Bad Romeo (3 page)

Zoe’s eyes dull a little. The smell of blood is diluted by my suck-uppery.

“It
was
seriously awesome,” she says as she smiles like a barracuda with lipstick. “I mean, I’m probably wasting my time taking this course, because I won’t make it to the end before I get a big-budget deal, but it’s something to keep me occupied ’til then.”

I smile and agree with her. Stroke her ego.

It’s easy. I’m good at it.

The conversations bubble around me, and I add a comment here or there. Every half-truth that spills from my mouth makes me more like them. More likely to fit in.

Before long, I’m guffawing and braying like the rest of the donkeys, and one of the gay boys pulls me to my feet and pretends we’re at a rave.

He stands behind me as he thrusts against my butt. I play along, even though I’m horrified. I make vulgar noises and toss my head. Everyone thinks I’m hilarious, so I ignore my shame and keep going. Here, I can choose to be uninhibited and popular. Their approval is like a drug, and I want more.

I’m still pretending to be butt pumped when I look up and see
him
. He’s a few yards away, all tall and broad shouldered. His dark hair is wavy and unruly, and although his expression is impassive, his eyes show clear disdain. Sharp and unforgiving.

My fake laugh falters.

He looks like a vengeful angel with his intense gaze and ethereal features. Smooth skin and dark clothes.

He has one of those faces that stops you when you’re flipping through a magazine. Not textbook handsome, but mesmerizing. Like a book cover that begs you to flip it open and get lost in the story.

My new false bravado feels heavy under his gaze. It slides off me all dirty and thick, and I stop laughing.

The gay boy pushes me away and turns to someone else. I’ve lost my vulgar butt-pumping charm.

The tall boy also turns away and sits with his back to the wall. He pulls a tattered book from his pocket. I catch the title:
The Outsiders
. One of my favorites.

I turn back to the noisy group, but they’ve moved on.

I’m torn between trying to regain my position and finding out more about Book Boy.

The choice is taken from me when the nearby door opens and a woman steps out. She’s statuesque, with short black hair and bright red lips, and she assesses us with the focus of a laser beam. She reminds me of Betty Boop, if Betty Boop were pee-your-pants intimidating and had a patent-leather clipboard.

“All right, listen up.”

The chicken coop falls silent.

“If I call your name, head inside.”

She fires off names, her voice clear and sure.

When she yells, “Holt, Ethan,” the tall boy pushes off the wall. He looks at me briefly as he passes, and it makes me want to follow. I feel false and uncomfortable without him.

Names keep coming. I estimate more than sixty people walk through the door, including “Stevens, Zoe,” who squeals before strutting inside. I flinch when I hear, “Taylor, Cassandra!”

As I grab my knapsack, the intimidating woman says, “That’s it for this group. Everyone else wait here. You’ll be collected by other instructors.”

She follows me through the door and pulls it closed behind her.

We’re in a large, black room. A multipurpose theater space.

On the far wall is a long bank of collapsible bleachers. Most of the group is sitting on them, chatting quietly.

The final count is eighty-eight. Sixty girls and twenty-eight boys. None of them look as nervous as I feel.

I sit, feeling like a clueless hack in a sea of more experienced city kids. My leg starts trembling again.

The instructor stands in front of us.

“My name is Erika Eden, and I’m the head of the acting department. This morning we’re going to do some character work and improvisation. At the end of each scene, I’ll let you know who will stay. I know what I’m looking for, and if you don’t have it, you’re gone. I’m not trying to be a hard-ass, that’s just the way it is. I don’t need to tell you that the Grove only takes the top thirty drama candidates from the two thousand who will be auditioning over the next few days, so put your best foot forward. I’m not interested in seeing hackneyed theatrics and fake emotion. Give me the real deal or go home.”

My fear of failure whispers that I should leave, but I can’t. I need this.

We spend the next half hour doing focusing exercises. Everyone’s desperately trying not to look desperate. Some people are more successful than others.

Zoe is loud and confident, as if her acceptance is in the bag. It probably is.
Holt, Ethan
is intense. Incredibly so. His interactions fire with restrained energy, like he’s a nuclear power plant being used to light a single bulb.

I try to keep everything real and natural, and for the most part, I succeed.

