𝐦𝐲 𝐜𝐨-𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐫 ☾ 𝐥. 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞

𝟒. 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐥

— CLEO.

IT'S BEEN TWO weeks since the audition. No one has emailed or called me about the results. About a day ago or so, I figured that I didn't get it and that I'll just need to find another thing to put on my applications. It's sad because I was kind of looking forward to it.

But now, I sit in my room watching Lady Bird for the 50th time on my computer. Ever since the day I got a phone, my celebrity crush has always been Timothée Chalamet. My mom used to call me phone-obsessed, but I was only on my phone all of the time because I was obsessed with him. I watched all of his movies, listened to every single rap song he made in high school, and followed each and every Timothée Chalamet update account.

I was (am) obsessed.

Suddenly, my phone starts to ring. I grab my phone from under my pillow, turning it over to see the caller ID— it's the assistant of the casting director's number.
I immediately pick up the phone.

"Hello? Is this Cleo?"

The line is fuzzy and staticky as I answer. "Hi. Yes, um, yes, this is Cleo."

"Great, I was just calling to tell you that you got the part," she says as my hand cups my mouth in disbelief.

No. Way. Mia is gonna freak!

"Oh my gosh. Thank you so much!" My heart rate is beating so fast I feel like it could jump out of my chest at any given moment. "Um, when do we start?"

"We start next month. I hope that's enough time to get you all sorted out. We'll pay for you plane-fare and living accommodations, so don't worry about that. Congratulations, Cleo, we'll see you in Los Angeles. Let me know if you have any further questions," and with that, the line cuts and she's gone.

I mean, I knew it was in Los Angeles, but I didn't know it was going to be so soon. I was thinking maybe a couple months tops, but next month? I don't even know if Mom knows it's in Los Angeles. She's gonna kill me.

But honestly, right now. I'm a bit too happy to worry about getting killed. I'm going to be in a movie!

I run downstairs, ready to tell anyone that I come across. Luckily, that person is Mom. She's in the kitchen baking cookies and humming to French music on the radio. She looks so happy.

Now or never.

I sit behind the counter. My chin in my palms as I watch her place the cookie tray in the oven. "Hey, Mom," I smile.

Mom dusts the excess flour off her hands and onto her navy blue apron as she grins at me. "Hi, hon. What's up?

I ease into it. "I have news— for you."

She raises a brow, obviously skeptical about this. "Okay," she trails off.

Hesitantly, I say, "I got the part," I nervously laugh.

Mom lets out a gasp. "Wow, honey. That's wonderful!" she comes around the counter to hug me as I get flour all over my clothes. "Why were you so nervous to tell me?"

"Because," I gulp. "Because it's in Los Angeles."

She scoffs. "Well, duh."