Tyler is comingback.
Tyler Adams is mine.My friend, my prince, myheart.
He has to comeback.
Ilove him.I think he might love metoo…
… He’s not comingback.
21
Eight monthslater
“Welcome to Vanier auditions.We’ll call you when we’re ready.” The man at the registration table gives me some paper to fill out. “Please confirm your name and contact informationhere.”
I fill out the paper and hand it back to him in exchange for anumber.
I can’t help noticing all the people warming up. I’d expected talented musicians and vocalists, but this is nextlevel.
There’s a corridor beyond where the auditions are being held and a sign saying “PLEASE STAY IN THIS AREA.” I ignoreit.
My feet are soundless on the tile floor that looks like marble. The hallway is full of people my age of all shapes and colors and sizes. Some are with parents, some alone wearingheadphones.
This building, between the Upper West Side and Harlem, is stone. Attached to the original four-story building are another six stories of glass. A spiral staircase goes up the middle as if it ascends all the way to heaven, though it can’t be more than fourfloors.
My phone jumps in my bag, and I answer it. “Pen?”
“Did you goyet?”
“They’re running behind. Where areyou?”
“Still at Columbia,” she says. “It’s amazing, and I maintain you’re insane for not coming, not only because your dad will murder you when he finds out you lied to him. But you’ve got this. Any hotties you can grab for a quick pep-talk-slash-make-out?”
I glance around. There are lots of attractive people, but the only thing I feel are nerves. “I don’t think that’llhelp.”
“Break a leg, girl. I’ll meet you forlunch.”
We hang up, and the reality starts to settlein.
This is it. Mychance.
I’ve only put everything in me intothis.
Every ounce of time and emotion and focus for the lastyear.
More thanthat.
I start down a hall lined with practice rooms. Between them are portraits of award-winning actors, dancers, musicians, conductors who graduated from Vanier. I know almost all of them, at least by name. They win Oscars, Grammys,Tonys.
I look in the first door interrupting the line of photographs. There’s a girl playing piano, lost in her music—which I can’t hear, thanks to soundproofing. I wish Icould.
I continue to the next one, and there’s a boy rehearsing an actingpiece.
The man from the desk comes up behind me, frowning. “Excuse me? You’re on deck. You should stay in the auditionarea.”
I nod. “I’m sorry. I just needed a moment. I’ll be rightthere.”
I can’t go back yet. The third door isopen.