Chapter 4
I calm down, Heather leaves, and my flaming sword doesn’t make any encore appearances for the rest of the morning. I don’t know what the rules are that govern its comings and goings, but it does seem like I need to intentionally call the thing up somehow. I talk it through with Liv for a while, and we decide—okay, I decide, despite her serious misgivings—that as long as I don’t deliberately try to summon the fiery blade, I should be okay to go to my casting session. Probably. Hopefully.
Before I know it, it’s time to get ready.
I manage to shower and dry my hair without incident. Then, with my supersize body wrapped in my oversize bathrobe, I gaze wistfully at my fresh-from-the-dry-cleaners audition outfit hanging on the back of my bedroom door. Against my better judgment, I decide to give it a shot.
Just as I feared, I am barely able to get the narrow legs of my dark skinny jeans past my newly muscular thighs. Barely able to get the sleeves of my fitted white blouse over my suddenly massive shoulders, barely able to button its buttons across my broadened chest. When I finally squeeze myself into the ensemble and check the mirror, I’m a dead ringer for She-Hulk, about to explode right out of my clothing. If only I were reading for a Marvel movie.
My heart sinks. What am I going to do?
“Liv?” I call, hoping she can help me solve my wardrobe problem.
Moments later, she comes bursting through my doorway, fire extinguisher at the ready.
“Whoa!” I say, stepping back and holding my hands up. “Relax. This time, it’s just a fashion emergency.”
As if to punctuate my statement, I hear my shoulder seam rip.
***
Liv and I go through my closet together, searching for some options to accommodate my brawny new body. I try on a few different outfits, my friend snaps photos, and we text them all over to Heather for her professional opinion. After expressing the same grave reservations as my roommate, she reluctantly gives her stamp of approval to a pair of stretchy black leggings and a loose, long-sleeved black sweater.
“You look good,” says Liv when I present myself for one last wardrobe check. And even though I know she’s still worried for me, she gives me a nod and a supportive smile before I head on out the door. “Vaya con Dios,” she calls after me.
***
As I walk into the casting office, clutching a manila envelope containing a few extra headshots and résumés, my step is a little unsteady. Obviously, I’m still reeling from this morning’s… rude awakening . But that’s not the only thing that’s got me feeling off.
I fidget with the bottom of my sweater, wishing I was wearing my customary jeans and blouse. The former go-to audition ensemble was fashionable without being distracting. It showed the contours of my body without being too sexy. I liked to think it helped people concentrate on my performance, not my appearance. And that helped me to concentrate too.
But now I just feel like I’m hiding something. Probably because, well, I am hiding something—or trying to hide something anyway. Twenty-four extra pounds of something to be exact.
Which kind of puts me at cross-purposes here. Acting—good acting—is about revealing, not concealing. It’s about tapping into your true emotions to create something real. Not pulling off some big lie.
Firmly telling myself that I’m not a big liar, I give my name to the receptionist at the front desk.
***
At my level, walking into an audition is always a little bit surreal. You show up, you sign in, and then you sit in a room or a hallway or wherever to wait your turn with a bunch of other women who all essentially look like you . Oh sure, they may have different hair colors. Different eye colors. Different skin tones. But everybody is pretty much your age. Your size. Your… look . Like cookies all cut in the same shape from the same batch of dough but with slight variations in the frosting.
Then, if you’re me, while you sit there, you start to play the comparison game. You look around at all the different versions of yourself, and you start to wonder if they’re somehow better versions. More castable versions. Instead of thinking like the actor you are, you fall into the trap of starting to think like the casting director you desperately want to please.
Determined not to fall into that trap today, I tighten my grasp on my manila envelope and follow the hand-lettered signs to a long, nondescript hallway lined with gray metal folding chairs. The only unoccupied seats are at the far end of the hall, so before I can sit down, I have to parade past a half dozen other candidates waiting to read for the same role.
While I walk down the center of the corridor, my eyes dart to my right and my left, assessing my competition out of habit. They’re all in their twenties. All girl-next-door types. All pretty but in a basic kind of a way, a way that won’t pull focus from the lead—in this case, J.Lo. And like a string of paper dolls, they’re all the same size and shape.
It’s surreal, but not in the usual way. Not in the everybody-looks-like-my-sister-from-another-mister kind of way.
I continue on down the hallway, and my posture sags. My shoulders slump. As I size up my rivals, it’s not that I worry I won’t measure up to them. This time, I’m absolutely certain I don’t.
Out of nowhere, that old song from Sesame Street pops into my head: One of these things is not like the others, one of these things just doesn’t belong…
And it’s true. With this bigger, buffer body of mine, I don’t belong in this casting pool anymore.
Self-consciously, I take a seat. I cross my arms and legs, desperately trying to take up as little space as possible, but it’s no use. I may be able to produce a sword made out of freaking fire, but I’m not able to shape-shift back to my former shape.
