Little Do We Know(25)
We drove like that for the next hour, me reciting lines, Charlotte feeding me the ones I couldn’t remember. When we were a little more than halfway there, Tyler pulled into a Starbucks drive-through, and we loaded ourselves with sugary caffeinated drinks, and then hit the road again. When Tyler finally made it to campus a little over two hours later, I was feeling better. I’d done both monologues countless times, and I could feel the caffeine and adrenaline coursing through my veins.
I pulled out the instructions I’d printed the night before, along with the parking permit, and directed Tyler to the right lot. The three of us got out and walked through campus, passing groups of people huddled around tables and kids flying by on skateboards. I pictured myself as a student, walking to class, meeting new friends in the library to study, running lines with my drama buddies in the theater.
Charlotte wrapped her arm around my shoulder and pulled me into her. “Promise me one thing?”
“Anything.”
“Ten years from now, let me be your date to the Oscars. I’ll do your hair and help pick out your dress and stuff, too, but bring me, okay?”
“Who says I’m not going to be your date at the Oscars?”
“Me,” she said. “I enjoy acting, but not like you do. You love it. I’m going to make a great drama teacher, like Ms. Martin. You’re going be in the movies.”
I hugged her hard. “I love you, and I’m going to miss the hell out of you next year.”
“I’m going to miss you more.”
We continued down the path that led to the theater. The two of them weren’t allowed inside, so they hovered around the sculpture garden while I walked up to a long table and introduced myself to a guy with dark hair poking out from under a purple beanie. I handed him two copies of my headshot and résumé, and he crossed my name off the list.
“How many people are auditioning today?” I asked.
The guy looked around, like he wasn’t supposed to share the information. He set his elbows on the table and leaned in anyway. “A little over two hundred on the list. About thirty auditioning today and forty next week. The rest are via video submission. Ten spots to fill.” He handed me my name tag. “Take a seat anywhere in the first three rows. Good luck.”
“Thanks.” I put on a brave face and tried to ignore how clammy my hands suddenly felt. Two hundred people. Ten spots. I’d planned on slightly better odds. I wondered if any of them had ever been on TV. I hoped I’d made that experience clear enough on my résumé.
As soon as I stepped through the doors, I recognized the theater from the drama school’s online videos. It was smaller and less ornate than the main one, with rows of movie theater–style chairs and blank gray walls. There were props on the stage: a round table with two chairs set at an angle, and a living-room set with a brown couch and a glass-topped coffee table.
I took a seat in the second row and set my bag by my feet. I visualized myself climbing the steps and crossing the stage. I’d stand on my mark and root my feet in place.
While we waited, I looked around, sizing up the competition. Smack in the middle of the third row, I spotted a girl in a bright blue blouse with a round face and shoulder-length blond hair. She immediately reminded me of Hannah. Her hair was more curly than wavy, but the overall look was close enough. She caught me staring at her and grinned, and my heart sank deep in my chest, because she looked more like Hannah when she smiled. It made me think about all those performances on the Foothill stage, looking down into the audience at the beginning of every show and seeing my best friend sitting in the first row, rooting for me. It made me realize for the first time that Hannah wouldn’t be in the audience for Our Town. She might not be in the audience for any of my performances ever again.
The room darkened and the spotlight clicked on, illuminating the stage. A man in brown corduroy pants and a white collared shirt walked to the center, cleared his throat, and introduced himself as Ben Waterman, the chair of the drama department.
I checked the time on my phone: 6:06. Luke was probably just getting to the field. I pictured Addison and the rest of their friends huddled together in the rival school’s bleachers, dressed in their green-and-white Falcons gear, trying to look intimidating but probably failing at it.
“You’ll be performing backstage in a private room,” Mr. Waterman explained. “Stay here until you hear your name, and then follow Tess to the audition room.” Next to him, a woman with dark hair and straight-cut bangs raised her hand. I assumed that was Tess. “First, you’ll perform your contemporary piece, and then we’ll call you back to perform your classic piece. Any questions?”
No one had any, so he wished us luck and left the stage. Everything was quiet while Tess consulted her clipboard. Then she called the first name, and we were off. Performer after performer disappeared backstage and then returned to the theater, but I was only half paying attention. I was running through my first monologue in my head, over and over again.
After an hour, my name still hadn’t been called. I was tapping my foot nervously and biting my lower lip, when I felt my backpack vibrate. I looked around to be sure no one had heard it, and then shifted in my seat, reached down into my backpack, and slid it out of the pocket, shielding the screen to hide the glare.
It was from Addison. “Goooooaaaaaal!” it read. She’d included a picture of Luke with his stick raised high in the air and his mouth open wide. He looked happy.