by Leisa Rayven
“You can’t.”
“Cassie—”
“No, Ethan! Not this time. Not ever again.”
He leans forward. He’s close. Too close. He smells just like he used to, and I can’t think. I want to shove him away so I can clear my head. Or beat him with my fists until he understands I haven’t been truly happy for years, and it’s all his fault. I want to do so many things, but all I do is stand there, hating how powerless he can still make me feel.
His breathing is just as uneven as mine. His body’s just as tense. Even after everything we’ve been through, our attraction still tortures us. Just like old times.
Thank God the door at the bottom of the stairs opens. I look over to see Cody staring up at us with a confused expression.
“Mr. Holt? Ms. Taylor? Is everything okay?”
Holt steps away from me and rakes his fingers through his hair.
I exhale a ragged, shallow breath. “Everything’s fine, Cody. All good.”
“Okay, then,” he says brightly. “Just letting you know we’re about to start.”
He disappears, and it’s just Ethan and me again. Oh, and the shit- load of baggage we carry.
“We’re here to do a job,” I say, my voice hard. “Let’s just get it done.”
His brows furrow and his jaw tightens, and for a second I think he’s not going to let it go, but he says, “If that’s what you really want.”
I push down a vague sense of disappointment. “It is.”
He nods, and without saying another word, heads downstairs and out the door.
I take a moment to compose myself. My face is hot, my heart is pounding, and I almost laugh when I think how he already has me tied in knots, and we haven’t even started rehearsals.
The next four weeks are going to suck harder than a black hole.
I straighten myself up and head back into the rehearsal room.
By the time I grab my script and a water, there’s only one chair left at the production table, and naturally, it’s beside Holt. I drag it as far from him as I can and sink into the uncomfortable plastic.
“Everything okay?” Marco raises his eyebrows.
“Yep. Fine,” I say with a smile, and it’s like I’m back in the first year of drama school, saying what others want to hear so they’ll be happy even if I’m not.
Playing my role.
“Then let’s start at the beginning, shall we?” Marco says. There’s a rustling of paper as everyone opens their scripts.
What a great idea. All good stories need to start somewhere.
Why should this one be any different?
TWO
IN THE BEGINNING
Present Day
New York City
The Diary of Cassandra Taylor
Dear Diary,
Tristan has suggested I use you to help chronicle the events in my life that led me to being the maladjusted individual I am today. He wants me to look at some of the unhealthy relationships that have made me moody and emotionally unavailable, so I thought I’d start with the jackpot of all my regrets:
Ethan Holt.
The first time I saw him, I was simulating anal sex with someone I’d just met.
Wow. That sounds bad.
Let me explain.
I was auditioning for a place at The Grove Institute of Creative Arts, a private college that offered courses in dance, music, and visual arts, and also housed one of the most prestigious drama schools in the country.
Built on the bones of an old orchard, it was located in Westchester, New York, and in recent history, it had trained some of America’s most talented stars of theater and screen.
I’d been dreaming about studying there forever, so in my senior year, when all my friends were applying to colleges to be doctors, lawyers, engineers, and journalists, I applied to be an actress.
The Grove was my first choice for many reasons, not the least of which was that it was on the other side of the country from my parents.
It wasn’t that I didn’t love my parents, because I did. But Judy and Leo had very specific ideas about how I should live my life. Because I was an only child and therefore programmed to do anything and everything to gain their approval, I basically lived up to all their unrealistic ideals.
By the time I reached my senior year, I’d never drunk alcohol, smoked cigarettes, eaten anything other than Judy’s healthy-but-tasteless vegetarian crap, or slept with a boy. I was always home when I was supposed to be, even if it was so they could both completely ignore me, or snipe at each other, or not be there at all.
My mother was a fixer. She always felt like she should be bettering herself, or me. I was clumsy, so she enrolled me in ballet classes. I was chubby, so she watched every mouthful I ate. I was shy, so she made me go to drama classes.
