“You’re here to read for the part of Beth?”
There’s an unmistakable note of incredulity in the question, fired at me from the other woman at the table — a middle-aged brunette with an air of superiority wrapped around her like an afghan. It’s clear she’s wondering what a girl like me, who sounds like a sex-line operator and dresses like a punk rocker, is doing here.
“Yes.”
“I see.” She glances down at the sheet in front of her and I see a flash of comprehension on her face. “Oh. Firestone. You’re Cynthia’s client.”
“I am,” I agree, forcing myself not to fidget under their unwavering stares. I’m not sure what’s more humiliating — the implication that my mother had to make a call to get me this audition, or that she is so eager to be seen as my manager instead of the woman who physically pushed me from her womb twenty-two years ago.
The brunette murmurs something under her breath. It sounds suspiciously like I should’ve known.
“Why do you want this part?”
This time, the man is speaking. There is none of the brunette’s arrogance or the blonde’s apathy in his tone; he radiates a quiet intensity that commands attention. His voice is crisp and clear — it hits me like a splash of water and trickles down my spine in a sensation that’s not altogether unpleasant.
I jerk my chin in his direction and hold his gaze. I contemplate mustering up some false enthusiasm, giving a fabricated answer about my passion for the role, but when my mouth opens I find myself answering honestly.
“My rent is due in two weeks and I currently have seventeen dollars and twenty-three cents left in my checking account.”
The blonde titters, as though I’ve made an uncouth joke. The brunette pretends I haven’t spoken. But the man shifts in his seat, the curious look in his eyes intensifying.
I try not to let it bother me. Men have been giving me that look for as long as I can remember. Like I was bred for sex and sin — a creature who exists only in the hours between midnight and dawn, when proper girls are sleeping. I’m not sure what makes them see me in that light, have never quite been able to pinpoint what part of me screams out to be degraded and deconstructed down to my basest parts.
Daddy issues?
Lack of self-esteem?
Fear of commitment?
Some other bullshit psychological diagnosis that reaffirms my deep-seated emotional damage?
Oh, who the hell knows.
Back in my elementary school days, boys used to tease me about the natural rasp in my vocal cords, about my too-large lips and masculine jawline. Funnily enough, when they hit puberty and started imagining how that rasp might sound if I were breathing out their names in the back seat of their cars, how my bee-stung lips might feel pressed against their own, the teasing came to an abrupt end.
There’s a moment when they just sit there, the three of them, blinking at me. It’s quite clear whoever they were expecting, it was not me. Likely another cog in the wheel of sweater-set wearers who came before. Pearls and pumps and well-practiced introductory speeches.
“Well, then… I’ll prompt you with Angelica’s lines,” the praying-mantis woman says in a voice that sounds like air hissing from a balloon.
I nod and say nothing.
Sure, I should probably spend a bit of time trying to convince them why I’m suited for this part, but frankly… I’m not. I know it; they know it. Hell, even the bitchy PA knows it.
“Okay.” The brunette woman slides her glasses down the bridge of her nose and stares at me like a pigeon who’s just crapped on the hood of her freshly-waxed Mercedes. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”
It’s clear before I ever open my mouth that there’s very little point in even trying. There’s a greater chance of this woman asking me to go tandem bicycle riding with her this afternoon than actually giving me the part. But I wasted a quarter tank of gas getting here, and then there’s the small matter that Cynthia knows everyone in this industry; if I walk out without reading a single line, she’ll hear about it — and I’ll never hear the end of it.
Clearing my throat once more, I glance at the lines on my script as the blonde starts to speak.
“Oh, Beth! You’ll never believe it… Stefano…” Her hand flutters to her heart and I try desperately to bury a laugh. “He’s… he’s…”
“What is it, Angelica?” I croak in a strangled voice. “I’m your best friend. You know you can tell me anything.”
“But this…Oh!” The blond is quivering with passion. “This is not my secret to tell. I cannot betray the trust of the man I love…”
I gasp in an unconvincing show of surprise. “You love him?”
“Yes! I do!”
“But you barely know him,” I choke out, gripping the script so hard my fingertips turn white. “How is that possible?”
“Beth, anything is possible when it’s true love! Stefano is my soulmate…”
A snort of laughter slips out. I can’t help it — this is cheesier than fettuccine alfredo. I try to cover it with a coughing fit, to maintain a serious tone as we make our way through the rest of the lines… but, judging by the cold glare darkening the brunette’s face, I don’t think I convince anyone in the room that I’m taking this seriously. My suspicions are confirmed a few moments later, when she cuts the audition short.
“That’ll do.” The brunette’s eyes slide to the PA, who leaps to her feet and appears at my side, more than eager to escort me out. “Thank you for coming in. We’ll reach out if we’re interested in a call-back.”
“Right.” I grin ruefully. “I’ll wait by the phone, night and day.”
The women have already tuned me out, fixing their attention back on the papers in front of them, but the man shifts in his seat as his eyes scan me again. I swear his lips are twitching as he watches me turn and stride toward the exit, a jaunty bounce in my step because, as shitty as the audition was, it’s done. Even the prospect of walking through the gauntlet of bitchy girls outside the door is not enough to dampen my spirits.
Now I can go get tacos.
I’m halfway to my car when I hear the sound of footsteps trailing close behind me in the long shadows cast by the building. Twenty-two years of possessing ovaries in modern-day America has taught me that, no matter the time of day, there is a fifty percent chance you are about to be raped if you hear someone walking behind you in an empty parking lot, so I reflexively position my keys between my fingers like little blades before whipping around to confront my stalker.
“Listen, buddy, I don’t know what you—Oh.” The words dry up on my tongue as I recognize the male producer from the casting session. He’s slightly out of breath, as though he’s run to catch up to me. “It’s you,” I finish lamely.
“It’s me,” he echoes, his eyes crinkling up in amusement. “Were you planning to key me to death?”
I glance down at my hand and find the keys still clutched tightly in my grasp. “Only if you were planning to rape me.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s comforting.”