Big Apple Dreams (3 page)

“So, Mara,” he said, pulling a few napkins out of the holder. “How do you like it here?”

“It’s fantastic,” I laughed, picking my soda up. “I never want to go anywhere else.”

“That’s a pretty strong
reaction,” he laughed after swallowing his bite of pizza.

“I belong here,” I said with conviction. “I only regret not making it here sooner.”

“Wow,” he said with a smile. “You really feel that good about it after only what, a week?”

“Have you ever known you belong somewhere, even if you’ve never set foot
there?”

“No,” he laughed, picking his slice up
.

“Well, that’s how I feel about here,” I said, smiling. “I spent
what feels like my whole life knowing that someday I would be here, and look at me now.”

“So
, you’re an actress,” he laughed.

“Yes.”

“I thought so.”

He took a sip of his drink and wiped his mouth with the napkin.

“What do you do?” I asked, raising my slice to my mouth.

“I’m a real estate broker,” he said.

“What does that mean,” I laughed.

“It means,” he said, leaning forward. “All the rich snooty people contact me to show their houses to other snobs
, or to find them a new place to live. I put up with all their crap and get them more money than their place is worth, and then I get a really nice paycheck.”

“Sounds fun,” I said sarcastically.

“It actually isn’t that bad,” he said with a laugh. “I get to spend time in some really nice places and work with some really great brokers. It’s stressful sometimes, but I can handle it.”

“And you moonlight at Broadway shows on the side,” I laughed
.

“Yes. I do enjoy a good show here and there,” he laughed back.

We finished up our food and left the restaurant, heading back to the steps.

“That was fun,” Chris said.

“Yeah, we should do it again,” I said, surprised by my own boldness.

“Here, put your number in,” he said, handing me his phone.

I held mine out for him and did as he asked as he did the same.

“Al
l right, Mara,” he said with a smile. “Till next time.”

“Right,” I said, smiling.
 

Chapter Three

“Are you a member of the union?”

“No,” I said nervously, trying to act like this was as normal as breathing.

“Okay, print your name at the bottom of this list then. If there’s time, they’ll see you after everyone else. Keep in mind that everyone on this list has to wait
, as well. You’ll all be seen in the order you signed up. If I call your name and you aren’t here to answer, you will be skipped. If you still want to audition, your name will be added to the bottom of the list and you’ll have to wait your turn, again. You could possibly not be seen, if they decide they don’t want to see every number today.”

“Okay, thank you,” I said with a smile, my stomach twisting in knots.

My heart fell a little as I signed under at least one hundred other girls on the audition sheet. It would be a miracle if I got to set foot in the room, let alone sing for anyone.

I thanked the woman behind the table again as I handed the clipboard back to her. A disappointed sigh escaping softly, I turned and walked down the hall, looking for any open seat. There were women everywhere, some of them chatting and others in their own bubble.

I couldn’t believe I’d underestimated the amount of people who would show up. I knew it was a big, popular Broadway show, but the actual auditions didn’t even start for another four hours! When I’d learned of them a few days ago, I planned on getting up early, going to the gym, and showing up about five hours before the stated start time. Everything had gone exactly as I wanted, until I arrived at the studio and practically fell over in shock.

There was a line of actresses waiting to get in and strut their stuff that wrapped around the building. Apparently, I wasn’t the only one who’d hoped to beat everyone out. I couldn’t even fathom what time the front of the group had arrived.

Slowly but surely, we inched forward, be
ing logged in one at a time. My heart pounded in my chest as I clutched my songbook tightly, fear and elation running through me.

This is it
, I coached myself.
This is the day we have been training for! This morning, we will walk into that room and knock somebody’s socks off! Our dreams start here. Be ready for anything—even denial.

Finally, I spotted a seat crammed between the door to the bathroom and two ladies talking animatedly. Sitting down quickly, I crossed my legs and picked a piece of lint off my slacks.

“It was so rewarding,” the lady next to me said, tossing her long blonde hair over her shoulder and almost slapping me in the face.

