Unfaded

by Julie Johnson

  If I manage to make it to the audition, it’s sure to be a disaster.

  Cynthia is going to be livid.

  I smile in the dark as I collapse onto my lumpy mattress.

  Self-sabotage is my middle name.

  A psychiatrist would have a field day with me.

  My Honda makes a scary noise as I punch the gas and hurtle toward downtown LA — a death-rattle, of sorts. Fitting, since this will go down in history as the day Kat Firestone finally managed to kill her acting career. Twenty-five minutes late, with last night’s mascara still caked beneath my eyes and hair that hasn’t seen a brush since well before my little balcony-bender last night, I know I’ll probably miss my audition slot and, even if by some miracle I get there in time, I’ll look more like a crack addict than the “fresh faced All-American girl-next-door type” they’re looking for, according to the call sheet.

  I press the gas pedal harder, wincing when the Honda begins to shudder, and pray I don’t hit traffic. Though, not hitting traffic in LA would mean something ghastly has happened.

  The nuclear apocalypse, perhaps.

  Or, worse… rain.

  I am self-aware enough to admit the irony of my race to read for a part I don’t want, my headlong flight to salvage a career I severed all emotional ties with long ago. Yet, here I am. Hurtling down the freeway full-speed toward the demise of something inevitable. Racing toward an ending I don’t necessarily want to reach.

  That’s life though, isn’t it?

  We’re all in such a damn hurry to grow up — to turn eight and strap on a big-kid backpack and declare yourself too old for naps and dolls and dress up; to turn sixteen and get angry because, god, Mother, I’m old enough to stay out until midnight with my friends; to turn twenty-five and squeal yes, honey, of course I’ll marry you and settle down in a suburban house far from the city lights in a marriage I’m not sure I’m ready for because, well… what’s the alternative?

  We move. We rush. We run.

  Sharks in the water: stop swimming and you die.

  And then quite abruptly we are old and wrinkled and frail, lying on our death beds looking back at a life we didn’t even pause to enjoy. We are so busy speeding toward that damn finish line, trying to keep up with everyone sprinting alongside us, we forget sometimes that the finish line is death and the trophy is a coffin six feet beneath the earth.

  I press the pedal a little harder and the Honda groans precariously. A strange smell has begun to emanate from the vents in my dashboard. By the time I screech to a stop in the parking lot of the talent agency holding the casting call, it’s a quarter-past eight and my head is aching from the fumes. At a run, I drag my fingertips through my dark tangled mane and scrape it up into a pony-tail at the back of my skull. The weight of it tugs at my temples, exacerbating a headache from a hangover that hasn’t even properly hit me yet.

  I skid to a halt just inside the doors. They slam shut at my back with a bang loud enough to make me flinch, drawing the gazes of nearly everyone in the starkly decorated waiting room.

  There are a few dozen girls scattered along the aluminum seats lining the wide hallway, waiting for their turn inside the thick double doors — biding time until they get their shot to read lines they’ve likely memorized and rehearsed a thousand different ways, for a character with the emotional complexity of a hamster. They all look nearly identical — glossy blondes in sweater sets and heels. A few of them are wearing pearls for god’s sake, which says something about the role we’re reading for. Between my mussed, chocolate brown waves, thready jean cut-off shorts, and faded Ramones t-shirt, I don’t exactly blend with the crowd.

  Damn Cynthia to hell for signing me up for this.

  A wave of smug condescension crashes over me as sets of eyes coated with two perfect swipes of mascara scan my disheveled appearance from top to toe. Immaculately-lined lips purse in amusement and self-affirmation. Their thoughts are thinly-veiled as they examine me like a wad of gum stuck to the bottom of a Manolo Blahnik slingback.

  I may not get the part, but at least I don’t look like her.

  Grabbing a script off the stack on a table by the door, I sigh heavily and collapse into the closest aluminum chair.

