Saturday goes by absurdly slowly. There are even fewer people in Trinkets n’ Things than there were during the week, and Laurie has decided to take the day to lead an aromatherapy workshop in the back room. I wonder if anyone has ever died from a sandalwood overdose.
I finished the first book yesterday morning—read it straight through in one sitting. And the truth is I get why Cassandra hasn’t been able to stop talking about the romance, and why it seems the entire world hasn’t put the books down. They’re phenomenal. And the love story is just so, so good. It’s the ultimate fantasy. August and Noah, her longtime crush and boyfriend’s best friend, are the only surviving members of a plane crash that had her boyfriend and younger sister on board. They learn Noah is a descendant of the island and its people—a position that comes with power. The power to heal August after she’s almost killed by the crash and—I won’t ruin it for you. Let’s just say love isn’t easy, even when you’re the sole survivors of a plane crash and you have the hots for each other.
I jump back in and make it halfway through the second book before asking Laurie if I can head out a little early. She says yes, of course. Actually what she says is, “It’s Saturday. No one comes in on Saturday.”
I close the door to the back room behind me and loop the keys around the hook by the tarot card shelf. I grab my bag from behind the counter, and as I’m leaning down I catch a reflection of myself in the mirror—my hair whipped around my face, my cheeks flushed and red. For just a moment, I don’t recognize myself. I could be anyone. Even August.
Droves of girls are wandering around when I get there. It’s not surprising, but the sight is pretty spectacular. There must be a thousand people outside the Aladdin. The last time I saw this many people in one place was when my brother took me to a Muse concert freshman year. We don’t really spend a lot of time together. My brothers and I, I mean. There was a period when my sister was kind of close with them, but I think by the time I came around the novelty of having a sister had long worn off. I remember being really surprised Jeff would want me to go. It turned out, once we got there, that he just wanted me to watch the car, because free parking was really hard to come by. “You can sit here and listen to the music,” he said. I didn’t even say anything, totally afraid I’d burst right into tears, and afterward, when he dropped me off at home and my mom asked me how it was, I lied and said great. Telling her the truth somehow seemed too humiliating.
I work my way inside the audition space. There seem to be two lines. One for people who have registered and one for people who haven’t. The nonregistered line is way, way shorter. The majority of people, unlike myself, have prepared for this. Everyone else already has their forms, and they are filling them out on clipboards. They’re sitting in chairs, lining the floor, leaning against the walls.
Most of the girls are with their mothers, and for a slight second I feel a wave of familiar sadness. My mom and I have gone to exactly two auditions together. The first was for a cereal commercial when I was seven. I remember I saw the flyer in the grocery store and begged her to take me. She didn’t want to, but eventually my father convinced her it wasn’t a terrible idea, and maybe I’d make a little money in the process. I got all dressed up in my best dress and the shoes my mom had bought me for Christmas that year, and we went, hand in hand.
We didn’t even make it into the audition, though. My mom took one look at the other girls and decided we weren’t going to “play,” as she put it. “It’s a beauty pageant,” she’d said. “There is absolutely no way we’re participating.”
I’ve always gone to auditions alone, and in secret. She supports school- and theater-related projects, mostly because she thinks they are somehow “academic,” but anything with film she’s been against pretty much from the beginning.
I make my way to the reception desk, where a woman with a smile like a line hands me a sheet of paper. I take the form and fill it out on the edge of the table, careful to hand it back to her with a smile. She gives me a number in return and waves me off. There are no seats available, so I lean on the wall and put in my headphones.
For my birthday this spring, Jake made me audio recordings of all my favorite films. He even put them on my iPod. I can listen to Empire Records while I’m biking home from school or walking to work.
Today I choose a recording of Singin’ in the Rain. It’s corny, but I’ve always loved classic movies. There is something about seeing the screen without a ton of CGI or animation that just feels so cinematic. Important. Like the work those actors were doing meant something.
The sound of Gene Kelly’s voice sweeps over me, and I sit back against the wall, knees tucked up to my chest. I let myself think about what it would be like to get this part. To be in a real film. To prove to my family that this is more than an adolescent fantasy.
I let myself think about what it would be like to actually live my dream.
And just like that, I’m Debbie Reynolds. My eyes slip closed, and when she speaks, it’s me. On the stage. In the spotlight. So much so that when they call my name and I hand over my number, hours later, I’m still singing my heart out. And when I read the lines, it’s like I’m Debbie Reynolds reading the lines. And when they call this man in, this beautiful, tall, blond guy to read with me, it’s like he really is Gene Kelly. And when they ask us to do the scene together, it’s like we’re in the film and it’s raining all around us. A soft, steady pitter-patter.
“I’m Rainer.” He holds out his hand to me, and I take it. He pulls me toward him, and before I’ve had time to even say my name, we’ve begun. We’re August and Noah. And it feels right. No, it feels better than right. It feels perfect. It feels like every moment of my life has been leading to this one.
It’s not until the audition finishes, what feels like days later, and I go outside that I realize it’s actually raining. And the funny thing is I’ve lived in Portland my entire life and this is the first time I can remember ever forgetting an umbrella.
Three months later, we’re on the set.