Dramatic Pause, page 4
“There are my two favorite boys and the brilliant young actress who is receiving my scholarship!” Even though it’s a female voice, it is deep and booming. The sound echoes around the theater
Mr. Tipton and Preston smile and wave. My mouth drops open as the woman walks out of the darkness and into the light and I realize it’s Patricia Banner. I had no idea she would be here, but of course I had no idea I would be in a scene with her son.
Mrs. Banner glides down the aisles of the empty theater as if it’s a full house and every pair of eyes is on her. She looks exactly as she does in photographs. She has a long, narrow nose, and her dark-blond hair is pulled back tightly so her elastic face is the focus of her appearance. She is wearing what looks like a type of silk kimono that might also be a dress. A parade of brightly colored chiffon scarves float behind her like obedient and adoring fans. She climbs the stairs to the stage and air-kisses Mr. Tipton and her son before turning to me.
I open my mouth to introduce myself, and she holds up her perfectly manicured hand to stop me. “No. Don’t speak. Don’t introduce yourself. I know who you are. How could I not know who you are? You’re Eileen, of course.”
I don’t know what to say. I’m not Eileen, but she’s told me not to say anything, so I don’t think I can correct her. Can I?
“You mean Isabel, dear,” Mr. Tipton says gently, putting his hand on her arm.
“Of course, I do. I mean Isabel. It’s such an honor to meet you.” She curtsies and extends her hand to me. I’m not sure whether I’m supposed to kiss it or shake it. This is incredibly awkward. I touch her hand with mine in a weird type of handshake that very elegant hamsters might do.
“Thank you,” I say. “And thank you so much for awarding me the scholarship. You have no idea what it means to me.”
Mrs. Banner crosses the stage as if we are actually in the middle of a performance with an audience. “I know you will do us proud, dear. Unlike some scholarship recipients,” she says, looking upward toward the sky like she’s praying to some unseen deity. I look toward Mr. Tipton.
“Patricia simply means that we had a slight problem with another potential winner.”
“Slight problem? It was a major embarrassment. She appeared on a reality television show, where she competed against other people by doing humiliating stunts like jumping into a hot tub of marshmallows and eating insects covered in dirt. I will not have the Banner name dragged through the mud—literally! That’s why we’re so happy to have an artist like you winning this award. Someone we know will maintain the artistic integrity of the Banner name. We can count on you, can’t we?”
“Yes,” I say. “Of course.” My heart sinks into my stomach.
CHAPTER 8
“Artistic integrity. You should have heard Patricia Banner go on and on about the Banner name and how it was an honor to have this scholarship.”
“Well, it is an honor,” Chernique says, taking a spoonful of her yogurt parfait. I’ve insisted she meet me at our favorite diner, the Lafayette, so she could help me sort out my problem. We’ve been coming to this cozy diner since we were kids going with our parents after church. Now Chernique and I use it as a sort of hangout, since we started going to different middle schools last year when they rezoned our neighborhood. “I don’t really see the problem,” she says.
The fact that she doesn’t see one doesn’t help much. I swirl the ice around with the straw in my lemonade before responding.
“How can I go on commercial auditions as one of Honey’s Kids and maintain my artistic integrity? Honey said she would have sent me out last week on an audition for some cupcake-scented underarm spray for girls or something. Can you think of anything more disgusting?”
“Yes,” Chernique says quickly. “Underarm-scented cupcakes.”
“Thanks,” I say sarcastically. “Now I’m stressed out and I want to throw up.”
“I’m sorry,” she says with a slight giggle, and then looks at me more seriously.
“If Patricia Banner even saw Honey’s office, I think she might break down in tears or choke herself with one of her many flowing scarves.”
“What’s wrong with Honey’s office?”
“Nothing is wrong with it. It’s just that it’s where dignity goes to die. Patricia Banner is very classy and high-end. She’s like a diamond ring you would buy at Tiffany’s. Honey is like the ring you dig out of the bottom of a box of Cracker Jack.”