I peer up the aisle at the other women. I don’t want to sabotage myself, but I can’t help thinking that I could give the best performance of my life right now, and it simply won’t matter. Obviously, I’m not what the casting team is looking for. I’m not what they’ve got in mind. Not anymore. I may have these new muscles, this new power, but in this moment, I’m feeling more powerless than ever.
It’s definitely not the best head space to be in just before an audition. I should be psyching myself up, not psyching myself out. I should be getting ready to take the stage and own it.
As the other actors start to get called in one by one, I try to give myself a major attitude adjustment. I can’t let this kind of negative thinking drag me down. I’ve got to be so good that I make them see the role differently. So good that they can only see me in this role. No matter what I look like.
I close my eyes, shutting out my surroundings. I breathe in. I breathe out. And then I try to visualize myself nailing this part, giving the perfect read.
What can I get you to drink? I think.
Except, it’s not my delivery I hear in my head, dammit. It’s Nick’s.
And now I see Nick in my head too. I see his mocking look and his mocking grin and his mocking goddamn dimples, and my anger at him begins to simmer all over again. I can only imagine the incredible amounts of shit he’ll give me if I don’t land this gig. I’ll never hear the end of it. The bartender who couldn’t even get cast as a bar—
“Carrie Adams?”
Hearing my name, I open my eyes, and I notice that the corner of the manila envelope I’m holding is starting to burn.
I jump to my feet, drop the envelope, and stomp on it with the toe of my black suede bootie before it can fully ignite. Still, the scent of smoke drifts up from the floor. And now everyone is staring down the hallway at me, watching me curiously.
I break out in a cold sweat. If my name had been called even one second later, the whole place could be up in flames—and my budding career along with it.
What in the actual hell was I even thinking? Liv and Heather were right, of course. I should have just made up some excuse and cancelled.
It’s fight-or-flight time for sure, and every cell of my body wants to pull an Usain Bolt and run straight on out of here. Except I’ve already made one scene. Probably best not to make another. Not unless I want to end up on the Do Not Cast list in perpetuity.
Trying to stitch together the frayed edges of my nerves, I commit to seeing this audition through. I leave the singed envelope where it is on the floor. Then, knees trembling, I walk to the head of the hall, where a curly-haired assistant stands waiting. While I approach her, she frowns disapprovingly at me.
“There’s no smoking in here,” she scolds me.
As I follow her back, I try to look on the bright side. She just thinks I was sneaking a cig, not performing my fiery new party trick.
***
A minute or two later, I’m standing in front of three people seated on a couch. In the middle sits an older woman with long salt-and-pepper hair wearing a linen maxi dress and lots of handcrafted, southwestern-type jewelry. I’m pretty sure she’s the casting director I’ve been dying to meet. To her right sits a younger woman who seems to be trying to copy her style but on an entry-level, H&M-clearance-rack budget. And on her left is a guy who looks too young to be here, his khakis and blue cotton button-down reading more like a uniform for a private high school than the office-casual attire I assume it is.
When I entered, they all gave me a quick once-over and muttered some mildly friendly greeting or other.
Not one of them introduced themselves. And not one of them has said anything since. They all seem much more interested in the water bottles on the coffee table in front of them than in me.
I try to pretend that this incredibly awkward situation isn’t awkward at all. I plant my feet firmly, resisting the urge to shift my weight self-consciously from one black bootie to the other.
The assistant who led me in walks over to a camcorder set up on a tripod behind the couch. She presses the Record button. “Look straight into the camera, and say your name and your agency, please,” she tells me.
Aaand here we go.
I take a deep breath and try to compose myself. Stare at the red light. Smile. “Carrie Adams,” I say. “The Rebecca Sloane Agency.”
I can still pull this off , I think . I’ve got this. I’m not going to shoot fire. Nope. I’m going to be fire.
“Turn to the left, please,” the assistant says.
At that, my stomach lurches. This is always my least favorite part. The 360-degree view. They don’t ask for it every time, but when they do, it’s demeaning, demoralizing, and like so much of the audition process, it has nothing to do with whether you can actually play the role you’re here to read for.
On a normal day, the request would make me uncomfortable. But today? As I turn and show my profile, exposing my newly sprouted bulges and swells to scrutiny from yet another angle, my discomfort hits an all-time high.
“And to the back.”
I turn my back to the room. It’s like I can feel everyone’s eyes on me, assessing me, judging me. But then again, who am I kidding? I’d be lucky if they were surveying me so closely. In truth, they’re probably not even paying attention. If I read things correctly, they dismissed me as soon as I walked through the office doorway.
And to be honest? I don’t really blame them. Even I can see how they wouldn’t want the audience wondering if the bartender moonlights as a professional wrestler while J.Lo is having her big on-screen rom-com epiphany.
“And to the right.”
I turn to the side and show my other profile. Now my gut is all butterflies, my legs are wet noodles, and my head is a little wonky, like a giant helium balloon.
“And back around to the front.”
