Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

“That works, sure.”

“Sounds good. Bye.”

He doesn’t wait for me to respond. He’s gone almost as quickly as he called. I flop onto the couch and stare at the ceiling, waiting for my particles to settle back to normal.

Takira rushes from the kitchen to hover over me. “What’d he say?”

“He wants me to audition for a part.”

“Ayyyyyeeee!” Takira jumps onto the other end of the couch and pumps her legs. “This is amazing.”

It is amazing and not something I ever could have seen coming. At least once a day every day since I met Canon, I’ve thought about him. His intense, infrequent stare. That magnetic pull. His indifferent brand of charisma. The surprising words of encouragement he shared before he left. I have deliberately not talked about him, but my thoughts? I have less discipline where they’re concerned. I thought more about the undeniable attraction I felt, not an opportunity. I didn’t dare imagine this.

I shoot a text to my agent telling her to expect a call from Mallory Perkins, Canon Holt’s casting agent. Of course, she calls right away with a dozen questions I have no answers for. I nearly forget I need to text her info to him.

Me: Hey! Great talking to you. Here’s my agent’s contact.

Canon: Thanks.

That’s it? Thanks? Guess we’re not at emojis yet. I get it.

“Ewwww!” I screech and sit up straight. “I just sent a text to Canon Holt from my porny phone.”

Takira cackles and kicks me lightly. “You probably gave his phone crabs.”

“Heifer,” I laugh and lie back, wearing a wide smile. It’s surreal. I’d filed that night away as that one time I met Canon Holt and he called me exceptional. Even though I’ve thought about it often over the last week, I accepted that I’d probably never see him again. It was something cool that happened with someone I admire and respect, but that was the end.

What if it was just the beginning?

7

Neevah

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.