I glanced down at the script. We had already done it twice; I probably didn’t need it anymore, but casting directors don’t care if you look at your pages during auditions—they trust you can memorize lines. They want to know if you can get there emotionally, make you believe the pain behind the words is real—quite doable if, like me, you’re in pain.
I took a deep breath and looked into the lens. “I’m ready.”
Louisa started the camcorder, then pointed at me: Go!
“Hello, this is Silvia Hernandez,” I read. Louisa hadn’t specifically told me to do an accent, but some of the dialogue was in Spanish, so I decided to lean into it. Louisa had encouraged me to play, show off whatever accents I had mastered. I had already broken up with my boyfriend as a haughty Brit, and said goodbye to a lover as a heartbreaker from Down Under. Being able to do accents—like being able to sing and dance—indicated that an actor had serious training, Louisa had said, and would separate me from all the other gals who were counting on pretty faces and hot bodies to get them noticed. So I took her at her word, dusted off my accents, and did my best to impress.
“I am very sorry to have to tell you this,” I read, “but I have some very sad news. Very sad.” I conjured my most agonizing memories—how I wasn’t there when my dad died. How I’d made him worry up until his last breath. How my mom still worried. Shame and sadness poured into my chest, my lungs, my belly. I’m sorry I let you down, Daddy. Sorry I abandoned Mom. Tears caught in my throat and I choked on them. “Tu tía está muerta,” I said, in my best Spanish. “Your aunt is dead. Please tell her children. And do not worry, I know her wishes and will make the arrangements.”
Louisa gave me the thumbs-up and clicked off the camera. “That was wonderful,” she said. “Absolutely wonderful.”
I wiped my eyes and thanked her. “Any other parts you want me to read?” I asked. I had been there for over two hours and already read for a half dozen roles, but I loved acting—I could do it all day.
“I think we got it,” Louisa said. “I’ll submit it right away.”
“Thank you,” I said, then got up to go.
“Oh, wait,” she said as soon as I’d stood up. “I need you to sign this.” She slid a contract toward me—some sort of confidentiality agreement making me promise I wouldn’t reveal the details of the script to anyone, or post anything about it on social media, they could sue me if I did, blah blah blah. I had done these before.
“Here you go,” I said, after I’d signed and dated the NDA. I wanted to ask more questions about the job—Who are the producers? What network is it for? Am I auditioning to be a series regular? A recurring? A guest star?—but I didn’t want to seem ungrateful. I wasn’t exactly in a position to be picky—if it paid the bills for a few months, then my answer would be yes. As long as I could keep my clothes on and didn’t have to kiss too many weirdos.
“Thank you for the opportunity,” I said, then began gathering my things. I had brought several wardrobe choices and my full makeup kit, but wound up doing the whole thing in a plain black T-shirt with my hair in a simple ponytail. I had offered to change my look between takes, but she’d said it wasn’t necessary, that my “talent” would pave the way. After seven years of being told it’s all about “the look,” I found that notion refreshing, though not entirely credible.
“You’re very talented,” Louisa said, and I almost cried.
“That’s kind of you, thank you.” I hated when people said I was talented. At this point I would have much preferred they told me that I sucked, that I should give it up, go back to school, find a new career. Someone please just give me a reason to walk away already!
“You don’t believe me.”
“It’s not that,” I said. I chose my next words carefully. I wanted to be honest, but she had just spent her whole morning putting me on tape, and I didn’t want to whine to the one person who was trying to help me. “It’s just that I haven’t had much success. And I don’t know why that is.” My dad always used to say “the cream rises to the top.” If I really am “very talented,” then why am I still sludge at the bottom of the glass?
“Because you are in the most competitive profession on the planet!” she shot back. “It’s not the most talented who break through. It’s the most connected.”