“Not much, Pauly.”
“Did you know that the average bee only makes one-twelfth of a teaspoon of honey in its lifetime?”
“I did not.” I unbuckled my seat belt and slid out of the van, happy to get some space from Dad’s unending guilt trip. The fact was, in the slightly gray Ohio light of day, Dad made some excellent points. It had been pretty stupid to get in a car with someone I had just met. Usually, I considered myself to be way savvier than that. I mean, there was a reason I’d only found myself face-to-face with the Black Hood in my nightmares. Unlike the rest of the population of Riverdale, I don’t actively seek out serial killers.
Well, it didn’t matter now. I had no plans of seeing Boone Wyant again and no way to contact him, even if I wanted to.
“Plenty more bee facts where those came from!” Pauly called cheerfully as I walked into the rest stop.
“Oh, goody,” I said under my breath as I waved halfheartedly at him. No offense to bees, or to Pauly, but discussing honey output with a middle-aged man with a ponytail for the indeterminate future was kind of a depressing prospect.
Washing my hands in the sink at the rest stop, I took a deep breath and leaned forward to look at myself in the mirror. I looked tired, the hollows under my eyes more pronounced. Maybe Dad was right, and one late bedtime really had taken a toll.
Well, I couldn’t hide in here forever. The sooner we got to Cleveland, the sooner I could escape the Van of Shame. Time to hit the road and get it over with.
Dad was waiting for me at the rest stop exit. My reprieve was even shorter than I’d thought.
“You know, Josie,” he said as we walked to the parking lot, “when I asked you to come on this tour, it was because I thought you were mature enough to handle it. Not just mature as a performer—and I must say, I’ve been impressed by the caliber of what you’ve brought to the stage, night after night—but mature as a person.”
“I know, Dad.”
“If it turns out you’re not as mature as I’d thought … I have no problems sending you back home to Riverdale. None whatsoever.” I hugged my leather jacket closer, feeling a chill pass over me. “I’ve been doing the Myles McCoy show solo for a long, long time, little girl, and I have no problem doing it solo again.”
“Understood, Dad.” I paused at the van door, my hand on the handle, as Dad loomed over me, glowering.
“Pull another stunt like that, and you’re off the tour. Am I clear?”
“Crystal.” I gritted my teeth.
Going back to Riverdale wasn’t an option. I wouldn’t leave the tour on anything less than my own terms, and derailing my career for a guy was not how Josie McCoy operated.
Boone Wyant wasn’t a mistake I’d make again.
“HI THERE,” I SAID, CRADLING the phone against my neck as I knelt down to snip a loose thread off the hem of my dress, “my name is Katy Keene. I’m calling about your post for an ‘exciting career in fashion’?”
I’d been scoping for job postings during sewing breaks, and nothing even remotely related to the fashion industry had popped up. Wasn’t there someone who needed sweaters folded somewhere? I was about two minutes away from walking down to any boutique in SoHo to show them the kind of magic I could work with a steamer and beg them to take me on.
So when I’d seen a GregsList post for an “exciting career in fashion” I immediately called the listed number, despite an uninspiring vagueness about what, exactly, the job entailed.
“Great, great. Are you under five eight?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked.
“Um … yes?” That could not have been a good sign. Pretty sure most reputable jobs didn’t have a height requirement. Unless it was roller coaster tester, and that definitely didn’t constitute a career in fashion. “May I ask why that matters?”
“You gotta be under five eight to fit in the costume.”
“Costume?” I repeated. Definitely a bad sign.
“Yeah, yeah, costume.” The man sighed, bored. “It’s a Howie the Hoagie costume. Fifteen bucks an hour to hand out flyers for Howie’s Hoagies.”
The job was dressing up as a sandwich. Unbelievable.
“And this is ‘a career in fashion’ how, exactly?”
“You’d be a model, sweetheart. Modeling the finest in sandwich couture.” He cackled unkindly. “Look, you interested? I can see you at the Penn Station Howie’s Hoagies tomorrow afternoon for an interview. Let’s say three p.m.?”
