Someday, Someday, Maybe (21 page)

The elevator bank separates the building’s two wings: to my left is a large frosted-glass door with a shiny plaque that says “Sunshine Productions.” To my right is another large frosted-glass door with a piece of notebook paper taped to it. An arrow is drawn in thick marker and underneath it says “Casting.” That must be the place.

Finally—my first real audition in ages. I’m back on track. Today is the first day of my
actual
career. “I remember the day things turned around for me,” I will say to the packed house at the 92nd Street Y. “Ironically, given the amount of theater I’ve been lucky enough to do over the years, the audition wasn’t for a play; it was actually for a
soap opera
.” And the audience will laugh, amused, surprised.

The elevator chimes and the doors open, bringing a new flood of people into the hallway and me back to reality. I can’t stand here forever imagining wonderful things that haven’t happened yet. I have to go in there and make them happen. My heart is pounding so hard that I feel a little dizzy, and I’m so shaky that it takes all my effort to push open the massive door.

There is a large receptionist’s desk, behind which sits a pale young man wearing a tie, his thin face almost buried behind several stacks of scripts and a giant bouquet of flowers. A clipboard faces out on his desk with the words
SIGN IN
written in bold letters at the top, and I go straight for it, not wanting to look hesitant or inexperienced. My hand jerks as I try to write my name and social security number, but I feel a burst of pride when, for the first time, I can fill in something under the AGENCY column. “Absolute Artists,” I write, and I feel a bit steadier.

Maybe it’s my imagination, but the pale receptionist seems to be staring, looking at me with something like curiosity, or is it disdain? Is it that obvious I’m still brand-new?

I don’t care. I’m not going to let him intimidate me. I look at him with a smile, but with a little challenge, too, and I think of Arkadia at the end of the scene, who has to look defiant yet vulnerable, and I understand that now in a way I didn’t only a few hours ago. A lucky sign! I will remember this feeling, I will use it in my work. The receptionist seems about to say something to me but I’m not going to let him steal my confidence, so I turn away from him, like Arkadia would, sure of herself.

Only then do I realize I am the only white person in the room.

There are two couches that form an L-shape around the receptionist’s desk, and on them sit about fifteen of the most beautiful black women I have ever seen. Young and thin and striking, dressed in the tiniest tops and the shortest skirts.

I want to run out of the room, back to Brooklyn, back to my curtainless room, and hide. To say I’m not what they’re looking for is an understatement. I had no idea this kind of beauty even existed, in New York or the whole world, and I’m obviously not right for this part. I’m not even the right
color
.

But, it’s strange … how are they going to explain the daughter of Peter Sloane being black? I guess they can do anything on a soap, bring people back from the dead, wake them up from comas. But I thought Arkadia’s mother was the now deceased, but thoroughly Caucasian, Mary Marlowe, the heiress to the …

“Excuse me?” The pale receptionist pushes his glasses up on the bridge of his nose, eyeing me suspiciously.

“Yes?”

“Are you in the right place?”

I square my shoulders and look down my nose at him. I am not going to let him make me feel bad. I am not.

“Yes, I believe I am,” I say firmly. I am strong. I am confident. I’m Arkadia Sloane.

“Are you sure? You’re here for Ebony Breeze perfume?”

What?

“Oh. No. I’m, uh, here for
Pinetree Lodge
?”

“I thought so. You’re on the wrong floor.
P.L
. is on thirty-four, one more up.”

“Oh. Oh! Thank God!” I sputter, “I mean, I didn’t, uh, I got out too … I was confused because … uh …” I gesture helplessly to the room behind me.

The receptionist pushes his glasses up his nose once more and waves me closer to him.

“Don’t feel bad,” he whispers. “They’re
models
.”

B
y the time I get to the right floor and sign in on the correct audition sheet, I’m almost too drained to dwell on the girls I’m actually going up against, who at first glance are less exotic but just as intimidating as the models on the thirty-third floor. How does everyone know what to wear? They all seem to have studied the same hair and makeup handbook, which apparently involves long straight ironed—looking hair and a dark red matte lipstick. They’re all so individually striking that it makes them almost blend together into one big beautiful blur. The group becomes one: The Beautifuls. I try to block them out, keeping my head down, studying my lines over and over, gripping the pages too tightly, the flimsy fax paper starting to look crumpled.

