A stocky man with short curly hair and a tight blue V-neck sweater opens the door to the audition room, leading one of The Beautifuls out. Her face is shiny and a little damp. She’s clearly been crying. My stomach lurches.
“Beautiful work, Taylor,” he says quietly. “Really excellent.”
“Thanks, Jeff.” Taylor uses the ring finger of her right hand to dab delicately under her eyes, so as not to disturb the copious amount of eyeliner that seems to have miraculously remained intact. “It was my honor to say her words,” she says, and walks away, glowing with pride.
It was her honor? To say those words? Is that how I’m supposed to act? Do people really buy that?
Jeff looks at his clipboard. “Frances Banks? You’re next.”
I take a deep breath and try to float up from the chair gracefully, like Arkadia would. But one of my heels catches on the shag carpet and the shoe pops off my foot.
“Oopsy,” Jeff says, holding the door open for me as I jam my shoe back on.
“Got to quit drinking at lunch,” I sputter.
“Not me, honey,” Jeff says smoothly. “It’s the only way.”
“I don’t really—I didn’t mean …”
But we’re through the door already, and Jeff is taking his seat.
“Jeff, this is Franny Banks,” tight-sweater-wearing Jeff says to open-collar-wearing Jeff. “Joe Melville sent her.”
“Fancy. No, no, not so far back, sweetie, your mark is right there, where the chair is. That’s it.”
“Here? So, should I stand? Or sit? In the chair?”
“Whatever you like, Angel—the camera sees everything.”
I’d never thought of it that way before. It sounds ominous. For a minute, I stare into the camera, which is set up on a tripod facing the chair. Then I realize that if the camera sees everything, it’s seeing me now stare dumbly into it. I’ve had cameras at auditions before, of course, but for commercials you generally look directly into them, a man-versus-machine staring contest. Today, however, I’m going to be reading with a person while the camera regards me from another angle, and I’m supposed to pretend that doesn’t make me feel self-conscious. The camera is my friend, I think. But when I catch the cold black lens from out of the corner of my eye, it makes me sit up straighter and hold my head in a way I hope looks natural, as I try to impress the camera while also trying to pretend it isn’t there.
“Have we met her before, Jeff? Do we know her?”
“You’re thinking of the other Franny.”
“There’s another Franny? Who’s that?”
“Oh, Franny’s her name? I’m thinking of Annie.”
“Which Annie?”
“Annie O’Donnell? Er, McDonnell? I forget.”
“Who?”
“You know. She has red hair. We put her in that Lars Vogel movie?”
“Another Love Story?”
“That’s the one.”
“Annie MacDonald!”
“Yes!”
“Annie and Franny are totally different people, Jeff. You’re the worst with names.”
“So, we don’t know this Franny. Franny—not Annie—we don’t know you.”
They’ve been talking to each other for so long, I’m not sure whether this is a question that demands a response from me or just an observation I’m privy to. Before I can decide, shirt Jeff says, “How old is she?”
“You can’t ask her that, Jeff.”
“Franny, I’m not supposed to know your age, apparently.” He rolls his eyes and winks at sweater Jeff.
“Well, I guess I can’t tell you, then,” I say, attempting a smile, but it feels a little wobbly.
“But why don’t we know her? Franny, why don’t we know you?”
I pause, not sure if I should tell them they don’t know me because this is my first real audition ever, and if I say the wrong thing I’m afraid it could also be my last.
“Well, I guess it’s because I’ve only recently joined the ranks of the knowable,” I manage to spit out.
The Jeffs pause, then break into a small giggling fit.
“The Ranks of the Knowable! Ahahahahaha! That’s the name of my new band!”
“You’re too old to be in a band, sweetheart.”
“I’m not too old to name one, am I?”
The Jeffs giggle some more then sigh and finally pull themselves together.
“Sorry, we’re a little punchy. We’ve been at this for three days straight. We’ve had to reshoot some scenes, which just isn’t done on a soap.”
“Unless someone throws up during a take, we use it. We’d probably use it even with the throwing up. There’s just no time.”
“What happened to the other actress?” I ask, and the Jeffs give each other a look. “She was found to be in possession of a giant amount of cocai …”
“Cocaaaa … Cola. Right, Jeff?”
“Oh. Yes. That’s what I was going to say.”
“She did enjoy her soda pop—didn’t she, Jeff?”
“Sorry, yes. What a fan she was of the carbonated beverage!”
“So. Back to Franny. She’s tall, isn’t she, Jeff?”
“Mm-hmm. Tall, and pretty.”
“Thank you,” I say, beaming.
“Franny, how tall are you?”
“Jeff, you can’t ask her that.”
“But is she too tall for Angela? You know how she can get.”
“And that hair! Franny, what ethnicity are you?”
“You can’t ask her that either, Jeff. Behave.”
“Uchh, please. All these laws.”
“I don’t mind. I’ll tell you. I’m Irish.”
They nod, and smile expectantly. I feel they’re waiting for more.
“My hair won’t tell you anything, though. My hair is very sensitive, and known to be somewhat litigious.”
