Page 37 of Someone to Have
“Trying out,” I tell him, butterflies fluttering through my whole body, wings slamming against my ribs.
“You didn’t mention that.” His tone isn’t exactly critical, but there’s something there—surprise laced with the faintest edge of disapproval. Like he can’t quite picture me stepping into his world.
I offer a bright smile. “I wasn’t sure my schedule would allow me to be here…” Without meaning to, I raise my hands and shake them. Jazz hands, Taylor? Seriously? “But here I am.”
“Brilliant.” He pats me on the shoulder. “Good luck out there. It would be great to spend more time together.”
Yes, it would. It’s encouraging that he thinks so, right? Yet the words only make me more flustered than I already feel.
I find my place in the casting call, then take a seat in the darkened auditorium to watch the first couple of auditions.
After a few minutes, I realize my knee is bouncing so much it’s making me a little bit out of breath. This level of anxiety isn’t good. Damn it, I need to focus and control my breathing. I know I have a nice voice, but it’s not super powerful, and with my nerves, I’m liable not to project enough for anyone to even hear me.
I head behind the curtain to pace, hoping the movement will help relax me. By the time my name is called, I’m so nervous I can barely move. Well, I don’t move. I’m rooted in place in the shadows on the side of the stage.
Bryan calls my name again, and I eventually walk out, trying to ignore the fact that people can probably see me shaking.
Then I notice some movement in the auditorium. Oh my God, the people watching from the front are moving back a few rows. Bryan, who’s sitting with Myrna—she’s helped coordinate local theater productions for decades—looks confused. Myrna leans over and murmurs something in his ear.
He grimaces and seems to measure the distance from the third row to the stage, maybe wondering if any projectile nerves will reach him.
“Are you going to start with your monologue or the song?” he asks.
Eric and I have discussed this. My inclination was to start with the monologue, hoping my nerves would lessen before I had to sing. He insisted the song is the way to go and–weirdly–I trust him.
“Even if you screw up the monologue, they’ll give you a part based on your voice,” he’d said. While not exactly a resounding boost from my confidence coach, it made a strange kind of sense.
“Song,” I say, my voice hoarse. I nod at the accompanist. And while it’s not quite as bad as my previous double-P disaster, my mouth opens, but nothing comes out. I can’t make a sound.
A wave of hushed murmuring ripples through the auditorium, and I feel my face flame.
“Everything okay, Taylor?” Bryan calls, sounding almost impatient.
I clear my throat. “Yep. Can we start again?”
I silently repeat the mantras Eric assigned me, but they aren’t working. Ican’tdo this. Why did I ever think I could? I’m going to make a fool of myself again, disappoint Sloane, and even more, myself.
A loud crashing sound cuts through my swirling thoughts. It’s coming from the back of the theater, like someone knocked over a chair or prop table.
“Sorry,” a deep voice booms.
A voice I recognize.
I squint against the lights shining in my eyes because this can’t be right. But there, at the very back of the theater, stands Eric.
He lifts his shoulders and arms, mimicking how he showed me to take a deep breath, and I follow suit. I don’t know why it makes a difference, but it does. He makes a flapping motion in front of his crotch like he’s got a limp dick, and I laugh out loud.
Bryan looks over his shoulder then back at me, his features pinched like he just sucked on a lemon. “Do you need more time?” He’s definitely impatient now.
“I’m ready,” I say, and while I’m still not certain, I feel a little steadier. And as ready as I’ll ever be.
The piano music starts, and I close my eyes and imagine I’m in Eric’s apartment, singing to him and Rhett. My voice is shaky initially, but I find my footing a few lines in. I might not soundas good as I do in the privacy of my shower, but at least there’s no need for front row splash jackets. The piano—and Eric’s belief in me—become my guide.
No matter what happens with the casting or who is chosen for this production, I did it. I took the first step in conquering my fearandmy bucket list challenge.
There’s a smattering of applause as I finish. Okay, maybe not the standing ovation I hoped for, but I didn’t embarrass myself. I shift my weight, and other than a little residual anxiety sweat, I’m delightfully dry. No pants peeing, no puking. The bar for success is admittedly low, but I’ll take the win.
“Thank you,” I murmur and start to walk off stage.
