She thought she might actually have a shot at landing this one. There were only two lines, and she had heard through Lisa that usually in these situations they let the casting agent just hire a friend, that’s how insignificant these throwaway parts were, just a step up from extra work. If they were going to go through casting on a two-line part, they certainly weren’t going to waste a ton of time on it. They couldn’t possibly see more than three or four girls for something this minor. She might actually get it.
Alison took great comfort in this rigorously argued line of thinking while she channel flipped between news stations (the apartment came with basic cable, and nothing more), then went to bed. She woke early, went for a 7 a.m. run up the West Side Highway and back down Riverside, went home, took a cold shower, ran over the lines again, blew her hair dry, chose a sexy little camisole top to wear over jeans and heels—completely inappropriate for a street kid who maybe witnessed a murder, but she knew not to be stupid and to just wear the sexy outfit—went over her lines again, put her makeup on, and went over the lines again. By that time she was practically chanting them: “It was just people running, there was so many people. It was just people running, there was so many people.” It seemed an appropriate mantra for the three blocks she had to walk to the subway, where everybody was, in fact, running, and there were so many people.
When she walked into the holding area for the auditions—a long hallway, Formica floors, plasterboard walls, fluorescent lights, metal folding chairs—her heart sank. So much for her theory that they wouldn’t spend an unnecessary amount of time auditioning twenty-something actresses for a two-line part about people running. The hall was lousy with girls of every stripe and color. Tall, short, black, white, Asian, Hispanic, Indian, redheads, blondes, brunettes, a couple with crazy pink and blue streaks in their hair and pierced tongues and noses. As a white girl standing five foot ten, with long shaggy brown hair and a camisole top over jeans and heels, Alison was most definitely among the more conservative choices in this group. She felt her palms start to sweat. Oh well, she thought, just get it out of your head that you could land this. Just do a good audition. Just get them to remember you. It was pathetic making yourself feel better before you haven’t gotten the job, but at the same time it helped. Her brother Andrew was obsessed with basketball, and there was a period of time when he just kept lecturing everybody on the fact that the journey was the goal, and the goal was the journey. Megan and Jeff finally got sick of hearing about it and yelled at Andrew anytime he brought it up, but that deceptively simple idea had entered Alison’s spirit and at times it peeked its head out, when she really needed it. The journey is the goal, and the goal is the journey, she told herself. It did; it made her feel better.
She went up to the exhausted metal desk which had been shoved up against the wall at the end of the hallway and leaned in politely to make sure the girl sitting there saw her. The girl was wearing a pink sweater and had loads of Hello Kitty paraphernalia cluttering the corners of her desk. She was all impatience, and elbows.
“Hi,” Alison started.
“Just a minute,” said the girl, who held up a finger as she made notations down the side of a page filled with names. Alison did as she was told and waited patiently until the girl looked up, sudden. “What’s the name?” the girl asked.
“Alison Moore,” Alison told her politely.
“We have you down for eleven,” the girl reported, reading off the page. She glanced up at the industrial wall clock bolted to the wall right above their heads, which reported that it was only 10:50. The girl at the desk looked at Alison with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh!” said Alison, startled at the accusatory nature of the glance. “Yes, I realize I’m early.”
“We’re backed up as it is,” the girl at the desk reported, as if this fact were also Alison’s fault. She ran her pen down the second page of appointments until she found Alison’s name somewhere near the middle. “There’s no contact information. Who made the appointment?”
“Ryan Jones, from Abrams,” Alison stated with brightness and confidence. She was just repeating what Lisa had told her to say.
“Is he representing you?”
“He’s hip-pocketing me right now,” Alison stated. She barely knew what that meant, but the girl at the desk accepted it and wrote it down. “You have a head shot?” she asked.