Participant Page 21

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, but I was already walking away.

  It didn’t take long to learn that the best part about being unemployed is sleeping in. And pajamas. I have a new routine. I wake up sans alarm, drink coffee, and apply to jobs, which is a job in itself. Strong organizational skills, ability to handle a heavy workload...sigh. Where does that get me? Updating my resume has revealed my place in the job market; the bottom, which is exactly why I was so reluctant to look elsewhere in the first place. I’m basically starting over. It’s like four years of my life got sucked into a vacuum; just like my seven year relationship. It seems the only thing I’m accomplished at thus far is wasting time and running in place for years on end.

  I was smart enough to sign up for a 401k to get the company match and stayed long enough to be fully vested, so at least I won’t walk away from Silver completely empty handed. I had plenty of vacation to cash out on, which buys me some extra time before money totally runs out, but I don’t know what happens after that. In the meantime, I have plenty of time to focus on my goals. I have goals?

  After sending job applications, I exercise. I still run, but I can also bring the gym to me just by pressing play on my DVD player. High intensity interval training is my primary torture of choice, with cardio sculpt and power yoga in between. Pushing my body to the limit gives me a sense of accomplishment I’ve not felt since my old gymnastics days. My heart pounds, sweat drips into my eyes, and my muscles tremble. Oxygen moves from my lungs into my bloodstream, but I’m still gasping for breath because the workouts are that hard. If I don’t feel like I’ve been hit by a truck after my post work out shower, I’m not sure I did it right. As my physical strength grows, so does my confidence.

  Without a job tethered around my neck like a noose, an unexpected halo of light has materialized and lit a fire inside of me. I was so caught up in what I couldn’t do that I conjured up all kinds of elaborate fantasies in my head, but never fully subscribed to possibility until now. It’s really weird how one day you’re just living your life from one day to the next without direction or purpose, and the next day, you’re driven by something bigger than yourself that you don’t even recognize. It’s as exhilarating as it is scary to be this vulnerable. To actively pursue something means you have to admit you want it. I like pretending I don’t care about things, but I realize now that caring is essential to the process. I have to acknowledge it. I want to be successful. I want to be an actress. Now I know exactly what it means to catch the acting bug. Once you get it, the desire is overwhelming and the only cure is success or complete and utter failure.

  Even though I told the girls it isn’t realistic, I want to be part of Agency Day. I’ll be good. They’ll like me. I won’t feel worthless. My life will get better. There is nothing else. I’ve latched onto this thing as the one thing that is going to change my life. My stomach does flip flops every time I think about what winning that acting scholarship would mean for me. Every sore muscle, every night I go to bed dreaming of pizza and every night I stay up late memorizing lines is another day closer to being the kind of me I want to be. Chloe Dillon was a Band-Aid holding me together with a false sense of well-being, but I want this to be real.

  I make my way down the dark, narrow hallway and up the creaky stairs. Earl’s acting class is held downtown in a walk up, storefront building in a cluttered space with dusty hardwood floors, industrial sized pipes in the high ceilings, and a perpetual draft that sweeps the room. Southern California is in the middle of a hot dry Santa Ana, but I can’t wear shorts here or else I’d freeze. I take a seat in one of the hard metal fold up chairs arranged in rows in front of the small wooden stage.

  I love this place. The class is three hours long, twice a week, and way more intense than Chloe Dillon’s. Everyone is in their twenties or older. Nobody gets dressed up for class or comes in overly made up. It’s not about how we look here. The only thing that matters is how we act and when I tell Earl I’m worried about being too old to do this, he says don’t worry about being old, worry about being good. Hollywood would have you believe that you have to be young and look like a super model to be an actress. Sure, it helps, but there are all kinds of roles that need to be played. According to Earl, if you have the acting chops, you have a chance. No one in his class skates by on good looks.