“I’ll have to, um, think about it.”
“Don’t think too hard. I’ve got interviews all day today.”
He hung up on me. Sighing, I set down the phone. Was “sandwich” the only thing I was qualified for? This was the first job I’d reached out to that had even offered me an interview. I had no food service experience, and no job experience at all aside from working in my mom’s shop, which looked pretty paltry on my résumé.
How does anyone in this city get a job? I texted Jorge.
Nepotism, he texted back immediately. Want me to ask Ma if you can pick up a shift or two at the bodega?
That’s okay, I responded. It was nice of Jorge to offer, but I knew things were still weird between him and his parents. I didn’t want him to ask them for a favor on my behalf. Don’t worry about it. I’m sure something will turn up.
Just focus on turning out that dress! Jorge texted, followed by a string of unicorn emojis.
The dress. Right. I looked up at it. Technically, I did have a completed dress. It was a much more formal look than I’d initially intended to make. I’d hand dyed it in ombré shades of blue and created flower details along the halter neckline and belt. I was relieved to see that it actually looked pretty good.
It also looked … familiar …
Wait a minute. Did I just make Constance Wu’s Marchesa dress from Crazy Rich Asians?
Oh my god. A quick Google search confirmed that was exactly what I’d done. What was wrong with me?! I’d stayed up all night working on it, and my tired subconscious must have pushed me toward something it recognized.
I’d have to go back to square one. Again. The first fitting was in two days. This was an absolute nightmare. This never would have happened if Mom was here. She would have recognized it immediately just from the sketch, and we would have laughed about it, and I wouldn’t have wasted all this time I desperately needed. I bundled up the floaty hem of the dress and screamed into it, venting my frustration until Mrs. Rajput next door banged on the wall to get me to shut up.
I needed a break. I knew I should keep working, but I had to get out of this room. I picked up my phone, hoping to text my way to escape.
Want to get out of the city in a couple hours? I texted KO. You + me + apple picking? I’ll bring the cider.
Before I could even pick up my scissors again, the phone buzzed with his reply. Sounds great, but can we go another time? Jinx has a match tonight and I promised I’d help her warm up before.
I stared at my phone, frowning. Obviously, I could go to an apple orchard by myself, but I didn’t really want to. I wanted to go with KO. But he was busy with Jinx. Again.
After KO won his last match against Ronkowski, Jinx had joined us at the Starlite. She slid into the booth right after KO, leaving me stranded on the other side, all by myself.
They had looked awfully cozy in that booth.
I hadn’t been able to tear my eyes away from the way she casually ate fries off his plate, like they’d been eating together forever. (Which they kind of had.) And I couldn’t stop thinking about all the times KO had stayed out late, hanging with Jinx at the Starlite.
Ugh. I knew this wasn’t a good look for me. Which is probably why I hadn’t told Jorge about Jinx Holliday, if I was being honest. Jinx had been nothing but nice to me, and I didn’t want to be the girl who didn’t let her boyfriend have female friends. That was regressive and stupid, and I knew that.
So why was I feeling all jealous and snappy, thinking about Jinx eating KO’s fries?
&
nbsp; Before I could reply, my phone buzzed again.
Of course if it’s really important to do apples today I can. No problem. Just let me know.
He was too sweet. Which only made me feel worse. KO had proven time and again that I was his priority, and I needed to give him the same respect.
Don’t worry about it, I texted, followed by a heart emoji. We can apple pick another time. Tell Jinx good luck!
And I’d struck out again. Well, more time for me to work on the dress, I guess. Sighing, I started to painstakingly take it off the dress form, wondering if there was anything salvageable here.
This fashion show at Lacy’s was a dream opportunity. I should have been bursting with ideas, excited to show what I could do.
So why did I feel so stuck?
I knew why. I didn’t know how to sew without Mom. I didn’t want to sew without her. But there was nothing I could do about that.
A single tear fell onto the silk, staining it a darker shade of blue.
I COULDN’T BELIEVE IT. THE clean-cut Ken doll from the open call was sitting next to the only open folding chair at my next callback. I hadn’t seen him at the dance call, but they’d probably run multiple days, so that wasn’t totally surprising.
