“I’m scared, can you hold me please?” I repeated it over and over in my head. Penny, my agent, had told me that if all went well, meaning if I did a good job—meaning if they liked me—my character would stay in the story. That’s how it worked in the soaps. If not…well, it was a plane crash. I’d die a day player.

As the makeup and hair departments made their final touches, the director, Mike Hannigan, came over to inspect the mock plane.

“Remember, I need this in one take, sweet cakes,” Mike said. The corners of his mouth furled up at the edges, like paper burning as he attempted to smile at me. On his hulking frame, he wore a rumpled denim shirt over loose khakis. Somewhere in the spread of his shoulders were the remains of a high school football player who had smiled easily and genuinely and had made more than a few cheerleaders slide around in their panties. Now, he was tired and grouchy, and from what I heard, in the middle of a nasty divorce.

Mike leaned down and whispered something in Lyle’s ear. They laughed conspiratorially. Was it about me? Could they tell I was hungover? Lyle shifted toward the makeup man who was waiting to powder him down.

Doug, the young stage manager, slight and prematurely bald, adjusted his headset and called for a bell, the signal to lock down the stage. The hair and makeup department scurried off the set, and Mike walked up the stairs, positioning himself in the glass-walled director’s booth above the soundstage. I crossed my fingers. “I’m scared, can you hold me please?” I said the line under my breath.

“This is it, everybody!” Doug announced. “Ready? And in five, four, three, two…”

“Action!” Mike’s voice boomed over the P.A.

A dozen grips shook and rattled the shell of the mock plane. The script supervisor shouted out the F.X. cues, while Lyle and I reacted to the thunder and lightning.

“It’s okay, Amber,” Ben/Lyle yelled. “It’s just a bit of turbulence.”

The crew gave the shell a violent rock to the side. The peanuts I’d been holding flew into the air and a plastic glass filled with mock Chablis spilled onto my lap. Lyle looked expectantly at me. Was I supposed to speak already? Oh, God! The crew rocked the plane again sharply. I grabbed the armrests.

“Amber, sweetie, it’s just turbulence!” Lyle was vamping. What the fuck was that line? A piece of shrimp flew past me as the crew jerked the plane. A cup of cocktail sauce tipped over. I tried to reach for the script under my seat, but it was too far back. I fumbled with the clasp on my seatbelt, but a sharp jolt rocked me back. I screamed. I wasn’t acting.