Page 21 of The Failed Audition

“And it doesn’t help that you’re not Russian.” He checks the clock on the wall and heads to the exit.

I frown, his words ringing in my ears. “What does that mean exactly?”

He glances back. “It’s aggravating when you can’t communicate with someone. He tried to cut your audition short because of it.” With this, he curves around the corner, disappearing out of sight. I hear the heavy door open and then click closed.

I stand up, more uneasy but a little more prepared than before. I pocket the false hope like a gem, refusing to believe it’s fake for now. I need it. He gave it to mebecauseI needed it. I won’t let it go that easily.

ACT FIVE

Imade the first cut.

I send the group text to my parents and my brother and then another text to Shay. I walk down the long carpeted corridor of the casino floor in sweat pants (over my leotard), still in a daze about the verdict. An hour ago, Helen called my audition number along with Elena, Kaitlin, and another girl’s. I almost couldn’t believe it.

Nikolai even made a point to nod at me when she announced that I made it through to day two of auditions. Maybe it was a pity nod, but it fuels me for the final round tomorrow.

At first, I planned to decompress in Camila’s apartment, maybe finishBite in the Dark, a vampire romance that I’m three-fourths through. But I think couch-surfer protocol forbids me from loitering. I sleep and go. And sleep again.

So I decided to take advantage of Vegas and soak up the atmosphere while I’m here. If I don’t land the role, then I may never have the opportunity to return to this city again.

The slot machines ping and glow—a group of thirty-somethings clustered at a roulette table. They simultaneously cheer, raising their beers and cocktails. Everyone here seems to be on a high, skiing up it or sliding down.

The energy is new, and I feel a smile pull at my cheeks. Life is slow in Ohio. Not a bad slow. Just different. Vegas begins to take hold of my senses, drawing me deeper into the casino’s sins.

Evening hasn’t set in yet, so the crowds aren’t as thick as they could be. I mosey around the tables and slots, watching people gamble from afar. I understand the enticement of throwing dice, playing cards, and pressing a button.

It’s the dream, right?

To be granted money without any real work or effort. It doesn’t matter who you are, what you look like, where you come from—we all have the same odds.

Vegas may be a genie, willing to grant wishes, but it’s also a devil in disguise, here to slay our dreams just as quickly.

While I observe a really confusing game—craps, I think—my cell pings.

Duh, you made the first cut. Booking my plane ticket already.– Tanner.

I smile and try not to think about my realistic parents, who’ve probably made plans to pick me up from the airport.

Before I pocket my phone, it pings again.

Natalie and Jordan miss you. They keep asking when you’ll be back.– Shay

He’s lying. For one, Natalie and Jordan didn’t even notice when I had bronchitis our freshman year and missed three practices. If we didn’t share a single commonality—the girl’s gymnastics team—I doubt we’d even be Facebook friends. I text quickly:I’ve been gone for a day and a half.

This is reason enough that no one probably misses me. I wouldn’t even miss myself for that long.

I think I’d need a solid month. Then I’d start missing myself. Maybe.

He replies back with a devil emoji. I send him an angel one.

Right as I return to the craps game, I spot someone familiar dealing cards at a blackjack table. My feet lead me there before my head does.

“Oh no,” John says as I approach. “This table is reserved for non-AE artists.”

“I’m not an artist yet,” I tell him, resting my hand on an open stool. “I’m just a gymnast.” If I’m really unwanted, I can go wander aimlessly somewhere else. Maybe I’ll find a good reading bench.

John looks surly, so I begin to back away.

“Wait, wait,” he says slowly and motions for me to return. “It’s been a quiet afternoon, and I’m predicting an onslaught of loud, obnoxious fraternity guys. It always happens. It’s an easy day and then fucking tobacco-chewing, sunglass-wearing douche bags roll in, pretending they’re professional poker players, leaving two-dollar tips and bottles of brown spit.” He shuffles his cards. “But if you sit here, you’ll most likely detract them from my table. You’ll be my asshole repellent.”

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