I roll out of bed, the full-body ache hitting me with the movement. I must be dying. And I'm not just being dramatic. Every cell in my body hurts. I drag myself to the kitchen and fill the kettle. Maybe a lemon-honey hot water toddy will help restore my voice. Based on my recent unlucky streak, I have my doubts.
I shuffle to the bathroom, turn on the shower, and root around in the medicine cabinet for some decent drugs. All I have is regular-strength Tylenol, so it'll have to do. I climb into the shower without checking the temperature first-it takes forever to heat up and then fluctuates between lukewarm and scalding. I step under the spray during a scalding phase and huddle in the corner until it's bearable.
I'd like to say the shower helps me feel better. It does not. The warm water also does little to help my voice. Although I'm past just squeaking to barely audible one-word phrases, such as "ow." I'm praying to the voice-miracle gods that the honey-lemon combo will further improve my ability to speak.
Once out of the shower I doctor up my water, adding extra lemon and honey. Not only do I burn the crap out of my tongue, it feels like serrated blades coated in acid sliding down my throat. Still, I get dressed in basic black tights and a black tank with a loose, gauzy gray shirt over top. I dry my hair and put on makeup in hopes that appearing put together will make it so. I have to double up on powder when the effort to prepare my face causes me to sweat.
I take a second hot lemon-honey toddy with me on the subway and arrive for my audition half an hour early. Not that my promptness matters. I'm still unable to speak above a whisper. My despair balloons like a marshmallow in the microwave at the mass of people performing voice warm-up exercises around me.
I make an attempt to do the same, but the hoarse, croaklike sound is drowned out by the crystal clear voice of the perfectly gorgeous woman standing next to me. As I listen to the sound of a thousand soaring angels spew out of her mouth, I shiver with what I fear is the beginning of a fever. Sweat breaks out across the back of my neck and travels down my spine, along with a violent shiver. As if today could be any worse than it already is, my stomach does this weird, knotting thing.
"Ruby Scott."
I glance at the director, who's thankfully still looking fresh, and not beaten down by hundreds of craptastic auditions. Those are yet to come. I shoulder my bag and follow him to the theater.
"You're auditioning for the role of Emma today, correct?" He doesn't give me a chance to confirm. "I'd like you to start with the song at the beginning of act two."
"Okay," I croak feebly, cringing at the raspy sound. At least I can speak, even if I sound like a prepubescent boy with his nuts caught in his zipper.
The director looks up from his clipboard, his frown an omen.
"I seem to have lost my voice." He has to strain to hear me.
He heaves a frustrated sigh. "You can't audition if you don't have a voice."
"I didn't want to miss it. Maybe I could audition for a dancer part?" Fewer words are better.
He purses his lips. "Auditions for dancer roles aren't until later in the week."
"I understand, but I'm here and if you can't hear me sing, at least you could see me dance?" I fight the gag reflex as another wave of nausea hits me.
He sighs and relents, gesturing to the stage. I thank him, then drop my bag at the edge of the stage and get into first position. My brain is foggy and my body aches horribly, but I can't pass up this opportunity for a modest, yet steady income for a few months. I can't afford to rack up additional credit card debt, and I don't want to ask my father for more money, because that will make him aware of how much of a struggle this is. Then he'll make his case for me to come work for him, as is his master plan. I know I can do this.
The music cues up, and as I start to move my stomach does that rolling-heave thing again. There isn't any food in it, but all of a sudden the honey-lemon water I consumed this morning decides to stage a revolt. I'm in the middle of a spin-not the best idea when nauseous-and the next wave hits me; violent and unrelenting.
I attempt to keep my mouth closed, but the intensity of the spasm forces it open. I spray the stage with partially digested honey-lemon water, and what appears to be last night's shrimp tarts and mushroom canapé appetizer dinner-in an Exorcist-like dramatic flair.
And thus ends my audition.
* * *
It appears I should've come back later in the week for the dancer role auditions. No amount of apologizing can make up for my spray vomit. It doesn't help that I've managed to hit the director with my impressive reach. I almost slip on my own puke spray in my haste to find the nearest bathroom, because a second wave is coming. I manage to make it to the hall, and a potted plant, before it hits. By round three I'm in the bathroom. Sadly, it's a public stall, and based on the odor, the cleanliness is highly questionable. I wonder if it's reflective of the success of this particular theater's productions.