Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 151085 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 755(@200wpm)___ 604(@250wpm)___ 504(@300wpm)
“Did you tell the studio or anybody about your condition?”
“My agent and I talked it through. As long as I pass the physical for the insurance company, which I did, I’ve done what they require, and I don’t have to disclose anything else.”
“Oh, that’s good.”
“When we requested you as part of my contract, we did tell them I have a condition that affects my skin and hair. Discoid lupus isn’t contagious or life-threatening so that’s as much as they need to know, but the word lupus freaks so many people out. They don’t understand it. They make assumptions about what it must mean. I don’t want special treatment or anyone assuming I can’t do my job. I don’t want them doubting me. I got enough doubt”—I tap my temple—“right here. I don’t need more second guesses.”
“And you’ve been performing and making a living in this business with no problems since you got the diagnosis.”
“Exactly. I mean, I have some joint pain and fatigue, but who doesn’t? I probably take better care of myself now that I have the diagnosis than when I didn’t.”
“What’s the doc say?”
“She’s setting me up with a rheumatologist out in LA who I can check in with, someone I can see in person if needed, but my bloodwork looks good. My antibody levels are in range. This,” I say, pulling at the hair puffing around my shoulders, “is my biggest concern, and that’s where you come in.”
Takira walks over and wraps her arms around me. “I got you, girl. Don’t worry.”
I run my hands through my thick hair, delving into the bare spaces hidden by its sheer volume. Don’t worry?
Easier said than done.
20
Canon
“Never be late to my set.”
I study every member of the cast and crew, looking around the large U-shaped table and giving each of them time to look me in my eyes and see that I’m not playing with their asses.
“Come prepared, and if you aren’t, don’t make excuses. This will be fun. You might even make some friends.” I point a thumb to Graham, who, along with Evan, is seated behind me. “Our assistant will make sure we’re one big, happy family. She always plans socials and other stuff to bond the team.”
“Hey, guys!” Graham says, and I can just imagine her waving and cheesing.
“So Graham’s got the fun covered.” I slide my hands into the pockets of my jeans. “But this will also be some of the hardest work of your life. I won’t go light on anybody because we are here to serve this story. This is someone’s life we’re introducing the world to. I don’t take that lightly, and neither will you.”
I try to smile, to relax, but that gets harder once a movie is out of pre-production. I leave the petting and coddling to Evan and Graham. I don’t have time for games or tolerance for bullshit. I know how to get the best out of my actors, and it’s not berating them or bullying them. At the same time, I’m not here to make friends.
Though, despite my grumpy ways, that inevitably happens on set.
“Just so you know,” Evan says, walking up beside me, “you’ll hate this guy at least once before the movie is over. We all do, but then we see what he does, the movie he makes, and we forgive him. I’m going to apologize in advance for the beard.”
I smile before I remind myself that is not funny.
“He grows his beard out for every movie and the longer it gets, the more unbearable he becomes,” Evan says over everyone’s laughter. “We’ll try to keep him in line and the beard groomed. I’m Evan Bancroft, one of the producers, by the way. This is Verity Hill, our writer.”
Verity looks up from her phone and waves.
“Wright Bellamy is our music guy,” Evan continues. “He’s writing the score, but for those with music and singing parts, he’ll be working directly with you, too.”
Monk waves and flashes around a smile that dies when it lands on Verity. She rolls her eyes and looks away. And so it begins . . .
“We’re gonna do a table read,” I say, picking up where Evan left off. “Don’t show me all your good stuff. I’m not looking for tears. Save that for when the cameras are rolling. Believe me. We’ll get there. Today we’re just familiarizing ourselves with Verity’s brilliant script.”
With a sweep of my arm I gesture to the studio back lot we’ve transformed into 1930s Harlem, sprawled just beyond the corner of the set where we’re meeting.
“Look around,” I tell them, glancing over my shoulder to the building facades, the apartment stoops and fabricated city blocks, the reincarnated elegance of hotels and clubs long passed away. “This is our new home.”
I introduce the department heads—cinematographer, production designer, assistant director, and Linh, whom we did bring on for costuming. Lawson Stone is also present, but I’m hopeful this will be our last time seeing him for a while. It’s not unusual for a studio exec to attend the first read-through. It’s all hands on deck—the first time everyone involved gets to fully see the scope of what we’re making. Until now they’ve seen their parts, but I’ve been living with the entirety of this story for almost two years already. Of what it could be, and now it’s time to make it real.