A Tale of Two Centuries (9 page)

Chapter Nine

“Remember what I said before,” Cat tells me. “The name of the game is confidence.”

A huge gulp of air fills my lungs. On the other side of the clear glass, a packed room of aspiring actresses—otherwise known as my competition for the afternoon—wait restlessly. I reflect back to Reyna’s tent and my claim that I was no longer the timid girl she once knew…and wonder if perhaps it is not too late to change my mind.

The second I stepped out of French—a subject I thankfully did not share with Austin or Kendal but did share with the much-discussed Lucas—Cat grabbed my arm, squealing over a text she received from her father. That should have been sign enough, for my cousin never squeals. But when she shoved her cell phone into my hand and I glimpsed the reason, I could not help but scream as well.

Twenty-first century nepotism is apparently a force equaled only by gypsy magic, because Mr. Crawford did not merely get me an audition for the Shakespeare Winter Workshop—he got me one for this very afternoon!

Through the wide window, I assess the other actresses, girls with much more experience than my sole performance as a wicked queen before a whopping audience of three.

“Confidence,” I repeat, squaring my shoulders, my spine, and even my teeth.

I can do this.

Cat moves to open the door, but I quickly beat her to the task. It may seem silly, but performing this small action gives me a much-needed sense of control. She steps back with a wink, waving me on, and I push into the room before I can change my mind.

Almost every head lifts to scrutinize the latest adversary/auditionee, but at least this time the blatant appraisal is not personal. Under the collective weight of their stares, perspiration beads, then trickles down my spine.

Cat takes my hand and pulls me away from the relative safety of the exit and into the interior of the tension-filled room. “Welcome to Hollywood,” she whispers under her breath, and if I were not so terrified, I would laugh.

Welcome, indeed.

We take a seat in a pair of unoccupied chairs near the door, and I complete my own inventory of the room from beneath my lowered lashes. There are so many young girls and women here, and though I have thought of nothing else for the last two years, it still amazes me that they are openly free to audition, to act, and to pursue their dream of the stage. It is truly wonderful, though in the shameful, secret part of me I cannot help hoping that in just this one instance, they all fail miserably.

Along with a copy of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream,
a Shakespeare play Cat declared the perfect choice for my audition, I withdraw the yellow tablet of contractions and teenspeak. According to my cousin, if I am to succeed today, I must find a way to blend them together.

On the ride over from school, she informed me that some directors—her father included—dislike actors who never seem able to separate themselves from the role they are given. “Your background is already gonna add authenticity to your lines,” she told me with a wink, “which, believe me, Marilyn’s gonna totally eat up. So since you have that going for you, I think it’s important that you show a different side when you’re not reading your part. That way, in their eyes, you appear to be an even more accomplished actress.”

It is with these wise words in mind, and the comfort of Titania’s speech being so similar to my own, that I choose the list of teenspeak to study now.

That is, until a tall, thin girl with smooth blond hair stalks across the floor and drapes herself over the empty seat beside me.

“What the hell is that,
English for Dummies
?” Kendal asks, sneering at the notebook. I should have expected her presence here at the audition, considering she is both an actress
and
apparently determined to make my life miserable. Lifting her pert nose in the air, she says, “It’s probably for the best you’re not
really
preparing, anyway. Don’t want to get your hopes up since you’re clearly out of your league.”

Just as frozen as I was in class, I begin the mental countdown from five, knowing what will happen. I make it no further than the count of four before Cat is leaning over my lap with a ferocious look. She has no need for biting words—she simply smacks her lips and clears her throat. Austin’s former girlfriend huffs, but returns to her seat.

Cat Crawford: cousin, friend, and constant defender.

“Do
not
let her get to you,” Cat tells me in a low voice near my ear, a hard edge infusing the lyrical tones in her voice. “She thinks she’s better than everyone because of her pathetic walk-on roles. The only semidecent thing she’s done was play a two-bit part on a CW show, and her character was a bitch, too. No worries, girl, you so have this.”

