Page 5 of The Wild Card
In reality, the audition is being held in a trailer, not even a real building, which does not bode well. Neither does the fact that it’s on the same lot as this little town’s festival. Which means the smell of funnel cakes lingers in the air and my reading was punctuated by an air horn going off every thirty seconds or so, making me jump every time.
Suffice it to say, I didnotnail the audition.
Manifesting, I decide, is for the birds. Theflightlesskind of birds. Ostriches or emus or the dodo. It’s about as effective as wishing on birthday candles, which never did me much good, either.
I’m still waiting on a pony and also for a lifetime supply of Hot Pockets—my favorite non-food food—to show up at my house.
Now, instead of celebrating a successful audition, I’m perched on the edge of a metal folding chair, palms sweating despite the blasting AC, while two strangers speaking in low voices at a table across from me seal my fate.
Dramatic much, Molly?
But hey—if anyone has the green light to be dramatic, it’s me: a fairly recent college grad and social media influencer desperate for this acting job I heard about from my sister-in-law, Harper. She knows it’s not my top career choice, but she also is the only one who knows I’d like to quit influencing and move to Texas. Living with my parents since I graduated in December has not been good for me—though I haven’t talked to anyone at all aboutthat.
In any case, this job is my only hope if I don’t want to get back on a plane in a few days.
So, I amallowedto be dramatic given the circumstances. In fact, drama should beencouraged.
If I can’t be dramatic now, when can I?
“Your application says you live in Kansas City,” Kelvin says, disapproval clear in his tone. I’m not sure if it’s for the city itself or simply the fact that it’s nothere.
You know what I disapprove of? His bowl cut.
“I’m willing to relocate.”
Kelvin nods and whispers something to the woman beside him. Her name is Vespa. Yes, like the scooter.
If Kelvin looks like he was plucked straight from the seventies and dropped into this trailer, Vespa appears to have come from some bleak, high-tech future. She has a helmet-like silver bob, is wearing a black trench coat with the kind of asymmetrical collar myProject Runwaybestie Tim Gunn might callfashion forward, and sports matte purple lipstick. I think she also may have bleached her eyebrows because they’re almost invisible.
You do you, lady. So long as one of the things youdois hire me.
I swear I can sense the moment the odds start swaying fully out of my favor. Something about their body language and the way Vespa purses her purple lips tells me I’m about to get bad news.
They are unimpressed with my answer. Is this really the dealbreaker, not my audition? Because I can fixlocation.
A surge of hope courses through me, and I lean forward. “Actually, that’s not quite accurate. I was planning to relocate.Amplanning. Have planned, am planning, and am currently in the process of relocating. I have family here,” I add.
Familynearby, but whatever. Tiny exaggeration. White lie-ish. It’s fine. Harper and Chase live in Austin, which is less than an hour away. We drove in last night to meet the rest of the Grahams, Harper’s family, at the Sheet Cake Festival and for this interview, unbeknownst to my brother. I figured I’d tell him if—when—I got the job.
Plus, the Grahamsown the townand are family adjacent since my brother married Harper. Which makes my lie about family less of a lie.
Youneedthis, Molly. Just tell them what they need to hear.
“My brother and his wife live close by. And I’m going to look at apartments this afternoon.”
Stillno reaction.
“With my boyfriend.” Their tiny flicker of interest in this new embellishment—It’s alie, Molly—emboldens me. “I moved to be near him, actually. That’s why I don’t have an updated address yet and used my old Kansas one on the resume.”
Okay, I just took a flying leap past exaggerations and white lies and dove straight into total fabrication.
Lying in a job interview is just a thing people do, right? It’s like padding the resume or saying what the interviewer wants to hear.
Maybe so, but I feel immediately and horribly guilty. Also, I may be good at acting, but I’m not good atlying.
Does this make sense? Not even a little bit.
Acting essentiallyislying—just of the vocational variety. When it comes to lying about myself, I am the worst. Chase always told me I should never play poker.
