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spideycents · 5 years

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B-Roll // Shawn Mendes - 2: quiet on set

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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The first extras call for The Breakfast Club is posted almost a week after I apply to be a makeup assistant. It's the middle of the night on what is hopefully our second to last day of filming at this camp. The goal is to wrap second team shoots tomorrow night, then we'll be done, but we keep having to pause filming for stupid rain that won't seem to go away.

During one of the rain breaks, we're at the top of the hill at the onset extras holding under a really large picnic pavilion. Everyone's on their phones or asleep or playing group games to try to stay awake. I'm spacing out and Michael's on twitter when Julie-Anne squeals loudly and shows us the casting call.

"They're looking for high schoolers!" she says excitedly.

"Sheet!" Michael sits up quickly and types fervidly on his phone.

"Are you gonna apply?" Julie-Anne nods at me while she works on her own application.

I shrug. "Later."

"Why not now?" Michael questions me like I'm crazy for not jumping to apply instantly. "We've got plenty of time."

I purse my lips. "I know, but my phone's in my jacket and I don't feel like getting it out right now."

They both laugh and Julie-Anne says: "Mood!"

They're quiet for bit while they finish their applications and find other days to apply for. The irony that we only ever get hired as teenagers when we're all in our 20s now. Extra irony that Julie-Anne is the oldest, but she looks younger than both me and Michael. I don't know why, exactly. We assume it's her round cheeks or the freckles, but we're not entirely sure. She claims she found the fountain of youth. I wouldn't be surprised since her whole family looks pretty young. Especially her mom and she's practically the spitting image of her.

"And done," Michael exclaims loudly and drops his phone into his lap. He falls back in his chair, flails his legs out, and let's his head fall back so he's staring at the ceiling, then he lets out a rather obnoxiously loud Dying Puma.

At least 20 heads turn and look in our direction. Julie-Anne and I both giggle wildly, but Michael's head is still tilted back, and his eyes are closed, so he's oblivious to the audience he's gathered.

"I have three left," Julie-Anne grumbles.

"Bitch." Michael lifts his head and looks at her with super squinty eyes. When his face is as pinched as possible, that's peak judgement. "Gotta get that Verizon."

She glares at him. He smirks. She sticks her tongue out him. He bends his right arm and twirls his wrist, then opens his hand and juts his chin out slightly. She flips him off. He flips her off too. She looks away. He tilts his head back again.

It's basically the silent equivalent of an argument that goes:

"Fine."

"Good."

"Fine!"

Then they both humph loudly and storm off in opposite directions.

The most Julie-Anne and Michael ever do is stop looking at each other. It's okay anyway, their arguments never mean anything. They can't even jokingly insult each other without feeling bad about it. Michael was just joking once when she was throwing away everyone's trash for them. He told her that while she's at it, she should climb in there too. She actually tilted the trash can and lifted her leg to get in, for the meme, but Michael was already freaking out and apologizing because he felt that that was the meanest thing he's ever said to her. That happened eight months ago and he still brings it up.

"I really hope we all get booked," Julie-Anne mumbles, but she doesn't look up from her phone. "And I hope we get to work with Shawn."

"SAME!" Michael super exaggerates the word, turning each letter into its own syllable.

The switch in language when talking about celebrities after you've worked with them, is so apparent to me. Other fans might say they want to see someone, we talk about working with them and mingling like we're co-workers. When, in reality, the most I've ever said to a principle actor was when I told Alexandra Shipp that I liked her shoes and she told me that costumes picked them out, then she walked away.

***

We wrap second team the next day and as we're pulling off the lot as the sun is rising, Michael plays One Last Time from Hamilton and as happy as I am to see the park get smaller and smaller in the rear-view, it's a little bittersweet.

Michael leaves to go back home later that evening, after first getting a well deserved, and extended nap on my couch.

It's a struggle, saying goodbye to him. Even if we don't know when we'll see each other next, the universe somehow finds a way to always bring us together every couple weeks. The longest we've been apart since we met was 23 days, and that was within the first few months of our friendship. Sure, we text and call and facetime and Skype and DM on basically every social media platform possible, all day, every day, but the separation anxiety is still so real. I'd say I have a panic attack about losing him and Julie-Anne every other day or so. It's exhausting.

I still don't know how to tell them about all this shit in my head. They've given me so many opportunities, so many windows, and I keep not taking them. Being open and vulnerable with anyone is terrifying. I still have to work myself up for a few days, sometimes weeks, before I can tell my mom something and I tell her everything.

"Sorry Dad."

He's sitting at the breakfast table, painting with watercolors in one of his sketchbooks. He doesn't look up from his work while he speaks. "What are you sorry for, Rosie?"

I smile slightly at my dad's nickname for me. He's been calling me Rosie or Rosebud since I was little.

I wring my hands in my lap. It's a nervous tick I picked up from my mom.

I shrug and drop my head so my chin is tucked into my neck and I'm staring at my hands. "Everything, I guess."

Dad laughs lightly. "I'm going to need you to be more specific."

