Superstars

1985

Ahna Kay Smith

I started acting when I was 6, yes, 6. You know the days when you’re playing with your dolls and make up crazy scenarios for them? You haven’t? Well, I have, and from there, my parents decided I should be an actress. I acted in school plays, always improvising like I was the director. I just know they were tired of me saying, ‘But if I did or said this instead of what’s on the script?’

99.9% of the time, the audience loved it more than my dumb drama teacher, Ms Sinclair. Though I was a director slash actor in that area, I tried to keep the same energy in my other classes.

I did pretty well in them, just not hard mathematics, science, and physics...

Other than that, I’m perfect, and now that I have my diploma, I’m now pursuing acting as my only dream.

Being an 18-year-old Black girl in 1985 in California is...

a whole production. I mean, it’s like I’m walking through life in full Technicolor while the world’s still trying to cast me in black and white.

They see the skin, the curls, the sass, and they assume I’m some side character in someone else’s story. Nah, baby—I am the story.

I walk into auditions and they expect me to play the maid, the sassy best friend, or the girl from “the streets.” And I could—if I wanted to—but I’d rather play the lead who kisses the guy, cries on cue, and wins an Oscar before I’m 25. Hell, before I’m 21.

They don’t expect girls like me to write their own scripts. Or direct. Or take up space. But I’ve been doing that since I was six, remember?

You can ask Ms. Sinclair—though she’d probably say I was “a handful.”

(Translation: I had opinions and wasn’t afraid to outshine her stale little curriculum.)

Look, I’m not saying I’m better than everyone.

Just... most people.

And I’m not just here to be an actress. I’m here to build something—films, art, a legacy. I want to see girls who look like me being bold, weird, beautiful, messy, and unforgettable on screen.

And if I have to kick a few casting directors’ doors down in my jelly shoes and hoop earrings to make it happen? So be it.

Now let me ask you something:

Have you ever seen a star this bright burn out?

Didn’t think so.

Acting Class, 1985

First day of scene study and the air already smells like desperation and hairspray.

I walk into the room like I paid for it. Head held high, shoulders back, lip gloss poppin’. Ain’t nobody here outshine me—not the girl in the Flashdance sweatshirt, not the dude trying way too hard to look like Rob Lowe. And definitely not the instructor in his rolled-up sleeves and fake Brando energy.

Then I see him.

Leaning against the wall like he’s posing for a Calvin Klein ad—but like, the moody kind. Hair all wild and curly, leather jacket too big for this L.A. heat, eyes like he’s seen some things and dared them to try him again.

He catches me looking. Of course he does. I’m not exactly subtle.

“You lost?” I ask, sliding into the seat next to him.

He smirks. “You think I look lost?”

Oh. That accent.

Puerto Rican. Smooth and heavy, like molasses over a drumbeat. It wraps around the words, makes them sound way more interesting than they actually are. If I wasn’t careful, I might swoon. But Ahna Kay Smith does not swoon. I lean in.

“No. But you’re dressed like you’re in a noir film and this is a dance class, so... maybe a little confused.”

He chuckles, low and warm. “Is acting, no? We become anything.”

“Sure,” I say, crossing my legs. “But I don’t need a costume to take up space.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You always talk like that?”

“Only when I’m awake.”

Instructor claps his hands and tells us to pair up for a cold read. You already know who I’m looking at. And surprise, surprise—he’s already looking back.

We get handed some tired two-person scene about a breakup at a train station. Predictable. But I flip the script in my head. I make her colder, funnier. He does the same. Makes the guy more intense, like he’s haunted. And when we do the scene?

The room goes silent.

Even Mr. Brando-wannabe is looking like, Oh damn, okay.

I don’t know what just happened, but I felt it. Like the start of something. Not a romance—don’t get it twisted. This ain’t about love.

This is about electricity. Hunger. Raw, messy, beautiful talent.

After we sit down, he leans in and says, “You’re good. You feel... real.”

I give him a sideways look. “Course I’m real. What were you expecting? A mannequin?”

He laughs again. I think that’s gonna be his thing—brooding one minute, laughing the next.

“I’m Benicio,” he says.

“Ahna. With an H.”

He nods. “We’re gonna do big things, no?”

“No,” I say, grabbing my bag and standing up like I already know my name’s gonna be in lights.

“We’re gonna do everything."

I walk into the studio with my script rolled in my hand like a church fan and a lip gloss that’s fighting for its life in this heat. The room’s big—mirrors on one wall, wood floors that creak like old folks’ knees, and a chalkboard that still says “Breath is Life.”

I catch sight of him again. Benicio. Slouched on the back row of floor mats, long legs stretched, eyebrows furrowed like he’s already over it. He’s got that soft, sleepy look, like the type who stays quiet in a group but then hits you with a line that messes you up for three days.

Puerto Rican. Accent thick like molasses on cornbread. And he don’t try to hide it either. I like that.

Ms. Regan, our voice teacher—older white woman with wild gray hair like she once played Ophelia and never came back—claps her hands.

“Up. Circle. Let’s wake the breath.”

We all form a janky circle. There’s ten of us. One girl already has her shoes off like we at somebody’s living room.

“Today,” Ms. Regan announces, “we are learning how to speak from the diaphragm. Not your throat. Not your chest. From here."

She points somewhere between her ribcage and the meaning of life.

“You don’t speak from your belly, you’re just making noise. But speak from your core? And people listen."

She claps again.

“Breathing exercise. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Let me hear the release.”

I inhale. My shoulders rise, even though I know I ain’t supposed to let them. Ms. Regan gives me the side eye.

