I swallowed down the anger. It would only make things worse, and besides—she was already back to sorting the takeout and taking out proper plates and bowls. “If you insist on pursuing some farfetched dream, why not go for modeling?” She shot me an assessing look over her shoulder and pursed her lips in disappointment. “You might be able to get some work there if you lost a few pounds.”
But it was doubtful, her tone said. Highly doubtful.
“Go,” she said, shooing me away with one hand as she kept at her task. “I don’t want Steven to think I raised a slob.”
That ended the lovely bonding moment and the conversation was officially over.
“Don’t worry, he won’t see me.” I headed back over to her and caved to the urge to snag my container, along with some chopsticks and the fortune cookie that my mother couldn’t seem to get them to stop including no matter how many times she’d asked. “I’ll eat in my room.”
A little while later, I was lying on my bed, full on chicken and battling a serious case of nerves.
It was just anxiety. I got this all the time. In public, I knew how to handle it. How to ignore the racing heart and the sweaty palms and plaster on a smile. It was harder when I was home alone—harder still when I was alone in my room listening to my mom laugh and talk to some stranger before they went out on the town.
I should have gone down. It would have been best to meet the next Daddy Dearest before things went too far.
Not that I could stop her if she were dead-set on hooking the poor sop, but still—forewarned was forearmed and I could sense the nasty ones a mile away. My mom usually clued in eventually so luckily none of the creeps had made it to the altar.
My mom did have some standards.
She also wasn’t totally evil. I might have joked with Hannah that my mom was some cruel witch, but she wasn’t. She just wanted what was best for me and she thought acting was a lost cause.
And maybe she’s right.
Sure, I was a star at our school, but that was hardly indicative of real life, now was it? I was a big fish in a small pond. If I went off to New York or Los Angeles, would I really have what it took to stand out in any crowd?
I sat up quickly, the tension in my chest threatening to crush me if I just lay there and let it.
I reached for my laptop and flipped it open. Work. I should focus on work. I had a new monologue to find and homework still to do…
Which was why I was scrolling through Facebook, obviously. Social media was a procrastinator’s best friend and at a time like this, when I was already on edge…
It was a no-brainer that I’d end up on the scholarship competition’s page. Like picking a scab, I found myself seeking out the competition.
Was I proud of myself for stalking the enemy? No. Was it useful in any way, shape, or form to go to their pages and see just how pretty they were? No. Did it do me any good to know that Wendy Weisman also starred as Sally in Cabaret in her high school production? Definitely not.
But I couldn’t stop.
And after way too long, I’d thoroughly researched the acting competition and come to one realization.
There was a very real chance that I wouldn’t win.
My mom could be brutal, but that was because she was brutally honest. And if she thought I didn’t have what it took…what were the odds that some random strangers judging the monologues would disagree?
I shut my eyes tight as a pain hit me smack in the chest.
Maybe I should give up.
It wasn’t the first time I’d thought it, and it wouldn’t be the last. Sometimes I honestly wanted to…but I couldn’t.
Something in me wouldn’t, no matter how much I wished I could.
Maybe it was stubbornness. Or maybe I was just a masochist and a glutton for punishment. Maybe that urge to pick at a scab extended to rejection. Like I knew it was coming but I wouldn’t be satisfied until I felt the death blow.
I rubbed a hand over my eyes, which were gritty and tired from staring at a screen for so long.
For no reason I could ever explain as long as I lived—my brain chose that particular moment to think about Jax freakin’ Hadley.
Jax. A guy who’d basically ignored me ever since our short-lived fling. I frowned, staring into space at his utter weirdness in the hallway today.
He hadn’t so much as smiled at me since I’d ended things sophomore year and now today he’d decided…what? That I needed a knight in shining armor?
You have nothing to worry about, he’d said.
He’d cut me out of his life and treated me like a ghost for two years and suddenly today he decided to be nice?
I’ve got your back.
Oh really? Since when? I clenched the fabric of my duvet in my fists. What did he think…I was some sort of victim?
Ha!
He couldn’t have been more wrong. The very idea that I needed his help to deal with a simpleton like Ryan was insulting.
I dealt with my own problems, thank you very much. I was so not a victim.
Oddly enough, I found myself sitting up straighter, the crazy pounding in my chest no longer fueled entirely by anxiety but good old self-righteous indignation.
It felt good. It felt way better than moping here in self-pity and doubt. I stretched my neck one way and then the other as I released my death grip on the duvet and forced my logical brain back into action.
It was time to get a grip.
I looked down at the Facebook page for the competition.
It was time to make a plan.
First step, pick a new monologue…or not. There were no rules saying we couldn’t use the same ones. And if I hadn’t read Monica’s comment, I would never have known. So, there was that.
I tapped my foot against my knee as I sat cross-legged, staring blankly at the screen, scrolling down as my mind churned over the pros and cons.
I’d take the rest of this week to sort through monologues and try to find something new and better, but if I didn’t, I’d just use my old one.
