Chapter 8 Raoul
Raoul
It’s agony listening to some of the auditions. Most of the voices are decent, but during a few of the performances, I genuinely want to cover my ears. How can these people truly believe they can sing? What lies have their families fed them in the name of supporting their dreams?
I hope to god Christine can sing. She certainly has a lovely speaking voice, not to mention the lithe body of a dancer.
Seeing her here, at the auditions for my musical, was a complete shock.
She’s been enshrined in my heart for a long time, ever since she defended me during that awful year in middle school.
Over Christmas break, I’d realized I liked boys as well as girls, and after watching far too much Glee, I told myself things were better for my generation, that people were more accepting, that tolerance was a thing.
When February rolled around, I mustered my courage and gave a paper heart to Damian, the smartest, cutest boy in my class.
He’d always been cool to me, so I thought at most I might have to endure some mild rejection.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained, right?
I was wrong. So miserably wrong.
His entire personality seemed to change in the space of a minute, and from then on, I had no friends.
Sickening names were muttered behind my back whenever I walked through the halls.
People jostled me, bumped my lunch tray, cut me out of conversations.
The teachers did nothing, and the bullies grew bolder.
They cornered me one day at dismissal when most of the teachers were busy. I remember their mouths vomiting slurs, their hands cuffing my face and tugging my jacket. One of them kicked my shin.
And then Christine burst into the group, her face blazing like an avenging angel.
She scattered the boys, scolded them viciously—hissed at them with her teeth bared.
She grabbed one boy’s coat and hurled him away from me, and when she let go, the fabric had five distinct cuts where her nails were.
I remember thinking it was odd for a middle-school girl’s fingernails to be that sharp.
“Raoul.” My codirector Marjorie bumps her elbow against my arm.
I return to the present, suddenly conscious that the woman onstage has ceased caterwauling and is looking at me expectantly.
I clear my throat. “Yes, thank you very much for coming in today. We’ll be in touch.”
She nods and ambles off the stage.
“Next we have…” Marjorie peers at the next paper on her stack. “Carlotta Vanetti.”
“You should really wear your bifocals, Marj,” I tell her.
“Fuck that.” She chuckles and takes a large gulp of her coffee.
“Carlotta Vanetti?” exclaims Gil Leveque from my other side.
His family are distant cousins to the de Chagnys, and he’s a partner in the management of the New Orpheum Theatre.
My sister, Philippa, insisted that if I wanted to use family money to back this musical, I must make him one of the directors.
So there are three of us directing—me, Gil, and Marj, who is the only one with true experience.
She has actually lived in New York and has worked on Broadway musicals.
“Carlotta Vanetti has hundreds of thousands of followers on socials and a killer voice, too,” mutters Gil. His hot breath stinks of cigarettes, and a droplet of his spit hits my ear.
Jaw tight, I shift slightly away from him.
“She’s got a bit of an attitude,” he continues. “But she’s fucking hot, with a great rack. And real talent always comes at a price. She’s our lead, Raoul. You can be sure of that.”
“So you’ve cast her already? Before we’ve heard her sing?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Carlotta fucking Vanetti.” His eyes bulge, boring into mine, as if I should be awed by the very name. “She’ll bring so much visibility to the show. We need her.”
“Visibility is great, but influencers also come with a lot of risk, especially if they’re easily pissed off,” Marj counters. “If something doesn’t please her, she could go on socials with her complaints and rally her followers to tank the show.”
“I appreciate both of your perspectives,” I tell them. “Let’s table this until we’ve heard her sing, okay?”
“Fair enough,” says Marj.
Gil grumbles, “Fine. But I’m telling you we need her.”
“Noted.” I raise my voice and call, “Carlotta Vanetti.”
She saunters to center stage with a brilliant smile, dressed in a low-cut red dress and white leather boots. I have to admit, she’s striking, and she commands attention with her very presence. Right from the start, she fixes her attention solely on me, barely giving Gil or Marj a second glance.
“Good morning,” she says brightly. “I’m Carlotta Vanetti, and I’m the star you’ve been looking for.”
The statement throws me a little, and I fumble over the first few questions, which only seems to inflate her confidence.
Her dazzling grin and her laser focus on my face unsettle me.
She’s like a predator, and I’m the prey, the elusive prize she’s determined to get.
I can feel my cheeks heating, my anxiety kicking into high gear along with my fight-or-flight instinct. With me, it’s usually flight.