Benicio exhales like he’s blowing out smoke—low, deep, slow. His eyes are closed.

“Very good, Mr. del Toro,” she says.

Of course.

Now we’re doing vocal sirens. Sliding up from low to high like we’re auditioning for the damn ambulance. One girl’s voice cracks and she laughs, nervous. Ms. Regan doesn’t.

“There’s no shame in cracking. There’s only shame in holding back.”

I stretch my voice up, feeling ridiculous. But I do it again. Louder.

Benicio’s voice? It rumbles. Like he’s got a speaker system in his chest. Even his ughs sound poetic.

Then come the tongue twisters.

“Red leather, yellow leather.”

“Unique New York.”

“A proper copper coffee pot.”

Benicio gets tripped on “proper copper.” I can see the tongue war. He swears under his breath—in Spanish.

I lean in. “Wanna trade? I’ll say yours if you say mine.”

He quirks an eyebrow, amused. “You can say ‘proper copper’?”

I smirk. “I’m Southern. We say ‘pecan pie’ fast enough to win state fairs.”

We switch. I do his line. He tries mine. He’s better this time, slower, focused. His accent is still strong, but the words come out like he means them.

“Don’t lose that,” I say.

“Lose what?”

“Your sound. The way you speak. It’s music. Don’t let these people bleach it out of you.”

He looks at me for a long second. No joke. No flirt. Just gets it.

“Gracias,” he says. “You too. You got... fire.”

Ms. Regan interrupts us with a clap.

“Last exercise. I want power. From your gut. Say your name. Make it fill the room.”

One by one we do it. Some whisper-shout. Some overact. Then it’s me.

“AHNA KAY SMITH!”

It echoes. People jump. I smile.

Then Benicio.

“BENICIO... del TORO.”

Oof.

It hits. Deep. Like a warning and a promise. Everyone’s quiet after that.

Ms. Regan nods, satisfied.

“That. Is voice. That... is presence.”

After class, we linger by the vending machines. My hair’s frizzing up from all the breath work, and his shirt’s sticking to his back.

“You hungry?” he asks.

“Always.”

“Wanna run lines later?”

“If I run ’em, I’m gonna flip ’em. Director-style.”

“Good. I don’t follow scripts anyway.”

I look at him. He looks at me. And right then, I know—

We’re not just acting. We’re rewriting what it means to be stars.

He doesn’t talk much unless it’s worth saying, but I can tell something’s turning in that big ol’ head of his. He’s watching the trees sway like they’re telling secrets and he don’t wanna miss a word.

I tap my foot on the stone.

“So... where’d that rumble in your chest come from, huh? You swallow thunder as a baby?”

He chuckles, low. His smile’s lazy, tilted like it’s unsure if it should come out.

“You really wanna know?”

“You askin’ me if I ask questions I don’t want answers to?”

He leans back, palms flat against the stone, face up to the sky like it makes the words easier.

“My family doesn’t know I’m studying acting.”

That makes me freeze.

“They think I’m studying law,” he adds.

I blink. “Law? You?!”

“What—you don’t think I could win a case?”

“Only if the judge is asleep and your accent talks him into a nap.”

He laughs, but it fades too quick.

“My dad... he worked hard. Two jobs. Wanted something better. So I told him law school. He smiled for the first time in weeks. I couldn’t take that away. Not yet.”

He pauses. I don’t rush him.

“My mom died when I was nine.”

That hits soft but deep. Like a bruise you forgot was there until someone taps it.

“Cancer,” he says. “She used to sing while she cooked. That’s how I remember her—voice first. Then her face.”

I bite my bottom lip. Don’t wanna cry—not for him, not right now. Just wanna listen.

“I was the smart one. Always. But also... the clown. You know? Joking so people didn’t get too close.”

I nod. “Yeah... I do know.”

He looks at me, really looks.

“Your turn, Southern starlet.”

I exhale. “Alright. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

He lifts his hands in surrender.

“I’m Ahna Kay Smith. Born in Louisiana, raised in California. My mama is a nurse and my daddy is a mailman—been walkin’ the same route since ’65. I swear that man got more stories than a barbershop.”

Benicio grins.

“I started acting when I was six—six, Benicio. That’s when other kids are eatin’ Play-Doh. I was directing Barbie in a courtroom drama like ‘Objection, Your Honor! This man is KEN!’"

He actually snorts at that. God bless.

“My parents saw me perform once in church. I rewrote my line to make it ‘funnier.’ Got a whoopin’ and a standing ovation.”

“My kinda girl,” he murmurs.

“I got decent grades, hated physics, loved English. Always got in trouble for ‘talking back’ when really I just had better dialogue than the teacher.”

Benicio nods, proud. “That’s the actor in you.”

“I’m the only Black girl in this program—least that I’ve seen so far. I got told I was ‘too much’ my whole life. Too loud. Too bold. Too opinionated. Now?” I shrug. “Now I know that’s just presence. And I ain’t shrinking for nobody.”

We sit in that silence a beat. Not awkward—just heavy. Like a scene pause that lands just right.

Then he says, soft,

“I like your voice, Ahna.”

I look at him.

“Thanks. I like that you don’t try to make yours sound like anything but you."

He shrugs. “Ain’t learned how to fake it yet.”

I offer him my hand.

“Then let’s promise something. We don’t fake it—not here, not out there. We say it how we mean it. Even if it cracks.”

He takes my hand, firm.

“Deal.”

And just like that, two maybe-stars sealed it, not with ambition, but with truth.