GUEST STAR
Emily Robinson
Fame was the disease she wanted to catch. How she hoped her brief exposure was enough to make it terminal....
When she was cast in The Slain, no one believed it would become an overnight sensation. But when it did, her agent insisted that though she was merely a guest star—featured in only one episode—the show had accrued such a cult following, it would be worthwhile for her to get a publicist.
All the top firms were desperate to get their hands on her. Ana’s arc on the show was juicy and tragic—and she looked hot, even on her deathbed.
“We see this catapulting you into the fashion world.”
“Oh, I’m not a model. Just an actress.”
“Precisely. We’ll get you in Dior or Dolce for the Emmy’s.”
“The Emmy’s?”
“The Slain will be nominated for something, surely.”
“But I was just a guest star. I don’t think I get to go.”
“You can buy a ticket. We just need pictures of you on the carpet, and we can get you to Paris in no time.”
“To Paris?”
“You’ll sit front row.”
“Will that help me book another role?”
“Of course. This is how it’s done.”
“What do you mean?”
“We are selling you,” the fancy publicist had explained. Though what she left unsaid, was the fact that she was actually selling herself to Ana. Her services would run five-thousand dollars a month for at least three months, which was nearly five times more expensive than Ana’s rent-controlled apartment.
Her team insisted this was worth the investment, so she went along with it. She signed the contract, and then quickly was told the next step was to set-up a photo shoot.
“Don’t the magazines do that?” Ana asked.
The publicist laughed. “Sure, sometimes. If the story’s big enough. But for now, we need photos.”
Ana agreed to the photo shoot, despite the fact that her savings would be wiped out completely by the cost of the publicist alone. Now she had to figure in another two-hundred for hair, two-hundred for makeup, five-hundred for styling—the photographer agreed to comp their fee for the exposure—but there was still a one hundred and fifty dollar studio cost. As if that wasn’t enough, her publicist scheduled it during working hours.
Her guest starring role on The Slain had paid her the equivalent of three months rent, but not enough to allow her to quit her day job: working the counter at a matcha shop. She couldn’t really, technically afford to take any more time off. But she needed to capitalize on this momentum, so she shrugged off the well of anxiety bubbling beneath her skin. How she craved to be a person people cared about. If she could just become cool enough, maybe she could finally secure stable work as an actress! So what if she didn’t have money to spare on luxuries like gasoline and coffee? So what if she’d have to start walking three miles to and from work since the bus was too expensive? So what if her matcha shop manager started cutting her shifts since she’d become so unreliable a worker due to the press events clogging up her emails—luncheons, talks, interviews, galas, gifting suites, and branded experiences. She said yes to everything her team recommended. Even if each event with a carpet cost her another two-hundred for hair, two-hundred for make-up, five-hundred for styling—
“Those are favor rates. When it’s out-of-pocket. Eventually, you’ll get a budget and The Slain, or whoever, will pay them directly.”
“You know I died in the show? I’m not going to be in the next season?”
Her publicist’s face flickered with fear and frustration, “Of course I know that.”
Ana trusted her team implicitly. Their financial success was tied to her own. Right?
The photo shoot went off splendidly. The make-up artist spent two hours making Ana look blemish and make-up free, despite weighing her down with pounds of powder and cream. The hair stylist smoothed her wavy locks. The stylist placed her in beautiful fabrics with decadent gems and jewels to boot. Her publicist held the fan as the photographer shot her stills.
They all ooh-ed and ahh-ed at the beauty they had all collectively created and placed onto her. This was the becoming of a shiny, famous person. That’s what they promised her.
For the first time, Ana understood that anyone could become celebrity-beautiful with enough time, money, and attention.
Once the photos were locked, her publicist went into attack mode. Interviews, screenings, premieres, and more luncheons.
Ana barely saw the inside of the matcha shop. Only on her rare days off from her campaign for stardom, did she manage to wrangle a shift. With no money coming in, she began to panic.
Ana called up her agent and asked, “Is it helping?”
“Oh, yes. Everyone’s asking about you.”
“Then why haven’t I gotten any auditions?”
“You’re offer only now.”
“Am I getting any offers?”
“No, but—”
“Then why can’t I audition?”
Her agent insisted it was better this way. Ana had to believe her.
