The Break(64)

A bald man comes to the lobby and calls in the other girl. And as I wait, I can hear her saying Gwendolyn’s lines—and she’s definitely using an English accent, so that’s good. And at least we’re not auditioning for the same part—I’m pretty sure I’d be thrown off if I could hear her saying the lines I’d practiced into the still of the night. What else could I do last night in my room? I certainly couldn’t sleep.



It’s quiet in there when she’s done. I can hear a low voice, maybe the director giving her feedback. She sounded pretty solid, actually, like a real actress. Confident. Which I’m not.

I suppose I could fake it. I’ve faked plenty of things since I’ve been in New York, so what’s one more?

The girl is out the door and the bald man is back, saying, “Are you June?”

“I am,” I say, smiling. He looks me over.

“Come in,” he says too sternly, like I’m not supposed to be there and somehow inconveniencing him.

I follow him through a door into a black box theater not dissimilar to what we had in college, though this one is literally painted black: the walls, the four rows of bench seating, the stage itself.

“This is Michael,” the bald man says about a guy who’s maybe thirty, sitting in a chair. “He’ll be reading Algernon.”

“Hello,” I say.

“Hi,” he says back, already much friendlier than the bald man.

“And I’m Charles,” says the man. He gestures around. “This is my theater. And so far I am displeased with the actors that have read for Cecily. So perhaps you will save the day.” He forces a smile, and I realize the unfriendliness I thought I saw before might just be social awkwardness, for which I have a massive soft spot.

I turn my smiley glow upon him. “I certainly hope so,” I say.

I stand on my mark, an X of blue tape. And then I think about what it would be like to land this role, to have Louisa come see me play Cecily, maybe Harrison, too, and maybe even Gabe. Why not? Why wouldn’t I have them here watching me bathed in a spotlight I’ve only barely earned, soaking up their attention like I deserve it?

I take a breath.

I open my mouth.

And then I nail my audition.



The lines come from somewhere deep within, just like they’ve done before when I hit my performances correctly at school. It’s otherworldly when it works, a force that churns inside you and comes out like a golden stream of light. You’re connecting with the material because you’ve made it a part of you: you’ve joined with the character and made her your own. It doesn’t matter that Oscar Wilde wrote her in 1895, because she’s alive in you. You are her. You’ve shed your skin and it’s glorious: the ultimate escape.

Charles is beaming when I finish. “Joan!” he says.

“June,” I say, a snap in my voice because I know how good I’ve been.

“June,” he says quickly. “June.”

Michael is smiling from his cheap, crappy folding chair.

“That was magnificent,” Charles says.

“Thank you,” I say. It was.

“Do you have a headshot for me?” he asks.

“Nope,” I say. “But my Instagram has plenty of photos of me.” I smile, knowing that not having a headshot doesn’t matter now.

He laughs. He knows it doesn’t, either. “How about a résumé?”

I shake my head. Louisa said she would help me with one, but we’ve been so busy lately.

“All right then, how about you fill out a contact sheet here, and that way I can get in touch with you this week.”

“Okay,” I say. “Thank you so much.”

I’m brimming with something so powerful I feel like I could lift off of the oily black stage floor and fly far away from here, over the rushing swells of the East River, back to Manhattan. My fingers are barely my own as they fly over the contact sheet with a stubby pencil. I say my goodbyes to Michael and Charles and hurry out of the theater and into the lobby and onto the street. I’m breathing so fast I could faint. I stand there, pressing my back against the bricks, barely able to believe what’s just happened.



I did it.

My hands are shaking as I power on my phone. A text from Kai parades across the screen.

I don’t love you dating Harrison, if that’s indeed what you’re doing. He’s way older than us. And he’s kind of intense, don’t you think?

My heart pounds. But I barely have time to even process it because a sharp voice calls my name.

“June!”

I turn back to the theater—did I forget something? But it didn’t sound like Michael or Charles, it sounded like . . .

Shit.

It sounded like Sean.

I turn, scanning a group of people across the street. There’s a couple pushing a boy on a tricycle and a delivery man carting a half dozen plastic bags with stapled receipts waving like flags. Beyond them is a dog walker running half a dozen dogs, and then, standing there in a tattered orange baseball cap and gym clothes, is Sean.

“What are you doing here?” I shout in disbelief. I can’t help it. “Is everything okay?” He knew I had an audition in Brooklyn, but I don’t think I ever told him the name of the theater. And it’s a thirty-minute subway trip here from our apartment.