“Why?” Olivia wailed.
“Lots of reasons,” I told her. “One, because I have to pee, and two, because I want to see if Tulsa is in there scoping out all the hot young talent. And, you know, three, because of your audition.”
“Since when are you interested in Tulsa?” Olivia asked, ignoring that last part, but at least looking over at me now, distracted, which was a good sign.
“I’m not, particularly,” I defended myself. “I’ve just never seen a famous person before.”
“Hot Rod Davison,” Olivia pointed out, and I laughed. Hot Rod Davison owned half a dozen car dealerships around Jessell and ran low-budget commercials on local TV where you could practically see his toupee flapping in the breeze. He’d come into Taquitos back in the spring, failed to tip, then told me I was a pretty girl and asked me if I wanted to “get out of here” with him.
“Hot Rod Davison is definitely not famous.” I shook my head. “Come on,” I urged, reaching behind me and digging her makeup bag and sheet music out of the backseat. “We drove all this way.”
This was a bluff on my part—honestly, I would have been happy to turn around and head right back to Jessell, if I’d thought that was what Olivia really wanted. This trip had been worth it for the drive alone, as far as I was concerned—the two of us eating green grapes out of a cooler Mrs. Maxwell had packed, the windows rolled down and the Top 40 station blaring. I’d spent a good part of my high school career in this car, my bare feet up on the dashboard. I didn’t know how many more drives we’d have.
In any case, I knew that turning around and fleeing wasn’t what Olivia was actually after. Freaking out was just part of her process. We went through this every time she had a big performance; it was my job as second-in-command to help her get out of her own way. “You’ve got this,” I promised now, knowing that all I needed to do was get her through the door of the studio, and she’d take care of the rest. “Come on, it’s me. I wouldn’t let you go in there and look stupid.”
Olivia nodded, leaning her head back against the driver’s seat. “I know,” she said, the rain still hammering on the hood of the car. “I just really want it, you know? A big national gig like this? I’ve wanted it my whole life.”
I did know, actually. I knew it by the way her feet were always covered in gnarly blisters from dancing, and the half dozen original Broadway cast recordings littering the floor of her car at this very moment. Olivia was going someplace; I’d known that about her since we were little. By now, the only question was where.
“Well then,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt and opening the door before she had any more time to protest. “Let’s go get it for you.”
The two of us dashed through the downpour and up a short flight of concrete stairs; my ponytail was sodden by the time we made it through the heavy glass doors at the front of the building, raindrops dripping from my eyelashes and the end of my nose. The studios weren’t much nicer inside than out, I thought, breathing hard, taking a moment to get my bearings: concrete floors and high ceilings, the faint reek of old sweat hanging low in the air. A giant framed poster of Tulsa MacCreadie filled one wall, while directly in front of us was a large lobby lined with black leather couches and armchairs occupied by more than a dozen other girls, all of whom had looked up at the commotion we’d made coming inside.
I’d been right about Olivia. Nervous as she was, she strode right up to the front desk and introduced herself to the woman standing behind it—all confidence, just like I’d known she’d be once we made it in here. “Hi,” she said as another muffled roll of thunder rumbled outside. “I’m here for the audition.”
I ran around the corner to the bathroom while Olivia filled out an attendance sheet; when I got back she was having her Polaroid taken, her hair somehow immaculately smooth in spite of the humidity. My ponytail was a lank, ratty mess. “Have a seat,” the assistant told us. She was tall and black and elegant looking, dressed in a starched white button-down. A watch with a brown leather strap hugged her narrow wrist. “I’ll call your name when it’s your turn.”
The waiting room was full of girls around our age—mostly white, mostly beautiful, mostly wearing expensive-looking dance clothes. I felt myself shrink a little, glancing down at my fraying jean shorts and dollar-store flip-flops. I’d seen Olivia in any number of plays and concerts and recitals, flanked by willowy girls in full stage makeup, but it was different to be surrounded by them. It was like accidentally wandering into the middle of a pat of flamingos.
“I know,” Olivia said quietly, reading my mind as we walked over. “They’re horrible. And you see the same ones at every audition down here. A bunch of fake bitches in Capezio trying to out-nice one another.” As if to illustrate, she pasted a grin on her face. “Lauren!” she cooed, opening her arms to a brunette in a pink velour sweat suit. “Hi!”
I shook my head, smirking to myself. No matter how many times I saw Olivia turn it on like that—pitching her voice a couple of octaves higher, smile going wide like she had Vaseline on her teeth—it never failed to surprise and sort of impress me. Showbiz Olivia, I called her, as if she were a different person entirely. Sometimes she’d do it just to make me laugh.
It was a long, tedious afternoon. The assistant, whose name was Juliet, called name after name off her clipboard; girls headed down the hallway and emerged less than five minutes later looking either pleased or gutted, a dramatic tableau. Some of them hugged their waiting mothers—it was all moms here, I noticed, all of them the same shade of pale and plucked and sanitized, like grocery-store chickens—and others simply stalked out the door. I perched on the arm of a leather sofa and wished Mrs. Maxwell had come with us. At the very least we would have had a snack.