Nanny for the SEALs by Cassie Cole

5

Heather

My body woke itself up the next morning before my alarm. Sunlight streamed through the window above my bed. I stretched, rolled over, and saw Maurice in his bed on the opposite wall. He had thrown off his covers and was wheezing softly, head buried in his pillow.

I quietly got out of bed and went to the kitchen to make breakfast. Technically, the “kitchen” was the same as our bedroom. We shared a studio apartment. If I stretched out my arm, I could dump the scrambled eggs out of the frying pan and directly onto Maurice’s bed.

But it was cheap, and that was the magic word when you were an aspiring actor with little-to-no money.

When Maurice stirred, I announced, “Breakfast will be ready in two minutes.”

He twisted in bed until he could see me. One eye pried open, an island of white in a sea of black. “Why are you making breakfast?” he grumbled.

“Because I’m hungry.”

“No,” he said, sitting upright now. “I mean why are you making me breakfast?”

I slid the eggs onto a plate and turned toward him. “As an apology. For last night.”

“Oh, so she does have shame.”

“Sometimes. And only in small amounts.”

I didn’t feel ashamed about what I’d done. All the people in that suite were rich. Jonah Weiman was worth tens of millions of dollars. Amirah Pratt was only twenty-two, but she was a millionaire several times over. I didn’t know what volleyball tits did for a living, but I hated her regardless of her net worth. And the security guys must have been wealthy if they could afford a suite at the Lakers game.

Los Angeles was a town of classes. There were those who had made it, and those who hadn’t. I didn’t like the way they had demeaned us last night. Especially volleyball tits. Split ends? My hair was fabulous, even without a dedicated hair and makeup artist catering to my every need.

Meanwhile, Maurice and I were barely scraping by. Okay, we stole a few drinks and two plates of food. So what? It would have gone to waste if we weren’t there. As far as I was concerned, it was a victimless crime.

I didn’t feel shame about any of that. If anything, the whole experience had left me with a thrill of excitement. But I did feel bad about dragging Maurice into it. On the Metro ride home from the game, he didn’t say a single word to me. Which was rare for Maurice. He usually had a lot to say, and he was going to say it whether you wanted to hear it or not.

“Sorry for last night,” I said, bringing him the plate of eggs. I sat on the edge of his bed. “You tried to tell me it was a bad idea. I should have listened.”

“Thank you.” He took the plate and fork from me. “Now that you have apologized, I will admit it was fun.”

“And we didn’t get arrested!” I said. “Just like I promised.”

“I think they were too shocked to call security on us.” He took a bite. “You really gave them an earful. What was that about?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t like they way they made us feel. Like they were better than us.”

“They are better than us, sweetie.”

“I know! But they don’t have to be assholes about it.” I shook my head. “I guess I’m still upset about my last audition.”

“The one you bombed?”

I glared at him. “Thanks for being blunt. Yeah, that one. I got up in front of the casting agent and… I just didn’t have my best stuff.”

Maurice patted my leg. “Maybe Mr. Howard will have something new for you.”

“Maybe.” I looked at my watch. “You working the dinner shift?”

“Yeah, but I am going in three hours early. They want me to help train that new girl. The one with the bangs.” Maurice rolled his eyes to show what he thought of that.

We were both servers at a steakhouse near Disneyland, down in Anaheim. Not a nice steakhouse, either. A chain restaurant that rhymed with shoutback. It was about as glamorous as you would expect. But it gave us lots of acting practice: we had to spend every shift acting like we didn’t hate our job.

“If you want the extra hours, you can train Mandy,” Maurice suggested.

I laughed and jumped up from the bed. “Hard pass.”

We ate our late breakfast, showered, and then left the apartment together. Mr. Howard’s acting studio was down in Boyle Heights, a half-hour drive away. But neither of us had a car. We had to walk four blocks, then take two buses, then walk another five blocks to get there. It ended up taking an hour each way, if the buses were on time (which was far from certain.)

Mr. Howard’s studio was in a worn-down strip-mall between a vape shop and a CBD store. There were eleven other students there, most in their early twenties like me and Maurice. There were three rows of fold-out chairs facing a small stage, with another room adjacent to that which served as the costume and wardrobe room.

Before class started, I pulled out the diamond ring prop from my purse and put it back in the prop bin in wardrobe. No harm, no foul.

