“Wow,” she mutters after some time, the pain evident on her face. Then, she squints, something occurring to her. “Lebeau …” she reads.
Oh, fuck.
She turns to me, a look in her eye. “Lebeau?” She’s piecing it together. “Any relation to—?”
“No,” I blurt a little too quickly. Of course she’d know my family; she knows everything. “There’s lots of Lebeaus in New York. Like, tons.”
“Hmm.” Though the dubious glint remains in her eye, she gives a shrug and says, “Congrats, Dessie. Honestly, I didn’t know you were going for the role of Emily.” She tries her best to sound composed. “Of course, you totally fit the role. I mean, you’re pretty and all.”
Now I can’t tell if she’s sincerely complimenting me or just being a bitch. “Thanks,” I say anyway.
“I gotta get to class,” she blurts, although I know her next class isn’t for another two hours. “I’ll see you back at the dorms later.” Then with a tiny smile that looks like a grimace, she’s off.
So much for our lunch plans. I’m about to shout after her, explaining that I wasn’t even going for the part, that I didn’t indicate “Emily” as a preference on my audition form, but saying that would probably just make things worse, admitting I got a part I didn’t even want. The part she wanted. The lead role.
The … lead role.
Suddenly, that fact hits me as if it weren’t already made plain. The lead role. Oh my god. I just got the lead in the first main stage production of the year. That’s how good they thought I was. This has to be an error, my mind keeps telling me, but a sudden whirlwind of confidence seems to take over instead. Maybe I’m still riding the high from my show on that tiny circular stage last Friday night.
Quite suddenly, whatever wrinkle of guilt I was feeling is long gone.
“I got the part!” I say elatedly into the phone when I’m by myself in the corner of the lobby, just outside the auditorium doors.
“Of course you did, doll,” sings my mother’s fluid voice. I hear wine glasses and silverware tinkling in the background, wherever she is. “Now, it’s important that you put in an actor’s worth of work. No, I’ll take another chardonnay. Please, with some brie.”
I smile as I stare out the tall glass windows of the lobby, letting my mom talk to whoever else it is who’s got her attention. I’m watching some sweaty guys throwing a Frisbee back and forth in the courtyard outside, too happy with the news to be bothered by my mom’s distracted attention to it.
As a side thought, I genuinely wonder if Cece would be happy for me and have some nice words. She’s not used to me having any sort of success. Maybe I should call her up, too.
“An actor’s worth of work?” I prompt her when it sounds like she’s free. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, you know, doll. Listen to your director. Make interesting choices. Don’t upstage. Excuse me, this is not the chardonnay I drank earlier. Where’s the good stuff, sweet thing? Get Geoffrey, he knows what I like. And don’t forget the brie.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Brie, yes. Brie. This’ll be good for you, doll,” she says, returning to me. “You really need to find that special voice in you. Put in the work and you’ll get as much as you give. Call me after your first rehearsal.”
Silence greets my ear when she hangs up abruptly. I see a flash of my mom’s headshot on the screen before my phone goes dark.
I feel so damn invincible suddenly. I could take on a hundred auditions, even with my tiny little nothing embellished piece of crap résumé. I’d brave any tiny circular stage at any random piano bar and sing my heart out. I can do anything.
And then I see Clayton’s face in that piano bar. I recall how I made him squirm on that barstool—and then how he left so abruptly after I made my move.
A heaviness settles right on top of all of my joy. He couldn’t hear my singing. Maybe he didn’t know what I was doing. Maybe he thought I was mocking him. Maybe he hates attention. Who the hell knows what he was thinking after my little performance?
I want to make things right. Excitement invades me again. An inspiration, if you will. My heart grows lighter just thinking about it.
I can make this right.
Driven by my idea, I rush to the computer lab at the library just down the road from the School of Art. It’s pretty crowded for a Monday, but I manage to find an unoccupied computer right in the middle of the madness. Typing quickly, I log in and run a little search in the browser. I study the pictures that come up, curious. With a click, a video fills the screen. I move my hands, carefully trying to imitate what I’m seeing. There’s a few students nearby whose attention I’ve caught, but I pay them no mind, the performer in me ignoring the unintended audience.