Smiling as I took the seat next to him, he smiled back, a glint of something flirtatious in his eyes. Ooh, Jorge, I cautioned myself. You’re not here to make friends. Or more than friends. It was time to focus, and I didn’t mean on the hottie whose leg kept maybe-accidentally-maybe-not brushing up against mine. But as I continued sneaking peeks at the all-American angel sitting next to me, he was looking more and more kissable.
“Keller?” the audition monitor called. “Kevin Keller?”
“That’s me.” So the hottie’s name was Kevin Keller. Totally basic, but this boy was working basic and turning it into an art form. He smoothed a hand over his chestnut hair and stood up. Mmm, I’d forgotten how tall he was.
“Break a leg in there.” I couldn’t resist saying something to him. I should have been doing vocal warm-ups or something, but instead, I was trying to smolder at some guy in a polo shirt. Who was I right now?
“Thanks.” He smiled, and I swear a little twinkle shot out of his smile, like he was in a toothpaste commercial. “You too.”
Okay, now it was time to really get serious. I pulled my highlighted sides out of my dance bag and smoothed them. I’d been going over my lines like crazy ever since they were emailed to me, but there were only so many ways you could say “Holy cabooses!” before it felt completely surreal. I’d even called Katy to read for her, but I could tell she’d been distracted over the phone. Not that I blamed her; she had a lot of stuff going on with the fashion show, but I wished we could have hung out in person instead. That girl needed to move uptown, STAT. The Lower East Side was over, anyway. It was all UPPAbaby strollers and eighteen-dollar oat milk lattes now.
“Jorge?” I blessed the audition monitor for not pronouncing it “George,” like some of my high school teachers had. “Jorge Lopez?”
“That’s me.” I smiled my very best “cast me” smile, even though I knew the likelihood of the casting people asking her opinion about the most castable smiles in the hallway was slim. “You’re on deck.”
“Great, thank you so much.” I looked back at my lines. They were memorized at this point, but I couldn’t keep myself from scanning the page over and over again, trying to do something, anything that would make me feel ready.
“Holy cabooses,” I whispered. “Holy cabooses.”
The door to the audition room opened, and Kevin Keller came through. I tried to read on his face how it had gone, but his neutral smile told me nothing.
“Jorge Lopez?” the monitor called, nodding at me. “You’re up.”
“Thank you.” I smiled at her again, determined to be the friendliest bish in the hallway. She held the door open for me, and I walked back into the black box. There was the same panel of people behind the table, only this time, a woman with glasses and a ponytail sat slightly to the side, a binder in her lap. That must have been the reader.
“Jorge!” Ethan Fox said from the middle of the table, a warm smile on his face. They want to like you, I reminded myself, in Ma’s voice. Ethan Fox, at least, was certainly acting like he did. “Great to see you again, man. Go ahead and get started whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” Nobody was more thankful than actors at auditions. Like, truly, had a more desperate group ever existed? I took my spot in the center of the room, made eye contact with the reader, and nodded to let her know I was ready.
“Barnaby, you and I are going to New York,” she read in a complete monotone, her eyes firmly locked on the page.
I kept my script in my hands even though I didn’t need it to deliver my lines, listening and reacting like the reader was giving me something instead of the absolute nothing she was serving. Like, I knew it wasn’t her job to emote, but come on. I’d seen more acting out of my brother Miguel when he helped me run lines for my role as Officer Krupke in high school, and Miguel was a chauffeur. Not exactly an artistic profession.
“And one more thing.” Man, this reader was so flat, it was like acting with a post. “We’re not coming back to Yonkers until we each fall in love with someone cute.”
“Holy cabooses!” I exclaimed, throwing up my hands. “Cornelius, we can’t do that! We don’t even know anyone cute!”
Everyone behind the table laughed. I smiled with triumph, preparing for my next line.
“Hold on a minute, Jorge.” Ethan Fox stopped. I turned away from the reader, surprised. They’d all just cracked up. What was the problem? “Just a quick note for you.”