  When Laney walks in and takes a seat in the row ahead of me, I smile at her. I’m kind of in awe because she’s a “real” actress. She’s not famous or even exceptionally beautiful, but she has a great figure and a gorgeous mane of auburn hair which complements her pale skin, and large hazel eyes that occupy half her face. She books acting work and splits her time between San Diego and LA. She’s a card carrying member of the Screen Actors Guild and has been a student of Earl’s for one year. I overheard her talking about gearing up for her third pilot season last week. I looked it up that minute on my phone and discovered that it’s the stretch of time in Hollywood when they cast for new TV shows in development. Apparently, it’s a really big deal.

  I take out my sides as the rest of the class trickles in. A few minutes later, we hear Earl before we see him.

  “Are you ready? Are you hungry?” he shouts into the room as he walks to the front of the class with an exaggerated grin on his face, rubbing his hands together.

  I am hungrier than I’ve ever been in my life. Both literally and physically. I never thought I’d say this, but I’m not afraid of a slight hunger in the pit of my belly. I don’t need to be shoving chips into my mouth every day. It reminds me that I can be strong and that even with everything in my life that’s spiraled out of control, I’m fighting back and I’m taking action.

  “Laney, you’re up. And...let’s see. We’ll have you read with Ryan. Up you go,” he says as he heads towards the giant video camera set up on a tri pod at the back of the room. “Remember, relationship, relationship, relationship! What are they to each other? What do they want?”

  My stomach wells with envy as Laney runs through the scene with Ryan with such a natural ease, I can picture her on my TV screen. She makes it look so simple, but after Chloe Dillon plus intense classes here, I know it’s not. So much goes into bringing a character to life and it’s been really helpful for me to watch a real actress in action. Ryan is holding his own okay, but I can tell he’s a little nervous. A light sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead and I detect a slight shake in his hands as he gestures. Laney and Ryan stare silently at each other. Ryan has dropped a line and Laney signals him with her eyes, but neither one breaks character. If there is one thing we learn early on in Earl’s class, it’s that upon pain of death you should never, ever, ever break character. It’s the kiss of death and he’s kicked people out of class for it. They finish out the scene and immediately face forward to await Earl’s reaction.

  “Laney, I needed you to show a little more anger on that last line. You’re there. Ryan, what was that? We’ve gone over this correction before. Tell me.”

  “I need to slow down...right?”

  “Yes! Do you talk like that in real life?” He asks with exaggerated speed running the words together so that they’re barely recognizable. “No! So don’t do it in front of the camera. I don’t feel the words that are coming out of your mouth. Give me more. Much more. Lexi and Eric. You’re up.”

  Another slam dunk for Laney. She usually gets the least amount of criticism from Earl out of everyone in the class.

  I put my sides down and take my place across from Eric on the small stage. I still haven’t quite figured out if it’s good or bad to be paired with someone a lot better than me. A really strong actor is capable of stealing the show and making me look worse, but a weaker actor can make the scene a total disaster if someone doesn’t command the scene to keep momentum going. I overheard him telling Laney that he’s not getting the big roles he wants and is thinking about switching agents when his contract is up. I can’t imagine why not. He definitely has leading man looks with his smooth complexion, da
rk brown eyes rimmed in thick lashes and strong square jaw. And he’s really good; way better than I am and probably a very close second to Laney.

  Earl’s lips are pursed, and his eyes wild with expectation.

  I turn to Eric, take a beat then start out the scene with my line.

  PATRICIA

  I’m not really sure what happened. One minute, I was having a drink and the next, I was in a completely different place and we were all alone.

  JAMES

  You really need to be more careful. How many times do I have to tell you not to be so trusting?

  PATRICIA sighs and turns slightly away from JAMES.

