I popped up on my toes and counted the heads in front of me. Okay . . . five, six, seven, and . . . and . . . me! I was lucky number eight!
HOLY. CRAP. This was unbelievable. Un-freakin’-believable. My lead stomach lightened so quickly I practically floated up the steps like a hot-air balloon into the theater’s impressive vestibule. I yanked my hair out of its elastic, gave it a shake, and tucked a few pieces behind my ears. As the eight of us moved forward in the queue toward the audition room, I started my warm-up routine.
I silently stretched my mouth to form a tall O like one of those strange Byers’ Choice Christmas caroling dolls to a wide, toothy grin, the apples of my cheeks pert and round. I moved my jaw back and forth, back and forth, loosening up my face muscles. I chewed on my tongue, an old trick to help increase the flow of saliva now completely drained from my mouth, a common occurrence whenever I grew nervous.
One by one, the last of the auditioners went into the studio space while I paced up and down the hallway repeating my vocal exercises. When number seven, a woman a little older than me, exited the studio with a satisfied smile across her face, it was finally my turn.
“Next,” a voice called from inside the door. I sucked in a deep breath, pushed out my chest, and strode into the studio.
The pianist seated in the left corner of the room held out his hand, ready to receive the sheet music. However, not knowing I’d be auditioning, I of course didn’t have any.
I cleared my throat and stepped in close, past his extended arm, and whispered, “Hi, um . . . so I don’t have any sheet music with me. Do you know ‘Look to the Rainbow’ from Finian’s Rainbow?”
He shook his head, his face twisted by his lack of recognition of the song. “Sorry, never even heard of that one.”
“Shoot,” I said, racking my brain for a quick plan. I could sing it a cappella, but man, it’d be risky without the support and backup of some accompaniment. “Okay, so um . . . what do you know?”
His eyes grew wide, almost confused by the question. “You want me to name all the songs I know?” His voice now rose above mine.
“No, no, of course not,” I said, trying to bring his tone back down to a quiet simmer. “I just need something in the mezzo range. Any ideas?”
“Well, I’ve been pretty much playing everything from Hamilton all day.”
“Err, I don’t want them to just see me as another Schuyler sister . . . ,” I mumbled as I thought aloud. “Anything else?”
“Well, for a mezzo, I’ll give you a few options—I can do ‘The Worst Pies in London’ from Sweeney Todd. Really, anything from that score. I played in the pit during the national tour.”
“Um . . . any chance you know anything less . . . wordy? Sondheim’s tough even on a good day.”
It seemed the clock had run out on our sidebar conversation when I heard a loud clearing of a throat from the table of casting agents and producers. The pianist too was clearly growing tired and with a huff said, “Look, I got ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ from Les Mis, or ‘Defying Gravity’ from Wicked, take your pick and let’s go, I need to get to another gig.”
No. Really? All the songs in the entire Broadway canon, and here I was face-to-face with the song that stole my mooment . . . I mean, moment?! My brain raced through my Sophie’s Choice as I became increasingly more aware of the growing impatience of the panel on the other side of the casting table.
“I Dreamed a Dream” would, without a doubt, be the safer bet, but there were no big moments to really show the power of my belting voice. “Defying Gravity” had a much bigger payoff—if I could just hit that high E above middle C and not sound like a barnyard animal. I reasoned that without a flying contraption to contend with and after $600 spent at Miss Tilly’s, the odds might be slightly in my favor. I fumbled for the amethyst I still had in my pocket and channeled the energy from the small stone to help me make the decision I knew I had to make.
I glanced back over at the casting table, the agents’ restlessness now palpable. I was the last audition—the only thing standing between them and a cocktail at the end of their very long day—and if their nerves weren’t already frayed, my little exchange with the pianist had likely pushed them over the edge. I had no choice but to pack it in or knock it out of the park. There was no in-between.
So, though it was risky, I let the accompanist know my decision and stepped center stage. To their astonishment and mine, with the help of Lyla’s advice about believing in myself and Miss Tilly’s Reiki magic, I smashed that final note right out of the room and into the stratosphere.
Chapter Twenty-Three
I had barely made it past the threshold of the theater’s exit door, practically bursting at the seams with excitement about how well the audition had gone, when my phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out and smiled （even wider） to see Gabe’s name and number flash across the screen.
“I know I just saw you last night, and I’m sure I should be playing this way more cool, but I was just thinking about you and had to hear your voice,” Gabe said before I even got the chance to say hello.
“You were thinking about me?” I asked, mockingly coy.
“Like a lot. What are you doing right now?”
“Actually, I just had a killer audition. I have no idea if anything will come of it, but it’s the first one that’s felt . . . I don’t know . . . like I actually may have impressed them.”
“Sounds like you knocked it out of the park. Let me take you to dinner tonight? To celebrate. Anywhere you want just so long as roller skates aren’t involved,” he teased.
I tucked the phone under my chin to free my hands to dig around in my purse for my MetroCard. “Still recovering from DiscOasis I gather?” I joked as I slid the pass over the turnstile and navigated my way through the underground maze of tunnels to the platform for the M Train to get me back to Bushwick.
“I should tell you that I feel great and didn’t ache at all the next day, but I’d be lying.”
I lowered my bottom lip into a pout, hoping he could hear it in my voice. “Everything hurts, huh?”
“Oh, just my knees . . . and . . . hips . . . and back . . . but totally worth it.”
I laughed. “How do you figure that?”
“Well, I got to spend time with you, didn’t I?” The smile in his voice turned my insides to butter. “So? Dinner tonight?” he asked again.
“I wish I could, but I can’t tonight. I’m catching a morning train to Connecticut to visit my parents and I’m not even packed yet. I haven’t been home in . . . God, I don’t know how long it’s been? With everything that happened, it was simpler to keep our phone calls short and the details vague to protect them from really knowing just how much of my life had been tied up in Adam’s. I just couldn’t face their disappointment. Honestly, I’m still not sure I can,” I said, realizing that all these weeks later, it likely wouldn’t be any easier. “Hey, do you want to go in my place? They always liked you,” I offered as a sad attempt to lighten the mood.
“I don’t know about going in your place, but I’m happy to go with you, if you think that would help.”