A stocky man with short curly hair and a tight blue V-neck sweater opens the door to the audition room, leading one of The Beautifuls out. Her face is shiny and a little damp. She’s clearly been crying. My stomach lurches.

“Beautiful work, Taylor,” he says quietly. “Really excellent.”

“Thanks, Jeff.” Taylor uses the ring finger of her right hand to dab delicately under her eyes, so as not to disturb the copious amount of eyeliner that seems to have miraculously remained intact. “It was my honor to say her words,” she says, and walks away, glowing with pride.

It was her honor? To say
those
words? Is that how I’m supposed to act? Do people really buy that?

Jeff looks at his clipboard. “Frances Banks? You’re next.”

I take a deep breath and try to float up from the chair gracefully, like Arkadia would. But one of my heels catches on the shag carpet and the shoe pops off my foot.

“Oopsy,” Jeff says, holding the door open for me as I jam my shoe back on.

“Got to quit drinking at lunch,” I sputter.

“Not me, honey,” Jeff says smoothly. “It’s the only way.”

“I don’t really—I didn’t mean …”

But we’re through the door already, and Jeff is taking his seat.

“Jeff, this is Franny Banks,” tight-sweater-wearing Jeff says to open-collar-wearing Jeff. “Joe Melville sent her.”

“Fancy. No, no, not so far back, sweetie, your mark is right there, where the chair is. That’s it.”

“Here? So, should I stand? Or sit? In the chair?”

“Whatever you like, Angel—the camera sees everything.”

I’d never thought of it that way before. It sounds ominous. For a minute, I stare into the camera, which is set up on a tripod facing the chair. Then I realize that if the camera sees everything, it’s seeing me now stare dumbly into it. I’ve had cameras at auditions before, of course, but for commercials you generally look directly into them, a man-versus-machine staring contest. Today, however, I’m going to be reading with a person while the camera regards me from another angle, and I’m supposed to pretend that doesn’t make me feel self-conscious.
The camera is my friend
, I think. But when I catch the cold black lens from out of the corner of my eye, it makes me sit up straighter and hold my head in a way I hope looks natural, as I try to impress the camera while also trying to pretend it isn’t there.

“Have we met her before, Jeff? Do we know her?”

“You’re thinking of the other Franny.”

“There’s another Franny? Who’s that?”

“Oh, Franny’s her name? I’m thinking of Annie.”

“Which Annie?”

“Annie O’Donnell? Er, McDonnell? I forget.”

“Who?”

“You know. She has red hair. We put her in that Lars Vogel movie?”

“
Another Love Story
?”

“That’s the one.”

“Annie MacDonald!”

“Yes!”

“Annie and Franny are totally different people, Jeff. You’re the worst with names.”

“So, we don’t know this Franny. Franny—not Annie—we don’t know you.”

They’ve been talking to each other for so long, I’m not sure whether this is a question that demands a response from me or just an observation I’m privy to. Before I can decide, shirt Jeff says, “How old is she?”

“You can’t ask her that, Jeff.”

“Franny, I’m not supposed to know your age, apparently.” He rolls his eyes and winks at sweater Jeff.

“Well, I guess I can’t tell you, then,” I say, attempting a smile, but it feels a little wobbly.

“But why don’t we know her? Franny, why don’t we know you?”

I pause, not sure if I should tell them they don’t know me because this is my first real audition ever, and if I say the wrong thing I’m afraid it could also be my last.

“Well, I guess it’s because I’ve only recently joined the ranks of the knowable,” I manage to spit out.

The Jeffs pause, then break into a small giggling fit.

“The Ranks of the Knowable! Ahahahahaha!
That’s
the name of my new band!”

“You’re too old to be in a band, sweetheart.”

“I’m not too old to
name
one, am I?”

The Jeffs giggle some more then sigh and finally pull themselves together.

“Sorry, we’re a little punchy. We’ve been at this for three days straight. We’ve had to reshoot some scenes, which just isn’t done on a soap.”

“Unless someone throws up during a take, we use it. We’d probably use it even with the throwing up. There’s just no time.”