The Jeffs start giggling again.
“Ahahahahaha! The hair is from someplace different!”
“The hair is Jewish maybe!”
“She’s got loud Italian hair!”
“The hair sues!”
“Ahahahahahahahaha!”
By the time we get to the scene, I’m feeling pretty relaxed. Sweater Jeff reads with me, mouthing some of my lines as I say them. It’s distracting, but I try my best to focus. I get through the giant speech pretty smoothly. I wasn’t perfect, but I think I managed to radiate some of Arkadia’s hurt, some of her pride.
“Well, I like her. What do you think, Jeff?”
“Mmmhmm, me too. Try it again, just for fun, Franny. Go a little deeper, maybe?”
Shit. He wants me to cry. That’s what “go a little deeper” means. He’s probably seeing if I’ll cry on the second take. I have to find a way for it to make sense that she doesn’t.
The second time, the speech comes out softer somehow, and quieter, but I still can’t quite get myself to tear up. It’s okay though, I think, because I do feel something more the second time. I didn’t intend to change the volume, but I felt as if, as Arkadia, I’d been practicing what I wanted to say to Angela Bart on this day for years, and now that I had my chance, I didn’t need to shout to be heard. This version of Arkadia wouldn’t cry, I thought, because her armor was up. It makes sense that she wouldn’t want Angela Bart to see her true feelings. It makes sense to me, anyway, and that’s the most important thing. I made Arkadia my own.
When I finish the speech, the Jeffs look at each other, both smiling, as if they liked what they saw.
“Great, sweetheart.”
“Glad you came in.”
“Your reading was excellent.”
“The hair wasn’t bad, either.”
“Shut up, Jeff.”
“You shut up, Jeff.”
Outside, it feels like it’s going to thunderstorm and the wind has picked up. I have to lean forward to make any progress as I make my way up 66th Street. When I realize part of the leaning feeling is due to the fact that I still have my heels on, I stop on the corner to change my
shoes. Even if I weren’t being whipped by the cold wind, I know my cheeks would still be burning.
“Excellent,” they said. The reading went well, they said so. And they were fun to talk to. And they didn’t say anything about the not-crying.
I wonder if I’ll get the role. I wonder how long it takes them to call once they decide who gets it. I should check the home machine. But it’s probably too soon. There were still a few girls in the waiting area. They probably have to see everyone before they decide. Or do they? Maybe they’re calling the agency already. “We didn’t need to see anyone else after we saw her read,” they’re saying to Richard or Joe right now. “She’s perfect for the part.”
Maybe I should call Joe, or Richard at least. No. I should wait. Just sit back and be cool.
But, then again, maybe I should call Richard just to tell him it went well, so when he talks to them he has more information. Maybe he’s already left me a message and wants me to call him back. Maybe he’s trying to reach me right at this very moment.
I finally stop at a pay phone to check the home machine.
You have three messages.
I can hardly breathe as I punch in my code and wait for the tape to unwind.
BEEEP
Hi, Franny, it’s Gina from Brill. Just wondering—can you juggle? Or ice-skate? They need an ice-skating juggler for a beer ad. Also, do you have a problem with beer? Let us know!
BEEEP
Frances, it’s me, your father. I figured maybe they got rid of all of the telephones in Manhattan, but it seems they still exist. Please call me, your father, back.
BEEEP
Hi, Franny, it’s Clark. Sorry we keep missing each other. I’ll try you back later.
BEEEP
I don’t want to call my dad and talk about Katie’s wedding, or call Clark, or anyone else, until I see if there’s good news to tell. I strike a deal with myself that I will not make any other calls until I buy the paper, go to a diner, get a coffee, and complete the entire New York Times crossword puzzle. Only then will I allow myself to call Richard or check the home machine again.
On the way to the diner, I stop at a newsstand and buy the paper and some Marlboro Lights. I haven’t bought a pack in three days, and I recently vowed again that I wouldn’t smoke anymore, but I’m too worked up right now to quit smoking. I’ll quit again next week.
I’m almost done with my coffee and grilled cheese sandwich when I realize what the problem is. It’s Friday. I should have thought about what day it was before I made the deal with myself where I have to finish the New York Times crossword before I can make a call. From my seat in the booth, I can see the pay phone through the window of the diner—it’s free, ready and waiting for me to make the call. I can always get through the Wednesday puzzle at least, and sometimes Thursday. But not always on Friday, and today’s is an especially hard one. I’m not even close, not even halfway through it. Maybe this doesn’t count since I made the deal before I realized what day it was. But I don’t want to ruin my chances by breaking the deal. I’m itching to try the machine again. My leg shakes nervously underneath the table, and my hand grips the idle pencil too tightly.
Right after paying the check, I hurry outside to call Richard. I’m waiting on hold in the phone booth, shivering with nerves and the cold air, unfinished crossword puzzle still in my hand. I make a new deal with myself. I’ll never break a deal again, I swear, if just this once, breaking a deal didn’t jinx anything. Let it be good news just this once, and then never again—
“Franny! Did you get my message?”