After each scene, people are cut. Some take it well and some crash and burn. It’s like a war zone.

The group numbers dwindle rapidly. Erika is fast and efficient, and every time she comes near me I think I’m gone. Somehow, I manage to survive.

When we break for lunch, we’re all quiet. Even Zoe. We sit in a circle, our minds stumbling over our monologues while we try to ignore that most of us won’t make it to callbacks tomorrow. A few times I feel my face burn and look up to see
Holt, Ethan
staring at me. He immediately looks away and scowls. I wonder why he seems so angry.

Back in the room, we’re paired off. I get assigned to a boy named Jordan who has acne and a lisp.

Each duo is given a scenario, and the rest of us watch. It’s like a blood sport. We’re all hoping the others will screw up so we have a better chance.

Zoe and
Holt, Ethan
are paired together. They’re supposed to be strangers at a train station. They talk and flirt while Zoe tosses her hair. I can’t tell if she’s more eager to impress Erika or Ethan.

Jordan and I play brother and sister. I have no siblings, so it’s kind of nice. We banter and laugh, and I have to admit, we’re pretty damn good. Erika compliments us, and the rest of the group grudgingly applauds.

At the end of the round, people are cut and tears are shed. I sigh in relief as I realize there are only about thirty of us left. The odds are getting better.

The partnerships are switched up. I get
Holt, Ethan
. He doesn’t look happy about it. He sits next to me as his jaw clenches and releases. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a guy’s jaw before, but his is impressive.

He turns and catches me staring, and his expression is a perfect blend of a frown and I’m-going-to-kill-you-and-remove-all-your-skin.

Wow. We are so going to suck as partners.

Erika paces in front of the group. “For this last session, everyone will be given the same task. Your scenario is ‘Mirror Image.’”

Sounds easy.

“It won’t be easy.”

Dammit.

“This exercise is about trust, openness, and making a connection with the other person. No self-consciousness. No artifice. Just raw, pure energy. Neither of you leads or follows. You have to sense each other’s movement. Got it?”

We all nod, but I have no flipping clue what she’s talking about. Holt is rubbing his eyes and making a groaning sound. I figure he doesn’t, either.

“Right, let’s go.”

The first pair takes their position. It’s Zoe and Jordan. They take a few minutes to plan, then start to move. It’s obvious Zoe is leading and Jordan is following. They’re all hands and nothing more. At one point, Jordan giggles. Erika scribbles on her clipboard. I figure he just screwed the pooch. I smile. So does Holt.

Another one bites the dust.

The other groups perform in turn, and Erika circles them like a hawk, scrutinizing their every movement. She’s deciding who will make the final cut for callbacks. Most people are cracking under the pressure. I’m thrilled beyond words.

At last it’s our turn, and we stand in front of the group. Holt is jangling his leg. His hands are in his pockets, and his shoulders are hunched. It doesn’t fill me with confidence. I’d really like to pee and/or vomit. Because I can’t do either, I shift my weight from one foot to the other and beg my bladder to stand down.

Erika studies us for a few moments.

I realize Holt and I have both stopped breathing.

“All right, you two,” she says. “Last chance to impress me.”

Holt glances at me, and I see my desperation mirrored in him. He wants this. Maybe as much as I do.

Erika leans into me and lowers her voice. “He moves, you move, Miss Taylor. Understand? Breathe his air. Find a connection.” She glances at Holt. “You have to let her in, Ethan. Don’t think about it, just do it. Three strikes and you’re out, remember?”

He nods and swallows.

“You have three minutes to prepare.”

She leaves, and Holt and I move to the back of the room. He stands close and he smells good. Not that I should be noticing something like that, but my brain is looking for a distraction from my nerves, and his good smell is it.

“Look,” he says as he leans down. “I need this, okay? Don’t screw it up for me.”

I flush with anger. “Excuse me? You have just as much chance of screwing it up as I do. And what did Erika mean when she said ‘Three strikes and you’re out’?”

He leans in closer but doesn’t look at me. “This is the third year I’ve auditioned. If I don’t get in this time, I’m done. They won’t let me re-audition. Then my father would say a big, fat ‘I told you so’ and expect me to go to medical school. I’ve worked hard for this. I need it, okay?”

