Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

I make an attempt to do the same, but the hoarse, croaklike sound is drowned out by the crystal clear voice of the perfectly gorgeous woman standing next to me. As I listen to the sound of a thousand soaring angels spew out of her mouth, I shiver with what I fear is the beginning of a fever. Sweat breaks out across the back of my neck and travels down my spine, along with a violent shiver. As if today could be any worse than it already is, my stomach does this weird, knotting thing.

“Ruby Scott.”

I glance at the director, who’s thankfully still looking fresh, and not beaten down by hundreds of craptastic auditions. Those are yet to come. I shoulder my bag and follow him to the theater.

“You’re auditioning for the role of Emma today, correct?” He doesn’t give me a chance to confirm. “I’d like you to start with the song at the beginning of act two.”

“Okay,” I croak feebly, cringing at the raspy sound. At least I can speak, even if I sound like a prepubescent boy with his nuts caught in his zipper.

The director looks up from his clipboard, his frown an omen.

“I seem to have lost my voice.” He has to strain to hear me.

He heaves a frustrated sigh. “You can’t audition if you don’t have a voice.”

“I didn’t want to miss it. Maybe I could audition for a dancer part?” Fewer words are better.

He purses his lips. “Auditions for dancer roles aren’t until later in the week.”

“I understand, but I’m here and if you can’t hear me sing, at least you could see me dance?” I fight the gag reflex as another wave of nausea hits me.

He sighs and relents, gesturing to the stage. I thank him, then drop my bag at the edge of the stage and get into first position. My brain is foggy and my body aches horribly, but I can’t pass up this opportunity for a modest, yet steady income for a few months. I can’t afford to rack up additional credit card debt, and I don’t want to ask my father for more money, because that will make him aware of how much of a struggle this is. Then he’ll make his case for me to come work for him, as is his master plan. I know I can do this.

The music cues up, and as I start to move my stomach does that rolling-heave thing again. There isn’t any food in it, but all of a sudden the honey-lemon water I consumed this morning decides to stage a revolt. I’m in the middle of a spin—not the best idea when nauseous—and the next wave hits me; violent and unrelenting.

I attempt to keep my mouth closed, but the intensity of the spasm forces it open. I spray the stage with partially digested honey-lemon water, and what appears to be last night’s shrimp tarts and mushroom canapé appetizer dinner—in an Exorcist-like dramatic flair.

And thus ends my audition.

* * *

It appears I should’ve come back later in the week for the dancer role auditions. No amount of apologizing can make up for my spray vomit. It doesn’t help that I’ve managed to hit the director with my impressive reach. I almost slip on my own puke spray in my haste to find the nearest bathroom, because a second wave is coming. I manage to make it to the hall, and a potted plant, before it hits. By round three I’m in the bathroom. Sadly, it’s a public stall, and based on the odor, the cleanliness is highly questionable. I wonder if it’s reflective of the success of this particular theater’s productions.

I spend a good hour in there, moaning and crying until all I can do is dry heave.

The worst part is that in my rush to find a bathroom to destroy, I forgot my purse in the theater. I’ll have to wait for a break in the auditions before I can sneak back in and retrieve it.

Thankfully, it’s still at the edge of the stage, so I creep in, grab it, and haul ass—which is really a very slow and uncoordinated hobble-run—before the director has a chance to see me again, or I him.

The subway ride home is perilous. People keep their distance, likely because I have the cold sweats and smell awful.

Once home, I spend an uncountable number of hours on the bathroom floor, curled up with a towel as a blanket and a roll of cheap, rough toilet paper as a pillow.

A knock on my door the following morning—I only know it’s morning based on the light pouring through my bathroom window—is the reason I pry myself away from my makeshift tile-floor bed.

My body hurts, a lot. So does my head and every other part of me. I’m still dressed in my audition clothes. I smell like day-old vomit. Based on the stains on my gray shirt, I didn’t have the best aim yesterday. I rinse my mouth with water, and then mouthwash, but it burns, so I spit it out after a quick swish.

I shuffle to the door and check the peephole before I open it. Occasionally solicitors manage to get into the building. I have no interest in someone trying to sway my political leaning or in adopting a new religion today. Although with the way I look I have my doubts anyone would want me to join their organization.

It’s not a solicitor, it’s Amie. She never stops by unannounced. I’ve left the chain lock off, apparently unconcerned for my own safety, so I flip the deadbolt and open it.

“Ruby Aster Scott, what is the meaning of this!” She holds a piece of paper in front of my face, too close for me to read.

She drops her hand before I have a chance to take it from her. Also, my reflexes are slow.

Her angry face becomes a shocked one. “Oh my God! What happened to you?” She pushes her way inside, almost knocking me over. Although I’m pretty unsteady on my feet, so I can’t blame it completely on her.

Amie covers her mouth with her sleeve. “What’s the smell? Why haven’t you answered my calls? I was going to call the police!”

“I think I have the flu,” I croak. I have more of a voice today than I did yesterday. Sort of.

“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for the past twenty-four hours. You can’t do that to me. Really? What is that smell?”

“It’s probably me.”

She drops her arm and sniffs. Her nose wrinkles. “You need a shower. Or a bath.” She surveys my apartment and her frown deepens.

I’m admittedly not the best housekeeper. Until a few months ago, I had someone come in every other week to keep it manageable for me. When my father threatened to cut off his financial assistance a few months ago I cut back on unnecessary expenses, which included Ursula. But, I’ll blame the current disorder on my illness.

Amie’s expensive heels click across the floor as she heads for the bathroom. She gags her displeasure at the smell in there, which I assume is a more concentrated version of me.

A pair of rubber gloves, some bathroom cleaner, a lot of complaining, and fifteen minutes of vigorous scrubbing, and my bathroom no longer smells like the Vomitron. Amie runs a bath in my freshly cleaned tub, pushes me inside, and closes the door.

“Don’t come out for at least twenty minutes,” she yells from the other side.

I’ve been friends with Amie since freshman year in prep school. We moved to NYC together five years ago for college. Of the two of us, she’s definitely the more successful. Although there is a big difference between a dual degree in business management and public relations and one in theater.

In the two years since we’ve graduated she’s managed to turn her final internship at one of the most popular fashion magazines into a full-time job and she’s already been promoted once. On top of Amie’s fabulous job with its excellent paycheck, Amie has also managed to meet the man of her dreams—at least that’s what she claims—while I routinely manage a handful of dates before I tap out, or until they do when I don’t put out. Or I’m kissed by germ-infested strangers with an angry date. I wonder if this is karma’s way of trying to tell me something. And if so, what exactly is the message? Don’t use the bathroom? Don’t suck on lollipops? Be sluttier?