  The pace of my words feels just right and I’ve worked really hard at not over-acting. That was my biggest criticism coming into the class from Earl. He kept telling me to be more giving in the scene, making me think I needed to do more only to have him yell at me and bang his fist on the wall. It’s the same thing he always yelled at Tessa for. It’s a delicate balance between acting and not acting enough. The scene between Patricia and James turns ugly, culminating in name calling and cursing. At the end of it all, Patricia is reduced to a sobbing mess of tears and anger. I fold inwardly upon myself to that place where I am no longer me, allowing myself to be swept away by her despair and emotions. It’s pretend, but real and so thrilling, I realize again why I want to do this. Actors are so powerful in the way they bring words on a page to life and make an emotional impact. Eric says his last word, and I’m glad to have made it through the scene without fudging a single line.

  I glance nervously at Eric and wipe at my wet eyes with the back of my hand. We wait in silence for Earl’s response. His words carry the weight of gold. We all desperately want his stamp of approval because once we’ve got it, we know we’re good enough to be seen and maybe even make a splash in front of casting directors and agents.

  “Fine. Let’s have Jay and Taylor up next.”

  Laney’s sculpted eyebrows jut upwards in surprise. Eric and I look at each other in stunned silence. No critique. I’m probably more stunned than Eric because I actually held my own in a scene opposite a guy with an agent who gets acting jobs. We both know that when we get to monologues, we might have him pounding his fists and pacing again, but in that scene for those three and a half minutes, we were good enough for “fine” and I’m that much closer to my goal. Maybe quitting my job isn’t the most stupid and irresponsible thing I’ve ever done after all. Okay, it definitely is, but maybe it’ll turn out okay anyway.

  Chapter 30

  I negotiate my foot through the narrow opening of a brand new pair of skinny jeans, pulling them over my slimmer hips, realizing how much things have changed. This time last year, I was employed, engaged, and fifteen pounds heavier, eating potato chips out of the bag while I watched TV. Now, I’m jobless, single, and somehow managed to become one of those alien creatures who forgets to eat sometimes. I will never give up lifesavers or chocolate, but I’m on board with this whole healthy eating as a lifestyle thing. It feels good to be active again, and I’m really starting to see some changes in my body. I turn sideways to admire my flatter stomach before driving over to Will’s house.

  I tried calling, but for almost a week, he wouldn’t answer. Standing on his doorstep, I hear the muffled shrillness of the doorbell coming from inside and strain my ears for the sound of footsteps. Just as I reach for the doorbell one last time, the door abruptly swings open. Will’s eyes are bloodshot and his T-shirt and pants are wrinkled, as if he’d slept in them, which is odd for someone who makes a habit out of ironing his jeans. He doesn’t seem surprised to see me.

  “She told me she called you,” he says with a resigned look on his face.

  I was taken aback when Will’s mom calling, appeared on my phone. She wasn’t my biggest fan when we were together, so I had no reason to stay in touch with her but never deleted her number. I was envious to learn Will managed to stay in North Park. That is, until I see the twenty-something, bare chested guy on the couch, wearing rumpled sweats and eating a giant plate of spaghetti with his dirty house slippers propped up on the coffee table. Roommate. He glances in our direction, then turns his attention back to the TV. Will leads me past the messy kitchen with a sink full of dishes to his bedroom and closes the door. The small room is so cluttered with boxes, I can’t move until he clears a path to his bed and gestures that I should sit down.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  “Yes, I’m fine,” he says to me without making eye contact. He runs his hand over fresh stubble sprouting from his head. “I had to shave it for the biopsy.”

  That explains the beanie he was wearing when I saw him. When he sits next to me, the large, angry, C-shaped scar on the left side of his head just above his ear comes into view, causing me to take an involuntary inhalation of breath.

  “Will, I ran into you last month. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It’s not an easy thing to say.”

  “I guess not,” I reply, staring down at my hands in my lap.

  When his mom told me he had brain cancer, all the blood rushed to my head and my stomach instantly churned to the point of nausea. He’s young and healthy. It can’t be true. I shook my head in disbelief as she went on to tell me the good news is that his chances of survival are great because he’s young and in good health otherwise, and his cancer is operable. The last thing she said before we ended the call was, “He needs you.”

