Page 8 of The Unknown

The way he’s dressed—T-shirt, cargo pants, and Red Sox cap—screams Young Steven Spielberg, making it clear he hopes to someday become a director. From the spray of freckles across his youthful face, I suspect he’s right out of film school, hungry for success. He radiates energy as he helps Loretta out of the boat.

“You must be Marin,” he says, ready to do the same for me. “I’m Brad Brillstein, the production assistant. Welcome to New Avalon.”

I pause at the side of the boat, reluctant to take that final step onto the dock. If I do, will I regret it, as that ominous text promised? I’m more likely to regretnotgetting out of the boat. Refusing to take part in this boot camp will cost me the part, which might be what happened to the actress who had it before me. Are any reservations I have worth losing a role in a movie directed by Ronan Peters and starring Violet Wright?

The answer, of course, is no. Especially when it also means giving up a hundred thousand dollars, a SAG card, a screen credit other than Bridesmaid with Eczema. Filming that commercial was one humiliation after another. Spending an hour in makeup as an unsightly rash was painted onto my upper arm. The way the other actors kept their distance, as if I were somehow contagious. The strange looks I still sometimes get on the subway when people recognize me from that single commercial.

I think about the first time my parents saw it. How they watched in embarrassed silence, my father speaking for both of them when he said, “Well, now I hope you finally realize how stupid that acting dream of yours was.”

This movie could change that.

All I need to do is step off the boat and spend five days on an island where something bad once happened. Which doesn’t mean it will happen again.

As for the texts I received, maybe this actress, whoever the hell she is, is the one full of regret. Maybe she feels stupid for giving up the opportunity I’m now allowed to take. Maybe that’s the reason she sent those texts. To scare me off, hoping that my departure will allow her to squeeze her way back into the movie.

On the dock, Brad clears his throat, waiting for me to make the next move. While I was waffling, Pete had piled my bags onto the dock and now sits behind the wheel of the boat. The way he looks at me makes it clear he senses my hesitation and even seems to understand it. But instead of reassurance, Pete simply shrugs. The choice is mine alone.

I step off the boat, and the dock wobbles slightly beneath my feet. I try not to take it as a sign I’ve made the wrong decision, which of course I do. By then, though, it’s too late. Pete’s already pulling the boat away from the dock, the gap of water between the two widening.

“Are we ready?” Loretta says, standing on the dock with a hand on her hip.

I nod. Ready as I’ll ever be.

“Good. Before we start, I need you to sign these.”

Loretta pulls two documents from her bag and hands them to me. A quick glance reveals several pages of legal jargon that will take me hours to decipher.

“What are these?”

“The first one indicates that you have been notified of and accept all risks associated with spending time on New Avalon.”

“You just told me there weren’t any risks,” I say with rightful annoyance.

Loretta adjusts her sunglasses, irritated. “I told you that everything will be fine. Because it will. This is just a standard waiver the studio makes everyone sign when they go anywhere off the lot. It doesn’t mean the island is dangerous. It just means that, like literally anywhere on earth, there’s the potential for danger.”

“Such as?”

“Beats me,” Loretta says. “Tripping over tree roots? Snakes? You’d have to ask the studio lawyers.”

An impossible task now that I’m already on the island. I hold up the second document. “And this one?”

“That’s an NDA,” Loretta says. “Forbidding you from talking about the next five days without express permission from me, Ronan, or the studio.”

“Why would I need permission?”

“Some directors, Ronan included, think certain aspects of the filmmaking process should remain private. This is a way of guaranteeing that you’ll check with me or someone from the studio before revealing any details about your time here, especially to members of the press.”

“And what if I don’t?” I say.

“Then the studio can sue you,” Loretta replies. “I’m not saying they will, but violating an NDA certainly opens up the possibility of a lawsuit. And trust me, you don’t want that.”

I stare at the documents, wondering more than ever if I should have stayed in the boat with Pete. The answer, despite the legalese on the pages in my hand, remains no. Refusing to sign the documents—just like refusing to set foot onto New Avalon—would end my career before it even begins. I’d instantly be branded “difficult,” a label that never affects men but has destroyed the careers of too many women to name.

“Again, it’s standard,” Loretta says with pronounced impatience. “There’s nothing sinister about either document.”

Having no choice but to trust her, I lay the papers flat against my suitcase and, using a pen borrowed from Brad, sign on the dotted line. Without another word, I hand them back to Loretta.

With that taken care of, Brad grabs my suitcase. I follow him across the dock, taking stock of the island before me. From the ground, it looks less threatening than it did on the water. Remote, yes, and clearly wild, but also pleasing in that way nature can be when experienced in the full embrace of afternoon sun. The long, slow slope to the top is a tangle of green dotted with bursts of wildflowers in shades of purple, yellow, and gold. Trees take over where the land flattens out. A thick wall of evergreens, shimmering birches, maples with trunks as thick as tractor tires.