Though Ana was still on the far fringes of relevance—a blur in the background of a People image.... Once DeuxMoi featured as juicy goss that a guest star from the hit show The Slain was working six days a week at a mediocre matcha spot, Ana’s publicist required she quit.
“It’s not in alignment with your brand.”
“Matcha?”
“No. Working. In the service industry.”
“Don’t most actors have day jobs?”
“Maybe so, but they keep it hidden from the press. And me.”
“So what should I do?”
The publicist’s smile tightened. “Well, I can’t tell you what to do. But as someone who has been working in this industry for over twenty years, I can just tell—it’s going to happen for you. It’s just a matter of timing and making sure nothing stands in between you and your dreams.”
Ana understood the subtext: quit your job. Start your career.
So, she quit her job and paid her rent, her publicist, her hair stylist, her make-up artist, and her stylist. She stopped driving her car so she wouldn’t need to refuel, and she started subsisting off her pantry staples, hoping to survive until her next offer.
She would sit by her phone, waiting for her next invitation. At the screenings, she got to enjoy the content she could no longer afford. At the luncheons, she got to feed herself—not tinned fish or instant ramen. At the premieres, she was able to try the hottest spots in town—which she would not forget to reference liberally in her many interviews. She was a woman about town, after all.
“My favorite spot? Hm...probably Mother Kitchen, Per Favor Padre, or Vino & Timmy’s,” Ana said, wistfully.
Her stylist eventually confronted her about her wardrobe. “You have no clothes. We need to go shopping. What’s your budget?”
“I don’t...have one.”
“Make one.”
Ana gulped. “I quit my job.”
The stylist’s face flooded with understanding, then said, “I have a plan,” and arranged for her to go to a showroom the following day.
“What am I supposed to do at a showroom? Do I get to borrow the clothes?”
“You get to shop. For free. Pick out pieces you can wear for carpets and interviews. Shop freely, but wisely,” the stylist instructed. “Take what you want, but be strategic.”
Ana accepted her mission.
She pawed through the rack, eyeing her prey. She wrote off a number of pieces as either too corporate or too easy. She narrowed her gaze on four items, and decided she’d need to limit what she grabbed to three. The cashmere would be coming home with her. But she couldn’t look too thirsty, too desperate for the free.
She pulled a skirt close to her body, and examined herself in the mirror. Her heart softened as she saw her image obey her commands. Her hair had behaved that morning, and for that, she was grateful. She looked the part: effortless, chic, like she was one to watch. She didn’t always look this way, and she knew it. She enjoyed dissociating and objectifying herself, imagining how the showroom associate saw her as she twisted her neck back to say, “Hmmm...I’ll take these, I think,” forcing her voice to sound disinterested, uncertain. Like she could afford not to take any of it.
“So cute. Love. I’ll throw ‘em in your bag,” the associate said cheerfully. “We can look at the skincare options next.”
Ana smiled. Success. She wanted skincare. But she also wanted jeans. And a winter coat.
And a piece of luggage, if they’d let her have it. She knew the old song and dance. The push and pull of this charade. How much could she take without making them question her.
“Oh, I totally forgot. Did you say you wanted kombucha?” the associate asked upon her return.
“That’s okay. Thanks.”
“You sure?”
Ana nodded tightly. She had wanted kombucha. But today was about picking her battles. What she really wanted more than kombucha ($5.99), was a puffer coat ($189). What she needed, was a dress ($112 or $389—she must choose wisely). She was here on business, not as a shopper—but as a taker.
“By the way, I loved you in The Slain. Your arc killed me.”
“Aw! Thanks. Yeah, it literally killed me!”
“I was so bummed when you got—well—slain.”
Ana smiled tightly, “Nature of the beast.”
Thirty-seven minutes later, she left the showroom not a penny further in debt, with twenty-three items valued at one thousand two hundred and seventy-eight dollars. She faked nonchalance until she was safely back in the comfort of her 2014 Kia Soul she parked purposefully far away. She figured taking her old car was better than taking the bus.
She slammed the front door shut, and sighed. Thank god. She was in desperate need of a wardrobe refresh. This invitation had come just in the knick of time. Who could possibly turn down a free shopping spree? All it would cost her was a few social media mentions, her stylist assured her. She could afford to cheapen her Instagram in the name of free goods.