I'm not looking at him directly, but I can see him in my peripherals and he's watching me intently, but with kind eyes. Which is how he usually looks at me lately, unless he's mad, but that almost always fades within minutes. He started looking at me with those gentle eyes a few years ago. Whenever it happens, I feel like I'm six years old again, but not in a condescending way. I feel innocent. I feel cared for. I feel protected, safe. He looks at me like that and I feel like I'm home.

I mean, I literally am home. I've been home for awhile, but that's beside the point.

Today's different though. Today I don't deserve to feel warm and fuzzy. I deserve to feel small and weak right now, because that's where I am today. I'm 23 years old, I'm not in school, I'm broke, I'm unemployed, and I'm still living with my parents. I feel about as small as anyone could possibly ever feel.

I scratch red lines into the back of my left hand. "I don't know." I shrug again. I shrug a lot. When you don't know things, shrugging's what you do, and I don't know anything.

Dad rinses off his brush, then dries it and sets it down on a paper towel on the table beside his laptop. "Lyla," he sits up straighter and turns toward me. "Are you okay?"

I don't look at him, but I nod. "I'm okay," I say a little louder than the whispers I've been at. "It's just a weird day."

"Well, you know can talk to me about anything," he's quieter now too. Somehow our big kitchen now feels cramped. Like it's the middle of the night and we're talking softly so we don't disturb anyone.

"Maybe later." I push my chair back and get up.

"Can I give you hug?" Dad asks quietly.

I'm glad he doesn't stretch his arms out toward me cause then I feel like I have to hug him or than I look rude.

"Not right now," I mumble and go up to my room.

"I love you." His voice echoes up the stairs, filling the hallway. All our doors are closed so it feels like the sound just keeps bouncing back and forth. Even after silence has fallen, I can still hear his voice in my head and my ears ring with regret.

I lock my door behind me and turn off the lights before climbing onto my bed. I pull my comforter around me and curl up into a ball in the back corner. I have a big bed so seeing all the empty space around me just makes me feel smaller.

Nothing in particular happened to trigger this sudden onset bout of weirdness, but I guess that's how depression works. Some days are good and others are weird. I don't want to say bad, because they're not really. I just drift through them. I'm probably like this today because I've been non-stop for the past few weeks and now that Michael's gone, I've kind of hit a wall. I just need some introvert time to recharge so I can get all my energy back.

It's funny to word it in that way.

Recharging.

It's like people are batteries and we spend our energy until we're drained so then we have to find a way to get all that energy back. I get my energy back from alone time or caffeine usually, but a good song or a good movie or book also helps, but that's mainly just to make me feel better. Spending time outside or eating a good meal or getting a good night's sleep is also extremely refreshing. But, so is a nice shower or a bath. Honestly, I find energy through lots of things. Even being around my friends or family when we're happy will help. It varies for everyone though, but whatever you have to do it's basically like plugging yourself into a wall until your angry red light turns into a bright, happy green one.

Speaking of charged.

I unplug my phone and roll over so I'm facing the wall while I unlock it and scroll through my different feeds. I like some random Instagram posts from different celebrities and some wedding photos from someone I knew in college who invited a ton of our friends to their wedding, but didn't say a word about it to me. It's annoying to hear about your friend's engagement through a Facebook post, like everyone else they don't care about.

Yay.

I close Instagram and open Twitter.

My feed has been nothing, but angry political debates since 2016.

I've thrown my two cents into the void, but the only people who follow me are my friends and family and a few random One Direction fans from the good old days in 2012/ People rarely see my posts and I don't want to seek out people and start drama with them or respond to problematic tweets that I see from people I follow. A lot of people get really vicious and evil with their responses and I know I'm not the kind of person who can walk away from that kind of battle unscathed. There's definitely a war raging on the internet and I'll stick to serving as medic rather than a soldier.

I scroll a little farther down Twitter, but there's not a single happy or wholesome thing in sight.

I close Twitter and open Tumblr.

Thank God for memes.

As I'm scrolling, I catch a few South Park posts and DM them to my cousin, Esther, and I spot some Marvel things and share them with Michael, and then Shawn fucking Mendes appears on my dash.

Michael's right. I'm never going to be free of him.

It's a gifset of him lying half-naked on a couch.

It's a nice couch.

I scroll down to find another post about Shawn directly below it and reblogged by the same person too.

This is just one photo, a black and white still on him sitting on a bed. Subject matter aside, I have to admit that's a pretty good shot. The way the light's hitting him, the contrast of the shadows, the general composition...it's just really pleasing to look at.

I heart it and keep scrolling. A few memes and text posts and random quotes on nature photos later and I run into another Shawn post.

Another gifset and this work of art is a collection of moments of Shawn licking his lips.

Lovely.

Leave me alone, Mendes.

I close the app and lock my phone. I push it away and pull my blanket over my head. I lay there in the dark for a little, listening to my breathing and the faint murmur of my dad watching Seth Meyers downstairs.

My phone buzzes once.

An email.

It's probably spam, but I turn over and grab it.

It's from the movie.

I got the job.

I'm going to be working as a makeup assistant on The Breakfast Club remake.

I might have to put makeup on real actors.

I might have to work with Shawn Mendes.

I might have to put makeup on Shawn Mendes.

Oh my god.

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It’s cringey, but now it’s public so... *shrugs* Tell me your thoughts in the tags or message me.

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