Page 38 of Mostly Loathing You

She cringes for a moment before painting on a smile. “Annabeth.”

Of course she is.

“Well, I wish you luck.” The lie tastes bitter as it rolls off my tongue. “Are you from Atlanta?”

“Originally, no. I’m from Illinois, but I’ve been here the past few years.”

“Makes sense. What brought you to Atlanta?” My incessant need to fill silence leaves me asking questions to which I don’t totally need the answers.

“Girlfriend—” She pauses. “Well…ex-girlfriend now, I guess.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” I genuinely mean it.

“I’m not, she was terrible. I broke up with her.” She laughs, adjusting the sheet music in her hands.

“Oh,” I laugh. “Well, good riddance then.”

“Amen to that.”

We make small talk and I actually think I may be finding a friend in Luna. It can be hard making industry friendsbecause so often they consider you competition. I can’t say I don’t fall into that trap more often than not.

As we exchange numbers, what appears to be an assistant appears in the doorway.

“Luna Aguilar?”

“That’s me!” Luna perks up before turning to me. “Seriously, good luck.”

Suddenly I feel like a dick for hoping she flubs her audition.

Looking around, I fixate on all the other women in the room who are more than likely also going for the role of Annabeth. While it only takes one “yes” to get your big break, it’s starting to feel like it’s never going to happen for me.

I’ve gone to sixty-eight auditions this year, received nine callbacks, but ultimately haven’t booked anything. I was offered a job swinging for a small regional theater’s production ofMrs. Doubtfire, but it didn’t even pay enough to cover my phone bill during the run and I can’t afford to not work at Baker & Park if that’s the case.

“Hannah Thatcher-Miles?”

“That’s me!” I try to hide the shakiness in my voice, but it’s obvious.

I follow the assistant into a room, where I see three individuals behind a table and find myself alone on stage with nothing but an accompanist. Sheet music in hand, I provide him a copy before shifting to center stage. I feel like I’m staring the judges down as I await that first note from the piano.

The piano part to “I Don’t Know How to Love Him” fromJesus Christ Superstarbegins to play, a brief prelude before I need to sing.

The first verse allows me to settle into my falsetto, but not so much that I’m straining myself to reach into my upperregister. I wipe the sweat from my palms as I attempt to quell my anxiety.

As I drop into my chest voice, I feel much more confident, but I struggle a bit shifting back into my falsetto. Luckily, I am allowed a few seconds of reprieve as I prepare for the moment in the song that has me nervous. It’s not to say that it’s a super high note—as a mezzo-soprano, I actually have a decent range, able to reach a high C despite being most comfortable in the middle of my range. However, it always results in me messing up when rehearsing.

My eyes fix on the judges in front of me as I lift my soft palate in an attempt to round out the note. I have a tendency to go nasal if I’m not careful.

That’s when my greatest fear comes to fruition.

My voice cracks as I hit my note, startling me so much that I squeak in the process. I watch the joy leave the judges’ eyes at the exact moment I realize I just bombed this audition and the chances of me getting any part, let alonethepart, is slim. Despite this, I finish the song in an attempt to remain professional.

The last notes of the piano fade as I stand there, essentially a deer in the headlights as I await a response.

“Thank you, Hannah. We’ll be in touch.”

With that, I know with certainty I bombed it.

I power-walk to the lobby, darting directly past Luna chatting with another person.

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