Page 7 of After Effect

Chapter 3

Lilly Cisneros

“Lillian Maria Ainsworth-Cisneros. Get over here right now.” My mom’s voice penetrated my earbuds, loud enough to wake the dead, yet terrifying enough to keep them hiding in their graves. I jerked the speakers from my ears, and scrambled to the kitchen of our little family restaurant.

My mother stood by the stove, the phone pressed to her ear while stirring a pot of something spicy enough to make me sweat just smelling it. Her short blonde hair was pulled tight behind her head, and a frilled apron was tied over her galaxy-print leggings and her chef’s coat. “There’s a man on the phone for you, sweetie.”

For me? I only handle deliveries, so why would someone be calling the restaurant for me? Ugh, no. If Darian got my number off the internet… No- worse yet, what if it’s Neil? Please don’t be Neil. We’ve been over for a whole week now.

My speculation was cut short as she shoved the receiver to my ear.

“Hi, is this Lillian Ainsworth-Cisneros?” A sing song voice came through the line. Not Darian. Not Neil. If this was someone I dated, I definitely must not have ever listened to him actually talk. Could still be a trap though. Maybe one of their brothers or a friend. Wouldn’t be the first time.

I’ll feel him out first. “This is she.”

“Great, my name is Harris Oswald. I’m in charge of auditions and scheduling at ALIVE Records. We’ve recently reviewed your submission, and we would like to invite you to come in for an in-person audition at your earliest convenience.”

I was frozen. His voice played on without registering in my ears, and the phone nearly slipped from my hand. I stared at my mother, mouth agape, unable to process what I was supposed to do. She just watched me with amused eyes and a catlike grin on her face, as though she knew exactly what this call would be about. God forbid she give me a heads up.

“Ms. Cisneros, are you still there?” That sing song voice ripped me out of my trance and back to the call.

“Yes! Yes- still here. Definitely still here!”

My mother laughed silently as she return to stirring her house-made hot sauce.

“When would you like to come in? We have openings on Wednesday the 5th, or Friday the 7th in the afternoon. Or-“

“All of those. I mean any. I mean- sorry.” Deep breath. I mouthed to my mom ‘can I get Friday off?’ She returned a knowing nod. “Friday afternoon would work best for me, thank you.”

“Perfect, I’ll pencil you in. I’ll follow-up all of this with directions and an address via email. I assume your email address on your resume is still accurate.”

“Yes, that would be perfect.” My tone had finally calmed down, and my breathing was steadying again.

“Great, we look forward to seeing you at the end of the week. Have a nice day.”

He hung up the phone, and my arm fell loosely by my side. The receiver slipped from my fingers and sprung back toward the wall mount on its coiled cord.

“Sooooo…” My mother said with an expectant look on her face.

“I got an audition.” The words sounded so impossible, they barely registered as my own.

“You got an audition.” She repeated, drilling the words in deeper.

“I got an audition.” I said again, hoping the third time would sound more real.

We both stood in silence for an extended second.

“I knew they would love you!” Her flats clicked on the floor with each excited bounce, as she jumped into a massive mom hug. I squeezed her back. I didn’t speak in an attempt to stop my voice form breaking. I can’t believe it. Am I really getting my break?

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No matter how many times I ran that comb through my hair, it always looked the same. Slightly lopsided, with crooked, dark brown curls, styled by hair spray and frustration. I contemplated showing up with a more neutral make-up, but at twenty years old, the last thing I needed was to look any more young or inexperienced. My mom insisted on a nice white button-up (which I promptly half unbuttoned), to compliment my dark complexion, while my dad insisted on blue jeans, for ‘vaquero’ appeal.

It’s not like I sing country music, but old habits die hard, I guess. He was still warming up to the idea that his daughter wanted to be an artist instead of a rancher, like he was, or a chef, like mom. Though I’d been tasked with enough farm-to-table butchering, that I always figured I could fall back on being a serial killer, if the music thing doesn’t work out anyways.

But today it was going to work out. I was sure of it. I hopped a bus downtown with four hours to spare, just in case someone decided to get in a fender bender that stopped the entire 101 freeway today. It dropped me off in the fashion district, and I made my way toward the ALIVE building.

“Buena suerte?” An older Mexican woman asked as I walked by, holding up a bracelet with bright turquoise beads. Despite growing up with a Puerto Rican father, I had only really learned Spanish from the ranch hands, as he refused to teach me. He wanted me to speak English, and he wanted me to blend in as much as possible. I certainly knew that phrase though.

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