The Call Sheet

I took the job because I needed the paycheck and the health insurance weeks.

It was a small role, recurring, if the audience didn't hate me. I was playing an agent. Not my agent, which would've been funny, but someone else's. It started the way these things always start, half dressed, brushing toothpaste off my shirt, when my phone lit up with my agent's name.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up," I muttered, hitting the green button with my elbow.

"Morning, sunshine," Marcy said. "You busy?"

"Nope. Standing in my kitchen with a mouthful of  almond milk."

"Great. You're putting something on tape today. Got an email from casting this morning. It's a new role for Poker Face, guest arc, three episodes, maybe more if they like you. Character's Charlie's agent."

I blinked. "Charlie...?"

"Natasha Lyonne's character."

I paused, chewing on the name. "Oh, right. The lie detecting... detective? The one with the hair and the voice?"

"Close enough. It's a good part, kind of. Think Ari Gold but less punchable."

"You had me at 'less punchable.'"

Marcy laughed. "I sent the slides. Shoot it quick, tonight if you can. They're moving fast."

I pulled up the email, already scanning the script. One and a half scenes. Mostly me walking into a diner and verbally slapping sense into Charlie while fielding client calls mid sentence. A few sharp one liners. The kind of role where you either nail the rhythm or fall flat.

"Alright," I said. "I'll get it to you tonight."

"Don't overthink it. Just be Quinn."

I shot the self tape that night in my living room. A friend of mine who was the only supportive one of my roller coaster of a career, read Charlie's lines off screen while I paced, ad libbing little eye rolls and half finished phone conversations. I did four takes, picked the second one, slightly undercooked but confident, and hit send.

Then I forgot about it. Like, fully forgot. I moved on to a commercial audition for allergy medication and stress ate through the weekend.

Until Tuesday morning, when Marcy called again.

"They want a callback. Tomorrow. Zoom. Director'll be on."

"Oh. That's... fast."

"Welcome to TV."

I ironed a shirt for the Zoom callback, which is funny because only the shoulders were in frame. The director, Clea DuVall, was calm and steady, dry smile, clear eyes, dressed in all black. She gave off the vibe of someone who could direct a murder scene or fix your posture in one sentence.

"Thanks for hopping on," she said. "We loved your tape. Let's just play around a bit."

She had me run the diner scene again, this time slightly slower, then faster, then with a little more bite.

On my last take, I accidentally talked over the reader.

"No, that's good," Clea said, holding up a hand. "Don't worry. That's the rhythm. Quinn's always a half beat ahead, kind of a controlled chaos thing. Don't clean it up too much."

I nodded like I meant to do it. She gave a small smile. "Cool. Thanks."

The next morning, I was eating cereal in pajama pants when Marcy called.

"You booked it."

I blinked. "What?"

"You. Booked. It. Quinn is yours. You're flying out next week."

There was a long beat where I didn't say anything. Then: "Holy sh, "

"Language," she cut in. "You're playing a publicist."

The next few days were a blur of adulting.

I signed contracts, filled out W 9s and NDAs, sent over my headshot and clothing sizes. I went to a fitting at a production office tucked into the back corner of a warehouse. Inside, a wardrobe stylist named Bea squinted at me, shoved me behind a curtain with five blazer options, then circled me like a hawk while tugging at sleeves.

"This one," she said finally, gesturing to a dark gray jacket with slightly too sharp shoulders. "It says, 'Don't waste my time.' Perfect for TV."

"Great," I said, arms out like a mannequin. "That's basically my love language."

The table read was on Zoom. I logged in ten minutes early and spent five of them wondering if my lighting made me look like a tired ghost or just, you know, regular.

One by one, faces popped into boxes. Writers, producers, a few other guest stars. The guy playing the murder suspect looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place him. Maybe an episode of NCIS or a toothpaste ad.

The square labeled N. LYONNE stayed dark.

Clea popped in, sleeves pushed up, black hoodie on. "Hey, everyone. Let's get into it. This'll be loose, just a feel for tone."

We started the read. I tracked the pages, waited for my first entrance. It came mid episode:

[SCRIPT SUPERVISOR]"INT. ROADSIDE DINER – AFTERNOON. Charlie's seated at the counter. Quinn enters mid phone call, talking a mile a minute."

[ME – AS QUINN]"Tell Gary I don't care if his gluten free tequila just won a regional award, he's not doing that interview. If he speaks in third person again I'm hanging up. , Charlie! Hi. Why are you in Nevada?"

A few of the writers chuckled. Clea glanced up, nodded.

"Nice pacing," she said. "That tone, kind of antagonistic affection? Keep that."

Still no sign of Natasha. Her square flickered once, then went dark again.

Later, another line:

[ME – AS QUINN]"You know, if you returned a call once in a while, we could do this in a way that doesn't make me want to walk into traffic."

Someone laughed, might've been the line producer.

Clea smiled faintly. "You'll read with Natasha in person. She'll throw curveballs. Let her pull you off track, it works better that way."

We wrapped an hour later. Clea thanked everyone, calm as ever.

"She's flying in tomorrow," she added. "You two will meet at the production meeting on Thursday."

Thursday came fast.

They flew me upstate in the morning. A driver with a paper coffee cup and a "QUINN – POKER FACE" sign picked me up from the airport and barely spoke as we cut through farmland and pine trees.

The studio was quiet when I arrived, just a few crew unloading gear, the clink of metal and muffled walkie chatter. A PA named Jamie met me at the gate, gave me a badge and a bottle of water, and walked me to the conference room.

Inside were six people and a long table covered in printed scripts, Sharpies, a box of bagels no one had touched, and a dry erase board labeled BLOCKING – EP 20.

Clea looked up from her notes. "Hey. You're here. Grab a seat."

I sat near the middle, opened my script, tried not to nervously sip all my water at once.

They were talking camera setups when the door creaked open.

In walked a woman wearing a slouchy gray blazer, black jeans, and sunglasses, indoors, because of course. Her hair was a reddish tangle. She held a vape like it was part of her skeletal system and dropped her script on the table with a soft thud.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, voice husky and dry. "Someone parked like a sociopath. Took me ten minutes to wedge my car into a spot that didn't exist." I turned slowly, almost like it was an afterthought, like I hadn't been hyper-aware of every second leading up to this moment.

She was... shorter than I expected. Somehow still larger than the room. Same raspy voice I'd heard in the clips I'd binged after booking the role — the ones I didn't want to admit I watched. Hair tied up, oversized jacket, a plastic iced coffee in one hand, dark under-eye circles that somehow looked intentional. She looked like she hadn't slept, or maybe just didn't care to hide it. Or maybe that was the look.

She scanned the room quickly, eyes flicking across the group. Then she gave Clea a brief hug — loose, comfortable, like this wasn't the first time they'd worked together.

"You want me here or over there?" Natasha asked, motioning toward the chairs.

"Grab a seat anywhere," Clea said. "We're still settling in."Natasha dropped into the chair across from me and finally took off her glasses.

She looked over, right at me. Her eyes were sharp, slightly narrowed, but not unfriendly.

"Hey," she said. "You're Quinn?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

She smirked, the corner of her mouth hitching up. "I'm Charlie."