I’m confused. I’ve been watching him all day. Are these people blind?

“Why haven’t you gotten in before? You’re really good.”
In a disturbingly intense kind of way.

His expression softens for a moment. “I find it hard to … mesh … with other performers. Apparently Erika believes that’s an important attribute for her actors to have.”

“It didn’t look like you had any problem with Zoe.”

He scoffs. “There was no connection there. I felt nothing, as usual. Erika could tell.”

I glance over at the dark-haired lady who is studying us. “She’s auditioned you before?”

He nods. “Every year. She wants to offer me a place, but she won’t give me a free pass. If I can’t prove I can do this particular exercise, which I’ve completely sucked at each time I’ve auditioned, then it’s over.”

“One minute!” Erika yells.

My heart rate kicks into overdrive. “Listen, just do whatever it takes to ‘connect’ with me, okay? Because if I don’t get this, I have to go back to my overprotective parents, and I seriously can’t fluffing cope with that. I know this might come as a surprise, but you’re not the only one with something to lose here.”

He frowns. “Did you … did you just say ‘fluffing’?”

I feel a fierce blush engulf my throat. He’s laughing at me, just because I refuse to curse my head off like every other fluffer in this place. “Shut up.”

His smirk widens. “Seriously? Fluffing?”

“Stop it! You’re wasting time.”

He stops laughing and sighs. He seems more relaxed, but I’m guessing that’s because all his anxiety has transferred to me.

“Look, Taylor—”

“My name is Cassie.”

“Whatever. Just relax, okay? We can do this. Look into my eyes and … Jesus, I don’t know … make me feel something. Don’t lose concentration. That’s what’s screwed everyone else so far. Just focus on me, and I’ll focus on you. Okay?”

“Fine.”

“And don’t say ‘fluffing’ any more, ’cause that shit cracks me up. You know it’s a porn term, right?”

No, I didn’t know it was a fluffing porn term. Do I look like a porn-watching pervert?

I exhale and try to focus. My thoughts are chaotic. I need to be calm.

“Hey,” he says as he touches my arm. It doesn’t help my concentration at all. “We can do this. Look at me.”

I look up into his eyes. His lashes are ridiculous.

As he gazes at me, something jolts straight into the pit of my stomach.

He must feel it, too, because his mouth drops open, and he inhales sharply. “Holy shit.” He blinks but doesn’t look away.

The energy crackling between us is too intense. I close my eyes and exhale.

“Taylor?”

“Cassie.”

“Cassie,” he whispers, his voice soft and so very desperate. “Stay with me. Please. I can’t do this without you.”

I swallow and nod. Then Erika yells at us, and we walk to the center of the room.

We turn to face each other, only a foot apart.

He’s much taller than I am, so I stare at his chest, watching it rise and fall as he tries to calm himself.

“Ready?” he whispers.

I want to yell, “No, God, please, I’m not fluffing ready!” but instead I say, “Yeah. Sure,” like this wasn’t life or death, or at the very least, really important.

I take a deep breath before looking up. His expression is less desperate now, and it feels like I’m seeing him—really seeing him—for the first time. I feel his energy. It’s like a wave of heat all around him. We stand there for a few seconds, just breathing, and as we gaze into each other’s eyes, the air between us solidifies, connecting us like two parts of the same person.

He raises his hand, and I follow, as if we have thousands of tiny strings between our arms, tugging them into alignment. I match his speed exactly, moving when he moves, breathing when he breathes.

We move again, and our bodies are perfectly aligned. It feels so natural. More natural than I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe ever.

We step closer. He leans forward, and I lean back. I tilt sideways, and he follows. The invisible strings tighten between us. Our movements become faster, but every one is perfect and precise. Intricate choreography that we’ve never learned, but our muscles somehow remember.

It’s thrilling.

We’re in
the zone.
That magical state performers sometimes achieve when everything is flowing and open. Heart, mind, body. I’ve felt it before, but never with another person.

It’s amazing.

Smiles spread on our faces. I notice Holt is kind of beautiful when he smiles.

Our arms are above our heads, and as we bring them down, our palms come together. His hands are big and warm. My skin tingles where we touch. Then I’m looking into his eyes, and we’re both not breathing, and I don’t know why.