Beneath The Skin(113)
I turn toward the loose, gruff voice. Standing next to me is a short bald man with a beard and sparkling eyes. His body is stout and muscular with a belly that pulls at his green, plaid shirt. His beard, red and trimmed, sits like a rug against his pale, freckled skin.
“Hi,” I return with a smile.
“Have a beer.” He offers a second cup to me I didn’t realize he was holding. I accept it, but don’t dare take a sip. “You look too old to be a freshman.”
Quite the charmer. “Thanks.”
“Freddie,” he says, extending his free hand. I shake it and regret it immediately, his hand being wet as frog skin. “You’re an actress, obviously.”
He didn’t even ask for my name. “Obviously,” I agree, looking around for someone to rescue me.
“I’m directing a play in the black box. Goes up in November. You should totally audition for it.”
“Should I?” Where the hell did Victoria run off to?
“You’d be perfect for, like, all the parts. Every one. Even the dudes. You’re amazing.”
I step back and realize I’m a step from falling off the stage. Close call. That would be a lovely way to meet everyone: with broken limbs and a concussion.
“How old are you? Twenty-two? Twenty-three?” he asks, his words slurring.
“I’m an actress,” I answer. “I’m all the ages.”
Freddie laughs a little too hard at that. “Holy fuck, you’re funny, too!”
Out of the shadows, Victoria appears at my side, her eyes flashing brightly. “Dessie!”
Saved. “Hey there, Victoria! You, um … wanted to show me something?” I urge her, hoping she picks up what I’m putting down.
She’s smart as a whip and does. “Totally. Excuse us, Freddie.” She pulls me to the steps leading down to the seats while Freddie gives a sad, wordless moan of a goodbye.
“You ditched me,” I hiss at her.
“Sorry, hadn’t seen Marcella all summer. The bitch thinks she can take the role of Emily. She should go for the stage manager. We’re sorta stage sisters,” she explains, “doomed to audition for all the same parts.”
“Stage manager? That’s a tech position.”
“No, no. The acting part. The ‘Stage Manager’ role in the play Our Town. That’s the first fall production. Catch up, Dessie!” She stretches out her arms. “Erik! Other Eric! Ellis! Stanley!” She embraces each of her friends one by one, who stand in a cluster at the end of the fifth row. “This is my hall mate Dessie,” she says for a modest introduction, then adds, “She’s from New York,” in a cocky aside.
“Hi,” I murmur, then lift the cup that Freddie had given me. “Anyone like some roofied beer?”
“Have you tried it?” Victoria asks excitedly.
“I’d rather not. As I implied, it’s probably roofied, and it smells like cat pee.”
The one she just called “Other Eric”, slender and olive-skinned, gently takes the cup from my hand. “It’s homebrewed cat pee.” With a shy smile, he adds, “It’s my homebrewed cat pee.”
“Oh.” My face flushes at once. “I’m s-sorry, Other Eric. I just panicked. That bushy orange-bearded guy gave me a drink and started the whole director’s couch thing on me and I just—”
“Freddie.” Other Eric shrugs. “He’s not a bad guy. He’s just Irish.”
“I bet this auditorium is, like, nothing compared to what you’re used to in New York,” says a girl from the floor, her jet black hair choppy and erratic, and her eyes bleeding dark eyeliner like tears.
“Actually, the theaters in New York are pretty small,” I admit. This one’s surprisingly big and almost two-tiered, an aisle dividing the back six rows of the house from the front. I guess everything is bigger in Texas; they have more space to play with than cramped-up, built-on-top-of-itself New York City.
“Smaller ones are easier to fill,” notes Other Eric. “We never sell out the house.”
Victoria grips my arm suddenly. “She studied at Rigby & Claudio’s. This chick’s been places!”
“So, you’re here for the grad program?” asks the girl from the floor.
“No. I’m a sophomore. I left that school after one year. It … It wasn’t a right fit for me.” Inspired by all the attention, I let my mouth run off. “An arts school in New York really … isn’t all that. I learned nothing I didn’t already know. All the students think they know everything.” I can’t shut up. “The professors are failed actors, bitter and blaming their failures on you. Half the time, it was me schooling them.” The resentment pours out of me like soured wine. “Claudio Vergas … is a prick.” I feel shivers up my arms, just saying that one harsh word. “And Rigby? You’d be lucky to even see him once a semester. Don’t get me started on the fools who run the dance department.”