Page 4 of The Failed Audition

I am the elephant, trudging around with my worn Adidas sneakers, spandex pants and oversized Ohio State shirt. Add in the frizzy hair from a four-hour flight and a bright red suitcase (almost pink from sun-fading) and I stand out. Badly.

The wheels of my suitcase clink against the cobblestone, drawing attention to myself. This breaks my usual straight-rigid posture. My shoulders begin to curve forward in ways I don’tlike. I take another breath and then slip out my phone and text Camila while I walk.

I’m here. The line is really long. Should I wait in it?I press send. I have no idea whether bartenders have the power to let their “couch-surfer” cut the line.

My phone pings.

I gave ur name to the bouncer. Go up to him and he’ll let u in.– Camila

I continue striding forward then. Eyes zone in on me like lasers finding a target. The hot judgment sears my skin but I try to waft it off. Keeping my focus only on the bouncer—big, burly with tattoos that decorate his bulging muscles.

“Line starts at the back, sweetheart!” a guy yells near the front.

“Shut up, Trent. Maybe she’s lost,” a girl rebuts.

I clear my throat as the bouncer eyes my suitcase. “I’m Thora. Thora James. Camila’s…”Friend?Couch-surfer makes more sense, but I don’t know if he’ll understand.

“ID,” the bouncer says gruffly, a clipboard beneath his armpit.

I fish out my wallet from a pocket of my suitcase and pass him my license, hot sweat glistening my forehead. I wipe it with my forearm and peek at the door behind him, the unknown tossing my stomach.

The bouncer crosses my name off his list, and then pushes the large black door open.

Groans fill the air. “You’ve got to be shitting me,” Trent complains. “I’ve been waiting for over an hour. You better be a fucking dancer or something!”

He has to shout that last bit because I’m already headed inside the hallway. The door closes behind me, plunging meinto darkness. The faint sound of a thumping bass fills the otherwise silent room. I guess there are curtains somewhere for an entrance.

I take a few cautious steps forward and notice the outline of fabric, shielding my view of the club. The music grows as I walk closer, and when my hand brushes against the soft velvet curtain, pulling it aside, I finally see The Red Death in all its glory.

Flashing red lights illuminate the packed bar in the back left. Everything else is in near complete darkness. Except for the glow necklaces. Every person wears one, brightening their faces. Red. Blue. Green.

“Are you single?!”

I jump at the voice on my left. A young woman in a slim, tight-fitted purple dress mans a podium. She wears a green glow necklace, her arms layered with neon bracelets.

“Are you single?!” she screams at me again, trying to be heard over the electronic beats.

I can’t make sense of this question. Is it a weird cover charge? Instead of cash, I have to tell her my relationship status? The longer I take to respond, the more her brows knot in aggravation.

“Yeah…” I say, not loud enough. Her eyes widen likewhat was that?“I’m single!” I scream it. And she passes me a blue glow necklace.

More people start to push through the curtains, easily snatching a necklace from the hostess. So I take mine without question and hightail it to the crowded bar. My heart drills into my ribcage. I hate looking lost, like a tourist—or worse, a goldfish slowly flapping and gasping for air outside of its bowl.

I don’t want to be a water-starved goldfish.

So I stand taller, straighter. No more curved shoulders. And I roll my suitcase like I have important places to be. Like I’man important person altogether. I march straight to the crowded bar. I’ve memorized Camila Ruiz’s features on her Facebook profile: curly brown hair, golden-brown skin, and honey-colored eyes.

My suitcase bumps into a dancing couple. “Sorry,” I tell them. Important people can still apologize.

The girl gives me a royal stink-eye. I wonder if my RBF is flaring up.

I scoot near the bar, unable to reach the stools just yet. I crane my neck and scope out the bartenders. Within a couple minutes, my anxiety pops. I spot her loose braid, her green glow necklace on her mane of pretty curls, like a crown. Her lips are bright yellow with pink eye shadow just as bold.

I haven’t been catfished.

I take this moment to text Shay:She’s a girl. And pretty cool from what I can tell.

In seconds, he replies:

---