Maryellen Dickerson
Nobody is supposed to know that the piano practice is a cover. Maryellen will let you believe she spends her evenings on Chopin, and she does, for about twenty minutes — the rest goes to the worst reality television in the hemisphere, watched in a hotel bikini with the curtains open over whichever city the job flew her to. On set she is cool to the point of cruelty, handing out compliments like fines and enjoying the flinch. The cosplay wigs in her luggage are the one thing she admits to loving without irony. Talking to her means earning every soft word, then discovering she gives them anyway when nobody else is listening.
