Wish Upon a Star (8 page)

I stopped myself with a mental jerk. That was the old Erin. That was the Erin who didn’t have the faintest idea how to be strong, independent and successful on her own. That was the Erin without a Master Plan.

Instead of flirting, I extended a businesslike hand. “No,” I said. “Thank
you,
Timothy.” And then, I forced myself to stand, to walk away, to head out into the courtyard, and down the alley, and back to my apartment. Back to the new life I was carving for myself. Alone.

STANDING IN THE hallway outside the audition room, I forced myself to take deep breaths. I was holding the “sides” for the audition, the actual section of the script that they wanted me to read aloud. Sides were policed like gold; I’d been given the valuable pages precisely twenty minutes before my time slot, not a second more, not a second less. Every detail about auditions had to be scrupulously fair.

I forced myself to take a deep breath and read through the pages once again. I had been walking on air since Wednesday morning, when I’d followed up on my promise to myself, on the vow I’d taken in Garden Variety. Like a good little actress, I’d checked out pending auditions, and I’d been thrilled to find
Menagerie!
on the board. The description practically begged me to try out.

Seeking the Following

Note: all singers should have equal facility acting and performing contemporary musical theater.

LAURA: Eighteen years old. Shy and sensitive woman, too lost in her imaginary world to attend business school.

While Laura limps in her spoken-word scenes, she is a vibrant, showstopper dancer in musical numbers. MUST BE STRONG SINGER.

Okay, so I was twenty-five, not eighteen. But I played young. And I’d performed the role of Laura in a college production of
The Glass Menagerie
to great critical acclaim (in the
Daily Wildcat,
I had to admit, but good ink was good ink.) I understood Laura Wingfield’s trials and tribulations, the way that she suffered, the blinders that kept her from comprehending that everyone was afraid when they moved into the real world, when they lived life on their own terms. I had learned to display her perfect vulnerability onstage. Audience members had actually cried when my Laura proved unable to leave her damaged life behind, to go forward as a normal, healthy girl, facing life outside her controlling mother’s home.

I shouldn’t have been surprised when Amy teased me on opening night. She said that
of course
Laura came easily to me. Laura built fantasies about men, about Gentlemen Callers, the same way that I did, with every guy I’d ever dated. I’d fought back at the time, pointing out that at least I went on dates—something that Laura in the play never managed. Amy had merely smiled her Wise Older Sister Smile and said, “Uh-huh.”

Ah, good old sisterly love—always supportive, always considerate.

I didn’t care what Amy thought. My Laura Wingfield had brought insight to a classic.

So, when I saw the posting for a musical version of Tennessee Williams’s play, I was thrilled. My joy only increased when I read the buzz, over on ShowTalk. Everyone in town was talking about this show. The director was supposed to be phenomenal, and the producers were willing to invest a lot of money. I was over the moon. Musicals were big business in New York—my entire career could be made with a single role. And I was perfect for the lead.

Except for the small fact that I wasn’t a showstopper dancer.

And I’d really be pushing things, to say that I was a strong singer.

None of that mattered, though. Fifty percent of a good audition was showing up, looking the part and demonstrating perfect confidence that I was The One the directors needed to cast. Besides, the acting audition was first, before I ever had to worry about singing and dancing. I could ace the acting—it was well inside my comfort zone. Well inside, that was, if I could become absolutely, one hundred percent comfortable with the sides that I was studying. I had ten precious minutes left to master the words, to see how the author of the musical production had modified the language of Williams’s classic play.

Ten minutes. Which was why I almost didn’t answer my phone when it vibrated in my pocket. Long habit prevailed, though. I barely took my eyes from the precious papers in my hand when I checked the caller ID.

Sam.

I could let the call go to voice mail. I
should
let the call go to voicemail. I’d left him a message
five full days before,
telling him that the pregnancy scare was over. Five entire days, and this was the first chance he’d had to call me back?

But what would ignoring him prove? I’d already staked out the moral high ground, letting him know he was off the paternity hook. I might as well stay up there on my mountain of superiority. Sighing in exasperation, I answered. “I can’t talk now.”

“Erin!”

“I’m in an audition, and I can’t talk.”