I hated everything she forced me to do, except for drama. That one stuck. Turns out I was pretty good at it, too. Pretending I was someone else for a few hours? Yeah, that rocked my world.
Leo’s main contribution to my upbringing consisted of laying down strict guidelines about where I could go, who I could see, and what I could do. Apart from that, he ignored me unless I was doing something really right or really wrong. I quickly learned there was less yelling and being grounded when I did stuff right. Getting good grades made him happy. So did winning awards for drama and public speaking.
So, I worked hard. Harder than a daughter should to get her father’s attention. It’s safe to say all of my people-pleasing hang-ups came from him.
My parents weren’t happy about my plan to go to drama school, of course. I believe Leo’s exact words were, “Like hell.” He and Mom were okay with me acting as a hobby, but with my grades, I could have had my choice of highly paid professions. They didn’t understand why I’d throw that away for a vocation in which 90 percent of college graduates were forever unemployed.
I convinced them to let me audition by bargaining that I would also apply to the law program at Washington State. That bought me a roundtrip plane ticket to New York and the faint hope of leaving my approval-seeking husk behind.
I knew when I started the application process that my chances were slim, but I had to try. There were other schools I would have been happy to attend. But I wanted the best, and The Grove was it.
Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove Auditions
My leg is shaking.
Not trembling.
Not shuddering.
Shaking.
Uncontrollably.
My stomach is tying itself in knots, and I want to vomit. Again.
I’m sitting on the ground with my back against a wall. Invisible.
I don’t belong here. I’m not like them.
They’re brash, and outrageous, and seem comfortable using the “F” word. They chain-smoke and touch each other’s private parts, even though most of them have just met. They brag about the shows they’ve done or the films they’ve been in or the famous people they’ve seen, and I sit here getting smaller and smaller each second, knowing the only thing I’m going to achieve today is to prove how inadequate I am.
“So then the director says, ‘Zoe, the audience needs to see your breasts. You say you’re dedicated to your craft, and yet your misguided sense of modesty dictates your choices.’”
A perky blonde is holding court, telling theatrical war stories. The people gathered around look captivated.
I don’t really want to hear it, but she’s so loud I can’t help it.
“Oh my God, Zoe, what did you do?!” a pretty redhead asks, her face contorting with exaggerated emotion.
“What could I do?” Zoe asks with a sigh. “I sucked his dick and told him I was keeping my shirt on. It was the only way to protect my integrity.”
There’s laughter and a smattering of applause. Even before we’ve stepped inside, the performances have begun.
I lean my head back and close my eyes, trying to calm my nerves.
I run through my mon
ologues in my head. I know them. Every word. I’ve dissected each syllable, analyzed the characters, subtext, and layers of emotional subtlety, yet I still feel unprepared.
“So, where are you from?”
Zoe is speaking again. I try to block her out.
“Hey. You. Wall Girl.”
I open my eyes. She’s looking at me. So is everyone else.
“Uh … what?”
I clear my throat and try not to look terrified.
“Where are you from?” she asks again, like I’m mentally challenged. “I can tell you’re not from New York.”
I know her snide smile is directed at my department store jeans and plain gray sweater, as well as my boring brown hair and lack of makeup. I’m not like most of the girls here, in their vibrant colors, large jewelry, and painted faces. They look like exotic tropical birds, and I look like a grease stain.
“Uh … I’m from Aberdeen.”
Her face crumples in distaste. “Where the fuck is that?”
“It’s in Washington. It’s kind of small.”
“Never heard of it,” she says with a dismissive wave of her lacquered nails. “Do you even have a theater there?”
“No.”
“So you don’t have any acting experience?”
“I did some amateur plays in Seattle.”
Her eyes are bright. She smells an easy kill. “Amateur? Oh … I see.” She stifles a laugh.
