For Real(12)

When we’ve signed in, he hands us applications, both of which say “NYC: Applicant 87” in the corner. “Please proceed to the Great Room, fill these out, sign the waiver in the back, and listen for your number to be called. If you fail to present yourselves, the production assistants will move on to the next number and you will move to the back of the line. You will have approximately three minutes with the casting team. Be prepared to wait between two and three hours.” As soon as he’s done with these instructions, his eyes slide off us. We’re dismissed.

Miranda takes her application and heads toward the holding room, but I hang back. It only takes a minute to sign in, and maybe if I wait for Will, he’ll come sit with us inside. If I play this right, I could have hours more with him.

“Come on, Claire,” my sister calls.

I motion that she should give me a minute. “See you inside?” I ask Will.

He looks up and smiles, then drops his voice so I have to step closer to hear him. “I’m pretty sure your sister wants to kick me in the teeth, so it’s probably better if I stay out of your way. Break a leg in there, though.”

“You too,” I say, trying not to show how disappointed I am.

“Hey, listen. If you change your mind about the Pop Culture Olympics, give me a call. I’d love to have you on our team.” Instead of jotting down his number on a scrap of paper or something, Will grabs my hand and starts writing on the inside of my wrist with the pen from the sign-in table. It’s a weirdly intimate place to be touched by someone you just met, and it sends a little shiver through me. His gray hat is inches from my face as he bends over my arm, and I smell hair products and heat.

“Okay,” I breathe.

“Hey,” lavender-shirt guy barks. “Are you registering or not?”

Will shoots me one more gorgeous smile before he turns away. “See you,” he says.

I certainly hope so.

I follow my sister into the enormous holding room. The walls are lined with gold pillars, and the ceiling is covered in rows of plaster flowers, each of which cradles a lightbulb in its center. At the far end of the room is a door marked PRIVATE, which must be where the auditions are being held. People are sprawled all over the carpet in groups, chatting and laughing and snacking. It seems like everyone’s dressed to stand out—there’s a guy in a purple suit and a fedora, a girl in a tutu, and another girl in a floor-length velvet cape with a dragon on the back. In the middle of a removable dance floor left over from an event, a guy in a yellow Spandex bodysuit is doing a slow, robotic dance while another guy beat-boxes to accompany him. I would hardly go so far as to say that these are “my people,” but it is kind of refreshing to be in a place where originality counts for more than shampoo-commercial beauty.

Miranda picks her way through the tangle of auditioners and finds an empty spot along the wall, and I sit down next to her. When I point out the girl in the cape, I expect her to laugh, but she just gives me a tiny smile and starts filling out her application. “What’s wrong?” I ask. “Are you mad at me?”

She looks back up. “No, of course not. Why would I be mad at you?”

“You’re acting kind of weird. Are you nervous? It’s going to be—”

She cuts me off. “I’m fine, seriously. It’s just … this week has been so ridiculously crappy, and all I want to do right now is hang out in my pajamas and eat chocolate and read, and instead I’m at an audition, where I have to act all happy and shiny and put-together. And it’s not like I want to leave, ’cause I really don’t want that ass-hat to win a million dollars. But I wish all of this could’ve happened in a couple weeks, when I felt more like a human and less like a ball of angst, you know? And that guy in line wasn’t helping. I didn’t like how he was looking at us.”

Not every guy who looks at you wants to screw you over, I want to tell her. Not every guy is like Samir. But I can’t help being a little bit pleased that Miranda thinks Will was looking at me the same way he was looking at her.

“I thought he was really nice,” I say.

“His name is Will Divine. It’s ridiculous.”

“His name isn’t his fault. He didn’t make it up. I saw his driver’s license.”

Miranda sighs. “Whatever. It doesn’t matter. He’s just some random stranger.”

“Don’t think about anyone else here,” I say. “Focus on us. Yeah, you’ve had the worst week ever, but we have an awesome story to tell the casting people, and we’re going to rock this audition. And you don’t look like a ball of angst. So don’t worry, okay?”

“I’m not worried.”

“Think of what Samir’s face is going to look like when he gets eliminated because of us,” I say, and she finally smiles.

We settle in to wait. I try to look engrossed in filling out my application, but really I’m scanning the crowd for Will. I finally spot him with a group of girls across the ballroom, his hand resting casually on one of their arms as he talks. I tell myself she could be a friend, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. If Miranda hadn’t acted so standoffish, that could have been me. That could have been my arm.

As if he can feel me looking, Will turns in my direction, raises an eyebrow, and shoots me a smile. I feel a tingle in my wrist, where his number is inscribed on my skin.