A Tale of Two Centuries

Hayley offers an understanding smile. Austin shakes his head in disappointment.

Grabbing his copy of the script, he stops in front of Kendal and stares at her. After a tense moment, she looks away.

Austin hops down from the stage and returns to his seat in the front row, closing his eyes and effectively shutting me out. The rest of the class seem to act as one, breaking off into groups and pairs, discussing the various roles and, if I were to guess from the blatant glances in my direction, me. And as for Kendal, there is no guessing required. Her singular focus remains on me.

Hayley hooks her elbow around mine and tugs me toward our seats with an apologetic smile. “Remember what I said about you making a first day interesting?” I nod, and she tilts her head in Kendal’s direction. “My dear, I do believe you just became Enemy Number One.”

Chapter Nine

“Remember what I said before,” Cat tells me. “The name of the game is confidence.”

A huge gulp of air fills my lungs. On the other side of the clear glass, a packed room of aspiring actresses —otherwise known as my competition for the afternoon—wait restlessly. I reflect back to Reyna’s tent and my claim that I was no longer the timid girl she once knew…and wonder if perhaps it is not too late to change my mind.

The second I stepped out of French—a subject I thankfully did not share with Austin or Kendal but did share with the much-discussed Lucas—Cat grabbed my arm, squealing over a text she received from her father. That should have been sign enough, for my cousin never squeals. But when she shoved her cell phone into my hand and I glimpsed the reason, I could not help but scream as well.

Twenty-first century nepotism is apparently a force equaled only by gypsy magic, because Mr. Crawford did not merely get me an audition for the Shakespeare Winter Workshop—he got me one for this very afternoon!

Through the wide window, I assess the other actresses, girls with much more experience than my sole performance as a wicked queen before a whopping audience of three.

“Confidence,” I repeat, squaring my shoulders, my spine, and even my teeth.

I can do this.

Cat moves to open the door, but I quickly beat her to the task. It may seem silly, but performing this small action gives me a much-needed sense of control. She steps back with a wink, waving me on, and I push into the room before I can change my mind.

Almost every head lifts to scrutinize the latest adversary/auditionee, but at least this time the blatant appraisal is not personal. Under the collective weight of their stares, perspiration beads, then trickles down my spine.

Cat takes my hand and pulls me away from the relative safety of the exit and into the interior of the tension-filled room. “Welcome to Hollywood,” she whispers under her breath, and if I were not so terrified, I would laugh.

Welcome, indeed.

We take a seat in a pair of unoccupied chairs near the door, and I complete my own inventory of the room from beneath my lowered lashes. There are so many young girls and women here, and though I have thought of nothing else for the last two years, it still amazes me that they are openly free to audition, to act, and to pursue their dream of the stage. It is truly wonderful, though in the shameful, secret part of me I cannot help hoping that in just this one instance, they all fail miserably.

Along with a copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a Shakespeare play Cat declared the perfect choice for my audition, I withdraw the yellow tablet of contractions and teenspeak. According to my cousin, if I am to succeed today, I must find a way to blend them together.

On the ride over from school, she informed me that some directors—her father included—dislike actors who never seem able to separate themselves from the role they are given. “Your background is already gonna add authenticity to your lines,” she told me with a wink, “which, believe me, Marilyn’s gonna totally eat up. So since you have that going for you, I think it’s important that you show a different side when you’re not reading your part. That way, in their eyes, you appear to be an even more accomplished actress.”

It is with these wise words in mind, and the comfort of Titania’s speech being so similar to my own, that I choose the list of teenspeak to study now.

That is, until a tall, thin girl with smooth blond hair stalks across the floor and drapes herself over the empty seat beside me.

“What the hell is that, English for Dummies?” Kendal asks, sneering at the notebook. I should have expected her presence here at the audition, considering she is both an actress and apparently determined to make my life miserable. Lifting her pert nose in the air, she says, “It’s probably for the best you’re not really preparing, anyway. Don’t want to get your hopes up since you’re clearly out of your league.”

Just as frozen as I was in class, I begin the mental countdown from five, knowing what will happen. I make it no further than the count of four before Cat is leaning over my lap with a ferocious look. She has no need for biting words—she simply smacks her lips and clears her throat. Austin’s former girlfriend huffs, but returns to her seat.

Cat Crawford: cousin, friend, and constant defender.

“Do not let her get to you,” Cat tells me in a low voice near my ear, a hard edge infusing the lyrical tones in her voice. “She thinks she’s better than everyone because of her pathetic walk-on roles. The only semidecent thing she’s done was play a two-bit part on a CW show, and her character was a bitch, too. No worries, girl, you so have this.”

A chuckle that breaks into an adorable snort emanates from the row of chairs opposite us. I look up and lock eyes with a sweet-faced girl who tilts her head toward Kendal and rolls her eyes with a playful grin. I smile back in reply.

Recognition tickles the back of my mind, but I know I have not seen her before. The combination of her long raven hair and bright blue eyes is striking and unforgettable. Regardless, she is a kindred spirit, and her gentle smile in the midst of the emotional onslaught is a welcome sight.

“Forlani?”

A balding, pudgy gentleman waits at the door, staring at the list in his hands with as much interest as one would give to washing a pile of bricks.

Cat squeezes my arm. “It’s showtime!”

I force a smile. It is that. It is also time to prove myself and validate this entire excursion to the future. Standing on wobbly legs, I blow out a long breath. The amiable young girl across the aisle lifts her thumb in encouragement.

“Here I go,” I say, handing all but my copy of A Midsummer Night’s Dream to my cousin. She whispers, “Good luck,” and I follow the bored-looking gentleman through the door, down a never- ending hallway, and onto a wide, open stage.

A scuffed black floor is beneath my feet. Soft curtains hang on either side. An empty yawning cavern where an audience usually sits is now dark, save for a lamplit table near the front. I inhale air filled with possibility and exhale sixteen years of believing this would never happen.

Standing on this silent stage is every daydream, every fantasy, and every fantastical wish I have ever had come to life.

Someone hands me a thin stack of papers, and I nod absently in gratitude. I cannot help wishing Mama or Cipriano were here to watch me, though I doubt even they would fully understand how much this means to me. It has been my long-kept secret desire…well, until my fearless cousin stepped into my world.

A feminine cough snares my attention. I trace the sound to the small table, illuminated by a few lamps on either end, in front of the stage. Two women flank the bored, balding gentleman behind it, their features barely discernible in the dim lighting.

“Miss Forlani,” the taller woman in the middle says, “my assistant handed you a scene from