My self-preservation kicks in. “Of course, I haven’t done all the amazing things you’ve done. I mean, a movie. Wow. That’s must have been seriously awesome.”
Zoe’s eyes dull a little. The smell of blood is diluted by my suck-uppery.
“It was seriously awesome,” she says as she smiles like a barracuda with lipstick. “I mean, I’m probably wasting my time taking this course, because I won’t make it to the end before I get a big-budget deal, but it’s something to keep me occupied ‘til then.”
I smile and agree with her. Stroke her ego.
It’s easy. I’m good at it.
The conversations bubble around me, and I add a comment here and there. Every half-truth that spills from my mouth makes me more like them. More likely to fit in.
Before long, I’m guffawing and braying like the rest of the donkeys, and one of the gay boys pulls me to my feet and pretends we’re at a rave.
He stands behind me as he thrusts against my butt. I play along, even though I’m horrified. I make vulgar noises and toss my head. Everyone thinks I’m hilarious, so I ignore my shame and keep going. Here, I can choose to be uninhibited and popular. Their approval is like a drug, and I want more.
I’m still pretending to be butt pumped when I look up and see him.
He’s a few yards away, all tall and broad shouldered. His dark hair is wavy and unruly, and although his expression is impassive, his eyes show clear disdain. Sharp and unforgiving.
My fake laugh falters.
He looks like a vengeful angel with his intense gaze and ethereal features. Smooth skin and dark clothes.
He has one of those faces that stops you when you’re flipping through a magazine. Not textbook handsome, but mesmerizing. Like a book cover that begs you to flip it open and get lost in the story.
My new false bravado feels heavy under his gaze. It slides off me all dirty and thick, and I stop laughing.
The gay boy pushes me away and turns to someone else. I’ve lost my vulgar butt-pumping charm.
The tall boy also turns away and sits with his back to the wall. He pulls a tattered book from his pocket. I catch the title: The Outsiders. One of my favorites.
I turn back to the noisy group, but they’ve moved on.
I’m torn between trying to regain my position and finding out more about Book Boy.
The choice is taken from me when the nearby door opens and a woman steps out. She’s statuesque, with short black hair and bright red lips, and she assesses us with the focus of a laser beam. She reminds me of Betty Boop, if Betty Boop were pee-your-pants intimidating and had a patent-leather clipboard.
“All right, listen up.”
The chicken coop falls silent.
“If I call your name, head inside.”
She fires off names, her voice clear and sure.
When she yells, “Holt, Ethan,” the tall boy pushes off the wall. He looks at me briefly as he passes, and it makes me want to follow. I feel false and uncomfortable without him.
Names keep coming. I estimate more than sixty people walk through the door, including “Stevens, Zoe,” who squeals before strutting inside. I flinch when I hear, “Taylor, Cassandra!”
As I grab my knapsack, the intimidating woman says, “That’s it for this group. Everyone else wait here. You’ll be collected by other instructors.”
She follows me through the door and pulls it closed behind her.
We’re in a large, black room. A multipurpose theater space.
On the far wall is a long bank of collapsible bleachers. Most of the group is sitting on them, chatting quietly.
The final count is eighty-eight. Sixty girls and twenty-eight boys. None of them look as nervous as I feel.
I sit, feeling like a clueless hack in a sea of more experienced city kids. My leg starts trembling again.
The instructor stands in front of us.
“My name is Erika Eden, and I’m the head of the acting department. This morning we’re going to do some character work and improvisation. At the end of each scene, I’ll let you know who will stay. I know what I’m looking for, and if you don’t have it, you’re gone. I’m not trying to be a hard-ass, that’s just the way it is. I don’t need to tell you that the Grove only takes the top thirty drama candidates from the two thousand who will be auditioning over the next few days, so put your best foot forward. I’m not interested in seeing hackneyed theatrics and fake emotion. Give me the real deal or go home.”
My fear of failure whispers that I should leave, but I can’t. I need this.