“Okay.” He sounded the slightest bit chastised, if I could judge by that one word. “Come by tonight. I’ll be home after eight.”

Home. Sam’s brownstone wasn’t
my
home anymore. Not to mention the fact that Sam didn’t have any right to dictate my schedule. “No,” I said vehemently. “I don’t want to talk there.”

So much for my being walked over by every single guy I’d ever known. Amy would be proud of me. Sam hesitated before responding, wasting enough time that I wondered if this was a classic booty call. Did he have any intention of talking to me at all, of trying to work things out? Or was he actually arrogant enough to think that I’d just leap back into his giant bed, roll around a little for old times’ sake?

This independence thing was actually starting to feel pretty good. I cut short the suspense of waiting for Sam’s reply. “If you really want to talk, then let’s meet at a restaurant. Some place down in the Village. I’m living there now.”

“The Village?” I heard his incredulity. This conversation wasn’t going the way he’d planned.

I hadn’t had a lot of time to explore my new neighborhood, but I knew enough to press my advantage. “There’s a place called Garden Variety. We can meet there at eight.” I gave him the address. He started to negotiate, using all his lawyerly skills at manipulation, but I snapped, “I’ve got to go, Sam. I’ll see you at eight.” I hung up before he could say anything else.

Without my conscious permission, my fingers clutched at the fabric stretched across my belly. I’d purposely worn a soft pink sweater set, wanting to connote Laura’s old-fashioned vulnerability. The shell was smooth over my flesh, but I could imagine the faintest bump, the evidence that would have existed if I’d truly been pregnant. I tried to return my attention to the crumpled sides in my hand, but I couldn’t concentrate on the script.

Dammit! Why had Sam called now? Why hadn’t he felt guilty—or horny, or whatever—a day earlier? Or three hours later? Why was he ruining the best theatrical lead I’d had since I’d arrived in New York?

I shouldn’t have been so rude to him. I shouldn’t have hung up on him. I had
never
hung up on a guy before.

And why was I making such a big deal out of going up to his place? He’d be tired after working all day. I should have agreed to a restaurant that he chose. I hesitated, starting to take out my phone, to call him back, to agree to his simple request that I stop by the home I’d lived in for ten full months.

“Hollister!” The hall monitor barked my name. I jerked my thoughts back from Sam, from the mess I’d made of our relationship, and I forced a perky smile on my face. I’d worn my straight hair in a ponytail, further attempting to look young, shy. Now, my fingers itched to twirl a few strands, to work off my nervous energy. Instead, I crossed my fingers and breathed my personal incantation, “Just this once.”

And I stepped into the audition room.

I know that I introduced myself to the three people who held my professional life in the figurative palms of their hands. I know that I read from the sides. I know that the casting director offered up the few lines that belonged to the Gentleman Caller.

Most of the piece was a monologue, though, a chance for me to bring Laura’s lovelorn jitters to life.

I said something. I did something. I looked at each of them, the casting director and the artistic director and someone who had some other job related to the show.

The entire time I stood there, I thought,
I need to focus. I need to be here now. I can’t think about Sam, about the past. I promised myself. I need to focus.
Around and around, my mind chased itself like a kitten playing with its own tail. I tried to use my tangled emotions, to pour them into the reading, to make my confusion about Sam and the rest of my sorry life inform Laura’s dream of her Gentleman Caller, but I wasn’t sure if I was brilliant, or only the most pitiful woman in the world.

“Thank you,” the casting director said when I was through. And then, impossibly, he added, “Can you come back this afternoon for the chorus call?”

“Yes,” I said, surfing to the crest of a sudden wave of adrenaline. I pumped every acting trick I had into the one word, trying to sound like I always made the first cut. While I managed to restrain my enthusiasm as I left the room, I
had
to give a little jump and a yip of surprise after the door closed behind me.

They liked me! At least enough to call me back for a singing audition. Enough to give me a chance to play Laura as I’d never played her before, with even more conviction than I’d had in college. Despite Sam, despite my distraction, despite my uncertainty, they
liked
me.

Four hours later, though, my enthusiasm had been replaced by pure, unadulterated panic.

