Reel: A Forbidden Hollywood Romance

Of course, the elevator isn’t working.

I punch the darkened button seven more times just to make sure the universe is indeed conspiring against me. As if this day has not found every way possible to make that clear.

I woke to a petulant day with pouting clouds downcast in a moody sky, so I brought my umbrella just in case.

My period came early.

Like three days early. Probably triggered by the stress of this oncoming audition. Yes, oncoming, not upcoming, because it feels like a train barreling toward me for a collision.

So . . . I have cramps.

I chipped a tooth eating a bagel.

Who chips a tooth eating a bagel? Now, in my defense, that bagel was tough. Fortunately it was a back tooth. It and my dentist will have to wait until this audition is behind me.

Then the subway stalled. Only for a few minutes, but between the chipped tooth, the stalled subway and now the out-of-order elevator, I’m running late.

“This place would be on the fifth floor,” I mutter, flapping my arms a little so I don’t sweat too badly. At least I’m dressed comfortably. The casting agent said come wearing little to no makeup and street clothes. My ballet flats have gotten a workout today, schlepping through Manhattan to get to this old building with its broken elevator.

I release a long, relieved breath when I reach the fifth-floor landing. A door opens to a studio with a long table and three chairs. Autumn sunlight streams through the floor-to-ceiling windows. A camera rests on a tripod in the middle of the room. A gray-streaked brunette, maybe in her late forties, turns from contemplating the street below to smile at me.

“Neevah?” she asks, walking forward and extending her hand to shake.

“Yes, hi. Ms. Perkins?”

“Call me Mallory, please.” She gestures toward the table. “Would you like to put your things down? If you had to walk up five flights of stairs like I did, you must be out of breath.” She looks me up and down and grins wryly. “Though it looks like you’re in better shape than I am.”

I drop my bag and umbrella on the table and wait for instructions. She didn’t send sides in advance and didn’t ask me to prepare anything, so I assume this is a cold read. I also assume Canon won’t be coming.

“Is it, um, just us?” I ask.

“Yeah, just me today.” She turns the camera on. “Canon generally doesn’t do these.”

“Of course,” I rush to say, not wanting her to think I expect special attention from him.

“He prefers to see auditions on tape.”

She takes one of the seats behind the table and slides a script toward me. Maybe this is the film Canon kept saying hasn’t been announced.

It’s well-worn and malleable in my hands. How many girls have stood in front of Mallory Perkins, heart in their throats, like I am right now? Clueless and hopeful, uncertain. How many girls got a surprise text from Canon Holt, and felt flattered that the great director had handpicked her, only to show up and discover he’ll watch them on tape later? Then they never hear from him again because whatever he thought he saw actually wasn’t there.

“Find page seventeen in the script,” Mallory says, jotting a few words on a legal pad. “You can read the part of Dessi and I’ll read Tilda. Let’s start with the—”

“Sorry I’m late.”

My head swivels to the door, and I nearly swallow my tongue when Canon strides into the room. He looks scrumptious in an army jacket worn over another hoodie, this one with USC emblazoned across the front. I refuse to be distracted by this, and immediately imagine him wearing an Oscar Meyer Wiener costume. They say envision your audience naked, but the last thing I should do is imagine Canon naked.

The wiener also doesn’t help.

He’s still really attractive.

And I still have a job to do, so I force a casual smile like I’m not completely thrown by his sudden appearance.

“I didn’t think you were . . .” Mallory tilts her head and squints at him. “I mean, you don’t usually—”

“I was close by.” He walks over to the camera, closing one eye and peering through the lens. Adjusts a button on the side and sits at the table beside Mallory. “I have an appointment in thirty minutes three blocks away.”

In other words, let’s get this over with.

Mallory must hear the unspoken command same as I do. “Right,” she says. “So on page seventeen—”

“Do you know why I want this cold, Neevah?” Canon interrupts.

I look up from the script in my hands to find his dark, disconcerting gaze trained on my face.

Is this a trick question? If so, it’s working.

“Um, I guess—”

“Let me just tell you because again, I’m short on time. When I do a documentary, it’s with real-life subjects—people with true stories to tell. You don’t know anything about this movie, but it’s a true story. It’s a life story, and though I’ll take some creative license, I’m looking for someone true. In a documentary, the subject usually doesn’t rehearse to be on camera because it’s about honesty and about instinct and immediacy. There usually aren’t takes. You’ve never read what’s on page seventeen, so I’m not judging if you trip over words or anything like that. I’m looking for truth—who you really are as an artist and as a person. That’s more important to me than if you can memorize lines for an audition and polish up real good to impress us for ten minutes.”

That’s the most words he’s ever spoken to me and I’m trying to absorb them. Trying to use what he just gave me to do my best. To show him who I actually am and to tell the truth.

“Okay,” he says. “Now in the script, turn to page seventeen.”