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My heart has overridden my brain, and I’m just about to commit to something huge when a knock at the door interrupts our trip down Nostalgia Road. Lizzie runs in, wearing a pink feather boa around her neck. She begins twirling around between Cory and me, flicking the pink feathers about.
“Joan said I could keep it.”
Joan is the assistant who has been acting as Lizzie’s impromptu tour guide. I want to hate her for how young and gorgeous she is. Her tight blouse shows off the tops of her perky breasts, and I’m instantly jealous of this young thing’s presence around Cory. At the same time, she’s been absolutely wonderful with Lizzie.
“We’re ready for the audition tape,” she announces in a voice that’s also unfairly upbeat.
“Oh, that’s right,” Cory says with a snap of his fingers.
“What audition tape? I thought you said I just have to read a few lines?”
“A few lines in front of the producers, exactly,” Cory explains. “But we still need a tape for posterity reasons. You know, in case the execs start needling their way into my decision-making process and want to know why I brought a nobody in for their film.” He kisses me on the temple. “No offense.”
I forget about him calling me a nobody the moment we step into the room where I’m to give my impromptu audition. Lizzie runs in, not caring that the three execs in suits and ties are waiting stoically. She twirls across the front where the cameras are set up before being directed ever so gently by Joan into the back where thy both take seats and ‘wait for mom to start being an actress’, as I hear her say to Joan. Meanwhile, Cory pulls me back outside and closes the door.
“Look, I’m going to be honest with you,” he hisses at me.
“What is it?” My heart was already beating like I’ve just run all out on the treadmill. Now it’s attempting to crawl out of my throat.
He looks up at the ceiling, like he wishes god would appear so he could lodge a formal complaint about the current circumstances. But it’s just me, Cory, and the waiting audience on the other side of the door. He places his hands on my shoulders. “I can’t tell you why just yet, but you’re going to have to convince them. I mean, really wow them.”
Cory has just placed an Olympic-sized weight on my shoulders.
Next thing I know, I’m standing in front of a line of chairs, two box lights shining straight at my face. Cory sits beside three men in the front row. One of them is Jay, the congenial little man I met earlier. The other two I don’t know, but from their stern scowls, they’re not taken with my first impression.
“Do you want me to move around or anything?” I ask and point at the white screen hung behind me.
“Just read the lines,” says Jay.
Cory smiles at me, but I can sense a bit of exasperation behind his expression. “Do whatever comes natural.”
The problem is that nothing about this feels natural.
The scene reads like something out of a suspense. My character’s husband has gone missing, and no one is acknowledging that he ever even existed. It’s like my character is having a mental breakdown, and the audience has to figure out who’s wrong and who’s right. Cory is playing the police officer taking my report.
“Whenever you’re ready,” says one of the other producers, not even bothering to look up from his phone.
I bite my lips before saying, “Okay.”
“Augusta Summers. Audition One,” says Cory. Then he looks to me and raises his eyebrows. It’s time to impress.
Gripping the paper tight, I read out my first line. “What do you mean he’s not in the system?”
“I mean that he’s not here,” Cory reads back flatly. He’s not expected to act, so he can get away with this emotionless reading. “Every citizen is registered here.”
“What are you telling me?” I ask. I’m trying to put my heart into this. Imagining that it’s me and not some character in this position.
“I’m telling you that he’s not in the system.”
“But that’s impossible. He has a driver’s license. A social security number. I know the numbers. Can you search them?”
“If his name’s not in the system, his numbers aren’t in the system.”
The script’s direction here is for me to lose my mind with anger. I’m supposed to ‘shout as though I were thinking of shooting the place up’. That was the actual direction. The problem is that I’ve spent the past decade bottling up all the frustration and anger I felt with the hand that life dealt me. I’ve trained myself every day to never let my emotions boil over. So attempting to bring them to the surface produces nothing but a pale imitation of fury.
“Now you listen here,” I say, trying to put myself in the character’s shoes and figuring out how I would react in such a situation. But what should be a simple exercise in empathy is made impossible when I meet the eyes of my audience. Jay is tapping out a message on his phone with his stubby fingers. The other two producers watch with bored eyes that blink too slowly. Their body language tells me more than any words could: they are, in a word, unimpressed. The optimism seems to have drained from even Cory. He’s biting his lips, his eyes practically begging me to act better.
But this is my limit.
