“No, you don’t.”
“Uh, yeah, I do. You’ve spent the afternoon treating me like I was going to infect you with leprosy. So I know what you are.”
He nods. “Good. Then you’ll know to stay away from me.”
“I’m sure I won’t have much choice about that, because after Erika posts the callback list, we’ll never see each other again. Problem solved.”
“Why do you think that?”
“Because you’re probably going to get a callback, and I’m not, so … yeah.”
He looks down and fiddles with his laces. “Don’t be so sure. You did okay today. More than okay.”
It takes a moment to realize he’s just given me a compliment. “Well, gee, thanks. You were okay, too.”
He looks up with a half smile. “Yeah?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh, please. You know you were amazing.”
“Yeah, I was,” he says and nods.
“So humble.”
“And good looking. It must really suck to not be me.”
I shake my head. “So, if you’ve been trying to get in here for three years, what have you been doing in between auditions?”
He looks down the hallway. “Mostly I worked construction for a company in Hoboken. They build sets for Broadway shows. Figured if I couldn’t be onstage, I’d work behind the scenes.”
“That’s why your hands are rough?” He frowns. “During the mirror exercise,” I say, “when we touched, your hands were calloused.”
He looks at his hands. “I prefer to think of them as rugged. Lugging around tons of set pieces isn’t delicate work. Hell of a workout though.”
“So is that why you have all”—I point at his shoulders and arms—“that?”
He smiles and shakes his head. “Yeah. That’s why I have all this. And enough money to pay for at least two years if I get in here.”
“When you get in,” I clarify.
He stares at me for a second, as if someone having faith in him is incomprehensible. “If you say so, Taylor.”
I give up asking him to use my first name. It’s probably better that we’re on a last-name basis, considering we’re not going to be friends or anything.
Except it kind of feels like we already are.
We sit there in silence for a while. Then the door opens and everyone jumps to their feet as Erika emerges with a piece of paper.
We all go silent, and expectation hums around us.
“For those of you on this list, congratulations. You’ll be back tomorrow for the second round of auditions. Those who aren’t, I’m afraid you’ve been unsuccessful. You may reapply next year. Thank you for your time.”
She sticks the paper to the back of the door before disappearing back inside.
There’s a huge rush of bodies as we all try to see the list. I push forward, my heart pounding, braced for disappointment.
When I finally get to the front, I hold my breath.
There are only three names.
Ethan Holt.
Zoe Stevens.
And … Cassandra Taylor.
The rest of our group is cut.
I’m in shock.
I made it.
Fluff, yes!
Holt reads over my shoulder and sighs in relief. “Thank fuck.”
I turn as he drops his head and exhales. He looks like a death-row prisoner who’s been granted a reprieve.
“Aw, it’s sweet you’re so happy for me,” I say. “Did you really have any doubt?”
“About you? None at all. Congratulations.”
“Congrats to you, too. I guess the medical world is safe from your scintillating bedside manner, for another day at least.”
“I guess so.” When he looks at me, the pit of my stomach tingles and flips.
I feel like I should say something else, but my brain is strange and clouded, so I just stand there.
He doesn’t speak, either. He just stares. His face is fascinating in an annoyingly good-looking kind of way.
“Well,” I say after an embarrassingly long pause, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
He nods. “Yeah. Sure. Later, Taylor.”
He grabs his bag and walks away, but I know we’ll see each other in the morning. I’m looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time.
I’ve never had this sort of reaction to a boy before.
I’m pretty sure it’s not a good thing.
THREE
BACK TO BEFORE
Present Day
New York City
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor
Dear Diary,
The final round of auditions for The Grove was grueling
The interviews were the worst. A panel of Grove lecturers sat at a long table and grilled everyone about life, family, likes and dislikes.
The panel expected me to just be myself. That was tough.
In the end, Erika turned to me and said, “Cassandra, you’re a smart girl. You could have your pick of careers. Why do you want be an actress?”
I knew I should’ve said something about my passion for theater, or the importance of a vibrant, evolving culture in a world of disposable ideals and reality television. But as she stared at me, I wasn’t able to think of anything clever enough to fool her, so I spoke without thinking.
“I want to act because I don’t really know who I am. I find relief in being other people.”
She held my gaze for a moment then nodded before writing something in her notes. Probably crazy, emotionally dysfunctional teen with self-esteem issues. Don’t make any sudden movements.