Decision made.
My gaze snagged on a separate thread I hadn’t noticed before because no one was commenting on it. One of the organizers had posted more information about the new scholarship for community outreach.
Seemed simple enough. All you had to do was prove that you’d contributed to your school’s art department or your town’s local dramatic arts scene. No big stipulations on how or the details.
And no one had commented.
No one had taken any interest.
A buzz of excitement had me breaking out of my cross-legged seat and pacing around the room. Maybe this was my way of getting the scholarship money to get out of town.
Maybe I didn’t have to be the best actress in the world, or stand out from all the rest.
I mean, I’d try, but if I failed…
I’d have a backup plan.
For the first time all day I felt a little hope and I sprang back onto the bed so quickly, the laptop bounced. First I had to be sure I was right. I couldn’t waste valuable rehearsal time and energy if everyone else had the same idea.
I scrolled through the list of participants until I found who I was looking for.
Lola would know. She knew everyone. I started a private message with her and her friend Layne.
Me: Hey, ladies! Question for you. Do you know if anyone is going for that community outreach scholarship?
It took a few minutes but then those little dots started to blink like someone was typing.
Lola: Not that I know of.
I grinned. I knew it!
Layne: No one from the vocals or instruments that we’ve heard of.
Layne’s clarification gave me pause. I hadn’t heard of anyone from the acting world going for it either. But none of us were super tuned into the dance world. Dancers didn’t tend to take part in regional performances and musical theater like the rest of us.
Me: Do you know who would have the inside track on the dancers?
> More typing.
Lola: I don’t know many dancers. They’re a weird breed.
I snort laughed at that. It was true. They tended to be snobby and stick to themselves, like dance was just so much more dignified than all the rest of the dramatic arts. Even at the meeting in August, the dancers had sat amongst themselves….
Well, except one.
Layne must have had the same thought.
Layne: You could ask Lillian.
Lillian, that was her name. I sorted through the members again and then typed her name into the same IM chat.
Me: Hey Lillian! Remember us? The divas are back! And we need your dancerly insights.
Layne: I’m pretty sure dancerly isn’t a word.
Lola responded with a laughing emoji.
Lillian: Sure, what’s up?
Me: Do you know any dancers who are competing for the community outreach scholarship?
Lillian: No. But I don’t know all the dancers.
Me: If you hear anything let me know?
All three of them agreed to keep an ear out.
Lola: So I take it you’re going for that prize as well as acting?
Me: Yeah. Just hedging my bets. I really need a scholarship so I can get as far away from home as possible.
For some reason, I could say that to them. Hannah knew my home life situation, but she was the only person at our school who had any idea how miserable I was living with my mom and how much I was dying to escape after graduation. I didn’t want anyone else to know, particularly not the guys I dated. Why?
I scowled at the memory of Jax in the hallway today.
Precisely for that reason. Guys had this weird idea that girls wanted to be taken care of. Maybe some girls did, but this girl?
She could take care of herself, thank you very much. And the last thing I wanted was a bunch of strangers getting all up in my biz or worse, taking pity on me.
Yet, for some reason, I had no problem saying it in a chat with three relative strangers.
Lola: Girl, I hear you.
Layne: We’re in the same boat. We need that money.
Lillian: I don’t think any of us would be putting ourselves through all this if we didn’t, right?
I stared at Lillian’s comment. She was right. That was why the competition was so fierce. Everyone in it was out for blood. Everyone competing was likely just as desperate as I was.
I hesitated for a second. Maybe it was the fact that it was an online chat so it felt anonymous, or maybe because I knew I wouldn’t have to face them at school the next day, but I ended up spilling my guts.
Me: I’m getting nervous that I don’t have what it takes to win the acting scholarship.
There was a long pause and then it felt like all three of them started typing at once.
Lola: Same!! (But with singing.)
Layne: I am TERRIFIED that people are going to hate my song.
Lillian: I’m just terrified. Period.
Next thing I knew Lola was trying to reassure Layne, and Layne was reassuring Lillian, and Lillian was reassuring me.
It was kind of…nice.
Like, for the first time in a long time I was talking to people who totally got it.
Layne: I guess we’re all scared, huh? That’s nice to know.
Lola: I wouldn’t say we’re ALL scared…
I snorted with laughter because I knew who she meant. The FB page was filled with comments from the diva to end all divas—Jenna. She had no problem bragging about her song or giving people notes on what they should and should not do.
Me: Jenna can’t be scared. That would require having emotions.
Layne: And a heart.
Lola posted a GIF of the Wicked Witch from Wizard of Oz and I collapsed back on my bed with laughter, feeling better than I had all day.
Layne: Thanks for reaching out, Rose. It’s nice to know we’re not the only ones stressing over here.
Lola: Yeah, we should keep in touch. It helps to have allies.
Me: I just labeled this group chat “Diva Squad” so it’s official. An alliance has been formed.
