A female production assistant shoved a manila envelope at me, the contents of which were still warm from the copy machine. “Tomorrow’s script.” Did this mean I’d survived the plane crash? I was desperate to know what was written on those pages. As I tore open the envelope, there was a tap on my shoulder.

“Hi, um, Jackie, is it?”

It was Peter Hamlet. Ben Strong’s TV son. I’d seen him on the show, but he was even more handsome in person, tall and lanky with dark silky hair and intense emerald eyes. He had a thin scar above his lip which gave just a hint of character to his otherwise flawless face. I tried not to be aware of the cocktail sauce that covered the front of my dress as I peered up at him through false eyelashes.

“Hey, I saw that last take.” His voice had a fuller more mature quality than his boyish looks suggested. You captured Amber’s inner struggle and her feelings of conflict toward her stepfather.”

I didn’t tell him that I’d been merely struggling to keep from throwing up again. I gazed into his eyes and tried to project my own intensity through the blue contact lenses I was wearing. Then I realized he had stopped talking and was waiting for me to say something.

“Oh! Thank you. For what you said before, I mean.” My voice sounded squeaky.

“Who do you study with?”

“Huh?”

“Acting. Who’s your teacher?”

“Oh. John Cavallos, but—”

“Wow. He’s like so amazing.”

“Yes. Yes, he is…sorry, my throat’s a little dry. Too many airplane peanuts,” I attempted to laugh but it came out a cough.

“Wow, of course, well you’re still in character. Please don’t let me interrupt you.” He touched my arm. “Bye then. See you tomorrow.” He waved over his shoulder and walked to his chair on the other side of the stage.

Wait! I wanted to say. I’m not in character, I don’t know anything about my character! But I liked that he thought I was as serious about my work as he obviously was. As he began going over his lines, I remembered the script I was holding. Was I in it? Would there be a tomorrow for Peter to see me in? I opened to the first page. I was listed among the cast. Amber survived! I took a full breath for the first time that day. A tattooed grip in bicycle shorts walked over to me carrying a canvas folding chair under his arm.

“Here you go.” He popped it open.

I sat and caught my reflection in the makeup mirror. My new, blonde, blue-eyed reflection.

And on the back of my seat printed in big bold letters was my new name, “Jackie Gold,” shortened and refined. Just like my nose.