Mr. Howard—who insisted on being called Mr. Howard, because he was sensitive about his real first name, Eugene—was a short, eclectic man who wore skinny jeans along with a purple sweater. He had been an actor thirty years ago, specializing in daytime soap operas. He had two roles in B-movies that flopped at the box office, and he had done nothing since then.

Nothing except teach, that is.

Despite being stout and possessing pudgy little legs, he seemed to float around the room as he greeted everyone. “Seats! Seats everyone! It’s a minute to noon, and if you’re on time, you’re late! Seats so we can begin!”

Maurice and I sat in the back. Mr. Howard smiled broadly at the students from the stage.

“Okay everyone,” he said wistfully, “clear your minds. The world outside that door no longer exists! While you are in this room, you are actors, and actors must focus!”

For the next hour, Mr. Howard coached us on acting. Coached, not taught. He insisted that he was not a teacher, because acting could not be taught the way a card game could be taught. Oh no, Mr. Howard coached us on how to bring our already-present abilities to the surface. Like a football coach helping a gifted athlete learn to run a button-route.

The sports metaphor always felt strange from Mr. Howard, who was vaguely effeminate and looked like he had never set foot in a stadium. But it’s what he insisted, so it’s what we accepted.

We did speaking drills to help enunciate words more properly. We split up into pairs and rehearsed lines, first doing one character’s part, then another. Finally we took turns on stage, doing improvisation while members of the class shouted out ideas.

The last fifteen minutes of every class was reserved for one-on-one time with Mr. Howard, so we could get individual feedback. Maurice had his turn before me. He came back out of the office three minutes later.

“You want me to wait for you?” he asked before I went into the office.

He was being nice—I knew he wanted to get to the bus as quickly as possible. “You don’t need to wait. I know you have to get to work early.”

“Thanks.” He hesitated. “Oh, and I have a favor to ask. I have a date after work.”

“With the new cook?” I gave him a fist-pump. “Nice. This will be your third date, right?”

He nodded. “And since it’s our third date, I was wondering if…?”

I realized what he wanted. “You need me out of the apartment tonight.”

“I really like this guy,” Maurice pleaded. “Please let us have the apartment to ourselves tonight? Pretty please? I’ll make it up to you.”

I sighed. “Yeah, okay. But you’d better get your money’s worth.”

“Girl, you know I always do.” Maurice blew me a kiss and headed out the door.

Mr. Howard was kind of like an agent, but without legally representing any of us. It worked out for us aspiring actors: we had roles recommended to us, but we still had our options open in case a real agency—like Jonah Weiman’s—wanted to sign us.

Mr. Howard sat across from his desk and steepled his fingers while examining me. “Heather, darling. Are you being challenged enough?” He went on without waiting for an answer. “You excel in my coaching sessions. You are talented. And yet you have not made the jump to the next level in your career.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know. How challenged am I supposed to be?”

Mr. Howard tapped his fingers together. “I heard back from the casting agent. From your last audition. He told me you looked bored. He thought you weren’t trying at all.”

I started to protest, but stopped myself. He was right. I didn’t do well at the last audition. And I wasn’t sure why.

“Maybe I wasn’t challenged enough,” I admitted. “It was a cereal commercial, and I only had one line. It’s tough to get motivated for that.”

“You know how this goes, Heather. These are stepping stones. You need to excel at these small roles before you can move on. Even Brad Pitt started his career doing commercials.”

“I know, it’s just…”

He slid a piece of paper across the desk, then re-steepled his fingers. “I have another audition for you. It’s an anti-smoking ad. You’re auditioning for the role of cool girl number two. You’re one of the girls who smokes in high school, then dies of lung cancer years later.”

I picked up the call sheet. “Exciting.”

“There are no small roles, my dear! Only small attitudes! Give that audition your absolute best, and then we can talk about finding ways to challenge your skills.”

“Thank you, Mr. Howard.”

I skimmed the script while walking to the bus stop. The dialogue was cheesy and over-dramatic. I cringed while reading it. Literally cringed.

But it was something. And it paid. At least, I assumed it paid. I hoped it paid. Servers didn’t make much, especially in a restaurant down by Disney.

I was reading the script for a second time when I noticed movement to my left.

I started to turn, but by then it was too late. Hands snatched out, covering my mouth before I could scream. I reached for the taser in my purse, fingers clawing at the grip…

Another hand slid over my mouth, and this time it brought with it a sharp, chemical smell. I wanted to scream so I inhaled automatically…

And then everything went black.