Neevah
When Canon calleda few weeks ago, I saved his cell in my phone under CH . . . just in case he ever called again. I’d know it was him and be less likely to run off a road, dismember myself somehow, or generally lose my shit once I answered and heard his rumbling voice on the other end.
So when CH appears on my screen on a Thursday afternoon while I’m preparing to leave for the theater, I know who it is.
“Hello?” I answer with a question because I don’t want him to know I know.
“Neevah,” he says. “It’s Canon.”
I know!
“Canon, hi.” I will my molecules to stop vibrating and sit on the couch, plunking my bag on the floor.
“I want to offer you a role in my upcoming movie,” he says without further greeting. The words slam into my chest and crater behind my breastbone, leaving no space for air.
Trembling, I offer a silent prayer of thanks to my patron saint Audra McDonald. This is a Canon Holt movie. This is a break. Even if it’s not a big role, I’ll do my best and make something of it.
“Neevah? You there?”
“Oh. Sorry. Yeah. I was just . . . wow. I guess I’m a little stunned. Thank you so much for this opportunity.”
“Don’t you want to know what the role is?” he asks, a tiny bit of humor sneaking into his usually sober voice.
Third cow from the left? Girl who walks in field? Skipping marionette?
I’m pretty sure any role he casts me in will be one I accept.
“Sure,” I answer like a more reasonable person.
“It’s Dessi Blue.”
Hold up. Wait a minute. Put a little crazy in it.
“Um . . . but when I auditioned . . . it seemed . . . wasn’t the main character named Dessi?” My lips have gone numb and my brain is firing molasses instead of synapses, but I do remember that much.
“It is. I’m offering you the lead.”
My butt slides right off the couch and I land on the floor.
“Holy shit,” I mutter.
A dark silk chuckle unfurls from the other line. “Is that a yes? The role is yours if you want it.”
If this moment were a hand, I’d never wash it again.
In an instant, I go from shell-shocked to completely, emotionally verklempt. I look around our shoe box of an apartment, remembering all the tuna I’ve eaten straight from the can when money was tight. All the past due notices I’ve stuffed to the back of my mind and the back of a drawer over the years, struggling to make art my living. Knowing this is what I was supposed to do, but sometimes unsure how to do it. Unsure of how this story, my story, would end. Only to find a beginning. After the last year of being Elise’s standby with only one week in the spotlight, the very week Canon was in town, it’s a miraculous new beginning.
“I-I, well . . .” Do not cry. Zip it up. Hold it in. Be professional. “Yes. I’ll do it.”
“Good.” Canon’s voice doesn’t hold surprise, because who would turn this down, but he sounds satisfied. “We’ll reach out to your agent to discuss the details. I hacked a script just to pitch and get it sold to a studio, but Verity Hill is writing it. What you read was our rush job. I promise it’ll be better by the time she’s done with it.”
“She’s incredible. I loved that last show she wrote for.”
“Agreed. And Monk’s doing the music.”
“Oh, wow. That’s so exciting. I have to thank him for dragging you to my show, I guess.”
“He’s really looking forward to working with you.”