I’d returned to the audition hall at noon, even though I knew I’d have to wait. I didn’t want to chance getting trapped by a parade, by a street fair, by a roaming band of urban pirates, that would somehow keep me from my afternoon audition slot.

My paranoid promptness nearly cost me my sanity. I waited in the hall outside the audition room, listening as each of the men sang. Every guy was permitted sixteen bars of music—one minute to prove that he was the perfect tenor, the perfect baritone, the ideal Tom Wingfield or Gentleman Caller. More than once, I had to flee to another floor, take a break from the pure musical perfection.

That was bad enough, listening to the men. But then the Amandas started singing—strong altos every one, belting out their snippets as if they wanted the Statue of Liberty to take notice all the way downtown.

I wasn’t trying for Amanda, I told myself. I wasn’t competing against those women.

And then the first Laura went in. Her voice was rich and clear, so strong that the door to the audition room might as well not exist at all. She was phenomenal. There was no way I could go into that room, not after comparing myself to her. I didn’t have a prayer.

I was going to be sick. Fifteen minutes before they called my name—fifteen more minutes of listening to the unbeatable competition. I turned on my heel and fled to the bathroom.

I ran cool water over my wrists and forced myself to take a dozen calming breaths. Toweling off, I stared into the fly-specked mirror. Out of habit, I reached for my necklace, tugged lightly at my pearls. What was I doing wearing pink? It conspired with my blond hair to make me look pale, washed out. I’d been stupid to put myself in front of theatrical decision makers looking anything less than my absolute best. I tugged again, as if I could change the color of my clothes.

As I forced my fingers away from my neck, they glinted in the overhead fluorescent light. Faint golden swirls glimmered against my skin, the vaguest reminder of Teel’s promise. I had wishes—four of them. Surely, the tailor-made role of a musical Laura Wingfield was worth a wish. Worth my entire professional future.

I glanced around to make sure that none of the bathroom stalls was occupied, and then I pressed my thumb and forefinger together, bearing down hard. “Teel!” I enunciated.

Immediately, a thick fog coalesced between the sinks and the stalls. Glints of jewel-toned light reflected off the mirrors, the faucets, the metal doors. I caught my breath at the surprising beauty of those swirling bits, and then I blinked. By the time I opened my eyes, a woman stood in front of me.

A woman. Not the policeman that I expected.

I was staring at a woman whose hair was a bottle version of my own, pulled back into a ridiculously high ponytail. Her eyes were green, but I knew she had to be wearing contact lenses to get such a garish color. She wore a red sweater, so tight that I wondered if she could draw a full breath. Her pleated skirt hovered well above her knees, and I was willing to bet my last Concerned Caterers paycheck that she wore a skanky thong. A giant white E was pasted across her chest, and her hands were obscured behind two red-and-white pom-poms. She looked like a horny teenaged boy’s dream of a cheerleader, by way of the Playboy Mansion.

As I gaped, I could just make out the glint of flames tattooed around her right wrist.

“Excuse me,” I said, half apologizing for staring. “Um, are you a genie?” Okay, stupid question, given how the woman had just appeared in front of me. But really, how do you start a conversation with an unknown magical creature?

“Hel-
lo,
” she said, chomping on gum as she frowned at herself in the mirror. She transferred her right pom-pom to her left hand, using her free fingers to straighten a ragged outline on her lip gloss. “I’m Teel? We met in your kitchen?”

“Teel!” Now I really couldn’t stop staring. “But you—” I started to say, You’re a policeman. You’re a guy. You’re…magic. If Teel was really able to manifest out of thin air—or at least out of a cloud of jewel-colored lights—then why couldn’t he, um,
she
change appearance?

Nevertheless, I took a couple of steps away, shuffling back until the sink’s porcelain edge returned me to conscious thought. I didn’t have a lot of time. Not if I was going to make my audition deadline. If I missed my time slot, my dream of
Menagerie!
would be over forever.

Still, my mind insisted on chasing around one question. “What are you supposed to be? I mean, I understood when you were a policeman, that sort of made sense, with the legal contract and everything. But that?” I gestured toward the sweater, the indecently short skirt. “Who
are
you?”