“No. I haven’t checked them yet.”
“Well—I just left it—listen, they loved you at Pinetree Lodge.”
It worked! Even though I didn’t finish the puzzle. Thank you, thank you.
“They did?” I’m attempting to sound casual, but my voice is tight.
“Yes! They said you made sense out of a crappy scene—their words—and they thought you seemed smart and full of personality.”
“They did?”
“They did! Great job for a first read!”
“Thanks!”
“So, I can’t wait to keep getting you out there!”
I’m confused. It almost sounds like the conversation is over.
“Wait. That’s it?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,” I say, and a little wobble creeps into my voice. I try to control it by clearing my throat. “I mean, I didn’t get the job?”
“The job?” Richard says, confused. “Oh, no, this was just a first read for the casting people. There’s a bunch of steps that have to happen after that.”
“Oh,” I say, relieved there’s more to come. “So, what’s the next step?”
“Well, they loved you, like I said. I mean, you know that no matter how well you did today, Jeff and Jeff don’t have the power to just give you the job anyway.”
“They don’t?”
“No, no. Sorry, I didn’t realize Joe never—well, anyway, let me walk you through it. They’re the casting guys, the first people you have to get past, and sometimes the hardest. They bring people in to read and then pass the best choices, the best people, on to the producers. That doesn’t just mean the best actors—it’s the people who best fit the part. Then you have to read for the producers, or sometimes you have to read for the director, or with another actor—you know, to see if there’s chemistry … I’ve had people have to go back for callbacks three or four times just for a small part, a few lines in something, and not even in something that good. It’s so competitive out there, they can afford to be choosy and get exactly the right person. It’s rarely a short process.”
I didn’t know any of this. It makes sense now that he says it, but it didn’t occur to me that there would be more to face after today, even if today had gone better.
“It’s just, that first time, when I got the job, it seemed like it was going to be so easy.”
“Yeah, I know. That was pretty unusual, though.”
“So I didn’t even make it to the next cut?”
“Not this time. It’s not going any further. This time.”
“Okay,” I say, making an involuntary sound somewhere between a cough and a hiccup.
“Franny, you did really well. This is positive feedback. You did great for a first reading. You said yourself this part wasn’t really your thing, right? You did a great reading for a part you’re not totally right for, and now they’ve met you and they like you and they’ll bring you in next time for something you are right for.”
I feel so stupid. Of course he’s right. I could hardly see myself in the part—how could anyone else? It would make no sense if I had gotten it. But still, there was a part of me that thought I would somehow. I have to introduce the part of me that feels like a winner to the part of me convinced I’m a loser, and see if they can’t agree to exist somewhere closer to the middle.
“Franny. This is a win. Just getting you in a room like that is something we’ve been working on for weeks, and now it’s happened, and you made a great impression. If it makes you feel any better, and you did not hear this from me, they’re already close to making a deal with somebody. One of our clients, actually. They had a last-minute session today just in case it doesn’t go through. But they basically have their choice already. This was, like, a backup session.”
It makes me feel even worse to know this whole thing was never a real possibility.
“Oh. Great. Thanks. That does make me feel better.”
“Look at it this way, Franny. You lost a job you never had. It’s not like you got fired, right?”
As I stand there clutching the phone, it’s as if I can hear some kind of siren or alarm, but far off in the distance. It’s a feeling I’m not sure I’ve had before, one in which I know something bad is about to happen but I don’t know what it is yet. The alarm is getting louder, and I’m suddenly nervous, not the audition kind of excited/nervous, but nervous like I’ve done something
wrong, something I regret. What is it? Something Richard said: “lost a job you never had … not like you got fired.”
It hits me all at once, the alarm, right next to my ear now, ringing full blast: the realization of what I’ve done, and the certainty of what the outcome will be.
It’s Friday, well past four thirty—past when my coveted shift at the club starts.
It’s Friday past four thirty, and I’m 100 percent certain I’ve been fired.
16
Herb didn’t even tell me himself that I didn’t have my job at the club anymore. He sent Ricky to the phone to give me the news.
“We’re slammed here. Prom group. It’s better that you hear it from me anyway, Franny. Neither of the understudies answered their pagers, and Herb is pissed.”
“But maybe if I tried to explain it to him myself—”
“He said giving you one more chance was one chance too many. He said your head’s just not in the game. You know, all his regular cop-show shit. He said you can pick up your last check anytime after Wednesday. Sorry, Franny. You’ll still come to my show though, right?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Then the following Tuesday in class, Penelope Schlotzsky showed up with a new haircut and lighter blond highlights. She ran her fingers through her new long layers with indifference: “Oh, this? They did it. For work. I had to do it for this job.” “Job” might as well be “jail” for how unglamorous she made it sound.
“What’d she get?” I asked Casey. “What job?”
“She’s like, the new lead on Pinetree Lodge,” Casey said with a shrug.
“Oh, really?” I said, trying not to sound too surprised. “I read for that.”