Neevah
We holdour production meetings in Café Society—at least in the replica our property master and his team built of the historic establishment. The Greenwich Village hot spot was the first completely racially integrated nightclub in the country. The specters of greats like Ethel Waters, Lena Horne, Sarah Vaughan, Hazel Scott, and Pete Johnson wait in the wings, sit around the tables and eventually take the stage. You can practically smell the cigarette smoke wafting in the air. This may not be the actual club, but sometimes when I enter, I can almost feel the reverberations of shock rippling through the crowd the night Billie Holiday sang “Strange Fruit” for the first time anywhere ever; she shook up the world with a song.
With all that history playing in my head, Kenneth’s production meeting could feel mundane, but he’s reviewing the schedule for tomorrow and highlighting how working on film will affect how we shoot so I’m tuned in. Then people start looking at their phones instead of at Kenneth.
And then they start looking at me.
At least, I think they are. I’m too busy eating every word falling from Kenneth’s mouth like some baby bird because shooting on film sounds crucial. Like fewer takes and less room for error when I’m in every scene and have more dialogue to memorize than everyone else. Whatever is on their phones has their attention. Kenneth has mine.
“Everyone understand?” Kenneth asks, wrapping up the meeting. “So in Santa Barbara, we all need to be sharp and prepared.”
“Or Canon will tear us a new one,” Livvie says, sliding a glance over to me. “Well, some of us. He may be nicer to others.”
An awkward silence follows her comment and I’m seriously not sure what is going on. Even though we break, the cast lingers, decompressing and chatting after a tough day of shooting. The work distracted me from waiting for my test results. I know we just did the bloodwork yesterday, but I want the assurance that everything is okay, and I would love to know before we leave for Santa Barbara. Not likely. In the meantime, I walk over to Kenneth, script in hand, to ask him about an upcoming scene.
“Kenneth, got a sec?”
His face lights up, his eyes kind. “For you, always. What’s up?”
We’re talking through the scene when phone alerts start going off around the room, followed by whispers and covert glances.
“What’s up?” I ask Kenneth. “Am I imagining that something is . . . off?”
“I have no idea.” Kenneth glances around with a frown.
Takira approaches, her face set, and grabs my arm. “We need to talk.”
“Um, Kenneth and I were—”
“It’s fine.” Kenneth flicks a glance between Takira and me. “Don’t hesitate to ask if you still have questions.”
“T, what’s up?” I demand as soon as Kenneth walks away. “I was just—”
“You need to see this.” She thrusts her phone into my hand.
I can’t even believe what I’m reading. It’s a post online about a podcast and Camille Hensley and me and Canon and the movie. It’s all these disparate parts that shouldn’t have anything to do with each other but have somehow landed in the same place. All of Canon’s concerns, the things he warned me about, are splashed on a digital page for any and everyone to see.
I glance up and all eyes are on me before being quickly averted.
“Oh, my God,” I whisper to Takira. “They think—”
“Right. Yeah.”
Embarrassment clenches my throat, and I can barely swallow. A knot tightens in my belly. If these people, my cast, look at me like that—like I didn’t earn this after seeing me bust my butt the last three months—what will people who don’t know me at all think? But on the heels of embarrassment comes indignation. They have seen me putting in work to do my best. Seriously? Some vindictive bitch who couldn’t get her way makes a few comments and they look at me like they’re not sure?
And then I just feel . . . alone. Even with Takira standing beside me, Canon isn’t. I don’t blame him. No doubt he’s in some production meeting, exactly where he should be, but he’s not here. And I have to face the speculation and judgment I sense from my colleagues by myself. He probably doesn’t even know this is going on.
“Oh, shit,” Takira says, looking over my shoulder.
I turn my head to see what has her cussing, and draw a sharp breath when Canon walks in. He’s a few feet away, several people between us.
“Hey,” he says to the room, issuing a general greeting. “Great job today, everybody.”
They mumble and nod and stutter, almost like he caught them in the act of something. I don’t know where to look. Don’t know what to do or how to behave. I don’t want to make this worse, but everyone keeps looking from him to me and from me to him like we’re onstage and they’re waiting for our next lines.
I have no script for this.
“Neevah,” he calls, his voice carrying clearly across the room.