Lola threw up a GIF from Survivor and a little while later we all signed off, but that feeling of dread had subsided big time. I might not have had much support from my mom, but at least I had some friends out there who understood the pressure.
And even better?
I had a plan.
5
Jax
My mom was big into TV. I grew up watching a lot of it, and I knew her favorites almost as well as she did. There were some common themes to the ones she loved best.
There was Ross and Rachel. Blair and Chuck. Peyton and Lucas. Angela and Tony.
My mom was addicted to these will-they-won’t-they relationships, and I got it. I could see the appeal.
But here was the thing. On-again-off-again, will-they-won’t-they relationships? They were way better in fiction than in real life.
Take my word for it.
I shoved a pillow over my head as my parents screamed. About what?
Didn’t matter.
Another day, another disaster. My parents seemed to thrive on melodrama. Don’t get me wrong. They loved each other—passionately. They were disgustingly into PDA when they were feeling all lovey-dovey. But they also hated each other—just as passionately.
They swung from one end of the spectrum to the other so often it would have made me dizzy if I bothered to keep track. As it was, I was over it. I was used to tuning out their fights and ignoring the blissed-out honeymoon period that inevitably followed.
Right now I was doing my best to block it out, but it was like they were trying to be heard over the music I had blaring through my headphones.
I groaned into my pillow. Seriously, were they fighting right outside my door?
I threw the pillow to the side and tore off the headphones. It was time to get out of here before I entered into the fray.
Nothing good ever came of me interfering.
I came out of my room to find them fighting in the living room. Not exactly right outside my door, but in the tight quarters of our little house, they might as well have been.
Neither of them seemed to notice me sneaking out and about ten minutes later I was down the block and banging on the glass door on Simone’s back patio.
Her dad didn’t even blink at the sight of me. He was used to me coming over at all hours, and he was well aware that I had no nefarious intentions toward his daughter.
I’d watched enough of my mom’s TV to know all about the friends-to-lovers plot, but that was never ever going to be the case with me and Simone. We were way too different. Or similar?
Whatever we were, we were best suited to be friends and we both knew it.
If anything, she was like a sister to me, as evidenced by the fact that she didn’t so much as blink when I barged into her room while she was studying.
“Can’t you learn how to knock?” she whined, a pencil bouncing off my shoulder where she’d chucked it.
“Can’t you take a break from studying for one night to hang with a friend?”
She glared at me over the top of her glasses. She wore contacts at school but at night she switched over to her old wire-rimmed glasses that hadn’t been upgraded since the seventh grade. “We hang all the time. Some of us need to study.”
“And some of us need to avoid our homes,” I returned.
She blinked. Then she sighed and I saw her sympathy outweigh her peevishness. “Okay, fine. Turn on the TV and keep yourself occupied. I’ll be done here in ten.”
It was twenty minutes by the time she finished taking notes from whatever it was she was studying in her textbook in front of her. I knew this because I hadn’t zoned out in front of the small TV her dad had put in her room—her dad was an indie film director and had no qualms with his daughter watching too many movies. In his world, there was no such thing. I suspected he secretly hoped she’d take after him and become a director.
Instead
of watching TV, I’d been watching the minutes tick by on her bedside clock. I’d love to say I was just enjoying the silence, or maybe zening out to the soft, mundane sounds that filled Simone’s house.
I’d love to say that, but it would have been a lie.
I was stewing.
Maybe even obsessing.
By the time Simone closed her book with a thud, I’d folded my arms beneath my head and was staring at the old glow-in-the-dark stars that still littered the ceiling above her bed and which had been up there for as long as I could remember.
“So,” she said slowly. “On a scale of one to World War Three, your parents were…”
I pressed my lips together as I pretended to think it over. “It went to eleven.”
She gave a little snort of laughter at the inside joke and adopted a ridiculous British accent. “These go to eleven.”
It was a line from one of our favorite mockumentaries, This is Spinal Tap, and she’d quoted it just like I’d known she would. The girl couldn’t help herself. She was terrible at impressions, but she did them anyway.
Even in public.
Even when I begged her to stop.
“Sorry,” she said with a sigh as she sat on the bed beside me, making it sink.
She wasn’t apologizing for the bad impression and I knew it.
I shrugged. “Just another fun-filled day in the Hadley household.”
“Is that what you were over here brooding about?”
“I wasn’t brooding.”
“Oh please,” she scoffed. “You were like Edward and Romeo combined, that’s how badly you’re brooding.”
I turned my head slowly to face her. “Did you just use characters from Twilight and…Shakespeare? I think that might be sacrilege.”
She waved aside my critique. “They were the first examples of excessive male brooding that popped into my head.” She narrowed her eyes. “And don’t even think of knocking Twilight right now. I’m not in the mood.”
I widened my eyes in mock innocence. “I was just pointing out that it was no Shakespeare, that’s all.”
“No, you’re trying to distract me from whatever has you brooding like a Salvatore.”
Kissing the Player (The Dangers of Dating a Diva Book 1) Page 5