Chapter 4 Skyler
Beth wasn’t kidding. Blond, leggy girls with perfect tans occupy every square inch of seating space in the temporary waiting area of the production office, which basically looks like something Ikea coughed up after a rough night. And since most of the girls are super tiny, the ratio of butts to seating is pretty impressive.
On cue, they turn to look at us. Some give me warm, complicit smiles, like “here we go again,” which makes me feel like a big fraud since this is all new to me. Most put up blank faces and then turn back to their lattes, their cell phones, or their weird little scripts, which Beth tells me are called “sides.”
Suddenly, I’m extra grateful for the pink hair, if only so I can tell myself apart from everyone else. Though I’m definitely built more like an old-timey milkmaid than most of these girls, with fleshier arms and more junk in the trunk, due to my steady diet of bar food. Totally okay in my world, of course. Drunk musicians don’t judge, and neither do my cellos.
“Gonna need a shoehorn to wedge ourselves in here,” Beth says, chewing her lip and surveying the room. She’s giving off a weird jittery energy, which isn’t like her. But then, I realize, I’ve never seen her at an audition before.
I’m nervous, too, but mostly because I don’t want to make an ass of myself. And I really, really need a job. I don’t want to go home to Kentucky to prop up my mom or fill in for my wandering dad.
It’s a wonder I even became a musician, given the example he set. Rarely home. Rarely in touch. Maybe it had to do with the allure of it all, those glimpses I’d get whenever I’d tag along to a show, watch his sticks flash over the drums. Maybe it was the music that filled the house whenever he was around, telling me our family was whole again—at least for a while.
I don’t know. I only know that whatever I do, I’ll never let it make me abandon the people I love. I’ll never make other people clean up my messes or take care of my responsibilities. Which is why I’m here today.
“I think there’s a gap over there by the window,” I say and start in the direction of a low tufted sofa with one free end. “You can sit on my lap.”
We wind our way around the room. Beth seems to know half the girls here, and she stops every few feet to give out hugs. At this rate, it will be summer before we reach the damn couch.
“Look for someone with a clipboard,” Beth tells me, picking up on my frustration because she’s spooky like that. “We need to check in and get our pages.”
“Okay.” I look around but spot zero clipboards. I do see that what seemed like a homogenous mass of blondes has coalesced into something a little more diverse. A smattering of brunettes. Another couple of African-American girls. Even a redhead with a pierced septum and a trendy leather harness belt over a flowered dress.
Damn, someone else is gunning for my quirky minor character gig.
I decide to peek out into what I assume is a hallway and push through a heavy door that, instead, takes me outside onto a narrow gravel path running along the back of the building. Beyond is an expanse of brittle grass and scrub, which slopes up toward the highway where cars and trucks spew exhaust.
A younger guy, maybe eighteen or nineteen, whirls on me, throwing his arm behind his back like I’ve caught him with a baggie full of ’shrooms or something. He’s hunky—as in substantial, tattooed and pierced, with a shaved head covered in some kind of crazy design.
Skulls, I realize. Weird.
“Jesus Christ,” he says. “You scared me.” He pulls a cigarette from behind his back and takes a drag before crushing it under his boot.
“Sorry.” I keep the door wedged open behind me. Fanning away the smoke that wafts in my direction, I say, “I was just looking for someone with a clipboard.”
He spreads his hands and gives me a grin that I’m sure makes panties spontaneously combust. “No clipboards here.”
The dude’s got large, rugged features but they’re pretty somehow, too—thick black eyebrows, a straight nose that’s just a couple of degrees shy of perfect, and full lips with a sharp upper bow. I think about music, about how sometimes unexpected notes align to make a perfect sound. It’s like that, somehow. Only with a face.
“You one of the actresses?”
“Sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“I mean, yes. I’m auditioning. You?”
He shrugs. “Indentured servant.”
“Wow, I don’t come across many of those anymore. How quaint.”
“Yeah, that’s me. Quaint.”
His eyes are an amazing light-filled blue-gray. Like no color I’ve ever seen. If he was older, he’d intimidate the hell out of me, with that body and those looks. Another few years, and he’s going to own the world.
“What happened to your head?” I ask. “A sign of your servitude?”
He gives an embarrassed grin and rubs his scalp like it’s covered in Braille and will provide an answer. “Partied too hard and fell asleep first.”
“Well, it could be worse. Your head could be covered in penises.”
“Yeah, skulls are probably better.”
“Probably.”
Something about this guy makes me edgy, though I have no idea what it is. Maybe just the sheer size of him. Or this wiry energy he puts out, like a stick of dynamite waiting to be lit.
I don’t really have time to ponder that, though. I need to get back inside and find a clipboard. Preferably attached to a person who can tell me what the hell I’m supposed to do.
“Nice hair, by the way,” he says. I feel flattened by his gaze, but it’s hard to tell if he’s mocking me or sincere. And then I get annoyed because he’s just some kid, and he’s got me feeling unbalanced.
“Another late night decision,” I tell him. “But at least I was sober for mine.” Which is mostly true.
His features shadow, and he stoops to pick up his cigarette butt and thrust it into his pocket. “Your loss.”
“No doubt.”
We stand for a moment, this strange combative energy between us, like a wind that’s blown up out of nowhere.
“Okay,” I tell him, after a few seconds of awkward silence. “I’ll leave you to your lung polluting. Have a nice life.”
“Oh, I’ll see you again real soon,” he tells me, and there’s that grin again, only less flirtatious. Also less sincere. “You’ll be reading with me today.”
“What?”
“Surprise.”
“Very funny, but I’m reading with Garrett Allen.”
“Nope. Even funnier. Garrett had some kind of spa accident. He’s got a crick, whatever the hell that is. I’m his stand-in.”
Shit. An image of Christina being thrown into some random minivan flashes through my mind, and I want to cry.
“Well, okay then. Guess . . . I’ll . . . see you in there.” Yeah, buddy. Take that.
“Looking forward to it,” he says and fishes another cigarette out of his pocket. They don’t seem to come from a pack. Instead, it’s like his pocket’s some weird dispensary of loose cigarettes.
I head back inside, and for a second I contemplate finding some way to lock him out of the building. Or dye my hair back to blond so he doesn’t know it’s me. Then I remind myself that he’s just a kid. He’s not making the big decisions. I don’t have to worry about him.
Beth’s waiting for me right inside the door. She’s talking to Mia, who, hilariously, turns out to be the person with the clipboard.
“Well, shoot, where were you?” I ask.
Mia arches a brow. “I’ve been here. Where did you go?”
“Wrong turn,” I tell them and flop down onto the sofa. I wish I had my cello with me, though it’s probably not appropriate audition-wear. I just miss the weight of it against my legs, the feeling of knowing what to do with my hands.
“I got us checked in,” says Beth, who hands me pages. “Want to run these lines with me?”
“Sure.”
“Turns out Garrett is down for the count,” she says, cheerily. “Maybe I’ll have a shot at this, after all.”
“Of course you will,” I tell her.
Now I’m just not so sure about myself.