I couldn’t find Rory, and Hailey was in the middle of taping a scene, but I didn’t mind standing at the edge of the set to watch. After my brush with the largest nose ever born on a human head, I felt soiled and sad. Disillusioned. I wasn’t really sure why, except there was something about my parents’ lack of trust in me—a mushy, sensitive feeling that hit me every time the parents made a move, and it was a swampland I didn’t want to cross at the moment. So I waited at the edge of the set, watching the director call out shots and make some last-minute changes with the actors. There was something about CPR—Hailey’s character had to resuscitate someone—so some guy on the set was giving her tips about where to place her hands, how to breathe, stuff like that. One of the crew adjusted the lights, and some of it spilled over to me, catching the glimmering goldfeather embossing on my skirt. I lifted my hands into the white pool, admiring the smooth surface of skin, the pearly nails shaped like little almond slivers.
