He frowns. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Holt, they didn’t even have a drama course at my high school. I had a couple of private acting classes with a guy whose greatest claim to fame was being an extra on The Bold and the Beautiful, and the other day when I walked in on a conversation between Zoe and Phoebe about Stanislavski, honest to God, I said, ‘Oh, wow, I love him. I think I saw him play in the finals of the U.S. Open.’”
He looks at me for a few seconds, his aggravatingly blue eyes unblinking. “Well, hey, that’s an easy mistake to make. The father of modern characterization does sound like a tennis player.”
He keeps his composure for a grand total of three seconds before his face cracks as he doubles over in laughter.
“I hate you,” I say as I walk away.
“Aw, Taylor, come on,” he calls as he comes after me.
“I tell you I’m feeling insecure and inferior, and this is how you react? See, this is why we’re not friends.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
“I know. Apparently my ignorance is hilarious.”
He grabs my arm to stop me, and his laughter fades. “Cassie, you’re not ignorant. Do you honestly think a casting director is going to care if you know who Stanislavski is when you go to an audition?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never auditioned for a casting director, because I have zero experience.”
“But you’ve done plays…”
“I was in the chorus of two musicals for which the only audition requirement was showing up. I’d hardly credit that to my stellar technique.”
“Well, you got into this place, for God’s sake,” he says, gesturing around him. “Out of thousands of people, they accepted you, and that wasn’t because of how many castings you’ve been to or how many lame-ass plays or movies you’ve been in. They accepted you because you’re really fucking talented, okay? Stop being so goddamn insecure and own it.”
I look up at him. “You think … I’m talented?”
He sighs. “Jesus, Taylor, yes. Very talented. You’ve got just as much chance as anyone of getting the lead role. Maybe more, because you have a sort of … intense vulnerability when you act. It’s … well, it’s kind of remarkable.”
For a moment, the way he’s looking at me is almost affectionate. Then he clears his throat, and says, “You’d be freaking nuts not to audition for Juliet. You’d be perfect.”
The phrase “you’d be perfect” resounds in my brain like a sweet, sexy echo.
“Well, maybe I will try out,” I say, practically toeing the pavement. “Even on my suckiest day I’m still better than Zoe.”
He chuckles. “That’s true.”
“So what about you?” I say, walking slowly as he falls into step beside me. “Are you auditioning for Romeo?”
He shakes his head. “No way. I’d have to have my balls removed to play that pussy.”
“Hey, that’s no way to talk about one of the greatest romantic heroes of all time.”
“He’s not a hero, Taylor, he’s a limp, fickle dick who confuses lust with love and kills himself over a chick he’s just met.”
“Harsh!” I say and laugh. “You don’t believe he loved Juliet?”
“Fuck, no. He was dumped by Hot Girl Number One—Rosaline. He pines over her like a kid who’s lost his puppy, or his pussy, as the case may be. Then, through a chain of unlikely events, he meets Hot Girl Number Two—Juliet. He immediately forgets all about Hot Girl Number One and is so pathetically desperate to fuck Hot Girl Number Two that he proposes marriage to her within hours of meeting her. I mean, come on. Her vagina could offer shiatsu massage and whistle the national anthem—it’s still not worth marrying her to get a piece of it.”
I shake my head over the massive mound of cynical walking beside me in human form.
“So you don’t think there’s the slightest possibility he just fell in love at first sight?”
“Love at first sight is a myth invented by romance novel authors and Hollywood. It’s bullshit.”
“Jeez, how did you get to be so jaded?”
“I’m not jaded. Just realistic.”
“Sure you are.”
He stops and turns to me, his face all serious. “Think about it like this. Just imagine you see a hot guy. You have an immediate, powerful reaction to him. Do you love him?”
Not sure I’m entirely comfortable with this line of questioning.
“Well … I … uh—”
“Okay, I’ll turn it around. I see a girl. For some reason, looking at her is like … God, I don’t know. Like finding something precious I never knew I lost. I feel something for her. Something primal. Are you trying to tell me that what I feel is love? Not lust?”
“I don’t know. Is this hypothetical girl hot?”
“Fuck, yes. Hot in a way I never thought hot could be. Just looking at her turns me on. It’s annoying as hell.”
Okay. This conversation has taken a seriously arousing turn. Just what I need today.
“I … well…”
“Come on, Taylor. Am I in love?”
I’m looking at his crotch. “Well … uh, I don’t know. It’s hard”—God, I said hard while looking at his crotch—”to say. I mean … uh … wow.”