“Does my face look fat to you?” he asks.
“No, why?”
“Someone on Instagram said it looked like I was having an allergic reaction.”
“Maybe it’s the filter you used,” I supply.
“Yeah, maybe.”
The very next day Adam storms out to where Lucia and I are sunbathing by the pool. He thrusts his phone into my hands, positively irate.
“Can you believe this guy?” he blusters, red-faced and furious. “He said if I don’t cut down on the sodium and carbs, I’m going to look like Ronan Farrow.”
Lucia lowers her sunglasses and narrows her eyes at me.
“How positively rude,” I say, ignoring her entirely.
“I know. What anasshole,” Adam rants. “Do you think I look like I’m in a committed relationship?”
“What does that mean, Adam?” I ask.
“This guy, Rey Pavo-Real, says my ass reminds him of a housewife who’s eaten too much barbecue.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I assure him. “When’s the last time you’ve even had barbecue?”
“I don’t know, but I’m going for a run.”
He storms off, and I turn back to Lucia, who’s still eyeing me closely. “Rey Pavo-Real?” she asks of my butchered Spanish. “King Peacock?”
“I know what you’re going to say, but first know that he asked for it. I took care of an online bully for him, and he went into a deep depression over it, so I created this account to give him someone to rail against.”
“That’s not what I was going to say,” she says smartly.
“Okay, then what is it?”
“I was going to say he reminds me of your mother.”
She replaces her sunglasses and adjusts her wide-brimmed hat, leaving me in a rare state of speechlessness.
Chapter10
Adam
Ugh, auditions are the absolute worst. It’s like that episode ofSex and the Citywhen Samantha goes to see a plastic surgeon because she’s thinking of getting a boob job, and the doctor takes a long look at her naked body and points out all the ways she could improve, so that by the end of it, she’s marked all over with a red pen and completely humiliated. That’s what auditioning feels like.
But Jean-Pierre and my agent Shondra both insist it’s necessary if I want to get my name out there, so I spend hours upon hours waiting in stuffy, badly lit rooms with uncomfortable chairs only to deliver one-liners, like “What is that delicious smell?” or “How did we end up here, Ravi?” There’s always something wrong with my delivery too. Too stilted or too dramatic. Like, if they’d tell me what they want, I could probably do it. But these people don’t give me any direction, just leave me to stand there and make a fool of myself.
And then one day, I finally get a call back from the casting director of a new show calledWrecked, which is something likeGossip GirlmeetsThe Walking DeadmeetsLost.The first thing I do is tell Cassius about it.
“The producer wants you to come to his house for drinks?” Cassius asks with an air of suspicion.
“The casting director said he liked my screen test and wants to meet me in person to get a feel for my personality.”
“What’s this producer’s name?” Cassius asks.
“Barry Behrakis.”
“Ah,” he says, nodding.