I face the room again, and I’m afraid I might pass out. Or vomit. I try to stay focused on the little red light.
“Now we’ll get to it,” says the assistant. “I’ll read you in.”
Staring at the camera, I see the trio on the sofa in my periphery looking bored and indifferent, like they’re all trying not to be the first one to yawn. But I remember how much I want this job, what a great opportunity it would be. I mean, I could be in a scene with Jennifer Lopez. Jennifer freaking Lopez!
So I’m not going to give up just yet. I can still surprise these people, still get them to wake up and take notice.
At least that’s what I tell myself.
“Ready whenever you are,” I tell the assistant.
“‘Interior bar, night,’” she says, beginning to read the scene with absolutely no inflection whatsoever. It’s like she’s going out of her way to just mumble and drone her way through the words. “‘Visibly upset, Lulu takes a seat at the bar.’”
And this right here is the biggest problem with auditions—or, I guess I should say, my biggest problem with auditions. They’re not about acting. Acting is about being present and connecting in a real way with another player. It’s about living truthfully, just under imaginary circumstances. But auditioning? That’s about performing on cue, like you’re a trained circus animal. You’re expected to be real—and to make the people watching you feel something real —all while the assistant reads the rest of the script like she couldn’t care less about any of it. Hardly the ideal scene partner.
“‘The bartender spots her,’” continues the assistant with the same flat delivery, “‘and crosses over.’”
I know that’s my cue, but for a moment, I blank. I can’t think of my first line.
But I know it. I know I know it. Dammit, it’s right on the tip of my—
“What can I get you to drink?” I blurt out.
Nope. Too …awful.
And just like that, any last shred of hope I was hanging on to slips away, and I feel like I’m plummeting into a deep, dark abyss.
The assistant goes on to read J.Lo’s follow-up line with the same lack of passion so I can complete the scene. But really, there’s no point. In my heart, I know without a doubt that this audition is already over.
***
“Oh no!” says Liv over my hybrid’s Bluetooth connection. I made a three-way call to her and Heather to fill them in as soon as I got back in the car.
“Oh yes ,” I say, steering my Prius onto Melrose. “I choked. I totally blew it. I tried, but after I almost incinerated myself in the waiting area, I couldn’t get it together. The whole thing was just a big, flaming-hot turd of a disaster.”
“But you’re okay?” asks Heather. “Everybody’s okay?”
“Yeah, everybody’s okay,” I say. “I guess the one saving grace is that nobody had to pull the fire alarm.” I sigh. “You were both right. I should have called in sick.”
To their credit, neither of my friends says, “I told you so.” But their momentary silence on the other end of my car speaker says enough.
“Well, come home now,” says Liv after a beat. “We can order in dinner before I have to leave for work. Thai, maybe? My treat.”
“Thanks, but I can’t,” I say. “I have a shift at Pete’s.”
“Carrie,” says Heather, her voice heavy with misgiving.
“I know what you’re going to say,” I say, cutting her off before she can say it. “But I need to go in.”
“Are you kidding?” says Heather. “After what just happened at the audition—”
“ Especially after what just happened at the audition,” I say. “I’ve got to go to work.”
“If it’s about money,” begins Heather.
“It’s not about money,” I say quickly. “It’s about…uh…”
I hesitate. What I’m about to say isn’t going to make any sense to them. It barely makes any sense to me. But sense isn’t really factoring into things right now.
“It’s about Nick,” I confess.
“Aha!” says Liv. “So you do like him.”
“What? No!” I say. “Jeez, how many times do I need to tell you? I can’t stand the guy.”
“Tomato, to- mah -to,” Liv says in a teasing tone.
“No, listen,” I say. “When we were all talking this morning? Well, Heather, I think you might’ve been onto something. Nick really might be the trigger for what’s going on with me. It fits. I mean, I was thinking about him earlier, when my eyes…uh…”
“Did that freaky flashy thing?” Liv supplies.
“Right,” I say. I’m almost at Pete’s. I spot a car pulling out of a parking spot halfway up the block, so I put my signal on and slow to a stop. “And I was thinking about him again when I almost set my headshots on fire.”
“You think about him an awful lot,” says Liv. “For somebody you can’t stand.”
“Cut it out,” I say. “It’s not like that. I just think he’s part of this somehow. So I need to see him. And talk to him.”
What I don’t tell my friends is that I don’t just need to talk to Nick. Since I left the audition, it’s like I’ve been running on automatic pilot. I’ve got this uncontrollable urge to go and confront my coworker, to face off with him. I feel as if something inside me is compelling me, pushing me into his path. Honestly? I don’t think I could stay away from the bar tonight if I tried.
“Are you sure talking to this Nick guy is a good idea?” asks Liv. “Can you trust him with this?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “But I don’t think I have a choice.”
“Well, please be careful,” says Heather. “With what you tell him. And what you show him.”
“I will,” I say as I pull into the empty parking space. “I promise.”
“And make sure you know where all the fire exits are,” says Liv.