Just as Ana began her most decadent drive back across town, her phone brightened with a notification. An email from her publicist. At a red light, she snuck a peak:
Ana,
I have excellent news. We have secured you a ticket to The Emmy’s. The invoice is attached below. I’ll start working on a FYC push.
Your stylist will be reaching out to set-up a fitting, and I will confirm HMU for the day. Will your base location be the same as usual, or would you like to reserve a hotel suite for the day?
Ana didn’t know what an FYC push was, but she knew it must be important. She would do whatever it took to allow herself that final push.
Upon her return home, she scanned the web for easy ways to make money. She signed up to be considered for loads of clinical trials and focus groups. She applied for copywriting gigs despite being under-qualified. She created a Depop and listed all her used carpet clothing. She searched the web for un-sketchy petsitting and housesitting gigs, but somehow, instead of finding a lead, she wound up taking eighty-six surveys over the three hours that followed. She made $6.78. Big sigh.
The following day, her publicist explained all an “FYC push” entailed.
“It’s no big, really. We’ll just continue on our track—getting you visibility. Placing you at the right events, and in conversation with the right people.”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing already?”
“Pretty much. All this means, officially, is that the network will add you to their materials. Mailers, press kits, you name it. They’ll pay the submission fee, which isn’t always a given. But they’re impressed with the buzz you’ve been generating. If they host a screening, you’ll be a panelist.”
“With the main cast?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“That’s amazing!”
“And we’ll continue on with our press push. But I’ll make sure everyone who talks to you is briefed that you’re under consideration for an Emmy. It’s more of the same, just a strategic way to make people associate your name with an award-worthy performance.”
Ana felt all the tension leave her body, she was at ease. Her lips curled into a smile.
“But remember—don’t smile.”
“Sorry,” Ana said, forcing her face to smize.
Ana did not get nominated for an Emmy. She didn’t even get mentioned by any of the websites that speculated about the possible surprise nominations. But she did get many more invitations and write-ups. Her agents praised her visibility, and set up general meetings for her with casting directors. Many of whom, she’d read for before—but none had previously viewed her as a real contender.
Ana wasn’t quite sure what to talk about on these generals.
“So, what are you working on now? Gearing up for season two?” One Casting Director asked.
Ana’s eyes unconsciously twitched. How to respond? “Yes,” she said, “very excited for it.” She was excited for it, even if she was neglecting to mention she had died on the show. Maybe there would be flashbacks? There wouldn’t, but clearly they hadn’t watched, so what did they know, anyway?
“What was the process like?”
“You mean the casting process, or filming?”
“Casting.”
“Well, my agents sent me the breakdown and I taped for it. They watched the tape, and honestly, there wasn’t even a meeting after that.”
“They just saw you and knew.”
“I guess.”
“What’s your process?”
“Well, um, I guess I do some scene work. You know, read all the materials and mark up my script. I just think a lot, and then try to physicalize things. Does that make any sense?”
“Totally.”
“Sometimes I journal. Or coach if I can afford to.”
The Casting Director laughed, as if she were joking.
“Oh, you’re being serious.”
“No...?” Ana hedged.
“God, you’re hilarious.
Ana smiled nervously, “thanks.”
“So what do you want?”
“I’m sorry?”
“What do you want to do next?”
“Oh, anything really. Something interesting, obviously, would be great. But, I just want to be on set. I want to be a working actor. Everyone’s trying to force me into fame, which is nice, because it makes working easier. But if I’m really honest with myself, I just want stable work.”
The Casting Director’s face fell. “You want...stable work?”
Ana realized her mistake. “I’m kidding!”
The Casting Director sighed, relieved. “Thank God.”
“I wouldn’t have gone into entertainment if I wanted stability! No, um...I want passion. And roles that really, you know, call to me.”
“And what roles call to you?”
“Layered roles. Complicated ones. But also—flat roles, because then the job is harder, you know? To make the character come to life.”
“I love that so much,” the Casting Director said, jotting down notes in Ana’s file. She hadn’t realized the Casting Director had been taking notes this whole time.
“Do you always take notes in meetings?”
“I do. A general with an actor is like an actor reading the full script. Do you know what I mean?”
Ana did not know what the Casting Director meant. But she was sure glad she met with her, because she’d sold nearly all the items she’d listed on Depop, and was only a few hundred dollars the richer. All that treasure would be wiped away the following day when it came time to pay her team to make her look perfectly naturally perfect for The Emmy’s. It would be nice to book another job.
