Chapter 22
Tuesday morning, I drive up to the studio gate and give my name to the uniformed guard. He finds me in the computer, prints out a visitor’s pass, and tells me where to park. Having been to the lot a few times before to have lunch with Heather, I know that Robbery-Homicide Division films on Stage 4. Still, it takes me a little time to locate the bungalow that houses the rest of the show’s staff, the bungalow where I have an appointment that could totally change my entire freaking life in about… ten minutes .
With a deep breath, I pull open the door to Bungalow 11 and step up to the front desk. “Hi,” I say to the receptionist. “I’m here for the audition. Carrie Adams.”
She looks up at me and smiles warmly. “Hi, Carrie, I’m Angela. Welcome.”
I look around for the sign-in sheet, but I don’t see one. “Uh, where do I sign in?” I ask.
Angela shakes her head. “No need,” she says. “You can just have a seat, and I’ll let them know you’re here. Can I get you anything in the meantime? Water? Coffee?”
At first, I can’t even respond. As an actor, I’ve gotten so used to being treated like a commodity, a type—barely a person at all—that her simple offer of hospitality is a little disconcerting.
After a moment, though, I manage to find my voice again. “No, thanks,” I say. “I–I’m good.”
She directs me around the corner to a waiting room—not a makeshift arrangement of folding chairs set up in a hallway but an actual permanent grouping of big leather chairs and sofas. I start to step across the threshold, but then I stop short. I blink. Look around. Blink again. There’s no one else sitting here. No one else waiting to read. No doppelg?ngers. Not a single mini me in sight.
Well, this is a switch , I think.
I walk over to one of the chairs and sit, and I have to say, it’s a little odd. With no one here to measure myself against, I don’t know what to do. But then, gradually, I get my bearings. I use the time to find my center, to run my lines in my head, to remind myself that I’ve got this.
I’ve got this.
“Carrie?”
I look over to see a guy around my age in jeans and a gray Henley.
“Hi,” he says. “I’m Rob.” He extends his hand.
Getting to my feet, I shake it firmly. I can’t help noting that this is the second person here who has introduced themselves to me by name.
“Do you need any water or anything before we go back?” Rob asks.
Again with the water?
“N-no,” I say. “I’m all set. Thanks.”
I follow him back to a large but comfortable office. There are more introductions. I meet the show’s cocreators, a couple of the writer-producers, the director, and Josh Bateman, the TV veteran who plays DA Frank Fordham on the show. To tell the truth, it’s all a bit overwhelming.
So when someone offers me water yet again, I accept. “I’ve never been to an audition where there was so much concern that I was getting my eight glasses a day,” I say nervously.
They all laugh politely, and we actually chitchat a bit while I take a couple of swigs. My nerves start to ease up.
Then the director asks if I’m ready to get to it.
“Absolutely,” I say, putting the water bottle aside.
“We’ll start with the restaurant scene,” says the director. “And Josh will read with you.”
Josh Bateman will read with me?
The show’s star gets up and stands next to me, pages in hand and ready to go.
That’s when it hits me. This is the big leagues. The real deal. I’m not here to try out for some nameless character like Bartender or Nurse or Sports Fan #2. I’m auditioning to be a regular on a hit TV series.
You’d think that realization would make my anxiety spike. Only it doesn’t. It actually helps to calm me down.
The fact that this isn’t like any of the auditions I’ve had in the past is a good thing. It means these people aren’t here to find out if I can perform on cue. Nope. They’re here to find out if I can act, really act . And while I can’t perform on cue very well, I actually can act. At least I think I can.
I also notice that there’s no camcorder, and no one has asked me to do a 360-degree spin while they judge me from every freaking angle. This isn’t about what I look like. This is about what I can do.
I’m still a little on edge, of course, but not in a debilitating way. Not in a way that will make me choke. Just the opposite. I feel like I can take this nervous energy and use it. I can channel it into my performance.
I can do this , I tell myself. I can absolutely do this.
