“Is everyone okay? I just talked to Mom and Dad yesterday.”
“Everyone is fine; this isn’t about the family. Just go to your trailer and call me back when you get there.”
“Okay. Fine.”
“Good. Talk to you soon.”
She hung up, leaving me perplexed and anxious.
“What’s wrong?” Cletus asked around another mouthful of doughnut.
“I don’t know yet.” I thought about doing a Google news search for my name, but decided against it. “My sister won’t tell me until I’m alone in my trailer.”
“What?”
“This is how she operates.” I stacked the papers I’d spread out and closed my laptop as I explained, “She’s done it this way for years. She thinks I’ll react like a crazy person to bad news, lose my shit in front of people and make an embarrassing scene.”
“Why does she think that?”
I shrugged. “I think because I used to do that when I was five.”
“You were five. That’s how a five-year-old rolls.”
“I know. But to her, in some ways, I guess I’ll always be five.”
“Hmm.” Cletus studied me, and then stood abruptly. “You’re going to your trailer?”
Juggling my belongings, I stepped to the side as he pushed in my chair. “She won’t tell me anything until I’m there.”
“Good. That’s good.” He nodded once, then unceremoniously jogged out of the tent, leaving me frowning after him.
He really was odd. Delightfully odd.
Shaking myself, because I didn’t have time to think about Cletus Winston’s oddness, I motioned for Henry to join me on the walk back to my trailer. Once there, he unlocked the door and held it open. Inside, I deposited my belongings on the table and immediately called Marta.
“Sienna.”
“Marta. I’m alone. In my trailer. What’s up?”
I listened as she gathered a large breath before tearing off the proverbial Band-Aid. “Barnaby doesn’t think you’re right to play the role of Smash-Girl. But he still wants your script.”
I let those words sink in. When they did, my stomach fell and I sunk to a chair. “Why?”
“He says you’re too old.”
I nodded, though I disagreed. I was twenty-five, would be twenty-six or twenty-seven when primary filming began. Assuming they were following my script, I was exactly the right age for the character. “Okay.”
I was not okay. I was super angry. But I was also an adult and saw no benefit in ranting and raving on the phone with my sister.
“Also, he’s worried that it would be typecasting.”
“Why? Because I’m writing the script?”
“No. Because you’re Latina.”
Now I rolled my eyes, disgusted. “Are you saying he doesn’t want to cast me in a role about a woman who is quick to lose her temper because he thinks all Latina women are quick to lose their temper?”
“No. He doesn’t think that, obviously. But it’s a stereotype. He’s already received pushback from racial equality groups, bad publicity about typecasting a Latina in the role.”
“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.” I leaned back in the chair and swiveled it from side to side. I gritted my teeth. It was dumb. It was preposterous. “So, Barnaby is worried racial equality groups will pitch a fit about a Latina woman playing a major film role because the role happens to involve a character who turns red when angry, never mind the fact that I’m the best person for the part. However, these same racial equality groups have no problem with a person getting passed over for the role just because she is Latina. It’s so dumb, it’s brilliant.”
“Sienna—”
“No. No. It makes perfect sense. Better we keep that glass ceiling intact rather than address the issue head-on. I mean, forget that having a Latina play the role will open up doors and encourage diversity in film. Never mind that. Much better we worry about perpetuating an outdated stereotype. In fact, they should probably just get rid of all colors but white in films. And all women. Shakespeare had it right; films should be all white men. Unless of course the character is privileged and rich. Then it should be played by a person of color, we don’t want to enforce a stereotype.”
Yeah, I was being ridiculous and petty. But I’d just lost the role of a lifetime. I was allowed to lash out and be bitter. I think anyone would be, no matter their ethnicity.
I’d grown up privileged, lived in a nice neighborhood, safe, surrounded by people who loved me. My parents were physicians, made a good living. I didn’t think all white people were privileged any more than I thought all Latina women had irrational tempers.