“What happened to the other actress?” I ask, and the Jeffs give each other a look. “She was found to be in possession of a giant amount of cocai …”

“Cocaaaa … Cola. Right, Jeff?”

“Oh. Yes. That’s what I was going to say.”

“She did enjoy her
soda pop—didn’t she
, Jeff?”

“Sorry, yes. What a fan she was of the carbonated beverage!”

“So. Back to Franny. She’s tall, isn’t she, Jeff?”

“Mm-hmm. Tall, and pretty.”

“Thank you,” I say, beaming.

“Franny, how tall are you?”

“Jeff, you can’t ask her that.”

“But is she too tall for Angela? You know how she can get.”

“And that hair! Franny, what ethnicity are you?”

“You can’t ask her that either, Jeff. Behave.”

“
Uchh
, please. All these
laws
.”

“I don’t mind. I’ll tell you. I’m Irish.”

They nod, and smile expectantly. I feel they’re waiting for more.

“My hair won’t tell you anything, though. My hair is very sensitive, and known to be somewhat litigious.”

The Jeffs start giggling again.

“Ahahahahaha! The hair is from someplace different!”

“The hair is Jewish maybe!”

“She’s got loud Italian hair!”

“The hair
sues
!”

“Ahahahahahahahaha!”

By the time we get to the scene, I’m feeling pretty relaxed. Sweater Jeff reads with me, mouthing some of my lines as I say them. It’s distracting, but I try my best to focus. I get through the giant speech pretty smoothly. I wasn’t perfect, but I think I managed to radiate some of Arkadia’s hurt, some of her pride.

“Well,
I
like her. What do you think, Jeff?”

“Mmmhmm, me too. Try it again, just for fun, Franny. Go a little deeper, maybe?”

Shit
. He wants me to cry. That’s what “go a little deeper” means. He’s probably seeing if I’ll cry on the second take. I have to find a way for it to make sense that she doesn’t.

The second time, the speech comes out softer somehow, and quieter, but I still can’t quite get myself to tear up. It’s okay though, I think, because I do feel something more the second time. I didn’t intend to change the volume, but I felt as if, as Arkadia, I’d been practicing what I wanted to say to Angela Bart on this day for years, and now that I had my chance, I didn’t need to shout to be heard. This version of Arkadia wouldn’t cry, I thought, because her armor was up. It makes sense that she wouldn’t want Angela Bart to see her true feelings. It makes sense to me, anyway, and that’s the most important thing. I made Arkadia
my own
.

When I finish the speech, the Jeffs look at each other, both smiling, as if they liked what they saw.

“Great, sweetheart.”

“Glad you came in.”

“Your reading was excellent.”

“The hair wasn’t bad, either.”

“Shut up, Jeff.”

“You shut up, Jeff.”

O
utside, it feels like it’s going to thunderstorm and the wind has picked up. I have to lean forward to make any progress as I make my way up 66th Street. When I realize part of the leaning feeling is due to the fact that I still have my heels on, I stop on the corner to change my shoes. Even if I weren’t being whipped by the cold wind, I know my cheeks would still be burning.

“Excellent,” they said. The reading went well, they said so. And they were fun to talk to. And they didn’t say anything about the not-crying.

I wonder if I’ll get the role. I wonder how long it takes them to call once they decide who gets it. I should check the home machine. But it’s probably too soon. There were still a few girls in the waiting area. They probably have to see everyone before they decide. Or do they? Maybe they’re calling the agency already. “We didn’t need to see anyone else after we saw her read,” they’re saying to Richard or Joe right now. “She’s perfect for the part.”

Maybe I should call Joe, or Richard at least. No. I should wait. Just sit back and be cool.

But, then again, maybe I should call Richard just to tell him it went well, so when he talks to them he has more information. Maybe he’s already left me a message and wants me to call him back. Maybe he’s trying to reach me right at this very moment.

I finally stop at a pay phone to check the home machine.

You have three messages
.

I can hardly breathe as I punch in my code and wait for the tape to unwind.

BEEEP

Hi, Franny, it’s Gina from Brill. Just wondering—can you juggle? Or ice-skate?
They need an ice-skating juggler for a beer ad. Also, do you have a problem with beer? Let us know!