“I’m sure,” the other said with a slight sneer. “I did something similar last year that won me a nomination.” 

“For a Tony?” the first woman asked doubtfully.

“No. It was out of state.”

Head games
, I thought.

I knew it was common practice among actors to try and scare other people out of auditioning. It made sense
to me. If I could get one less person to try out, I was that much more likely to get the part. It seemed so cruel, like cheating, that I never did it, though. I always liked to think that everything would be fair. My motto when it came to auditions was firm—I will do my best and if my best is the best, then I will get the part. Simple as that.

As I listened to the women try to outdo each other, my stomach twisted uncomfortably
. If I heard much more, I might not be able to stay. How could I compete with people who’d already been working here for years?

I set my folder on my lap and slid my purse of
f my shoulder. Within seconds, I had my headphones in hand and connected them to my phone. Soon, I had entered my own bubble, the underhanded bickering next to me drowned out by the voices of my idols.

I concentrated on relaxing, breathing deep and evenly as I closed my eyes.

I’m good
, I recited.
It won’t matter if someone is singing the same song. Life will still go on if I don’t get the part. Broadway is still an attainable dream if they say no.

I thought over the words and music I prepared, singing in my head. Goals and dreams p
layed through my mind, the sounds flowing through my ears, helping the time to pass faster. After what felt like thirty minutes, the process began.

Members of Actor’s Equity Association, the union for stage actors, had top priority. They were seen first, one of the perks of their membership. After them were the performers actively working towards membership through a points system. When they got cast in an Equity show, they earned a certain amount of points that eventually add
ed up to a full blown place in the union. Lastly, were the people like me. We weren’t anywhere near the union, unless we wanted to pay the large amount of money it took to just join.

The more I thought about it, the more my chances at being seen seemed to dwindle. I couldn’t give up now
, though, with all I’d done to be there.

The hours passed slowly once things started up. I left my seat once during the lunch break to use the restroom. I hurried as quickly as I could, terrified that the casting team would come back early and I would somehow miss being called in. Once I was safely back where I belonged, I ate the tiny amount of food I’d packed in my bag.

Things got moving, again, and my nerves jumped to a whole new level as the list I was on began to be called forward. As I expected, very few people were missing. It felt like we were all inching forward, waiting to be called out from the dull, white hall.

“Marama Adams?”

I jumped out of my seat, my things held tightly as I nervously approached the desk.

“Right through there,” she said, pointing at the door behind her.

“Thank you,” I said, breathless.

I slid past her quickly and placed my hand on the knob, pausing for a second to gather myself.

Here we go. This is the starting line!

I twisted the handle and pushed, entering the room with a smile. There was a table along one wall, several people sitting behind it. They were all staring at me, neutral
, but friendly, expressions on their faces. Next to them, in the corner furthest from me, was the piano, a woman smiling at me from behind it.

“Hello,” I said cheerily as I crossed the wooden floor, trying to display calm and confidence to them all.

I reached the piano and handed my book to its player.

“I’m Mara,” I said softly, shaking her hand after she set it down.

“Julie,” she said.

“Nice to meet you. I’m going to sing the first one in there,” I said, opening it for her. “It’s a pretty basic cut. I start at the beginning
, and then it moves to here and goes until the end. I took out the extra pages for you.”

“Thank you.” She smiled at me once more
before looking over what I’d shown her.

I then directed my attention to the panel, my quick introduction with the pianist done. They were all looking at me still
, so I began, feeling that they were all ready.

“Hi! My name is Marama Adams and I’ll be performing ‘A New Life’ from
Jekyll and Hyde
.”

I looked down at the floor then, pulling my character up and letting her fall into my place.
As my head rose, the music started and I told the story I had to share, giving it my all.

Thirty two musical bars later, I finished and said thank you, waiting for any other instruction they might have.

Pens scrawled across papers for a moment before a man in the middle of the table looked up at me.

“Thank you.”

I felt a small sting of disappointment, but smiled all the same, heading back to the piano to gather my things.

“Thank you,” I said to Julie, shaking her hand again.

“My pleasure,” she said kindly.

