CELESTE DAY WAS not the type of actress to get a giant, luxury dressing room all to herself. But it appeared that, even if she was, Pear Magic was not the type of studio to give her that, anyway.
I stood in the doorway for a moment, blinking the purple after-sun shadows out of my eyes while they adjusted to the light change. When I could finally make out what I was seeing, I glanced around a sleepy studio trying to get ready to work. Off to my left was a set: what looked like a kitchen in a run-down, beat-up house with a red splash—meant, I assumed, to look like blood—up one wall. A large man in ripped clothes and shadowy eyes sat at the kitchen table, idly puffing on a cigar and talking to who I imagined to be some sort of assistant. She kept pushing her glasses up on her nose as she giggled at whatever he was saying.
Men and women wearing all black shifted around behind cameras and boom mics and lights, none of their movements looking particularly urgent. A woman wearing flannel and boots tromped around the set, softly fretting as she moved things a quarter of an inch here, a half inch there. She looked like every stressed-out director’s assistant I’d ever seen when working with Dad.
I heard the rattle of plastic tubes and turned to my right, where there was a black wall with light radiating out from behind it. I peered around the corner to see a dressing area—about eight mirrors lined side by side with soft globe lightbulbs dotting the perimeter of each mirror. There were small stools in front of each station, and a handful of actors occupied them, leaning toward the mirrors to fix their ghostly faces or leaning back for a stylist to rat their hair or worry over their faces with makeup brushes.
It was easy to find Celeste Day. She looked just like her IMDb photo. Shoulder-length chestnut hair, stiff with curls, soft, wide brown eyes that looked like pure innocence, high “actress” cheekbones, full pink lips, and curves for miles. She was exactly what Hollywood was looking for in an actress, and I guessed it wouldn’t be long before sneaking in on Celeste Day would be impossible due to all the bodyguards.
Celeste was absently rubbing lotion on her elbows, the chairs on either side of her unoccupied. She was dressed in a royal blue men’s button-down shirt, her legs bare all the way up to a pair of very short, very tight boy shorts only visible when she shifted to uncross her legs. She snapped the lotion bottle closed, stood, and leaned toward the mirror, fiddling with blackheads across the bridge of her nose.
Now or never, Nikki. You will be noticed if you just keep standing around.
Definitely. I already stood out enough next to the bohemian styles of the artists working in their yellow-lensed glasses and smocks and combat boots.
I took a deep breath, walked into the dressing area, swiping a makeup box from a cart behind an actor whose artist was busy gluing on the ugliest toupee I’d ever seen. I disappeared behind a costume rack and rooted around until I found a ratty-looking knee-length cardigan. I pulled the hem of my T-shirt into a knot at my back, exposing my belly button, and shrugged into the cardigan. I quickly plaited my hair into two braids that hung down my shoulders and wrapped a silky orange scarf around my hair like a headband. I fumbled through the makeup kit and pulled out the liquid eyeliner. I was terrible at makeup. Always had been. Even as a little girl, fooling around with Mom’s makeup in the bathroom, I never could quite figure out what was supposed to go where, and how. Mom always made it look so effortless—she never looked like she had makeup on; she just looked fresher somehow.
There was no mirror, so I moved where I could see myself in the long costume rack pole. My face was warped, convex. But good enough. I drew severe lines across my bottom lids, swooping them up into cat eyes, then found a tube of red lipstick. I was all eyes and lips when I was done. I felt ridiculous, but I fit in much better.
I rubbed my lips together, straightened my plaits, picked up my toolbox, and made a beeline to Celeste Day.
She saw me in the mirror and stopped poking her face. “Who are you?” she asked.
I held up the makeup kit, and she frowned.
“Where’s Jayelle?”
That was a good question. A really good question, actually. Somehow I’d gotten lucky enough to pick a time when Jayelle was not around. But I had no idea when she would show up, so I decided to cover my bases.
“I’m just here to get things started while we wait. I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.”
Celeste gazed at me, her eyes uncertain. She licked her lips nervously. I pretended I didn’t notice. I set the makeup kit on the table in front of her and opened it. In the light of the mirror, I was finally able to see everything inside. And I had no idea what half of it was for. I rooted around until I found a thick, pouffy brush and a canister of loose powder. At least I knew what to do with this. I held up the brush and looked at Celeste expectantly. She eased back in her chair, still eyeing me dubiously. I swirled the brush around in the powder and leaned forward, trying to surreptitiously look around her dressing area while I swept the brush across her forehead.
“That’s not my color,” she said.
I studied her in the mirror. Sure enough, the powder I’d just dusted her with was about two shades too dark for her. She watched me.
I checked the bottom of the canister. “Oh. Looks like someone put the wrong lid on it,” I said, hoping I sounded convincing. “I hate when that happens.” I rooted around in the kit, looking for something lighter. I came out holding another canister victoriously.
It was a matte foundation; something much closer to Celeste’s skin color. At least as far as I could tell. I found a sponge and dabbed the cream-colored makeup onto it, then quickly—hoping I looked like an expert—smeared it across her forehead, taking extra care to smooth it in at her hairline. I leaned back and studied my work. Not too bad. Maybe I could do this after all.
“That’s not mine, either,” she said. Her chair rippled with various shades of green. She didn’t trust me.
I tried to smile, which wasn’t something I’d normally do when being challenged. I hated looking stupid. But if I dropped into typical Nikki eat-or-be-eaten mode, I would give myself away for sure. My smile felt wobbly; a little on the grimace-y side, so I concentrated my acting skills on staring at my makeup kit, dumbfounded. “Sorry,” I said. “I really do think someone must have messed with my kit.”
She tilted her head to the side and studied what I’d done in the mirror. “That’s okay. It’s close. You almost can’t tell. But trust me, the director will notice.” There was a soft twang to her voice—something I would usually associate with the South rather than upstate New York.
“I’m sorry,” I repeated. “I think I’m just flustered today. Should I start with something else?”
“Maybe you should just straighten my hair. We can save the makeup for when Jayelle gets back.”
“Of course.” I closed my kit—glad to be rid of it—and began hunting around for a straightener, picking up things on the counter and bending to look underneath. All that was under the counter was a handbag. Not only was I not finding a straightener; I wasn’t finding anything that could possibly link Celeste Day to Luna, either. There had to be something.
“It’s over there,” she said, pointing to a cart that held massive amounts of hair appliances and accessories. I went over, grabbed a straightener and a wide-toothed comb, brought them back, plugged in the straightener, and began softly combing out her springy curls. I wanted to ask her what she knew about Luna. Why her name was written on a pad in Luna’s getaway car. But I had learned something about my usual tactics: they didn’t work so great. I kept surviving by the skin of my teeth. Instead, I tried small talk.
“So, who’s directing this?” I asked. “It’s not, like, Steven Spielberg, is it?”