Chernique gives me her look. Her lips purse and her eyebrows sort of twist together and become one.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Just sounds like you’re being a bit of a snob.”
I hate the very thought of being considered a snob. “I’m not!” I protest. “It’s just that they have certain expectations of me because of this scholarship, and I’m worried that if I sign with Honey they won’t want me at the academy. I mean, what if I booked some embarrassing commercial for something personal like deodorant or something?”
“What’s so embarrassing about deodorant? Please. It does a public service.”
“But it goes under your arms and stuff.” I wrinkle my nose and shake my head. “What would Preston say?”
“Okay. Hold it right there.” She puts down her spoon and pushes the almost empty parfait glass away from her. “It has been less than twenty-four hours since you’ve been out of your first rehearsal, and you’ve mentioned this boy at least twenty-four times. That’s a minimum of one per hour. I haven’t said anything because you have a big decision to make, but what’s the deal? Isabel, we tell each other everything. Remember?”
I’ve been holding back about Preston. When you have this incredibly cute boy playing Romeo opposite you in a scene, it’s hard not to have a little bit of a crush on him. I’ve never really thought about “going out” with a boy before, but Preston Banner the Third could change all that.
“I am telling you everything. At least everything important. Preston seems like a very talented actor. I’m not surprised, since he is a Banner. They’re one of the most important theatrical families in the world.”
“Uh-huh,” she says, knowing that I’m stalling.
“Okay, and . . . he’s cute. He’s very cute.” Once I slip, I sort of fall down the mountain. “Oh my gosh, he has this perfectly groomed hair and this adorable accent.” I gush a little bit. If you can’t gush to your best friend, then who can you gush to?
“I knew it. You have a crush on him,” she says.
“It’s not like that exactly, but we’ll be in rehearsal for the next few weeks, and he’s been accepted to the academy for next year too.”
“So if you were able to go to the academy, you’d be in the same class?” she asks.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I say like I haven’t already thought about that a hundred times.
“Well, then it sounds to me like you’ve already made your decision about calling Honey.”
“What do you mean?”
“If you want to have any chance of going to school with this Preston Banner the Third and attending the academy, I guess you had better book some commercials.”
I put my lips on the straw of my lemonade and slurp up the last few drops before answering. “I guess I better make a phone call.”
CHAPTER 9
“Honey’s Kids. Please hold,” a voice says quickly on the other end of the line. I’m not even able to get a syllable out before easy-listening music starts pouring through the receiver at an unreasonable volume. Three minutes pass, and finally a voice says, “Who are you holding for?”
“I’m Isabel Marak Flores. I’m holding for Honey,” I say as politely as possible.
Then I hear the other person on the end of the phone scream, “Honey! Isabel. Line six.”
There are a few clicks and then silence, and then I hear Honey’s voice. “Hello, doll. I hope this call is going to be good news for both of us.”
“I hope so. I’d like to start freelancing with you if you’d still like to work with me,” I say.
“Absolutely. It’s crazy here, but I got all your contact information when you came in and I’ll be in touch.”
“Thanks. Thank you very much,” I say, and hang up.
Well, that’s that. I am officially one of Honey’s Kids. It will probably be a few weeks before she calls me in again to see if I’m right for anything. I make a mental note to polish up my monologues this weekend in case Honey wants to hear them next week before sending me out. I could do a monologue from Seesaw for One, but maybe I should start working on something new. I wonder if I’ll be ready to do something from Shakespeare by the time she calls. I know there aren’t many commercials done in verse, but still, that would really impress her.
The very thought of Shakespeare reminds me that Mr. Tipton asked us to prepare a full character sketch for our rehearsal today. I look at the pile of textbooks on my desk and decide that I better start working on my homework now, and then I can work on my character sketch. I’ll have plenty of time to work on a monologue for Honey this weekend. I take out my world history textbook, open up to the chapter on Mesopotamia, and start reading, but before I can even get through the first paragraph my phone rings.