  I probably should’ve read the call sheet Cynthia emailed me last week, accompanied by a terse note reminding me that I am not getting any younger and haven’t had a steady role since I was wearing training bras a full decade ago. As is the case more often than not, her admonitions fell on deaf ears. I haven’t exactly bothered to prep — unlike the perfect, pretty, petty girls littering the room around me like mannequins in a store window. Heads buried in cue cards and hand mirrors, they run through last minute lines and check their makeup.

  My eyes drop to the phone clutched between my fingers. I scroll through a week’s worth of backlogged spam emails until I find my mother’s message. I pick absently at my chipping black nail polish as my gaze sweeps the casting call. It’s a recurring guest role on a new pilot set during high school, featuring vampires or fallen angels or some other incomprehensible shit. Beth or Becky or some equally non-threatening name suited for a sidekick. A best friend.

  Not the lead. Those were cast weeks ago.

  I snort and the girl in the chair closest to mine makes a deliberate show of scooting away from me, as though my unkempt state is contagious and I’m liable to lessen her chances by sheer proximity. Twin spots of color appear on her high cheekbones when I waggle my fingers at her in a teasing wave.

  “Don’t worry, sweetie,” I confide in a whisper. “I don’t want the part. But if you do, I think we both know what kind of qualities the casting director is really looking for.”

  I make a crude pumping gesture with my hand and push out the inside of my cheek with the tip of my tongue.

  With an indignant huff and a resolute shake of her slim shoulders, she turns her attention to the phone in her hands and attempts to ignore my existence.

  That suits me fine.

  The double doors at the opposite end of the room swing open and every head pivots to watch, faces etched in various expressions of critique, as a production assistant wielding a clipboard steps out, trailed closely by a girl who’s just auditioned. Looking a bit green around the gills, the girl makes her slow march through the gauntlet of aluminum chairs on which her competition sits, her eyes never wavering from the exit. Judging from the way her hands are shaking and the thoroughly bored look on the PA’s face, it’s clear she won’t be playing Becky.

  A new name is called. A girl clamors to her feet and vanishes into the inner sanctum. I read through the script sheet briefly, grimacing at the cheesy lines. It’s even worse than I imagined, and not just because my headache has evolved into a migraine. This is bad writing, even by network television standards.

  After a few moments of painful study, I close my eyes and lean back in my seat, wishing I’d had time to grab a bagel in my mad rush to get here. The thought of composing myself enough to walk through those doors and say the words, “What do you mean, Stefano is a… a… a vampire?” in a tone of breathy incredulity is almost more than I can bear without any carbs in my system.

  Every few minutes, I hear the sound of the doors swinging open, of girls exchanging places, of heels clicking against tile floors as those who have failed to impress the producers escape eagerly into the parking lot where they will sit in their cars and cry until their perfect mascara is smudged beyond recognition. The hopefuls — those who still cling to this impossible dream of “making it” — always take rejection the hardest.

  I should know. I used to be like them. I used to give a shit.

  Slumping down so my neck is braced against the curved back of my aluminum chair, I fight the waves of nausea coursing through my veins. God, I’m hungover. I haven’t felt this crappy since last April, when Harper and I did mushrooms at Coachella. Fun at the time; not so fun the next morning, when I woke up naked in a stranger’s tent covered in glitter, missing both my panties and my dignity.<
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  An abrasive tapping sound intrudes on my recollections, followed shortly by an impatient cough. I open my eyes to find the stony-faced PA staring down at me, her clipboard clutched so tightly it’s a wonder her acrylic fingernails don’t pop off with the force of her grip. When our stares meet, her lip curls in a hint of disdain.

  “Katharine Firestone?”

  I blink. “Guilty.”

  “You’re up,” she says coolly, turning on a heel and marching toward the double doors without another word. I push to my feet and follow her at a leisurely pace, feeling the heat of glares from the rest of the girls in the room burning into me from all sides, an inferno of female contempt. Just before I reach the doors, I turn and blow them a goodbye kiss.

