CHAPTER FIFTEEN
My class schedule was arranged in such a way that I could be finished by noon, leaving the afternoons free for modeling pursuits. Unfortunately, that meant struggling out of bed at an ungodly hour as Marti once again pulled a pillow over her head to shut out the glare of the bulb over our sink.
On this day, however, I was grateful for the opportunity to get breakfast and run to class at an hour when most students were too groggy to care about my weekend activities.
My first class was math. As expected, the numbers were one big, ugly jumble. An hour later I headed toward Biology, a huge class held in a sort of amphitheater. I looked forward to the relative obscurity of the darkened setting devoid of a single computation.
Danielle shared this class with me so I usually sat with her and a couple of her sorority sisters who were nice enough although a bit “perfect” for a nine a.m. class.
As I approached, her sorority sisters, who usually didn’t pay me much mind, called endearing greetings. Danielle just winked and indicated the seat next to her.
“Freshmen,” she whispered with a grin and roll of her eyes.
The teacher for the class went over what needed to be reviewed for the next week’s final. Finals! I was going to need my head in the game for those.
Afterwards, I dropped by the Student Building for a snack of my favorite frozen yogurt before running by the Journalism Department to polish the paper for Dr. Morgan.
I exited the Student Building juggling my treat in one hand with the backpack dangling from my shoulder. I still had forty-five minutes until the start of Feature Writing, which I figured was enough time to allow a five-minute break in the courtyard. I backed out the door and found myself in the midst of a group of Sigma Taus, the most popular Fraternity on campus where only the richest, most handsome, or at least most charming, need apply. I tried to slip through, but a hand gripped my shoulder. I peered up and found myself face-to-face with the carefully highlighted hair and chiseled features of Devin Graves, reigning king of the Sigma Taus.
My opinion of Devin was sealed the year before when I accompanied Marti to a college sponsored “Chili Cook-off.” Sounds innocent enough and, being Texas, there actually was chili, but as usual the real purpose was for the student body to get sloshed. After about twenty minutes, I was tired of stepping in beer and ready to leave when I found myself cornered by an inebriated Devin.
“Hello Darlin’.” He had drawled the stench of stale beer breath into my face. “I do believe you win the prize for cutest butt.”
As I shoved past him, he had added a squeeze to my derriere. For a moment, I was too stunned to react. But shock turned to anger and I slapped the plastic cup of foamy beer from his hand, dumping the contents on his pricey shoes. Lucky for me, Devin had been too looped to react quickly so I’d slipped into the crowd followed by his slurred expletives.
On this day, I discovered Devin could be a jerk without the aid of alcohol. “Oh my, boys. Look what we got here. Sky’s little Sexy Dancer. My lucky day!” he spun me around the courtyard before lifting me up to stand on one of the stone benches. “Why don’t you give us a dance now, Sweetheart?”
Devin’s antics gathered a crowd, not to mention the seven or so Sigma Taus all dressed in the same t-shirt. One of the guys muttered, “Come on Dev, leave ‘er alone… ”
I climbed down from my perch, realizing I had a large smear of yogurt across my sweater, as Devin continued. “Listen Baby,” he brought his face close to mine. What was it with this guy and personal space? “You name the time and we’ll arrange a private party, just me and you… ”
I shook with embarrassment and anger. A bad reputation was not something I’d ever had to deal with; therefore, I had been off the radar of guys like Devin.
I looked down. “Nice shoes.” I dropped the yogurt.
He yelped and came after me. I dodged through Sigma Taus to open ground. A couple of his friends detained him. Perhaps they noticed the campus security officer taking an interest in the commotion.
Bummer. A waste of good yogurt.
I heard footsteps behind me and shot a look over my shoulder. A Sigma Tau shirt was closing in. Thankfully though, a security officer followed him so I turned to face my opponent.
The guy had an honest face with a gorgeous head of bright red hair and scattered freckles—not a face to inspire fear.
“Hey!” he drew closer. “Let me apologize for Devin. He’s not always such a jerk and the rest of us aren’t either.”
“What’s wrong with Devin apologizing for himself if he’s ‘not always such a jerk?’”
“He thinks he’s just having some fun.” The young man extended a hand. “By the way, I’m Shane. Consider this an olive branch from the Sigma Taus, okay?”
The security officer backed off.
“You, I’ll accept an apology from.” I returned the handshake. “But keep that ‘Devin’ away from me.”
“Deal.” Shane rewarded me with a friendly smile. He seemed nice. Not the type who should be hanging around the likes of Devin Graves.
I hurried on to finish correcting my story. I re-worked the last couple paragraphs, printed it out, and rushed to class. On the way, I grabbed a copy of the school paper. I scanned the class for a chair—hopefully toward the back of the room. I wasn’t eager to face “The Morgan.”
The front page carried the story of the school drum line winning its national competition. No surprise there. I unfolded the paper to peruse the lower half and froze.
“Co-ed Makes Guest Appearance with Sky,” the headline screamed above a story containing a photo of… me. I hadn’t been told about this and I’d even had a late-night chat with our editor. I scanned down to check the by-line, wondering who was cashing in, once again, by embarrassing me. There it was, story by… Marti Thomas. Underneath the shot of me dancing with Sky, I read, “photo by Roland Franklin.” Great. My best friend and the editor had been planning this little surprise all along.
