Secrets of a Soap Opera Diva (18 page)

“Yes, ma’am,” Shannen agreed, wiping away a tear.

“Okay, cast, I know you’re tired but this is the Martini shot. Five minutes . . . five minutes until we’re back,” announced the stage manager. “Calysta, Wolfe, Ethan, Jade, Emmy, Shannen, Phillip, Maeve, Wilson, get your touchups and be camera ready for scene forty-seven in the Fink Ballroom. And to all the extras,
I know it’s been a long day and you’ve had to occupy your time, but please put away your dominoes, cards, knitting, and crossword puzzles before you come to set
.
”

We stood up wearily.

“Shannen, would you be a love and help me fasten up this Rory Lovekin Original?”

“I’d be honored.”

“Careful, it’s vintage.”

“No . . . it’s a masterpiece.”

We laughed so hard we cried.

“Let’s get to set and kick butt before Julius has a coronary.”

The
extras
gasped.

“
Cut
!” screamed an unraveling Julius, taking a swig of Johnnie Walker from his flask. Rubbing his eyes, looking at multiple screens in the control booth, he asked the rest of the crew, “Did she say what I think she just said?”

Everyone looked back deadpan, not wanting to get involved.

“Emmy, what the hell did you just say?”

“My line, what’d you think I said?”

“You ain’t slick. It’s like sayin’ Schwarzenegger’s name with a slant and a smile.”

“I don’t think she was calling you anything,” Ethan said, taking her side.

“Let’s pick it up, same place,” Julius said.

“Okay, this scene is
so
not working for me,” Emmy huffed.

“
Cut
!” Julius yelled, on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “Emmy, what’s the problem? And where’s Maeve? She’s supposed to be in the background.”

“Uh, Maeve left the building. She thought she was through,” the stage manager said.

“That’s what she always says,” replied the pissed-off director. “It’s always that or her ‘bronchitis’ flaring up.”

“Something’s missing in this scene, it’s flat,” Emmy said. “I need to be doing something with my hands. Someone get me a glass of sparkling water, ASAP!”

“What for?” I asked.

“Mind your own beeswax, sistah. You make your movie and I’ll make mine. I know
you
of all people aren’t questioning a little improvisation.”

“Whatever floats your boat,” I replied as a flute of Perrier flew in for the bossy bubblette.

“Okay, where can we pick it up from?” she asked Julius.

“Take it from ‘Barrett promised me that job.’ In five, four, three, two,
go
.”

Unscripted, Emmy took a healthy swig of water off camera, then brazenly spewed it in my face, bursting into a fit of hysterical toothy laughter. I waited for the brass to do something, but they didn’t, at least not right away. Doing the opposite of what was expected, I stood in that
peace which passes all understanding
kind of stillness that tends to scare folks. As the vile sludge slid off my rouged cheek and onto the hand-me-down wedding dress, I finally heard, “
Cut
!”

Peripherally, I spied Alison, Phillip, and a few others intensely watching.

“Open the boom, Cisco.”

“What is it, Calysta?”

“You have to ask? Obviously I need to wash this hate off.”

“You can’t do that, Calysta!” shouted Emmy. “You need to stay exactly the way you are for
continuity
.”

“And you
need
to shut your mouth. The only reason you still have teeth is ’cause I have a daughter to raise and a mortgage to pay.”

“Calysta, we don’t have time for all this, Emmy’s right,” Julius agreed. “It’s just a little water.”

“Water, my eye. It’s
spit
,” I corrected, fighting to repress my growing emotions yet knowing the Mississippi spirits were taking hold, and the bull was about to go ballistic.

“You
people
always get so sensitive over nothing,” Emmy taunted me with a snicker.

“You think it’s funny?” I said, refocusing my fury on the harlot as a mist of perspiration spread above my upper lip.

“Obviously you’ve never heard of a
spit take.
”

My chest tightened, and a small voice, no doubt inspired by Weezi, begged me to push through.
Don’t let them win, make it to the finish line
. But
his voice was unilaterally silenced by Beulah Espinetta Jones.

I know you ain’t about to stand there and let that white girl get away with spittin’ on you. You forgettin’ what Grandma Jones told you ’bout her great-grandmother havin’ her bottom lip pinned to her shirt for lookin’ up at some so-called mistress of the Big House and how ’bout the time . . .

I glared at Emmy, who was obviously delighted by her little stunt, and slowly unclipped my earrings.

“What are you doing, you freak?” she nervously asked backing up. “Nobody likes you here, you know. I personally hate you.”

I said nothing as I stalked her every step, kicking off my lava lamp Lucite heels.

“What’s going on that’s got you watching the show?” Randall asked his wife as he emerged from her bathroom zipping up his pants.

“I think your crazy plan finally worked. Take a look at the monitor,” she responded. “Calysta just took off her earrings and her pumps. What do you think that means?”