  “They’re waiting,” the PA informs me testily, tapping her pencil again.

  I push down the urge to reach out and break it in half. Denying her a snappy retort will spoil her dramatic little power trip, so I simply arch my brows and wait patiently, a small smile playing on my lips, until she shoves open the doors and ushers me inside.

  There’s a table set up across the room, about twenty feet from where I’m standing, its surface littered with empty iced coffee cups and stacks of notes. Sitting behind it are three people, none of whom bother to glance up when the door closes behind me with a resounding click. I hear the PA take a seat somewhere out of sight.

  “Stand on the X in the middle of the floor, please,” one of the women says in a tired voice.

  I walk soundlessly to the spot marked with masking tape.

  “Name?”

  The woman at the center of the table is speaking again. She seems to be in charge. There’s something insectile about the way she moves that reminds me of a large praying mantis — too thin, too jerky, highly inclined to bite your head off. Every strand of hair in her bleached blonde bob stays perfectly in place when she tilts her head to scan the sheet in front of her.

  “Katharine,” I say, my voice parched and cracking. Cynthia always says I have a voice made for radio, but my hangover has made me sound even huskier than usual. I clear my throat and try again. “Katharine Firestone. But I go by Kat.”

  The man on the right looks up when I speak, interest written plainly on his angular features. He’s in his early thirties and strikingly handsome — tall with an athletic build, his blondish-brown hair pulled back in a man-bun. I usually hate that look, but he somehow pulls it off effortlessly. I suppose, if you’re attractive enough, it doesn’t much matter what you do with your hair.

  He looks like a Viking. Or maybe an Instagram model.

  His eyes rake me from my messy pony-tail down to my battered Doc Martin boots. Surprise flickers in his dark blue irises as he takes me in.

  “You’re here to read for the part of Beth?”

  There’s an unmistakable note of incredulity in the question, fired at me from the other woman at the table — a middle-aged brunette with an air of superiority wrapped around her like an afghan. It’s clear she’s wondering what a girl like me, who sounds like a sex-line operator and dresses like a punk rocker, is doing here.

  “Yes.”

  “I see.” She glances down at the sheet in front of her and I see a flash of comprehension on her face. “Oh. Firestone. You’re Cynthia’s client.”

  “I am,” I agree, forcing myself not to fidget under their unwavering stares. I’m not sure what’s more humiliating — the implication that my mother had to make a call to get me this audition, or that she is so eager to be seen as my manager instead of the woman who physically pushed me from her womb twenty-two years ago.

  The brunette murmurs something under her breath. It sounds suspiciously like I should’ve known.

  “Why do you want this part?”

  This time, the man is speaking. There is none of the brunette’s arrogance or the blonde’s apathy in his tone; he radiates a quiet intensity that commands attention. His voice is crisp and clear — it hits me like a splash of water and trickles down my spine in a sensation that’s not altogether unpleasant.

  I jerk my chin in his direction and hold his gaze. I contemplate mustering up some false enthusiasm, giving a fabricated answer about my passion for the role, but when my mouth opens I find myself answering honestly.

  “My rent is due in two weeks and I currently have seventeen dollars and twenty-three cents left in my checking account.”

  The blonde titters, as though I’ve made an uncouth joke. The brunette pretends I haven’t spoken. But the man shifts in his seat, the curious look in his eyes intensifying.

  I try not to let it bother me. Men have been giving me that look for as long as I can remember. Like I was bred for sex and sin — a creature who exists only in the hours between midnight and dawn, when proper girls are sleeping. I’m not sure what makes them see me in that light, have never quite been able to pinpoint what part of me screams out to be degraded and deconstructed down to my basest parts.

  Daddy issues?

  Lack of self-esteem?

  Fear of commitment?

  Some other bullshit psychological diagnosis that reaffirms my deep-seated emotional damage?

  Oh, who the hell knows.