My mouth must have been hanging open when Dr. Morgan entered the room, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the double betrayal. Dr. Morgan was asking us to have our feature stories ready for collection and I’m sure I wasn’t being the most attentive. He was known to be ruthless to distracted students.
His scathing sarcasm yanked me to attention. “If we can tear ourselves away from riveting accounts of our social life.”
I looked up as my fellow students snickered, to find Dr. Morgan’s steely eyes boring into me over the top of his bifocals. “Esther, are you ready to study journalism or will you continue with Groupies 101?”
This cold ridicule from a professor I admired was devastating. A hard lump grew in my throat. No way was I going to sit there and blubber. I collected my things, yanked out the feature story and walked to his desk where I slammed it down. Whispers and gasps echoed around me. As a parting gesture, I wadded up the newspaper and chucked it in the receptacle by the door. I left the room feeling Dr. Morgan’s laser eyes on my back. Nobody walks out of Morgan’s class—and lives to tell the tale.
Who was this hothead? Certainly not me. At the present moment, stumping away down the hall with every nerve standing on end, a good old-fashioned fistfight sounded like welcome relief.
Luckily, that was my last class for the day. Campus was feeling far too claustrophobic.
I retreated to the dorm to check messages, discovering a call from Sheila, one of the agency bookers. “Esther, audition, two p.m. at the studios. Call me a.s.a.p!”
I wondered vaguely why she had used the term “audition” instead of “interview” but I returned her call, confirmed the appointment and began my race with the clock.
I chose a pair of snug jeans paired with high-heeled boots and a body-hugging top. That would have to fulfill the dress requirement of “form-fitting.” Make-up and hair absorbed another twenty minutes, then I raced down the highway, grateful to escape the drama.
I reached the studio with five minutes to spare and entered to find a small group of young women obviously called in for the same opportunity and exchanged greetings with a couple familiar faces.
A lady behind the desk handed me a few sheets of paper she called “sides.”
So that’s why Sheila had used the word “audition.” I would actually be required to speak; something, along with thinking, models weren’t usually encouraged to do.
I focused on the script in front of me. It was for a soap opera called “Desire” and I read the part of Rachel, a girl confronting a “love ‘em and leave ‘em” jerk. She got to be pretty sassy but (darn!) no violence.
I read through the script again. Wo. There was a violent kiss toward the end. With a total stranger? Ew.
My name was called and I entered a small room to find about five people in various states of boredom arranged behind a table with papers, pens and “headshots” scattered across it. My little 5x7 modeling card looked puny next to all the 8x10 glossies. A guy with a toothy smile made introductions with the speed of an auctioneer, concluding with the young actor who would be going through the scene with me. Then he showed me where to stand so we could record the scene onto video.
It’s hard to describe what happened next. When my character said, “So it meant nothing to you?” a lump in my throat made it hard to speak.
My mind raced through the time with Sky. Was Dad right? Did it mean nothing? Maybe I’d never see him again. A wave of despair blindsided me. The words on the page blurred. In the awkward silence, the other actor repeated his last line. I blinked furiously and hot tears spilled over. I swiped them angrily away. Was I a fool? A stupid, clueless country girl who fell for smooth lines?
The words were “I hate you!” So I choked back the lump and barely croaked them out… then hiccupped… loudly. Oh no! Here came another one.
“You had to grow up sometime,” the other actor sneered.
“Hic!”
“So you’re wiser now. Consider it a... life lesson.”
Time for my next well-written line…”I (Hic) hate you!” I started to giggle. Great. I was loosing it.
Now for the big smooch. As he whipped me ‘round to face him the paper in my hand went flying. Luckily there was only one very predictable thing left to say and I knew it.
“Don’t you (Hic) touch me!” He was in my face. It was the passionate, intense, laser stare… my big moment.
I tried desperately to hold my breath, at least for a few seconds. The script called for him to betray his true feelings. He couldn’t resist me, couldn’t keep up the brutal, unfeeling charade so he gives in to a passionate lip-lock before exiting stage right, leaving me more shredded than ever.
So hurry up and get it over with! I squelched one internal, breath-held hiccup and still he milked the moment. He closed in, searching my eyes, touching my hair… so dramatic. “Oh Rachel!”
I felt my eyes widen in horror. I couldn’t hold it in. I pushed against his shoulder to create a little space and clamped my lips together. Please, Lord, not now!
“Snort-HIC!” This was a nightmare. Tears ran from my eyes due to suppressed snickers. My fellow actor stared in confusion and took a step back as I fanned my face, desperate for composure. Finally, he turned his back and stepped toward the door.
End of scene.
Complete silence… even the hiccups stopped. Take my word. Stark terror can cure them.
There was a loud clap, and another. Mouths hung open behind the table. Eyes were wide. The spattering of applause grew. Even my fellow actor joined in as I blinked.
“Such an original take… almost drunk with grief… the tenuous grip on sanity… the myriad of emotions—fascinating!” The murmured exclamations continued.
Huh?
A dark-haired woman addressed me, “Where did you receive your training?”
There was no Julliard in my past. “I’m, uh, in college?”
“Ahh! A drama student!” one of the heads behind the table murmured.
My card was passed from hand to hand, someone said something about “callbacks” then I found myself back in the hallway.
What. Was. That? I returned to the solitude of my car and tried to make sense of it all. Obviously, being completely screwed up was a plus for an actress. Maybe I’d found my calling. Lucky me.
My head hurt, my emotions were fried, and my car was out of gas. Time to move on.