I forced myself to sit while Katie chased my face with a powder puff. My hands and feet felt numb. I couldn’t get a deep breath. I had to keep my shit together. I couldn’t afford a panic attack like in the mock plane on Circle. These were much higher stakes.

Steve Connigan, a rumpled fifty-year-old veteran screenwriter, paced back and forth trying to overhear everything Devon was saying to the D.P. He kept glancing over at me, and I knew he was itching to tell me how he wanted the scene played. It was no secret that he had begged the studio to let him direct.

The wardrobe woman ran forward and tugged at my blouse while the D.P. waved the light meter in front of my face. “Bring in a number four,” he commanded.

A filter was inserted, and the light adjusted. Devon settled in his chair and gave the A.D. the all-clear.

“Camera ready,” The D.P. called out.

Robert Verona strode to the stand and took his mark directly in front of me. The key light reflecting in his legendary, steel-blue eyes.

My heart pounded. I gulped in air. Casey’s voice came into my head. Use what you’re feeling as part of your inner life. I felt like I was going to die.

The courtroom showdown was the climax of the movie. With the production hanging in the balance, each person, down to the last grip and gaffer, knew that the success of the film depended on this scene.

“Quiet on the set!”

“Rolling.”

“Speed.”

“Scene 56, take one.”

“Aaaaand…action!”

Shit. Okay, concentrate on my inner life. Okay, my character, Junie would be feeling nervous too…heart pounding.

“Ms. Sommer,” Robert Verona spoke confidently.

“Call me Junie.”

First line in the can. No. Can’t think that, concentrate on inner…

“Okay, Junie, why were you following the victim?”

“He had asked me to go to his room.” Okay, the camera is moving to my right should I turn? No! Don’t think about that. How am I feeling?

“Did you go?”

“Well yes, I was suspicious.” What am I feeling?

“Of what?”

“Of him.” I’m feeling…an itch. On my nose.

“Why were you suspicious?”

What am I feeling?

“Because he had cheated on me and…” I’m feeling…

“Do you need a break?” asked the actor playing the judge.

I turned to the bench. “Sorry, what? Do you mean me? Or my character?”

“Shit!” Robert Verona spat and walked over to his chair.

Fuck. I’d blown the take.

“Cut!” Devon sprung over to the bench with a huge smile pasted on his face. His pink polo shirt stuck to his skinny chest like a soggy washcloth and his hair had somehow molded into one wet spike on his head. He resembled the host of a kiddie show.

“Sorry, Devon,” I said. “I thought he was asking me if I needed a break.”