And that was it. Before I could really think over everything I’d done and if it was right or wrong, I was back outside, walking down the street as if I’d never even stepped into an audition before.

What had I been expecting? Surely, if they’d liked me they would have talked to me a little more. I’d prepared several other songs as well. Wouldn’t they have asked to hear more?

They don’t like the way I look. My singing wasn’t what they were looking for.

I walked through the busy streets, picking over every little thing I’d done, wondering how I could have done it better. Finally, I had to level with myself.

You did your best. Maybe it was what they were looking for, maybe it wasn’t. There’s no use in dwelling on it now.

I tried to put it out of my mind
, getting on the subway and heading back to my house, but every now and then a little voice would nag at me about something.

You failed at your first big audition. Everyone there knew you were new. They were laughing at you.

Everything I’d somehow managed to block out while I waited to be seen was flooding in. My hopes and dreams were being dashed against the rocks, the disaster I’d just performed coming to a crashing end.

The song was wrong! I should have gone for something more exciting that showed my range. I really blew it! Oh my gosh! What if they tell all of their casting buddies how horrible I was? I’m never going to get a job! I’m going to be laughed out of every call for the rest of my life. I’ve ruined everything—all because of that stupid song!

I could feel tears building up and begging to break loose as I hurried up out of the tunnel and onto my street. Shoulders bumping into others, I pushed my way to the steps of the apartment building, avoiding eye contact with anyone.

You didn’t wear the right clothes. You were too formal. You didn’t introduce yourself good enough. You didn’t do anything stupid to make them remember you. You didn’t talk to anyone else there. You didn’t try to figure out what you were up against. You didn’t, you didn’t
, you didn’t . . .

Somehow, I managed to make it through my door, locking it safely behind me before collapsing on the couch and succumbing to my tears.

All my life, I’d dreamed of my first big Broadway audition. I would show up, the picture of confidence. Everyone would be friendly and helpful. I would sing my song so well that they asked to hear another, just because they didn’t want me to leave. In fact, they would invite me back for a callback immediately, because they could see what I had to offer. And after all that, I would get the part—the one thing my entire life had worked towards.

I would become a part of New York, my face on billboards and voice coming over the radio. Fame wasn’t important
, though. All I needed and wanted was to be on stage, sharing a story with the people who cared enough to listen. I had to be in the theatre to survive.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, a small, quiet voice whispered that I’d known my first call would be like this. It would take a lot to get in. There were
thousands—if not millions—of actors here, which meant more competition. They knew how to work in the city, I didn’t. Putting myself out there would come easier with time. I just needed to be patient.

I slowly let my body cycle through all of the emotions I’d boxed up for most of the day. Even with everything done and over with, I still shook with fear and anticipation. There was always the chance that I’d been overly critical of my performance. They could still call and ask to see me again.

I sniffed, wiping my eyes with my fingertips, as I sat up and nestled myself into a corner filled with fluffy pillows. My purse sat close by, so I pulled my phone out and turned it back on, having shut it off when my name was called.

The screen lit up, the manufacturer’s logo appearing before my normal background loaded. After a short pause, a couple of messages came in, the icon appearing over my text box. They were all from my mom, asking how everything had gone.

I messaged her back, saying that it was fine. I wasn’t ready to get into a big discussion on how acting makes me unnecessarily moody
. Her reply was congratulatory and excited. It made me feel a little better. I really did just do something I’d dreamed about for years. Wasn’t that cause for celebration?

I breathed out a sigh and sunk further into the cushions. My stomach called for the perfect celebratory and comfort food—pecan shortbread cookies. I didn’t have any in the house
, though, since I was trying to stay in tip top shape for auditions.

If I can eat pizza, I can have cookies,
I rationalized.

Grabbing up my purse, and wiping my eyes once more for good measure, I headed for the door
. As I walked down to the corner to get my treat, I talked myself down again.

There’s more than this audition. We’re going to go out and do this again lots of time. Some of them will be fantastic and everything we dreamed of. Others will be more experience under the belt. We can do this. One day we’ll star on Broadway.