The first scene is essentially a job interview, with Fordham feeling out Carmichael’s qualifications to be an ADA—not too different from what’s actually happening right here in this room. So I draw on all the feelings I’m experiencing right now, feelings of uneasiness and vulnerability but confidence and determination too. And since Carmichael’s backstory isn’t very far from my own, I dig into my extensive baggage as well. Maybe the cumulative trauma from my weekly family Zoom calls will turn out to be good for something after all.
“‘Interior restaurant, day,’” reads the director. But he doesn’t sound bored or detached. He sounds like he really cares, like he’s really invested in what’s happening here. “‘Fordham sits at a table opposite a young woman, Cassidy Carmichael.’”
“Full disclosure,” says Josh Bateman, only he’s not Josh Bateman anymore. Before my eyes, he’s somehow transformed into DA Frank Fordham. “I’m only meeting with you about the open ADA position because your father called me.”
“You know my father?” I ask. Only I’m not me anymore either. Because Fordham isn’t talking to me. He’s talking to Carmichael.
“Our paths have crossed at a few bar association functions,” he says. “And of course I know him by reputation. My team has lost more than a few cases to him. Your father is quite the defense attorney.”
“Just so you know, I didn’t ask him to recommend me.”
“Oh, he didn’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“He didn’t recommend you,” says Josh as Fordham. “In fact, he called to ask me not to hire you.”
I pause and take this in the way Carmichael would. She understands something about her father. The same thing I understand about mine. “He doesn’t want me to get this job,” I say. I’m in the perfect sweet spot for an actor, where I’m really not acting at all. “He wants me to join his firm.”
“Excellent firm.” Josh gives me his signature look, the one where he does that thing with his eyebrows that’s pure Fordham. “And I’m betting they pay their associates a lot more than the DA’s office.”
“I’m sure that’s true. But the world doesn’t need another high-priced attorney to help criminals with deep pockets get away with murder. Literally.”
“Then what does the world need?”
I take my time here. I think about what Carmichael wants to be in this world, obviously. But I also think about what I want to be, what I want to be to my own father and to everyone else in my life who wants to typecast me, pigeonhole me, force me into some kind of mold.
“Someone who’s not afraid to stand up to them.”
“‘Fordham looks across the table at Carmichael for a beat, sizing her up,’” reads the director.
“Welcome to the DA’s office, Ms. Carmichael.”
The pleased reaction I express is Carmichael’s, but it’s mine too. Because for the first time ever, I feel like I really nailed an audition. I freaking nailed it.
To confirm this, something else happens. Something that’s never happened before, not at any of those assembly-line casting sessions. The director gives Josh Bateman and me a few adjustments, and he asks us to do it again.
We take it one more time, from the top. Josh is an amazing scene partner, giving and taking and doing the work even though it’s just an audition. When we finish the second run-through—which goes even better than the first—I let myself briefly fantasize what it would be like to do this every day.
Then it’s time to move on to the courtroom scene.
“Ready?” asks the director.
It’s a monologue, so I won’t have a partner for this one. Josh is back in his seat, and it’s all on me.
But I don’t really feel like I’m alone. I look around, and for once, I feel like the whole audition room is rooting for me. The positive energy is palpable, and it energizes me.
Honestly? I’ve never felt more prepared for anything in my life.
I smile confidently. “Let’s do it.”
The director nods and starts to read. “‘Interior courtroom, day. Carmichael approaches the jury box to deliver her closing argument.’”
“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen,” I say, because I’m Carmichael addressing the jury.
I take a moment to focus. Then I launch into the scripted summation of a ripped-from-the-headlines case, pretty typical for the show.
“On January thirty-first of last year, the defendant, Gregory Porter, shot and killed Arthur Chen. This is not in dispute. Mr. Porter would like you to believe that he pulled the trigger in self-defense and that this was a justifiable homicide. However, the facts do not support this. Fact: Mr. Chen was unarmed. Fact: Mr. Chen was Asian. Fact: Mr. Porter was heard on more than one occasion spouting anti-Asian rhetoric and making blanket threats against the Asian community after losing his wife to a virus that originated in China.”