A chuckle that breaks into an adorable snort emanates from the row of chairs opposite us. I look up and lock eyes with a sweet-faced girl who tilts her head toward Kendal and rolls her eyes with a playful grin. I smile back in reply.

Recognition tickles the back of my mind, but I know I have not seen her before. The combination of her long raven hair and bright blue eyes is striking and unforgettable. Regardless, she is a kindred spirit, and her gentle smile in the midst of the emotional onslaught is a welcome sight.

“Forlani?”

A balding, pudgy gentleman waits at the door, staring at the list in his hands with as much interest as one would give to washing a pile of bricks.

Cat squeezes my arm. “It’s showtime!”

I force a smile. It is that. It is also time to prove myself and validate this entire excursion to the future. Standing on wobbly legs, I blow out a long breath. The amiable young girl across the aisle lifts her thumb in encouragement.

“Here I go,” I say, handing all but my copy of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
to my cousin. She whispers, “Good luck,” and I follow the bored-looking gentleman through the door, down a never-ending hallway, and onto a wide, open stage.

A scuffed black floor is beneath my feet. Soft curtains hang on either side. An empty yawning cavern where an audience usually sits is now dark, save for a lamplit table near the front. I inhale air filled with possibility and exhale sixteen years of believing this would never happen.

Standing on this silent stage is every daydream, every fantasy, and every fantastical wish I have ever had come to life.

Someone hands me a thin stack of papers, and I nod absently in gratitude. I cannot help wishing Mama or Cipriano were here to watch me, though I doubt even they would fully understand how much this means to me. It has been my long-kept secret desire…well, until my fearless cousin stepped into my world.

A feminine cough snares my attention. I trace the sound to the small table, illuminated by a few lamps on either end, in front of the stage. Two women flank the bored, balding gentleman behind it, their features barely discernible in the dim lighting.

“Miss Forlani,” the taller woman in the middle says, “my assistant handed you a scene from
Romeo and Juliet
. I realize you may have already prepared your own selection, but I prefer watching your process. It gives me a better grasp of how quickly you are able to think on your feet. This workshop is going to be a whirlwind, Miss Forlani, and I need actors who can keep up with me. You have five minutes to review the new material. Good luck.”

My copy of
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
thumps noisily on the hard floor as I snatch the stack of papers closer to my nose. My poor heart takes residence in my ears, and I can hear nothing other than my racing pulse.

If ever there were a time for one of those colorful words I have heard Cat mutter under her breath, now would be it.

My knowledge of
Romeo and Juliet
consists of knowing it is set in Italy and is about a pair of star-crossed lovers who take their lives. At least that is what the first page said, which is as far as I got last night before sleep overtook me.

The highlighted monologue Ms. Kent selected is from Act Two, Scene Two. As I anxiously pore over the words, the familiar cadence of the language rushes over me. My tense shoulders and rigid spine lose some of their starch. I find myself in those few emphasized words, in Juliet. Particularly in the line,
I’ll prove more true than those that have more cunning to be strange.

Yes, Juliet was a kindred spirit, too.

With a smile, I step into the circle of light in the middle of the floor. Remembering my cousin’s suggestion to act more modern, I lift my chin and say, “I’m good.”

“Begin when ready, Miss Forlani.”

I take a deep breath and let the light falling on my skin infuse me with warmth. I close my eyes and the sounds of the wide, open theater fill my head: the creak of a chair, the stomp of a shoe, the gentle murmur of voices waiting. I imagine the space filled with people, all there to see
me.
I open my eyes and begin.

…

Walking back into the well-lit waiting room, it feels as though my feet are walking on air, like I am floating and am no longer in need of solid ground beneath me. Cat jumps up and pulls me into an embrace.

“So,” she asks, her head still buried in my hair, “how did it go?”

At first, I cannot find my voice. Describing such an experience seems an impossible undertaking. But then I meet the contemptuous smirk on Kendal’s face, still in the same seat I left her. “They asked me to stay for the next round.”