The number looks familiar, but a name doesn’t appear with it, so it must not be in my address book. Still, I’m sure I know the number, so I pick it up.
“Hello?” I say tentatively, not sure who will be on the other end.
“Hey, Isabel. It’s Gary from Honey’s office. I have an appointment for you. Do you have a piece of paper and a pencil?”
Since I’d just started doing my homework, I have both those items right next to me, so I say, “Yes,” but I’m a little freaked out that I’m getting an appointment so soon. I’m not sure what my schedule will be next week. “I’m ready,” I say, although that couldn’t be further from the truth.
“This is at Mel Bethany Casting on Twenty-Second Street and Broadway. It’s for Fruity Pops. The wardrobe is weekend casual. Your time is for three forty-five.” I furiously write everything down and try to remember whether Fruity Pops are a cereal or a frozen dessert. I look over my scribbles and see that I didn’t write down the day of the audition. I hope it’s not too early in the week next week. I’d like to have at least a few days to prepare.
“Have you got everything?” Gary asks.
“Yes,” I say. “I only need to know what day the audition is.”
“What do you mean?” Gary asks.
“I mean is it next Tuesday or Wednesday? I think Thursday would work best for me, but I don’t want to be too much trouble. I could possibly do next Wednesday, depending on when I get the script.”
“Isabel, doll,” Gary says. I assume everyone in the agency follows Honey’s lead and calls the clients “doll.” “The audition is for today. Like in an hour and a half. The script will be at the sign-in. You can still make it, can’t you?”
Today? In an hour and a half? Is he mad? How in the world do I have time to prepare?
“Should I pull you from the list?” he asks.
“No,” I say. “I can make it. Thank you for the opportunity.”
I hang up the phone and wonder out loud, “What in the world are Fruity Pops?”
CHAPTER 10
Gary said the wardrobe for the audition is “weekend casual,” so I throw on what I wore on Saturday, since it was the weekend and it was casual. It’s a blue denim skirt and a black, red, and white shirt with this repeating geometric pattern on it. There isn’t much time to get to the audition, but still I stop in the Food Emporium grocery store near Union Square to find out what exactly Fruity Pops are. After a few minutes searching through the freezer section for some type of artificially flavored Popsicle, I finally ask a clerk, who points to me to the opposite end of the store. I’m relieved that Fruity Pops turn out to be a very respectable morning cereal. Although they are brightly colored pieces of puffed corn, they don’t seem offensive enough to destroy the Banner name. With that small bit of knowledge, I head over to my audition.
I take the elevator up, and when the doors open, my mouth drops open as if in time with the elevator. I’m in shock. Usually when I attend an audition it’s at a theater or a small rehearsal studio, and the director and casting director are sitting out in the audience in the dark. I rarely see any of the other girls auditioning. Maybe I see one or two, but they usually keep us pretty much spread apart. Here, I feel like I’ve landed on another planet.
There are girls everywhere.
All of them are about my age, and all of them are wearing about the same thing—a pair of simple light-colored pants and a solid pastel or muted primary-colored top. I look down at what I’m wearing. I must look totally out of place. My boldly colored top is the only print in the entire room. In addition to all the girls my age, there are women wearing khaki slacks, and all of them seem to be wearing some form of a sweater set in light blue, lavender, or mint green. It’s like some type of uniform, and everyone is wearing it. Everyone.
“Do you need help?” a blond girl about my age in a teal-blue polo and khaki pants asks me. She’s very pretty and looks very familiar. For a second I think I know her from somewhere.
“Hi,” I say. “Do I know you?”
The girl smiles brightly, puts her hand on my shoulder, and says, “I get that a lot. I’m Brittany Rush.”
“Isabel Flores,” I say.
“You look new here,” she says, eyeballing my outfit. “Is this your first audition?”