“Great.” I smiled, because God help you if you weren’t gagging for criticism at an audition.
“We’re looking for a read that’s a little less …” Ethan Fox paused, like he was struggling to pick the word. “A little less, hmm …”
“Less soft,” the woman suggested.
“A little less gay,” the man with the bald head and glasses said flatly.
Excuse me? I stared at the casting people, shocked that some of them were actually nodding along. This wasn’t the army in the ’90s. You couldn’t just go around telling people to be less gay! Especially not in a theater of all places! The theater had always been my sacred space where I could just be me, no judgment, ever since I was a little gay-by. And I was willing to bet that at least half the people behind the panel felt the same way, including, perhaps, Mister Be-Less-Gay Bald Head himself.
“Maybe more of a masculine energy, is what he means.” Ethan Fox gestured with his hands, like masculine energy could be conveyed in a gesture.
“There’s a lot of different ways to be masculine,” I shot back. “My sexuality doesn’t have anything to do with my gender expression.”
“Of course not,” he said conciliatorily. “It’s just, you know, Barnaby does have a heterosexual relationship—”
“Who says?” I knew I was being combative, and I should probably just roll over and take the criticism if I wanted the part, but I did not survive four years of high school gym class to be told I was “too gay” by some middle-aged theatre queens who probably wished they were on my side of the table, looking this killer in tight pants.
“It’s in the text,” the reader pointed out unhelpfully.
“Barnaby could be bi. Minnie Fay doesn’t have to be a cis woman. I thought this production was going to be different from some community theatre show in Iowa. Isn’t that, like, the whole point of what you do as a director? I thought that was the whole Ethan Fox thing. You do new works, or you break old works down and make them new again, in ways nobody’s thought of before? Because you’re such a daring experimental genius or whatever?”
Everyone behind the table exchanged looks like they couldn’t believe I was talking to the director like that. I kind of couldn’t believe it, either, but whatever. Even at eighteen, I was too old for that fragile straight boy nonsense.
>
“You know what? Let’s call it for today,” Ethan said.
And there goes my chance at Broadway. I’d probably feel bad about it later, but right now, I was too pissed to even think about what I was missing out on.
“But, Jorge, I’d still really like to see you at the next callback. Get you to read with some of the actors auditioning for Cornelius.” The other people behind the table looked as surprised as I felt. I’m still in this thing, even after all that?
“Great, sure, yeah. Thank you so much.”
As I waved good-bye and headed out, I wondered if I even cared that I made it to the next round of callbacks. Did I still want to be cast in this production of Hello, Dolly!? I wasn’t sure. Any environment where I couldn’t really be me wasn’t one I wanted to be part of. But being on Broadway had been my only dream, since before I could even read sheet music. What if it was like this everywhere?
No one had ever told me I was too anything in a theater. It was the one place where I was never too loud. Too skinny. Too gay. But maybe it had just been that way at school and at camp. Maybe, now that I was trying to be a real working actor, that was all over.
The idea of giving up on my dreams was awful.
But having to hide who I was to make them come true was even worse.
Cutting through my inner monologue of nonstop angst, I could hear Ma’s voice in my head warning me not to burn any bridges. Better to go home now and see if I could talk it through with Katy before I made a decision, especially while I was still so angry.
“Hold on a minute, Jorge.” Much to my surprise, Ethan Fox emerged from behind the table and jogged over to meet me by the door. Up close, he was even younger than I’d thought. I could see a smattering of freckles across his nose, and only a faint crease of lines by his eyes. “Listen,” he said quietly. “I really like you, and I’m sorry for the way Gilbert delivered that note. It was unprofessional, and uneducated, and I am truly sorry.” I would have preferred the apology accompanied by a heaping side of calling Gilbert out for being a bigot, but it was something, I guess. “I think you can bring a lot to this production. You have a great voice, you’re a phenomenal dancer, you actually look seventeen, and you clearly have a knack for comedy. I’m definitely interested in seeing the Barnaby that you can create. Like I said, we just need an energy that’s more—”
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