  Back in my elementary school days, boys used to tease me about the natural rasp in my vocal cords, about my too-large lips and masculine jawline. Funnily enough, when they hit puberty and started imagining how that rasp might sound if I were breathing out their names in the back seat of their cars, how my bee-stung lips might feel pressed against their own, the teasing came to an abrupt end.

  There’s a moment when they just sit there, the three of them, blinking at me. It’s quite clear whoever they were expecting, it was not me. Likely another cog in the wheel of sweater-set wearers who came before. Pearls and pumps and well-practiced introductory speeches.

  “Well, then… I’ll prompt you with Angelica’s lines,” the praying-mantis woman says in a voice that sounds like air hissing from a balloon.

  I nod and say nothing.

  Sure, I should probably spend a bit of time trying to convince them why I’m suited for this part, but frankly… I’m not. I know it; they know it. Hell, even the bitchy PA knows it.

  “Okay.” The brunette woman slides her glasses down the bridge of her nose and stares at me like a pigeon who’s just crapped on the hood of her freshly-waxed Mercedes. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”

  It’s clear before I ever open my mouth that there’s very little point in even trying. There’s a greater chance of this woman asking me to go tandem bicycle riding with her this afternoon than actually giving me the part. But I wasted a quarter tank of gas getting here, and then there’s the small matter that Cynthia knows everyone in this industry; if I walk out without reading a single line, she’ll hear about it — and I’ll never hear the end of it.

  Clearing my throat once more, I glance at the lines on my script as the blonde starts to speak.

  “Oh, Beth! You’ll never believe it… Stefano…” Her hand flutters to her heart and I try desperately to bury a laugh. “He’s… he’s…”

  “What is it, Angelica?” I croak in a strangled voice. “I’m your best friend. You know you can tell me anything.”

  “But this…Oh!” The blond is quivering with passion. “This is not my secret to tell. I cannot betray the trust of the man I love…”

  I gasp in an unconvincing show of surprise. “You love him?”

  “Yes! I do!”

  “But you barely know him,” I choke out, gripping the script so hard my fingertips turn white. “How is that possible?”

  “Beth, anything is possible when it’s true love! Stefano is my soulmate…”

  A snort of laughter slips out. I can’t help it — this is cheesier than fettuccine alfredo. I try to cover it with a coughing fit, to maintain a serious tone as we make our way through the rest of the lines… but, judging by the cold glare darkening the brunette’s face, I don’t think I convince anyone in the room that I’m taking this seriously. My suspicio
ns are confirmed a few moments later, when she cuts the audition short.

  “That’ll do.” The brunette’s eyes slide to the PA, who leaps to her feet and appears at my side, more than eager to escort me out. “Thank you for coming in. We’ll reach out if we’re interested in a call-back.”

  “Right.” I grin ruefully. “I’ll wait by the phone, night and day.”

  The women have already tuned me out, fixing their attention back on the papers in front of them, but the man shifts in his seat as his eyes scan me again. I swear his lips are twitching as he watches me turn and stride toward the exit, a jaunty bounce in my step because, as shitty as the audition was, it’s done. Even the prospect of walking through the gauntlet of bitchy girls outside the door is not enough to dampen my spirits.

  Now I can go get tacos.

  I’m halfway to my car when I hear the sound of footsteps trailing close behind me in the long shadows cast by the building. Twenty-two years of possessing ovaries in modern-day America has taught me that, no matter the time of day, there is a fifty percent chance you are about to be raped if you hear someone walking behind you in an empty parking lot, so I reflexively position my keys between my fingers like little blades before whipping around to confront my stalker.

  “Listen, buddy, I don’t know what you—Oh.” The words dry up on my tongue as I recognize the male producer from the casting session. He’s slightly out of breath, as though he’s run to catch up to me. “It’s you,” I finish lamely.

  “It’s me,” he echoes, his eyes crinkling up in amusement. “Were you planning to key me to death?”

  I glance down at my hand and find the keys still clutched tightly in my grasp. “Only if you were planning to rape me.”