“Yes,” I say, and then, “No. I mean yes and no, I guess . . . I mean yes.” I’ve been on a ton of auditions for the theater, but this is the first time I’ve ever auditioned for a commercial, and so far the difference is pretty huge. “Does it show that much?”
Brittany scrunches her face and then leans in toward me and whispers, “In the future, I wouldn’t wear such a bold print. It makes the camera buzz.” She looks me up and down and says, “But you’ve got a great look. I’m sure you’ll be fabulous. In fact, a few months ago I might even have locked you in a broom closet.”
“Excuse me?” I ask. I hope she’s kidding, but there’s something in her eyes that makes me think she’s only half kidding.
“Don’t be scared,” she says, laughing. “I’m just teasing, sort of. I used to be really, really competitive, but I’ve calmed down a lot since I’ve been back. I was in Hong Kong for a year, and my best friend Phoebe, well, she . . . anyway, it’s a long story. Let me show you where you pick up the copy and where you sign in. It’s all pretty simple. C’mon.”
Brittany walks into the office through the large glass door. She shows me where the sign-in sheet is and then hands me a size card to fill out. It asks for my name, address, and every possible size you could imagine, from glove size to hat size. Brittany tells me to fill in the important ones and leave the others blank. We then walk down the hall, and I hand my size card to a woman who tells me to stand against the wall with my arms at my side. She takes a Polaroid of me that the camera spits out a second after the flash goes off. It has crisp white borders and a shiny, greenish-gray film over it. She waves the picture around a bit like she’s trying to dry it, and slowly I see the solid color yield to an image of me standing against the wall. The woman staples it to my size card and hands it back to me.
Brittany asks to see the picture and scrutinizes it for a second, then hands it back to me. “It’s fine for now, but in the future don’t smile with your mouth closed. Ever. It makes casting directors think you have bad teeth,” she says very matter-of-factly, and hands the card back to me. “And try to keep your eyes open.”
I look down at the picture and realize that I’m in mid-blink. It looks like someone was shining a flashlight in my face. Not my most flattering shot.
We walk back over to the place where I signed in, and Brittany grabs some of the papers that are in a folder next to the sign-in sheet. “This is the copy,” she says. “Sometimes they call them sides.” I look at the pages and quickly realize that these are just other words for the script. “Relax and be yourself,” she says. “They’re going by call time, so it looks like you’re going in next. My time is later, so I should be here when you get out.”
“Thank you,” I say. “This was really nice of you.”
“No problem. I’m making up for some bad karma,” she says, and gives me a little smirk. Somehow I think you don’t have to go back that many lifetimes or even weeks to find the black mark in her past.
The door next to the sign-in area opens, and a guy in his twenties with a trim goatee and torn jeans pokes his head out. “I’ll see Lisa Klein and Isabel Marak Flores now, please.” Brittany smiles and waves her hand, flicking her fingers in the direction of the door. My head is still spinning. A woman in one of the light-blue sweater sets gets up and walks into the studio. The guy with the clipboard looks around and then calls out, “Isabel Flores. Is Isabel here?”
“That’s me,” I say, and walk into the studio, not sure what to expect.
I follow the woman in the sweater into the room, but when I get inside I realize that calling it a room is a bit of an overstatement. It’s really a large closet. There’s barely enough space for a camera, a monitor, and someone to run the camera. Lisa and I stand against the wall opposite the camera.
“Hey, Lisa,” the young man behind the camera says. “I saw your Pizza Fantastic spot the other day. It’s hysterical. You and Phoebe are great.”
Lisa smiles and says, “Thanks, Nick. They seem to be running them a lot. I keep telling my son that Pizza Fantastic is going to pay for his college education if they keep running wild spots like that.”
My ears perk up when I hear this. That’s exactly what I’m hoping I can do with Fruity Pops. I have no idea what wild spots are, but hopefully this is one of them.
