CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
Max cuts the engine when we get to the audition. It’s in a big old warehouse not far from downtown. The parking lot is surrounded with green plastic fencing that reminds me of the stuff strawberry baskets are made from. FOR RENT/FOR SALE and PARK HERE FOR $249 A MONTH signs are posted on the side of the building. It looks like they’re trying to make a buck off of literally anything. Like, don’t stand in front of this building or they might hawk you right along with a parking space. One girl, probably a wannabe actress, hops out of an Uber and heads toward the building. She’s the only thing keeping it from looking totally abandoned.
“So how should we do this?” I ask Max. Up until we got here I hadn’t thought through the details. “But more important: can you do it?” I would like nothing more than to take a nap in the parking lot of this nearly abandoned warehouse right now.
“No way in hell. This is the dumbest idea we’ve had yet.” Max looks like he means it. I can tell there’s no way he’s getting out of this car.
“You are such a shitty employee.” I probably shouldn’t feel bad about not being able to pay him. He barely does anything.
While I look at my reflection in the rearview mirror to slap on another coat of Pirate by Chanel and smooth flyaway hairs, Max takes a moment to grandstand.
“I’m offended as a black man that you don’t see the problem with this.”
“Umm, I mean…I just want to take a nap.”
“Mia, do you seriously think I can walk into a casting call and try to recruit some girls to go on a date? It’s pretty sketchy just coming from a white girl. Coming from a big black guy—at the very least I’m getting kicked out. I wouldn’t put it past someone to call the cops. They’d probably think I’m some kind of pimp.”
“Whatever. I’m already doing it. You can stop your whining now.”
He scoffs. “I’m just telling you how it is.”
I’ve stopped listening to Max. He’s right about the awkwardness of the whole thing. No matter which one of us walks in there, it’s going to be suspicious. “You’re right. It’s gonna seem like I have an angle.”
“You do have an angle.”
“I think I’m going to pretend that I have a crisis and—”
He cuts me off. “Good luck and text me if the cops come.” Why do I feel like these should be our parting words every time?
As I approach the warehouse, I see a line of beautiful women, all between the ages of twenty and thirty, standing outside. It shouldn’t be hard to find one of them who would like to go on a date with a millionaire. All I have to do is not come off as a total freak.
I sneak into the line. I just want to be in the highest density of potential dates. “No cuts,” one chick says.
“Oh, sorry.”
She glares and I head to the back of the line. A redheaded girl next to me looks like she could go on a date with Jules, i.e., she’s the right age and probably looks good in her underwear. All around me, people are doing vocal exercises and pantomiming actions while reading lines from a script. Redhead is not.
“What’s this audition for?” I ask her.
“Umm…I can never keep track.” Glancing at a sheet, she says, “It’s like a Grey’s Anatomy kind of show. Some hospital soap opera.”
“And what are we all auditioning for?”
“Did you just walk in off the street?” she asks.
“I just do so many of these,” I say.
“I feel ya. This one is for Pretty Girl Number 2.”
“Can I see the lines?” Way to shoot for the stars, ladies! Pretty Girl Number 2! Shouldn’t we be going for Number 1 at least? Or maybe a role with a name?
Redhead looks at me like I’m crazy. “The lines aren’t that important.” She hands me a sheet. Pretty Girl Number 2 has to scream and run. She also has to yell, “Oh my God!! Help!”
I don’t know what these girls are practicing for. I have a much bigger challenge ahead. I shudder as if to shake off the reality that I’m living, shut my eyes, and visualize the scene I’m trying to create. When I open my eyes, I’m fully in character.
I start scrolling on my phone like everyone else in line.
After an appropriate amount of time, I gasp. “FUCK,” I say, like someone has just taken a melon baller and scooped a chunk of my heart out with it. I stomp my foot. Then, like I’m trying to pull myself together, I stand up straight, shoulders back, and shut my eyes. I’m wrapping up my emotions tightly.
A few girls look in my direction before they start talking again. I completely ignore them.
I’m not done yet, though. I hang my head and start crying a little, gently weeping. Redhead can’t ignore me anymore. “What is it?” she says.
“It’s just…It’s so silly. I’m embarrassed.”
“I’m sure it’s not silly. What is it?”
“I was supposed to have a date tomorrow night with Jules Spencer.” I look up to see if she knows him. “You know, the famous underwear guy?”
From the look on her face, I can tell she knows him.
“I can’t go. My boss just texted and said I have to work. I need that job.”
“Ohmygod. That’s like hashtag the worst.”
That’s like hashtag the dumbest sentence I’ve ever heard, but I nod. I shut my eyes like I’m trying to hold back tears. I let one leak out. It’s easy. All I have to do is think about my life. I wonder how many of these other bitches can cry on demand. “A blind date with a millionaire—I mean, how often does that kind of opportunity come along?”
Redhead rests her hand on my forearm and looks appropriately upset for me. “I’m so sorry. Sometimes it just seems that no matter how hard you try, you can’t get ahead in life.”
“I don’t know if this is weird, but do you want to go? I mean, it’s a blind date. It should go to someone.”
Redhead’s hand flies to her heart. “For real?”
I shut my eyes like I’m on my deathbed and willing her my only child. “Someone should go. Better you than one of these other bitches.”
I tell her the time that she should meet Jules tomorrow and start to fill her in the details. I can’t lie. I’m starting to enjoy myself.
“Where is this place?” she asks. “What should I wear?”
A guy in glasses and schlubby clothes wanders over slowly, like he has all the time in the world, and interrupts Redhead’s questions. He starts clapping for me. “Congratulations, miss. Why don’t you come me with me?”