“So…Carlotta…” I shuffle papers around in an attempt to look busily professional. “What are your thoughts on the musical’s female main character, Eugenie?”
“Well, she’s a strong, independent woman who doesn’t take shit from anyone,” says Carlotta.
“She’s ready to kick some ass and take names.
Whatever she needs to do to reach her goals, she’ll go for it.
Nobody’s getting in her way. Let me tell you, I relate to this girl.
She and I are the same. If someone disrespects me, they’re gonna regret it. ”
“Wonderful.” I force a smile. “All right, I think it’s time for you to sing for us if you’re ready.”
“I was born ready, darlin’.”
She doesn’t introduce the song, just snaps her fingers at someone in the shadows. The person—her assistant, I assume—trots onstage after her and sets up a huge, purple boom box bedazzled with silver stars. Our pianist, Sam, glances questioningly at me, and when I nod, he sits back to watch.
Before the music begins, I place a mental bet with myself that she’ll do “All That Jazz” from Chicago—and when I’m right, I can hardly keep a straight face. I’ve never seen anyone dance to “All That Jazz” in cowboy boots, and it’s a vision I won’t soon forget.
She’s talented. A powerful dancer with a strong voice. Well-trained, obviously. But I’m uncomfortable with her take on Eugenie, and I don’t know that she’d be open to critique if I asked her to portray the character differently.
Carlotta goes well over the two minutes we allotted for each audition song.
I wonder if I should stop her, but I can’t bear the thought of confrontation.
I clear my throat faintly a couple of times, but she doesn’t take the hint until Marj, who has no qualms about confrontation, lifts a gaunt hand laden with rings and waves it imperiously at Carlotta with a loud, “That will do, thank you! We’ll be in touch. ”
Carlotta’s showgirl smile falters, her stage veneer cracking just enough for me to glimpse the offended rage beneath, but she pulls herself together, blows me a kiss, and stalks offstage. Her assistant scrambles to collect the boom box and then scurries after her.
“Thanks, Marj.” I exhale with relief.
“Oh honey, I’m from the Bronx,” she replies. “Anytime you need a bitch shooed offstage, I’ll shoo. But you gotta grow some balls if you want to be in this business. You’re not just the writer. You’re one of the directors, and you can’t let the talent push you around.”
“Note to self: Grow some balls.”
She chuckles. “You’re a sweet kid. Loads of talent. But you need that backbone, okay? Gotta have some grit on you.”
“Thanks.” I neaten the stack of papers on my desk and pick up the next sheet. A little thrill runs through my stomach when I call, “Christine Daaé!”
I half expect her not to appear; she seemed so skittish earlier. But she walks to center stage with her shoulders back and her head high, each step so graceful anyone could tell she’s a dancer.
Marj leans forward, eyes narrowed, pen tapping her lips. I’ve come to recognize that pose—it means she’s interested. Gil shifts in his seat, licks his lips, and grins, surveying Christine with a different kind of appreciation.
“She’s one of our in-house dancers,” he murmurs to me. “Hot little piece. Orphan.”
Orphan seems like an odd word to use for a grown woman, and an out-of-date one at that, but I don’t challenge him on it, or on the “hot little piece” comment, though angry heat creeps beneath the back of my shirt collar.
I’m a coward for not wanting to offend him, but he’s vital to the realization of my dream and the production of Sidewinder, so I let the misogyny slide.
I just sacrificed Christine’s honor on the altar of my ambitions, and I hate myself for it.
In fact, I’m so busy hating myself that I forget to ask her any questions, and she stands there awkwardly smiling.
“Miss Daaé,” Marj intervenes, glancing at the audition form in front of me. Bless Marj’s heart, she’s worth her weight in gold. “Why do you want to play the part of Eugenie? And what’s your interpretation of the character?”
“She’s a woman of great strength, of course,” Christine says.
“That’s obvious even in the synopsis. But there’s a vulnerability to her, too.
She’s not always strong, and I love that, because no one is always strong.
We all have weak moments when we make mistakes and do the wrong thing.
What’s important is what we do next. I love how this character isn’t afraid to ask for help and brings others around her who complement her strengths.
I’d love to portray her and learn from her. ”
Marj glances at me, her mouth slightly tilted at the corner, one eyebrow raised. It’s as good as a gold star from her.