Back home once more, I lay all the papers out on the kitchen counter and pour myself a glass of strawberry milk. I’ve lost all the good habits that Rufus taught me, but the sugar and the comforting pinkness of the drink do me good. Now, which papers have theater classifieds?
My mother comes in while I’m peering closely at a casting call for a stage production of The Wizard of Oz. I check the name of the theater. It’s not either of Rufus’s.
“What are you doing, darling?” she asks, and I can hear the note of hope in her voice. Will she still sound as happy when I tell her I’m looking at theatrical jobs? I watch her face carefully as I show her the ad.
“Oh, but that’s wonderful, Abby. Are you going to apply?”
Apply. That will require emailing headshots and updating my CV. Something leaden falls on my chest, but I nod, and I start updating my documents. The cover letter takes half an hour to write because I keep deleting what I’ve written.
“There. Done,” I say when it’s finally sent off, and I scrub my hands over my face.
“Good. I’m proud of you. Did you want some Oreo cookies?” my mother asks, reaching for the pantry door.
“No. I think I’ll go back to bed for a bit.”
Her hand falls back to her side. “Abby, we’re going to have dinner in a few hours.”
But I’m trailing up the stairs, all my thoughts on bed and the blissful oblivion of sleep.
* * *
I get an audition, and the director calls me to ask me what part I’m interested in.
“The Wicked Witch,” I say.
“She’s already cast. Would you be interested in auditioning for the Good Witch? I know she’s a bit syrupy but the kids will love you.”
I screw up my nose, thinking. The Good Witch is going to remind me of playing the dancing fairy at the Palais, but the director sounds too interested in me to refuse him. I suppose it’s my look, the blond hair and the sweet headshots I sent him. I reek of Glinda.
But it’s not like I have people falling over themselves to offer me auditions. “All right.”
He asks for my email address so I can prepare a scene for the audition, gives me a date and time and the nearest tube stop to the theater, and hangs up.
I chew my lip when the email appears in my inbox. I have to sing. Of course. I hate to sing. My lessons ended two years ago and I haven’t sung a note since. I feel a mounting urge to slam my laptop shut and go to bed.
Closing my eyes, I take a deep breath. The audition is in three days’ time. I have to find the energy to work out every morning. I have to rehearse the part and get my voice back into shape. I have to go along to the audition and give a convincing performance. And I have to do all this by myself.
Rufus’s face rises in my mind, and I hear his voice in my ear, telling me I can do this.
I quickly open my eyes and squash the memory of him. By yourself, Abby, I scold myself. This is what you chose, remember?
* * *
Brynn, the director, greets me with a huge smile. He’s one of those bearlike men that are large and loud, and I’m happy to let him do most of the talking.
I audition for Glinda feeling rather detached from myself, as if I’m in the stalls watching rather than on the stage. Whe
n I’m finished I look to Brynn with a polite smile.
“That was lovely, Abby,” he calls. “Can you come down into the stalls so I can ask you a few questions?”
He asks me about some details about my training and any conflicting commitments I might have. I tell him there’s nothing.
Checking my CV, he says, “So, until a few weeks ago you were in a production of Amarantha at the Palais. Why did you leave?”
I’ve been dreading this question. I know he has to ask it. “Personal reasons.”
He taps his clipboard with his pen, regarding me. “I have to call the director to ask for a reference for you. Is there anything you want to tell me?”