Page 54 of The First Time
Kit: Pick one and tell me about it.
He's changing the subject. I have no idea what that means, but I want to talk to him. I'll go with it.
I get so caught up in talking about nothing with Kit that I barely notice the director calling my name.
"Piper Strong," he repeats himself.
I bounce to my feet. "That's me. Hi."
He shoots me ayou're clearly too young for thislook. I step forward and shake his hand anyway. After the usual introductions, he leads me to the main room and points me to the stage.
"What are you reading, sweetheart?" He takes a seat next to an older woman with glasses and a sharp haircut.
"It's fromChicago." I climb on stage, set my back by the sidelines and get in place. The lights are bright. This feels familiar but in an old kind of way.
The guy nods. "When you're ready."
I channel my semester and a half worth of drama classes. And my high school drama classes. And all the monologue practice I've been doing in my free time.
I turn to prepare then I turn back to the audience, in character. For the first line, I'm nervous. Then I slip into character and I feel everything. That's what I love about acting— it's instinct. You learn your lines and you rehearse but acting isn't a dance routine. It isn't choreographed. It's more like letting music flow you. You inhabit the character. You exist in the scene.
When I'm finished, I nod thank you. The director is giving me feedback. I only absorb enough to know I'm done. I nod another thank you, grab my purse, and make my way back to my car.
There's a text waiting for me from Kit.
Kit: How was it?
Amazing.
And the only thing I want more than that is to tell him all about it.
Maybe I can do this.
Maybe I can go after acting.
And maybe I can go after Kit too.
* * *
Studyingfor midterms consumes my life. I barely notice my rejection email. I'm too busy to care I didn't get the part. I'm a mess of notebooks and flashcards all weekend. Then Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday.
Thursday afternoon, I stroll out of my last test exhausted but triumphant.
I'm done with tests for another eleven days. Or maybe twelve. Fuck math. It's spring break.
I wait outside the humanities building for Rory. We're in the same lit class. We took it so we could hang out, but the professor is too strict for us to manage any actual conversations.
She stretches her arms over her head as she steps out of the building. She nods hello to me and pulls her dark hair into a ponytail. Rory is pretty in a natural way. She dresses casually and shuns makeup. Guys have always flocked to her. She batted them away until Carter.
It makes no sense. He's a dull stoner. Cute, funny, smart guys asked her out all the time. I'd get it if she wanted to satisfy some bad boy craving—God, do I understand a desire for a guy with tattoos and interesting piercings—but Carter isn't really bad. Just stoned.
"How'd you do?" she asks.
Ugh. The only midterm that went well was drama. I killed it with my scene from Othello—my scene partner and I did a gender swapped version, where I played Iago and she played Othello and I got to play evil and manipulative.
I still haven't figured out how I can possibly study actingandmake sure I have enough practical skills to pay my bills on my own, but I'm starting to believe it's possible.
"Pipes?" she asks.