That night, every celebrity would spend two hours minimum in the make-up chair before traversing the red. The mega famous may even pay their stylists to accompany them for the night, to erase their smudges and reapply what they hadn’t meant to erase. But the battle for the best artists and stylists meant that newbies like Ana had to get their glam on hours before they were due to walk.
“It’s better to go early, anyway,” her publicist insisted.
“Won’t it be awkward, just waiting around for everyone else to walk the carpet afterwards?”
The publicist stared back at Ana, unwilling to respond. Eventually, she deigned to speak on, “The car will come get you thirty minutes before the carpet opens. The drive shouldn’t take more than twenty minutes, but this gives you a buffer. I will meet you at the drop-off point, and we will line-up and be ready to walk the second they start clicking those cameras. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Now, remember. This isn’t your average carpet. This isn’t some screening with one floating photographer, or even a premiere with a whole host of them and a few videographers to boot.”
Ana gulped.
“This is the big leagues. This is a sea of red carpet. For as far as the eye can see: red carpet. Hundreds of photographers—all of whom will be begging you to look here, look here, smile, turn around, give me a twirl, show off those shoes, look back at me, at me—and of course—smile.”
Ana’s imagination ran wild. There she was, amidst the chaos, caught in the flashing light of this massive red carpet. Smile, they’d say. As she drowned in the flashing light—her life flashing before her eyes—frozen by pixels, captured on tiny screens.... She was at peace, and she was smiling.
“Don’t smile. Whatever they say. Don’t listen. Don’t twirl. And definitely—do not smile.”
Ana’s face darkened.
“Understood?”
Ana nodded.
“Good. Once you complete the photos, there will be a host of interviews. We’ll do some of those, but many are on-air and only want big names. After that, there’s the three-sixty photo studio, which will secure an unbeatable pic of you in your dress. This is the only time you may twirl. Understood?”
“Understood.”
“You remember what we taught you about posing? Feet straight, arms close to the body, hands and mouth relaxed—always smizing.”
“Of course.”
“Good. Don’t forget. After the three-sixty, there may be a few photo booth set-ups. You can do those if you want. Then you’ll walk again once your costars arrive.”
“My costars?”
“From The Slain.”
“Am I allowed to walk with them?”
“Are you allowed to walk with them?”
“Don’t they only want photos of the main cast?”
“Precisely. That’s why you’ll walk with them.”
Ana gulped, she felt her shoulders tense and her chest cave. She hated to take up space where she was not welcomed. But maybe things had changed since set. Maybe now that she was becoming somebody, they would include her in their inside jokes.
“You were up for your consideration!” Her publicist insisted.
“But I wasn’t nominated. I was never going to be nominated. It was practically a joke.”
“No, it wasn’t,” she said with such conviction, that for a moment, just a moment, Ana believed she had actually had a shot of getting nominated.
“I was never going to get nominated.”
“Of course not. That’s not why we put you up for consideration and you know it. We put you up for consideration—”
“I thought they put me up for consideration?”
“Sure, but we encouraged it. We dared them not to.”
“Okay....”
The publicist cleared her throat, then continued, “We put you up for consideration so they would view you as essential. So they would recognize your talent and promote you from a guest star...to a star. And that is why you must walk with them. Because now you are just like the rest of them. You are a star.”
And just like that, Ana’s hair stylist and makeup artist were knocking on her door. They squeezed into her apartment and didn’t mention that their next stop would be an A-Lister staying at the Four Seasons or the Beverly Hilton—maybe the Ritz if they wanted to be downtown, close to the ceremony.
The stylist came promptly after, and hung the dress for all to see.
“So what are we thinking for hair? Maybe up to keep the neckline clean?” The hairstylist asked.
“Fine, but no braids. Simple and sleek,” the stylist instructed.
“Simple and sleek,” the hairstylist repeated.
“I love the slight shimmer. Maybe we do our usual no-makeup look, natural pink lip, and a hint of a golden-peach shimmer on the eye. Something subtle.”
“If it’s subtle, I love it,” the stylist said.
“That sounds great!” Ana said. Everyone smiled, and then they all got to work on their willing canvas.