We spend the next half hour doing focusing exercises. Everyone’s desperately trying not to look desperate. Some people are more successful than others.
Zoe is loud and confident, as if her acceptance is in the bag. It probably is. Holt, Ethan is intense. Incredibly so. His interactions fire with restrained energy, like he’s a nuclear power plant being used to light a single bulb.
I try to keep everything real and natural, and for the most part, I succeed.
After each scene, people are cut. Some take it well and some crash and burn. It’s like a war zone.
The group numbers dwindle rapidly. Erika is fast and efficient, and every time she comes near me I think I’m gone. Somehow, I manage to survive.
When we break for lunch, we’re all quiet. Even Zoe. We sit in a circle, our minds stumbling over our monologues while we try to ignore that most of us won’t make it to callbacks tomorrow. A few times I feel my face burn and look up to see Holt, Ethan staring at me. He immediately looks away and scowls. I wonder why he seems so angry.
Back in the room, we’re paired off. I get assigned to a boy named Jordan who has acne and a lisp.
Each duo is given a scenario, and the rest of us watch. It’s like a blood sport. We’re all hoping the others will screw up so we have a better chance.
Zoe and Holt, Ethan are paired together. They’re supposed to be strangers at a train station. They talk and flirt while Zoe tosses her hair. I can’t tell if she’s more eager to impress Erika or Ethan.
Jordan and I play brother and sister. I have no siblings, so it’s kind of nice. We banter and laugh, and I have to admit, we’re pretty damn good. Erika compliments us, and the rest of the group grudgingly applauds.
At the end of the round, people are cut and tears are shed. I sigh in relief as I realize there are only about thirty of us left. The odds are getting better.
The partnerships are switched up. I get Holt, Ethan. He doesn’t look happy about it. He sits next to me as his jaw clenches and releases. I don’t think I
’ve ever noticed a guy’s jaw before, but his is impressive.
He turns and catches me staring, and his expression is a perfect blend of a frown and I’m-going-to-kill-you-and-remove-all-your-skin.
Wow. We are so going to suck as partners.
Erika paces in front of the group. “For this last session, everyone will be given the same task. Your scenario is ‘Mirror Image.’”
Sounds easy.
“It won’t be easy.”
Dammit.
“This exercise is about trust, openness, and making a connection with the other person. No self-consciousness. No artifice. Just raw, pure energy. Neither of you leads or follows. You have to sense each other’s movement. Got it?”
We all nod, but I have no flipping clue what she’s talking about. Holt is rubbing his eyes and making a groaning sound. I figure he doesn’t, either.
“Right, let’s go.”
The first pair takes their position. It’s Zoe and Jordan. They take a few minutes to plan, then start to move. It’s obvious Zoe is leading and Jordan is following. They’re all hands and nothing more. At one point, Jordan giggles. Erika scribbles on her clipboard. I figure he just screwed the pooch. I smile. So does Holt.
Another one bites the dust.
The other groups perform in turn, and Erika circles them like a hawk, scrutinizing their every movement. She’s deciding who will make the final cut for callbacks. Most people are cracking under the pressure. I’m thrilled beyond words.
At last it’s our turn, and we stand in front of the group. Holt is jangling his leg. His hands are in his pockets, and his shoulders are hunched. It doesn’t fill me with confidence. I’d really like to pee and/ or vomit. Because I can’t do either, I shift my weight from one foot to the other and beg my bladder to stand down.
Erika studies us for a few moments.
I realize Holt and I have both stopped breathing.
“All right, you two,” she says. “Last chance to impress me.”
Holt glances at me, and I see my desperation mirrored in him. He wants this. Maybe as much as I do.
Erika leans into me and lowers her voice. “He moves, you move, Miss Taylor. Understand? Breathe his air. Find a connection.” She glances at Holt. “You have to let her in, Ethan. Don’t think about it, just do it. Three strikes and you’re out, remember?”