Page 3 of Shatter

Melody

"Can you add more concealer under her eyes? We want her looking young and healthy," my mother tells the makeup artist who is currently prepping me for my interview. I flinch internally, hating the idea of telling a professional how to do her own job, but Ellie, the makeup artist for Back to Last Night, a weeknight talk show, is a professional and takes it in stride. And, in fact, adds more concealer.

The irony isn't lost on me. No one's asking why a twenty-five-year-old actress is looking tired. No one actually cares why she's not sleeping. They care about her looking young and healthy. Not if she actually is young and healthy.

"We want her male audience to want her and her female audience to want to be her," my mother continues, typing away at her phone and completely ignoring the room around her. I manage to school my face and not curl my lip in disgust. I don't want my male audience wanting me. And I don't care if my female audience wants to be me. Being me isn't as glamorous as the public thinks. In fact, most days, I don't want to be me.

An assistant pops their head into the doorway, knocks quickly, and announces, "Miss Snow, you're on in five."

I nod and give my thanks, but the woman is already gone, rushing down the busy hallway.

This isn't my first interview. I've been given media training since I was a child. But a part of me is still nervous. Giving unscripted interviews like this feels a lot like gambling.

Am I going to say something inadvertently stupid and be in all of the clips on social media? Am I going to say something that they can take sexually if taken out of context? Like they did three years ago when I mentioned that I liked doing cardio to keep my figure slim.

It was an innocent, honest statement, but the internet exploded with memes about how I like to do cardio, and with whom, and men offering to “help” me with my cardio.

Gross.

Something niggles deep in my gut. Some small, tiny voice in the back of my mind begging for an ounce of control or autonomy. A small feeling of panic creeping into my veins. So, in a very uncharacteristic of Melody Snow, I speak up.

"Can we add some peach to the eye shadow? I've heard it's the latest trend for Fall?" I hate how small and pathetic my voice sounds, but at least I said something!

My mother's long nails suddenly stop clack-clacking on her phone. I look into the mirror and see my mother staring back at me aghast. The makeup artist looks to her. She's not my agent, but she's definitely the one in charge when Marty isn't here.

"Are you sick?" She walks over and holds the back of her cold hand against my forehead dramatically.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. Of course, the second I hint at an opinion or desire to decide something for myself, she'd think I was coming down with some incurable illness.

I know from color theory that peaches, bronzes, and golds would make my blue eyes pop. But Melody Snow's branding has always been soft pinks. And maybe the difference between pink and peach is negligible anyway, but feeling helpless in something as small as my eyeshadow shade is the reason for my panic attacks lately.

And my drinking.

She pats my shoulder condescendingly. "See, that's what you have me for, darling. I'm here to make decisions like that for you, so you can focus on the real work of acting."

I want to rage. I want to scream. I want to flip the makeup artists' kits and storm out of the building. Because I heard what she didn't say. "You're not paid to have opinions. You're paid to do what I say."

"You're up," another aide says, and I stand, pushing the last few uncomfortable minutes behind me. I'll unpack it tonight or tomorrow. Right now, I need to stay present and give the best answers I can in this fifteen-minute interview.

Parker and I just wrapped up our latest Rom-Com, Fall In Love This Fall, and we're on our press-junket circuit for it. It comes out in theaters in six months, so we've both been flying all over the country, doing photoshoots and interviews and press releases and everything the production company could shove into our contracts.

I follow the aide down the narrow hallway and wipe my hands down my skirt, mentally preparing myself like I do every time.

Be charming, but not over the top.

Be funny, but not so funny that it's cringe.

Be sexy, but not sexual.

Be confident, but not arrogant.

Always express gratitude and humility, directing the praise at everyone but me. Even if it's my acting we're talking about.

It's how you play the game.

We get to the wings of the set, and the aide in front of me wearing a headset listens intensely, but even I can hear when Andy Rosenberg introduces me.

I roll my shoulders back, fluff my hair, and paste on my plastic smile. The one that says I'm friendly and approachable and definitely doesn't show too many teeth.