The hair stylist straightened every last strand of Ana’s hair. The make-up artist cleansed her face, then primed it with hydrating serums and creams. She stuck eye masks on while she worked on the edges of her face. Next would come the litany of products designed to make Ana more beautiful. To make her into a star. All the while, the stylist examined shoe options and earring alternatives. And Ana sat there, still as a doll, never forgetting to smize—not smile.
“Are you excited?” The stylist asked.
“Nervous,” Ana admitted.
“Why are you nervous?” The makeup artist inquired.
Ana shrugged, “First big carpet.”
The car came just when the publicist said it would. The makeup artist bronzed her legs and then the stylist gently shuffled Ana into the car, careful to ensure the dress would remain unwrinkled and photo-ready.
Her chorus of beauticians exclaimed in unison: “You look stunning,” “This look is so freaking good. I’m deceased,” and “She’s a star!”
And then the door slammed, and she was left alone—well, alone with her driver.
Together they sat in silence. He drove while Ana scrolled through socials. She perfunctorily took some videos and selfies, feeling a fool. Trying again and again to look effortless and cool and like she didn’t care at all.
Ana arrived at the carpet early. So early it was closed. She had a solid six minutes to adjust her dress, de-shrimp her toes, blot the oil from her face, and reapply lipstick. The little to-go pack her makeup artist had sent her away with had come in clutch—and fit in one, too.
She texted the contact from her PR company who would be walking her down the carpet as she watched the photographers shimmy into their places, fighting for prime locations. Publicists buzzed about, checking their lists were in order and nothing was amiss.
“Ana! Hi, I’m Kristie,” the publicist said as she approached. She was so chipper Ana winced.
“Hi!”
“So, the carpet opens in just a few minutes. Wanna freshen up real quick and we can get you on before anyone else gets here? Your timing is perf.”
“Really? It’s not too early,” Ana said as she looked around. Nobody was here. Nobody famous, at least.
“No exactly, it’s perfect.”
Ana nodded, understanding. It was perfect. Nobody famous was here. This was her time.
She unclasped her clutch, blotted her forehead and nose, then reapplied her lipstick.
“I’m ready whenever.”
“Sweet. Let’s do this,” the publicist said as she opened her iPad and opened her Emmy’s PDF. She flipped past the recognizable names all the way to Ana’s—written clearly in big, bold Helvetica.
She stepped onto the carpet as her shoes straps dug into her ankle. She smiled automatically, but caught herself before the clicking began. She relaxed her mouth, and smized just in time for the cameras to come to life. Flash, flash, “over here,” “over here,” flash, flash, “look back,” flash, “smile," flash, "show off the dress,” “give us a twirl,” flash, “who are you wearing?,” flash, flash, “over here,” “over here.”
All eyes were on Ana. Alone in a sea of red. Her face, a willing canvas for their light and perspective.
She took her time, as instructed: one camera at a time. Each flash filled her whole body with warmth. What could have felt overwhelming, instead felt peaceful and serene.
Of course they were taking her photo, hungry to send the images off to the presses. It made sense they were all looking at her. Finally, she was exactly where she belonged, she thought, as she floated to the end of the carpet, high on all the eyes and attention.
When she reached the end of the red-lined-road, she was whisked over to the interviewers.
"Who are you wearing?”
“How long did it take you to get ready today?”
“How do you feel about being here?”
“Who are you wearing?”
“How are you feeling about your chances at taking home the trophy?”
“Who are you wearing?”
“What are your favorite memories from filming The Slain?”
“What’s in store for season 2?”
“Who are you wearing?”
“Who are you most excited to meet today?”
“Who are you wearing?”
“Who are you wearing?”
“Who are you wearing?”
“Who are you wearing?”
When Ana reached the end, she was greeted by a pretty girl holding a tray of water bottles.
“Why do they have straws instead of caps?” Ana asked.
The pretty girl smiled condescendingly, then replied, “For your makeup, of course.”
“Of course,” Ana said, with a pang of remorse. How had she been so thick not to assume the straw was for her benefit.
“Don’t worry. They’re paper straws. We would never use plastic.”
“Obviously,” Ana said.
“Obviously,” the pretty girl replied.
“Are you ready?” The publicist asked.
“For what?”
“The carpet, of course.”
“Of course.”
“So you’re ready?”
“Didn’t I just do it?”
“Yes, but now your whole cast is here and waiting to walk.”
“They’re waiting to walk?” Ana asked, her eyes skimming past the red to the start of the step and repeat. A line had formed.