I pause again. Because now, while I’m still Carmichael addressing the jury, I’m also me, addressing my inner slayer. And what’s at the heart of this case isn’t just something ripped from the headlines. It hits on a topic that feels extremely personal.
“And so,” I say, “this was a killing motivated not by self-defense but by hatred, plain and simple. And that makes it not just a crime but the worst kind of crime. A hate crime.” The passion of my delivery intensifies. “Hate—blind hate against someone simply because they belong to a particular community—is never justifiable.” I stop, letting that idea land—not just with the room but with my alter ego too. I wait until I’m convinced that everyone— everyone —has heard me. “And that is why you must find Gregory Porter guilty of murder with special circumstances.”
As I complete the scene, I feel a surge of power shoot through me, but I don’t feel the need to squelch it. Because this power doesn’t belong to my slayer. It’s mine and mine alone.
***
“So?” asks Heather through a mouthful of pins. She’s working on altering a jacket on a dress form. “How did it go?”
She told me to come by when I was done with my audition, so here I am in the wardrobe department—although “department” is a bit of an overstatement. It’s more of an oversize closet in a sectioned-off part of the stage, packed with racks upon racks of clothing, all labeled by character name.
“It was good, I think. Really good.”
Heather takes the pins out of her mouth, puts her hands on her hips, and gives me a quick once-over. “Well, you look good,” she proclaims.
I fidget a little with my sleeve. I opted for the same ensemble I wore to the J.Lo movie tryout: black leggings, black sweater, black suede booties. “You think? I’m wondering if maybe this should be my new go-to audition outfit.”
Heather shakes her head. “No—I mean, sure. Yes. That’s a good idea. It’s a good look for you. But I’m not talking about the clothes. I’m talking about you.” She smiles. “ You look good. It’s like, I don’t know…you’ve got a glow.”
“A glow?” I frown, trying to figure out what my slayer might be up to now. “Like a fiery glow? A radioactive glow?”
Heather laughs. “No. Like an I’m-at-the-top-of-my-fucking-game-and-I-know-it glow.”
I relax, smiling. “It really did go well,” I say. “I actually think I have a shot.”
“Maybe we’ll be working together again,” says Heather.
“Shh!” I say. “Don’t jinx it.”
Heather eyes me with amusement. “Since when are you so superstitious?”
“Uh, I’m a freaking vampire slayer, remember?” I say. “If that’s possible, I figure pretty much anything is.”
“Fair point.” Heather grabs a stool and motions for me to take a chair. “Speaking of… How’s the other drama going? Did you talk to Nick?”
And just like that, I can feel whatever kind of a glow I’ve got going right now start to dim. “Not yet.”
“Not yet?”
“Since you sent that text to Nick, things have been a little awkward,” I say.
“Text?” asks Heather. She looks confused. “What text?”
At first, I think she might be joking, but from her expression, it’s clear that she doesn’t remember texting Nick from my phone. Not surprising. I mean, we were all pretty wasted that night.
I’m about to fill in the details, but I think better of it. After all, she was just trying to help. No reason to make her feel bad. And besides, this isn’t her problem to deal with. It’s mine.
“Never mind,” I tell her with a shake of my head. “I know I need to talk to Nick. But I didn’t want to do it last night. I was afraid it might not go well, and I just didn’t want it messing with my head right before this audition.”
“Okay,” says Heather, nodding. “Okay, I can see that.”
“But the audition’s over now,” I say. “And we’re both working tonight. So…”
“So you’ll talk to him tonight,” says Heather. “And you’ll figure it all out.”
Right , I think. Right.
I just need to figure out how to ask my vampire boyfriend if he’s really my vampire boyfriend or just my fake vampire boyfriend trying to strip me of my power to slay him.
Piece of cake.