  “It’s treatable. I have to have surgery to remove the tumor, then go through chemotherapy and radiation. I’m supposed to get everything started next week.”

  “But of course I would want to be there for you. I tried calling.”

  “I didn’t want to involve you in this, and, as you can see...” he says, gesturing at the clutter surrounding us. “I’m moving. I’m going back to Columbus. I’ll live with my mom while I undergo treatment. There’s nothing you can do.”

  Leaving? His mom never mentioned that. Knowing he was still around somehow eased the transition from engaged to no contact, so it’s weird to think of him really being gone.

  “I’m finally going home. I’ll be less than three hours from Anderson,” he says somberly. A tear barely escapes the corner of one eye before he wipes it with the back of his hand and turns away from me.

  I have never seen him cry, not once in the seven years we were together, and it breaks my heart to see him doing it now.

  “Your mom has to work. Is she still at Value Save? Who will take care of you?” Will has no family, and his mom is a cashier at a discount chain store. She can’t be making much money. From what I understand, she barely gets by. His dad left when he was four and his mom raised him alone. I still don’t know the whole story behind what happened to his mother’s family. I don’t think he does either, but he’s an only child and there are no aunts, uncles, or cousins to speak of.

  “Yes, she does, but we’ll figure it out,” he says.

  I feel terrible. I want to wrap my arms around him and pepper his face with kisses to try to make it better, but we’re no longer together and there’s no kiss that can save him from the battle that lies ahead. I don’t know what to say. I don’t know what to do. I reach for his hand, and bite my lip to fight the tears that want to fall. I don’t think I’m allowed to cry in this situation.

  He’s not my fiancé , and I’m not the one with cancer.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” I ask.

  He looks around the messy room. “No. Not unless you can make all of this stuff disappear.”

  “I can,” I say, anxious to do anything to help. “I have a small storage unit. I can store some boxes for you, if you need me to.”

  “But I don’t know if I’m coming back.”

  The finality of those words rocks me to the core. When I jogged away from him on the beach that day, I didn’t know if or when I’d ever see him again. I was fine with that, but now that he is gravely ill, never seeing him again takes on a whole new meaning.

&n
bsp; I stay awhile to help him organize and pack his room, because I’ve always been better at that stuff than him.

  “I want you to have this one,” he says, placing the Softly for Digging DVD in my hand. It was hands down our favorite horror movie. We watched it over and over again, then went to the theatre on opening weekend to see the remake. I grasp the case with both hands, clasping it to my chest. I hold his gaze with mine.

  When it’s time for me to go, I linger in his doorway, not sure what to say. See you later, feels flippant and, good bye, too final. “Take care of yourself, and don’t be a stranger.” That doesn’t feel right either.

  He extends his arms, gesturing for a hug, and without hesitation, I step forward, leaning into him with all my weight.

  That night, I lie in bed, tossing and turning all night, unable get the word cancer out of my head. I finally fall asleep, but nightmares interrupt my sleep throughout the night. They all include Will. He is thin and frail in a hospital bed, reaching out to me, or he’s swimming upstream, with a bloody bandage plastered to his head, and sharks circle him. He calls out to me with his eyes, then a pack of sharks drag him to his death beneath the water. When I startle awake, I realize I failed him, and for what? A job I hated. To live in a city I can barely afford? I’m overcome with guilt, because instead of going home to pursue his education like he should have years ago, he’s going home to pursue cancer treatment. Who knows, maybe if I’d allowed him the chance to pursue his goals, he would have been happier. I wouldn’t have been miserable at Silver. Maybe both of us would have been better off, had I not been so selfish.

  The next morning, I can’t focus on anything besides Will. The terrible image of him dying in a hospital bed, alone, haunts me. I know he has his mom, but for seven years, I was also his family. He has no one else. I’m exhausted from lack of sleep, and there’s an unbearable weight pressing down on my shoulders, causing an ache in my heart that won’t go away.