“Yes, they’re waiting to walk. Shall we join them?”
“We should join them. Of course,” Ana agreed, as they began walking to join the cast of The Slain.
“Who are you wearing?” The lead girl asked. “I love your dress.”
“I woke up at 5AM for glam,” said a supporting character.
“I need to unzip this once the photos are done.”
“I’m changing for the after party.”
“My plus one brought me sneakers.”
“I’m developing a blister already.”
During a lull between talking points, there was a collective gasp as two girls stood sharing a screen.
“Ana. You’re best dressed,” one said, tilting the screen so Ana could see.
“Already?! We haven’t even walked yet,” another protested.
“It’s so early in the day!”
“They must have needed people to post.”
“But your dress is so...busy.”
“And your lipstick is so...visible.”
“I mean, it looks great.”
“So chic.”
“But you’re best dressed? Not me?” The lead actress didn’t say, but she thought. Ana could sense it. In her bones. It was the implication.
All of the dresses were beautiful and absurd, and all of the girls looked like alien Barbie dolls, not women or girls.
When the time came for The Slain cast to grace the red, Ana was relegated to the edge of the frame. Put in her place. She was on the fringes of fame. Begging for breadcrumbs. Desperate to be here. Uninvited and unnecessary.
But the photographers were none the wiser, and they remembered her.
“Ana! Over here! Over here!”
Dirty looks and insecurity seeped into the poses. The casemates smized so hard their nostrils flared, and forehead veins risked bursting.
When the time came to part ways and head to their seats, a supporting character asked, “Are we all sitting together in row AA,” knowing full well Ana was not.
She was banished to the realm of the mezzanine, where wannabes and Television Academy Members paid their way into relevance.
In her seat, she unbuckled her heels and let her feet breathe. She unzipped the top of her dress, too. She could relax for awhile and watch the show. No one was looking at her, and that was not a blow.
Normally these sorts of displays lasted for too long. Dragged on forever, and never gave up. But today, she didn’t mind. This was her respite. The carpet was the show and this was her break. She would have to rally for the afterparties.
Of course, the network had invited them to their party, and her publicist had wrangled her an invite to the official Emmy’s afterparty. But that was not enough.
“No, you can’t be seen at only two afterparties.”
“No?”
“No, of course not. You have to go to at least three, ideally four.”
“How will I have time?”
“You’ll only stay for ten minutes, of course.”
“Of course?”
“Of course. You’ll stay for ten minutes so you can walk the carpet and do the rounds, then we’ll ship you off to the next one.”
“Why? What good does that do? Shouldn’t I be networking?”
“Ana, my dear. Haven’t you learned? It’s all for the photos. We need photos of you on carpets.”
“But don’t I need different outfits?”
“That’s an excellent point. I’ll message your stylist. We can do one look per carpet. Really go all out.”
“Doesn’t it cost me $500 for every outfit?”
The publicist looked at Ana with such disdain.
“It’s the Emmy’s....” The publicist said, with attitude for emphasis.
“Of course. Sorry,” Ana said, disappearing into her thoughts. Money was just money, wasn’t it? Maybe it was Buddhist of her to wear four outfits. Or five, she supposed, if she included the gown she would be wearing to the award show itself. Would she even have time to change between the Emmy’s and the first afterparty?
Anyway, that’s how Ana got tricked into overbooking her big day.
The ceremony was just the beginning.
“And the Emmy goes to....” Ana barely heard as she turned the brightness down on her phone and checked the itinerary that had been emailed to her the day prior. She’d have to change before the first afterparty. She had to get ready to maximize the night. Really go all out.
Who was she wearing next?
Who was she wearing?
Who was she...?
All of a sudden, she couldn’t remember.
Emily Robinson is a writer, actor, and director based in Los Angeles. She’s the writer of the novel CONSUMED and her short-form prose can be found in Teen Vogue, Currant Jam, and Dry River. Her short films, VIRGIN TERRITORY and HEARSAY, have screened at numerous festivals, including Outfest, Frameline, and LA Film Festival. Robinson is a SAG Award-nominated, Special Drama Desk Award-winning actor known for her work in EIGHTH GRADE, THE YEAR BETWEEN, and TRANSPARENT. She holds a degree in Creative Writing from Columbia University and is represented by Buchwald and Foundation Media Partners.