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One
Darla
They’re running again. God, I love it when they run.
Tanned, oiled muscles flex as their arms pump; big, manly bare feet sink into the sand. Those red lifeguard swim shorts cling to their strong thighs, and they all run with such ease, you’d think they were jogging along a park path, not sprinting across a sandy beach.
This is a new summer hobby of mine. Watching these beautiful men work up a sweat.
It’s a great summer so far.
“Cut!”
The director’s voice echoes from his spot by his folding chair. Franklin always insists that the crew set up his little station—the chair with his name sewn on the back; his rickety side table; his jug of lemon water; his giant umbrella—but he never actually sits down. He paces back and forth in front of it, digging his own private trench.
“Again.” Franklin twirls a finger in the air, sending the universal signal forone more time.And the pack of sweaty lifeguards all nod, their bare chests heaving and slick, then tramp back along the beach to their starting markers.
Not a single word of complaint. These guys are mostly up-and-coming, working their first named roles, and not one of them will risk their good luck to moan about running up and down in the heat.
The one guy whocouldcomplain, the one who’s a big enough star, wanders back along the beach too, relaxed and grinning.
Jesse Hendry could probably sprint the whole length of this beach without getting flustered. He’s used to it.
And so freakingfit.
“Darla.” Everyone stiffens at Franklin’s voice, though he’s clearly talking to me. Well… more like barking.
I hop out of my plastic chair. “What’s up, uncle Franklin?”
Yeah, yeah, I bothered my uncle for a summer job. Begged andbeggedhim to let me on set for a few months, so I could get some experience to apply to film studios.
That’s where the special treatment ends, though. It got me through the metaphorical door, and now Franklin’s working me like a dog, the same as everyone else.
Do I mind?
Listen to me:woof.
“Go and take them some water bottles. And,” a towel smacks against my front, “wipe down their chests. They’re too sweaty.”
I squeeze the edge of the towel tight, nodding quickly.
Best. Summer. Ever.
Franklin’s already ignoring me again as I hurry past, his sun-burned face ducked toward his assistant’s clipboard. A black baseball cap squashes down my uncle’s wild brown hair, his bushy mustache twitching as they confer in low tones.
What is it with men in their forties and mustaches? Or is it a TV set thing? There are definitely different rules here—it’s a whole separate fashion ecosystem. Almost every single member of the crew is covered in tattoos and wearing some kind of retro bandana.
I didn’t get it, but by my second week, I had my own white daisy-printed bandana holding back my blonde hair. This is gonna be my career, right? Better learn to fit in.
My feet sink into the warm, shifting sand as I hurry across the beach to the actors, my arms filled with water bottles and the towel slung over one shoulder. My first day working on this show, I made the mistake of wearing sneakers to set.
So much sand in my socks. So manyblisters.
Now I’m flip flops all the way, baby. They smack against my heels as I go, my steps clumsy and uneven, and I’m red-faced and puffed when I reach the lifeguards, shoving the water bottles at them each in turn.
“Whew! I don’t know how you guys do it. I’m out of breath, and all I did was walk over here.”
A couple of them laugh along gamely, taking their waters and cracking the bottle caps open. Others glance pointedly down the length of my body, as if to say,well, duh. Of course you’re out of breath. Bet you never ran in your life.
