She would’ve made a great actress but had eschewed any desire to do so when my first movie hit it big. As it was, she claimed she loved running my life. She was my manager, and usually I adored her for it. But increasingly over the last year, things between us had grown tense.
I kept telling her I needed a break. She kept telling me to wait until after the next movie. She’d been saying that for the last three movies.
“Marta, for heaven’s sake, I’m twenty-five. It’s only been five hours since I touched down in Tennessee. I do know how to drive.” I just can’t read a map to save my life. “And what do you mean ‘we’ have been worried sick?”
“When I couldn’t reach you on your cell phone, I called Mom and Dad.”
“Oh, no.”
I love my mother, but she’d been one of those parents who used to make us watch America’s Most Wanted on Sunday nights. When it went off the air, she made us watch taped re-runs on an old VCR. Without fail, at the end of each episode, she’d say, “And that’s why you never talk to strangers, because they will murder you.”
“Please don’t tell me Mom called the police.”
“She didn’t call the police.”
“Thank God.”
“She called the FBI.”
I moaned, closing my eyes.
“The FBI told her she needed to wait twenty-four hours before filing a report. So Mom called Jenny.” Jenny being my agent.
“What? Why?” My agent was great, really great. But like any great agent, she was also an opportunist. If I were kidnapped, I’m sure she’d be both sad and thrilled. Sad for obvious reasons. Thrilled because of all the free publicity.
“I just got off the phone with Jenny.” I heard Marta shuffle some papers in the background. “In fact, let me text her. She was just about to inform the studio and local police.”
I sighed, my head falling to my hand. “I called you as soon as I arrived. Did you not get my message?”
“But you weren’t answering your cell phone.”
“My cell doesn’t get reception up here.”
“That’s unacceptable. I need to be able to reach you. I have, like, ten scripts for you to look at. You haven’t checked your email in hours. Jenny needs to know whether you’re going to the London premiere for Kate’s new film and who you’re bringing. Travel hasn’t been booked because you need to tell me the dates. You haven’t given me the okay yet on the social media posts for June. Esquire sent over the final pictures and editorial for your approval. Creative wants your input on the campaign for—”
“Marta, stop. Just. Stop.” I could feel my blood pressure rising the longer she spoke. “None of those things are critical or constitute an emergency. I told you this was going to be a writer’s retreat. I told you I need a break.”
She sputtered for a few moments and then finally admitted, “I didn’t think you were serious.”
“You didn’t—”
“You’re always saying you need a break, but you never actually take one.”
The meat sizzled angrily, so I turned off the gas range. “I meant it the last sixty times I said it, so I’m taking one now.”
“Sienna, darling.” Marta hesitated, as though she were at a loss. “Baby, listen. You know I want what’s best for you. You know I love you.”
“Yes. Of course.” And I did. Marta was my older sister by fifteen years. She’d struggled as an actress, waiting tables, waiting for her big break. Just before I sold my first script, she’d landed a regular spot on a network TV show, and she’d given it up to manage my career.
“Then you have to believe me, now is not the time to take a break. You will lose all your momentum. You will become irrelevant. And then all the good you’ve done, breaking that ceiling for Latinas and women in this industry, will disappear.”
I sighed, tired of this argument. In fact, I was just plain tired. I’d cranked out twelve feature film scripts in four years, all of them had been optioned. I was constantly on the press junket for whatever movie I’d just filmed, or was filming, or was about to film. Or I was speaking to crowds and supporting charities dedicated to diversity in film. I agreed with Marta, all of it was worthy of my time.
And yet, I used to love writing, acting, making people laugh, and connecting with my audience. I still liked it, but I was in danger of hating it.
“I just want a break.” I hated how small my voice sounded. “I just want to sleep for a week and wear pajamas without someone taking my picture, or someone breaking into my house, or someone going through my trash.”