Chapter 38 Audition
“Invitation?”
There’s a bouncer outside the event hall.
“Wow, they have security?” I say into Reed’s ear.
Reed doesn’t respond. He pulls the invitation from his pocket and hands it to the large man in black outside the door. “She’s my plus-one.”
He checks an iPad. “You have your ID?”
Reed tugs his wallet from his back pocket, swipes out his ID, and hands it to the man. The guy inputs Reed’s name. “All right, you’re checked in. And plus-one Rikki Romona.”
I raise my hand. “That’s me.”
“ID?”
Thank god I stuffed my ID and a credit card in the tiny, beaded sling purse I brought. I pull out my license.
The guy nods, returns my license, opens the door, and waves us on.
We’re shuffled into a small foyer-like room with a roped-off queue.
We enter the line. There are only three people in front of us.
Elphaba, Glinda, and Mary Poppins. We’re all stood outside a wooden door.
Not fifteen seconds have passed before someone emerges from it with a clipboard.
“Next!”
Mary Poppins gets escorted into the next room.
I cut Reed a baffled look. “I thought we were going to a wedding.”
Reed cocks a brow. “Oh, we are.”
“What is this line?”
My head snaps toward the wooden door as the unmistakable sound of “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” echoes from the next room. Is the woman who went in . . . singing?
“I think they’re auditions,” Reed says.
“Auditions?” I squeak into his ear. “You’re joking, right?”
He chuckles. “They’re not real auditions! It’s just a shtick.”
“If it still involves singing, what’s the difference?” My muscles tense. “Reed, did you not hear me when I said karaoke is my biggest fear.”
Reed huffs a quiet laugh and takes my hand, weaving our fingers together. “Most irrational fear,” he corrects. “Not biggest.”
“Semantics, Derek.”
“Do we need to delve into this?”
“Do we need to go watch E.T.?”
He swivels to face me head on. “What’s so scary about it, Romona?”
“I’m terrible at it.”
His mouth tilts up. “So?”
I shake my head. “No, Reed, I hurt people via sound.”
His grin deepens. “I promise, you’re not going to hurt us via sound.”
“No Reed, I have no vocal control. I’m a llama with the gift of speech.”
“What does a llama even sound like?”
“Like me doing karaoke!”
He snorts, rubbing his thumb across the back of my hand. “Can I share a secret?”
I freeze as the wooden door opens, and Elphaba and Glinda are shuffled into the room together. Moments later “What Is This Feeling?” floats through the wall.
“Rikki?”
“Yeah.” I stare nervously at the closed door. “Go for it. Share.”
Reed’s war-hero face shifts into my line of sight. His eyes are white hot, glowing with whatever he’s about to say. “It feels really good to let go.”
I peer at him, struggling to hold on to any of my various trains of thought. “Of what?”
“Control.”
I blink, a smile flitting across my lips. “Come again?”
“You heard me.” He twists me around, so my back is pressed tight against his chest, our arms crisscrossed over my torso.
His stubble brushes against my cheek. “It feels good to let go, Renee.”
“What would you know about it, R. Tyler? I thought you had the same issue.”
He presses his lips against the skin behind my ear. “It just takes practice.”
I lean into him as my skin starts to hum. “Are you saying you’ve been practicing letting go of control?”
The vibration of his voice tickles the side of my face. “Actually, I have, smart-ass.”
“Next!” Clipboard man appears back in the doorway to the singing room.
I dig my nails into Reed’s forearm. He pulls me tighter against his chest. “It’s gonna be fine.” He guides us forward into the room.
Behind the door, someone dressed as King George from Hamilton is seated behind a wooden table. There’s a TV set up on a low table in front of him and . . . two microphones. Two box lights are pointed in our direction, and a large camera is set up next to the mics, on a tripod.
Why? Why is there a camera?
“Good day,” King George says from behind the table.
“Thy king and queen of thy wedding demand an audition. Fee to enter is thirty seconds. A song of your choice from thy costume’s musical.
Don’t worry, we’ll play the actual track, so you’ll be singing along rather than naked on thy karaoke version. ”
I raise my hand, looking at the king. “May I sit this out while my date performs? I’m just a plus-one.”
King George stomps the scepter he’s clutching in his right hand. “All guests must audition to enter.”
Reed hands me a microphone with mock solemnity. “We’ll get through this together.”
“Reed, I can’t do this. I’m going to die.”
He wraps my fingers around the microphone. “I seem to remember you saying you were on a dance team all through college,” he says pointedly.
“Yeah, dance team, not singing team!”
“We’re on a schedule here, folks,” Clipboard Guy calls from the wings.
“Throw on ‘Summer Nights,’ George,” Reed instructs.
The king nods.
The dun, dun dun, dunt. Dunt. Dunt. Dunt opening of Grease’s “Summer Nights” starts, and I glare at Reed, with the scariest expression I can muster.
Reed’s eyes twinkle with glee as he sings the opening lyrics with John Travolta.
I shake my head, missing Olivia Newton-John’s line. “We should have come as the founding fathers from Hamilton. I can do the opening rap.”
Reed sings the next iconic line, holding my gaze.
“Reed, you’re going to look at me differently after hearing me llama!”
“I won’t start the timer until you’re both singing!” King George blurts as I glance nervously at the camera and miss the next Olivia line.
Reed holds firm, singing beautifully, about summer days and how they drift away, refusing to look away from me, using his stupid eyeball powers.
Fuck. They’re working.
I pull the microphone to my mouth. Without warning the male part erupts out of me: I’m scream-singing well-a well-as, an aggressive UH, and begging to be told more about how far he got.
Reed’s eyes blow out with amusement.
I scream the next female part as well. And I black out after that.
I think I got into it. I think everyone in the room got into it, because I think it’s utterly impossible to resist the sweet, sweet joy of scream-singing “Summer Nights” if you’ve ever enjoyed a musical.
I don’t resurface till the king is reclaiming our mics, and Reed’s taking me by the face, capturing my mouth in a swift, electric kiss that leaves me feeling legitimately weak in the knees.
He takes my hand, pulling me along as King George leads us to the large set of double doors on the opposite side of the room.
“Enjoy the party, thespians.”
He knocks twice, and they open outward in tandem.