I’d finger myself in public if it meant getting cast. I had no memory of sending in a self tape. Audition sides blurred together. Slut teen in cable high school drama. Bitter step daughter in Hallmark murder drama. Lead in Kohl’s commercial with weirdly Christian undertones. I put on makeup to take it off to look better than average but still read average enough to play ugly. Vaping outside the casting office, I waited for my mom to pick me up. One of my acting coach’s former students wandered beside me. He had gone in for some other role. A civilian in a Chase commercial. He asked me how old I was. I told him fifteen. He took a hit from my Elf Bar and told me I could play older.

I got the part.

I was playing Emmeline, a sickly teenage girl forced to ask her estranged father for money in order to pay her medical bills. The story was bad. None of the beats made sense. You could tell the writer never had to struggle for cash before. You could tell he didn’t know how much loss hurt. You could tell that this was a circle jerk of Tarantino-wannabes pushed together by mutual ignorance and too much free time. But I needed a credit. And a Duplass brother had allegedly offered to produce.

The costumer prodded the backs of my thighs.

“If you stare hard enough, her cellulite could maybe double as skin cancer.”

Wearing just a wife beater and a pair of Parade panties, I pushed down the urge to hide my middle with my arms. The team looked me over. Tits are fine. Ankles skinny. Hair a little greasy. Skin a little dark. Eyes could be darker. We don’t have the budget for HR. We don’t have to pay union rates, none of you are guild. My eyes were trained on the Bass Pro Shop trucker cap sitting abandoned in the corner. The director pinched the bridge of his nose. He was just shy of twenty-two and unsatisfied with the world he sought to make. Maybe it was adrenaline or the costumer’s unrelenting touch, but every time he scanned my body I felt myself get hot. He wasn’t attractive by any means. Ego-drenched, with acne-scarred skin wearing an uneven buzz cut. He used to lie about his age because he thought it’d make people listen to him. His mom paid for USC. A family friend anonymously donated to his thesis film’s GoFundMe. He looked at me long enough to make me wonder why.

The costumer groped my breasts.

“We’ll need a little lift up here.”

The director nodded. His phone buzzed. He turned away without looking at me.

“Ben? Yeah, what’s up. No, you’re fucking lying. What are you actually saying right now? Dude, you better be fucking joking or else I’m gonna blow a gasket.”

A vein popped in his forehead. Spittle worked its way out from in between his teeth. He scrunched his eyes really small so he looked like a brittle woman or an aging dog. His glance flicked in my direction. My presence made it worse, I think. He stormed out of the room, leaving me half-dressed and wanting.

The costumer measured my waist.

“Ok, I got it all.”

She gave me one last look.

“Don’t eat too much.”