten in forever. Mom stood in front of the stove, spatula in hand.

“That smells so good!” I said, taking a seat on one of the bar stools at the island.

“I know, right? I can’t wait to eat them.” She flipped a perfectly round golden brown pancake onto a plate.

Mom didn’t think I knew but I’d wised up to her game a long time ago. She always made pancakes when she thought I was down or worried. The short stack she piled on a plate was to soften the blow of the party disaster. Mom handed me a knife and fork and joined me with a stack of pancakes of her own.

I didn’t wait for her to get settled before I started eating. I demolished my pancakes before she could even add more syrup to hers. After she finished her stack, I opted to do two things I absolutely despised: wash the dishes and take Frank out to do his business.

Helena Gardens was unusually quiet for a Saturday morning. The place was usually bustling with people on Saturdays. The residents were either hurrying off to auditions or to the studio to film, but no one was to be found as Frank and I headed toward the elevator. The lobby was as empty as it was last night. Was the entire place still recovering from the party? One person who wasn’t resting up was Alicia.  She sat at her desk looking like she’d seen better days. Instead of being preoccupied with her iPad, she just kind of stared out into space with tired eyes. I spoke to her as I passed.  She grunted something then groaned. She must’ve had a long night. Frank tugged away from me, trying to get to the door. I didn’t have time to attempt any other pleasantries. Frank had to go and if I didn’t hurry, someone would have a puddle to clean up. I followed him outside. He found his favorite spot and took care of things quickly. When we came back inside, Alicia was gone.  I hoped she was feeling okay.

Frank was happy to be free of his leash and ran toward mom, hopping into her lap as she sat on the couch watching TV. With a stomach full of pancakes and a head a bit less full of worry, I went to shower and get dressed. I’d come to love my off days since it took a lot less time for me to get ready. I spent hours in Hair and Makeup as Katrina, Blake, and Jared
worked on making me look like an undead high schooler. The zombification process was lengthy and the end result of all their hard work looked like they’d smeared a bit of gray paint on my face and added a long fake ponytail; Mr. Bixby didn’t want to frighten his target audience too much. But on days when I could be Dia Summers, not Dia Muerto, I opted for a pair of jeans, a vintage band tee, and a pair of Chucks. It was way more comfortable than the mobile sauna that was Dia Muerto’s black vinyl catsuit. It was cute but I sweated buckets every time I was in it. I let my hair do its own thing since I didn’t really feel like attempting to tame the curls, but I slipped a ponytail holder on my wrist just in case.

Back in my room, I grabbed the script mom had given me last night and went to the front of the apartment to join her and Frank on the couch. At 2:40, mom left to get ready to head to the studio and Frank hopped off the couch to follow her. During their absence, every worry I had about Reagan, the show, and my future crept back into my head, leaving a knot of dread in my stomach. What if the show wasn’t renewed? What if auditioning for new roles didn’t go so well? What was I gonna do then? I tried not to panic, but I was doing a terrible job of keeping the “what-ifs” at bay. 

I was thankful for Mom’s return. She had a pair of large, round-framed glasses resting atop her bangs and a large tote bag dangling from her shoulder. She thought they made her look important.