The smirk falls, and a look of pure hatred washes over her face. Somehow, and it is wretched to admit, it makes me feel even happier.

Cat’s laugh borders on the demonic as she leans back and pumps her fist in the air. “I knew it! I told you—didn’t I tell you?” She hugs me tightly again and pulls me down into our seats. “Never doubt me, girl. You’re a natural.”

I shake my head and grin so big, I am sure Mama can see it back home.

The next two hours trickle by in an endless stream of hope-filled people walking in to audition and then leaving the theater despondent or in tears. And as each person leaves dejected, it is even more wretched to say, my confidence and belief in myself lifts a little more.

What kind of person does that make me, a person who finds joy and confidence in another’s misfortune? My cousin seems to think it makes me
normal.
I, however, am not so convinced.

After the last girl leaves, tissue in hand, and all that remains in the previously crammed waiting room are a handful of hopefuls, my eyes meet my cousin’s. The pride in her smile fills me nearly to bursting.

“They’re gonna call you back again soon, but remember that you’ve got this. You
own
this. I can say without a doubt that no one else here is a better fit for these roles than you.” A haughty laugh erupts from beside me, and Cat’s eyes narrow. “No one.”

When the door opens again, they call all five of us back together: loathsome Kendal, the sweet girl in front of me, two others who seem pleasant enough, and me. We fall in line, of course with Kendal taking the lead, and file down the long hallway and back onto the marvelous stage.

The man hands us each another stack of papers. When I look at mine, I am relieved to see the same words from my previous round. I sneak a glance at the two scenes on either side of me and realize they have given us each something different. The younger girl from the lobby has a scene from
Hamlet
, with the lines from Ophelia highlighted, and my neighbor to the right is reading Olivia’s lines from
Twelfth Night.

A graceful woman crosses the stage, the one who had until now sat in the middle of the table, and at once I know it must be Ms. Kent. She meets each of our eyes with an encouraging smile, and though I have lost feeling in both my fingers and toes, the act of support bolsters my spirits.

“Ladies, this round we would like to see how you interact with other people. The chemistry you can create with another actor, one you probably have no relationship with or have ever seen before. In addition, depending on the scene we have selected for you, we will be looking for a particular trait or skill. Since the male casting call won’t be held until tomorrow, a few brave volunteers have stepped up to help.”

She tilts her head, acknowledging a group of people sitting in a nearby row. I squint, but can barely make out their vague outlines in the darkness.

“Don’t worry. We’ll only be judging
you
in your scene, not how well our good-natured assistants perform. They are simply here to give you something to react to and play off in your scene. Sound good? All right.” She glances at a clipboard in her hands and then back up, directly at me. “Miss Forlani, you’re first.”

And just like that, my bolstered spirits plummet.

First?

With everyone watching?

In the small part of my brain that is still thinking logically, I realize that the four other actresses and the handful of volunteers seated in shadow are hardly an audience. But I am still terrified.

I hear a snicker and know without having to look that it is Kendal.

Ms. Kent motions to someone in the wings, and I hear footsteps approach. This must be my Romeo. I scan my page and see a much larger section now highlighted. As my eyes skim the wildly romantic banter, my cheeks start to warm. And when I glance up to see the volunteer step out of the shadows, my blush turns into a full-on inferno.

“Austin?”

Bathed in the glow of the overhead light, Austin’s bright blue eyes look deeper. His gaze bores into mine, and my heart begins pounding against my breastbone. My body tenses. Heat pools in my stomach. My breathing escalates. Again, I am overwhelmed by the wealth of foreign sensations and am shocked to discover this is what rage feels like…strangely, it is almost pleasant.

“Miss Forlani, this is Mr. Michaels. He will be your Romeo for this scene, reading the highlighted section on your pages. This is an extended sample, so for this round you will be allowed to use your script when needed. You have five minutes to familiarize yourself with both the lines and your partner. Good luck.”