Page 22 of Take Two

Cyaire

My arms are stretched out at my sides while six different people debate the placement of a whistle.

At least, I think they’re debating the placement of a whistle.

Nobody has actually explained the disagreement to me, and at this point I am too afraid to ask. I’ve been standing perfectly still for the better part of ten minutes while the conversation continues around me, ricocheting between opinions, and I’ve decided my best strategy is to stay quiet and let the professionals handle it.

One woman crouches near my feet adjusting the hem of my warm-up pants with the focused intensity of someone defusing something delicate. Another circles me with a tape measure draped around her neck, pausing occasionally to frown at nothing in particular, while a third makes notes on a clipboard. Every wall around me is covered in mirrors, which means there are at least twelve versions of me standing perfectly still while everyone else moves with enormous purpose. Twelve versions of me, all equally confused about the whistle.

The funny thing is that I’m not wearing anything remotely impressive. This isn’t custom couture, a tailored suit, or an extremely elaborate costume with historical significance and hand-stitched embellishments. It isn’t anything that would normally justify this level of scrutiny.

I’m standing in the middle of a wardrobe trailer wearing the practice gear of a college hockey coach.

Yet somehow, an entire department has spent the better part of an hour making sure every single detail sits exactly where it’s supposed to. Every crease. Every fold. Every layered piece of fabric arranged as though the story itself depends on getting it precisely right, which, when I think about it honestly, it probably does.

“Lift your chin a little for me, Cyaire.” Joshua, the costume designer for the film, calls out from behind me. His assistant stands beside him with a notepad already open, pen poised and ready, as though whatever Joshua says next will be worth recording immediately.

I do as instructed and raise my chin.

The wardrobe supervisor steps forward and adjusts the whistle hanging against my chest with careful, deliberate fingers before taking two measured steps back and studying me again. She tilts her head slightly to the left. Then to the right. Her expression gives nothing away.

“No,” she says after a moment. “That still doesn’t look right.”

I glance down at the whistle, trying to identify what has changed or failed to change. Joshua agrees with her from somewhere behind me.

It looks exactly the same as it did thirty seconds ago. I shrug internally, keeping my expression neutral, and stand still and let them talk through the problem between themselves. Getting involved feels unwise.

I have learned over the years that there are moments when my opinion is genuinely valuable and moments when it is not. Walking into someone else’s creative expertise and offering unsolicited input falls firmly into the second category.

This is not one of those moments.

The process is fascinating when you stop fighting it and actually pay attention. Every decision being made in this room has a reason behind it, even when the reason isn’t immediately obvious to the person standing on the platform. Every detail serves a purpose that will eventually register on screen in ways that viewers will feel without consciously noticing. The way the jacket sits across my shoulders. The way the sleeves fall against my wrists. The exact placement of the whistle against my chest. The subtle wear they’re planning to add to certain pieces so nothing feels too new, too pristine, too untouched by the kind of life this character has actually lived. Nobody in this room is treating Blue Line like a hockey movie. They’re treating it like a story, and they’re giving that story the respect it deserves.

I understand that instinct completely and I respect the hell out of it.

The wardrobe supervisor circles me one final time before stopping in front of me. I hadn’t even realized Joshua had instructed her to try another whistle entirely. I hadn’t felt her remove the first one, hadn’t noticed the exchange happen at all. It simply appeared around my neck while my thoughts were somewhere else entirely. Which says a great deal about how present I’ve been for the last several minutes.

“Perfect,” she and Joshua say at exactly the same time.

The relief is immediate. Everyone in the room seems to visibly exhale. Someone lowers a clipboard. Another person finally steps back from the mirror. The quiet, persistent tension that had been humming just beneath the surface of the room dissolves all at once, like a knot finally releasing.

I blink and glance around at the collection of focused faces now looking back at me with something that resembles expectation.

For a beat, I genuinely don’t know what they’re waiting for. Then it registers. I clear my throat. Apparently now I am allowed to have an opinion. If they’re satisfied, then I’m satisfied. That seems like the appropriate response.

“Was I failing some kind of test?” I ask, mostly to lighten the atmosphere.

A burst of laughter ripples through the room. Joshua smirks and gives a small nod of approval. He has undoubtedly encountered his fair share of actors who made this process significantly more dramatic, and I imagine my willingness to simply stand still and cooperate ranks me somewhere in the more pleasant category of his experience.

The wardrobe supervisor places a hand over her chest with genuine feeling.

“You have no idea how stressful actors can be,” she says, smiling, and gives my arm a small pat.

“That’s fair,” I admit with a nod. “I’ve met actors.”

The laughter around the room is louder this time, and I find myself grinning despite my best efforts to remain professionally composed.

The truth is I’m mostly just here to be dressed up and pointed in the right direction. These people are the experts. They know exactly what they’re doing and why. My job is to trust them, hit my marks when the time comes, and hopefully not make anybody’s life more complicated than it already is.