Cal paused, taking a moment to look around the room.
“This is a brand-new show,” he said. “We have the unbelievable gift of bringing something to life for the first time. It’s an honor to be sharing Harriet’s incredible music and lyrics with you.”
It was hard not to be captivated by how earnest he sounded.
I very much wanted to believe him.
“I believe in the power of starting anew,” he said. “Every show, every role, every performance, is a chance to start fresh. Every day is a new opportunity for success. I don’t plan on judging anyone for what you did yesterday, or the day before, or the year before.”
The room seemed to be holding its breath.
“And I hope you will extend me the same courtesy,” Cal said.
Well. If I wasn’t so annoyed at him for putting an unwelcome spotlight on me on our very first day, I might have grudgingly admitted that his speech had been pretty damned masterful.
In a few sentences Cal had managed to address both of us elephants in the room while preemptively chiding anyone who had been thinking about asking about our previous lives.
I applauded politely along with the rest of the crew. But I could still feel dozens of eyeballs trying not to look directly at me. Whether or not Cal’s gambit would prove successful long term was to be determined, but at least I wasn’t going to get swarmed during our lunch break and asked what really happened between me and Cal and Ryan.
Not today at least.
“All right.” Cal clapped his hands together. “Let’s introduce ourselves and get started.”
I took a deep breath.
And. Here. We. Go.
CHAPTER 7
I made it through my first day without throwing up or passing out. We read—and sang—through the show, and while I was certain I didn’t wow anyone, I didn’t fuck anything up too horribly either. There was no doubt in my mind that the majority of those present, myself included, considered my casting as nothing more than a gimmick. A way to get attention.
It wasn’t the worst place to start from. Expectations were extremely low, so I could only improve from there.
Or I’d just embarrass myself in front of them, and the Broadway community.
At least I knew from experience that embarrassment wasn’t fatal.
Not yet.
“Excellent work, everyone,” Cal said.
He’d mostly sat and listened—too early in the process to actually start directing us—and I had to fight the impulse to go over to him and ask for a detailed breakdown of how I’d done.
I both wanted to know and knew that it was better that I didn’t. Because this was just the beginning, and I knew that getting input on something I already knew wasn’t good enough was a great way to build the kind of crippling self-doubt that could linger.
That could tank a performance.
I needed to do everything in my power to keep those feelings at bay. It was already a struggle. Last night, I’d stared at myself in the mirror for a good hour, looking for Katee Rose. Because I knew that’s what everyone else would be doing.
Katee Rose had been beautiful and perfect and manufactured. Until she wasn’t. Then she’d been sad, sloppy, and embarrassing.
The woman in the mirror last night had wrinkles and sun damage, and of fucking course, a zit on her chin.
Kathleen Rosenberg was imperfect. She was fine. She was alive.
Usually that was enough to keep the demons at bay. The voices that whispered that I wasn’t what I’d been and wasn’t that just so tragic? Wasn’t it sad that I’d gained weight and had bad skin and frizzy hair? Wasn’t it just so completely embarrassing that I wasn’t perfect anymore?
Therapy had helped me see myself as more than the alter ego that had been thrust on me. It had allowed me to be more than Katee Rose. Allowed me to stop dieting, stop obsessively working out, stop worrying constantly about my body and my face and how it looked and how I looked.
But now? Anyone with a brain knew that if this show went to Broadway, it would help to have Katee to sell tickets.
And that knowledge was like catnip to all my insecurities. I’d had a salad for lunch today. A fucking salad, when what I really wanted was a chicken parmesan sandwich covered in ooey-gooey melted cheese. And fries.
Instead of listening to my actual needs, I thought of my waistline and my skin. And went hungry.
Stupid, stupid girl.
I was going to grab a slice of grandma pizza on my way back to the apartment and eat it without mopping up the grease. Take that, zit.
I packed up my things, trying to avoid my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling mirrors that took up one wall. Mirrors were what had gotten me in trouble in the first place. Visions of the past.
Still, I couldn’t completely avoid myself. Usually it was when I stopped looking that I caught glimpses of Katee. We had the same eyes, after all.
“Good work today,” Cal said as he passed me.
I should have just said thank you. Instead…
“You might have given me a warning,” I said.
Cal stopped. Turned.
“A warning?”
Don’t say anything, I ordered myself. Walk away. Go home.
Instead, I lowered my voice to a poor approximation of his.
“She too once graced the pop star stage as the legendary Katee Rose,” I intoned. “You could have asked if I wanted you to do that. Or given me a heads-up.”
Cal raised an eyebrow. “Why? Would you have prepared a splashy intro number?”
“Yes,” I said. “With fireworks and cancan dancers. Or maybe I would have preferred to remain somewhat anonymous.”
“You really thought people wouldn’t figure it out immediately?” he asked.
That wasn’t the point.
I scowled at him. He sighed.
“Just thought it would clear the air,” he said. “Can’t say I didn’t try.”
“I don’t trust you,” I said.
Well. It was nice to know that my self-destruct button was still intact, and I was just as itchy as ever to press it.
Why am I like this?
He narrowed his eyes at me.
“Is this your version of an olive branch?” he asked. “It might need some work.”
“It’s my version of clearing the air,” I said. “Just get it all out there before it poisons everything.”
He nodded. “Fair enough,” he said. “I don’t trust you either.”