The Journalist and Her Actor

Chapter 3

Have you ever had that friend who knew you were upset before they even answered your phone call? Well that was Prism, and she was creepy with her level of intuition.

"What's wrong?" she asked by way of answering the phone at six o clock in the morning, fully awake.

I didn't know of many people who were such early risers that managed to look as put together as she did, but that was my platinum blond flower shop friend, Prism. "And don't say there isn't a problem or I'll hang up on you right now."

I was sitting on the living room windowsill of my Los Angeles sixth floor walk up, watching the sunrise after a night of restless sleep. "How do you do that?" I asked past a mouthful of Unicorn Frootloops.

Prism, who spoke through speaker phone on the windowsill next to me, scoffed. "I'm brilliant, THAT'S why. Get used to it."

Stretching out my rainbow knee high socked legs, enjoying the way the morning sunrise brightened the colors, I hesitated, trying to decide how to respond. I hadn't bothered to get dressed yet, avoiding the entire idea of sneaking onto the studio lot.

Maybe if I stay in pajamas all day I can just pretend I don't have anywhere to go.

Instead I was wearing my large knee length pajama shirt that sported the words "Justice for Planet Pluto" across the front, my hair a chaotic mess, making me look like a wild manic pixie.

"Your self confidence knows no bounds, Prism," I said dryly.

She snorted. "Call it what you want, but I know when I am right. Now... what color did you dye your hair this time?"

I crunched my next bite of Frootloops into oblivion. "You talked to Bex."

"And YOU catch on fast. She called me last night, worried about you."

My Pizza Nerd coworker friend wasn't a secret keeper. If she was worried about you, she called for reinforcements. And apparently, she called in the big guns, Prism. A woman who didn't pull punches and HATED every color I had ever dyed my hair.

I rolled my eyes. "I dye my hair and suddenly everyone thinks I'm having an emotional break down," I muttered into my cereal bowl.

"We both know you dye it to brighten your perspective when things get hard. Now, just answer the question. What color is your hair?"

"Define color," I supplied as I finished off my bowl of cereal, the milk now a swirl of beautiful pinks and purples.

This was not how I needed the conversation to go. I had called her for a favor, not to hash out how emotionally unhinged I may or may not be.

Psh. Leave therapy for hours post six AM people.

Prism swore on the other end of the phone. "Pink?"

"There's nothing wrong with pink!"

"...OH. MY. GOSH... Wait... HOW MANY COLORS ARE IN YOUR HAIR?!?"

I jumped, startled by the volume coming from the phone. "Don't worry about it—"

"DID YOU DYE YOUR HAIR INTO RAINBOW COLORS!?! Do I need to come over there and dye it back to its beautiful natural brunette color?"

"You don't see me tying you down and dying your platinum blond hair back to whatever color is it's natural color," I snapped back, irritated.

Prism gasped, sounding offended. "MY HAIR IS PERFECTION!"

She let out an uneasy breath. I could imagine Prism walking through the flower shop, angrily wiping down the counters, adjusting the flowers, before adjusting her hair in a calming mantra so she wouldn't reach through the phone and strangle me. "Stop trying to distract me by making up hair lies. You called me. So just tell me what is going on."