Someday, Someday, Maybe (22 page)

BEEEP

Frances, it’s me, your father. I figured maybe they got rid of all of the telephones in Manhattan, but it seems they still exist. Please call me, your father, back
.

BEEEP

Hi, Franny, it’s Clark. Sorry we keep missing each other. I’ll try you back later
.

BEEEP

I don’t want to call my dad and talk about Katie’s wedding, or call Clark, or anyone else, until I see if there’s good news to tell. I strike a deal with myself that I will not make any other calls until I buy the paper, go to a diner, get a coffee, and complete the entire
New York Times
crossword puzzle. Only then will I allow myself to call Richard or check the home machine again.

On the way to the diner, I stop at a newsstand and buy the paper and some Marlboro Lights. I haven’t bought a pack in three days, and I recently vowed again that I wouldn’t smoke anymore, but I’m too worked up right now to quit smoking. I’ll quit again next week.

I’m almost done with my coffee and grilled cheese sandwich when I realize what the problem is. It’s Friday. I should have thought about what day it was before I made the deal with myself where I have to finish the
New York Times
crossword before I can make a call. From my seat in the booth, I can see the pay phone through the window of the diner—it’s free, ready and waiting for me to make the call. I can always get through the Wednesday puzzle at least, and sometimes Thursday. But not always on Friday, and today’s is an especially hard one. I’m not even close, not even halfway through it. Maybe this doesn’t count since I made the deal before I realized what day it was. But I don’t want to ruin my chances by breaking the deal. I’m itching to try the machine again. My leg shakes nervously underneath the table, and my hand grips the idle pencil too tightly.

Right after paying the check, I hurry outside to call Richard. I’m waiting on hold in the phone booth, shivering with nerves and the cold air, unfinished crossword puzzle still in my hand. I make a new deal with myself. I’ll never break a deal again, I swear, if just this once, breaking a deal didn’t jinx anything. Let it be good news just this once, and then never again—

“Franny! Did you get my message?”

“No. I haven’t checked them yet.”

“Well—I just left it—listen, they loved you at
Pinetree Lodge
.”

It worked! Even though I didn’t finish the puzzle.
Thank you, thank you
.

“They did?” I’m attempting to sound casual, but my voice is tight.

“Yes! They said you made sense out of a crappy scene—their words—and they thought you seemed smart and full of personality.”

“They
did
?”

“They did! Great job for a first read!”

“Thanks!”

“So, I can’t wait to keep getting you out there!”

I’m confused. It almost sounds like the conversation is over.

“Wait. That’s it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I say, and a little wobble creeps into my voice. I try to control it by clearing my throat. “I mean, I didn’t get the job?”

“The job?” Richard says, confused. “Oh, no, this was just a first read for the casting people. There’s a bunch of steps that have to happen after that.”

“Oh,” I say, relieved there’s more to come. “So, what’s the next step?”

“Well, they
loved
you, like I said. I mean, you know that no matter how well you did today, Jeff and Jeff don’t have the power to just give you the job anyway.”

“They don’t?”

“No, no. Sorry, I didn’t realize Joe never—well, anyway, let me walk you through it. They’re the casting guys, the first people you have to get past, and sometimes the hardest. They bring people in to read and then pass the best choices, the best people, on to the producers. That doesn’t just mean the best actors—it’s the people who best fit the part. Then you have to read for the producers, or sometimes you have to read for the director, or with another actor—you know, to see if there’s chemistry … I’ve had people have to go back for callbacks three or four times just for a small part, a few lines in something, and not even in something that good. It’s so competitive out there, they can afford to be choosy and get exactly the right person. It’s rarely a short process.”

I didn’t know any of this. It makes sense now that he says it, but it didn’t occur to me that there would be more to face after today, even if today had gone better.

“It’s just, that first time, when I got the job, it seemed like it was going to be so easy.”

“Yeah, I know. That was pretty unusual, though.”

“So I didn’t even make it to the next cut?”

“Not this time. It’s not going any further.
This time
.”

“Okay,” I say, making an involuntary sound somewhere between a cough and a hiccup.

“Franny, you did really well. This is positive feedback. You did great for a first reading. You said yourself this part wasn’t really your thing, right? You did a great reading for a part you’re not totally right for, and now they’ve met you and they like you and they’ll bring you in next time for something you
are
right for.”

I feel so stupid. Of course he’s right. I could hardly see myself in the part—how could anyone else? It would make no sense if I had gotten it. But still, there was a part of me that thought I would somehow. I have to introduce the part of me that feels like a winner to the part of me convinced I’m a loser, and see if they can’t agree to exist somewhere closer to the middle.

“Franny. This is a win. Just getting you in a room like that is something we’ve been working on for weeks, and now it’s happened, and you made a great impression. If it makes you feel any better, and you did
not
hear this from me, they’re already close to making a deal with somebody. One of our clients, actually. They had a last-minute session today just in case it doesn’t go through. But they basically have their choice already. This was, like, a backup session.”

It makes me feel even worse to know this whole thing was never a real possibility.

“Oh. Great. Thanks. That does make me feel better.”

“Look at it this way, Franny. You lost a job you never had. It’s not like you got fired, right?”

As I stand there clutching the phone, it’s as if I can hear some kind of siren or alarm, but far off in the distance. It’s a feeling I’m not sure I’ve had before, one in which I know something bad is about to happen but I don’t know what it is yet. The alarm is getting louder, and I’m suddenly nervous, not the audition kind of excited/nervous, but nervous like I’ve done something wrong, something I regret. What is it? Something Richard said: “
lost a job you never had … not like you got fired.”

It hits me all at once, the alarm, right next to my ear now, ringing full blast: the realization of what I’ve done, and the certainty of what the outcome will be.

It’s Friday, well past four thirty—past when my coveted shift at the club starts.

It’s Friday past four thirty, and I’m 100 percent certain I’ve been fired.

16
 

Herb didn’t even tell me himself that I didn’t have my job at the club anymore. He sent Ricky to the phone to give me the news.

“We’re slammed here. Prom group. It’s better that you hear it from me anyway, Franny. Neither of the understudies answered their pagers, and Herb is pissed.”

“But maybe if I tried to explain it to him myself—”

“He said giving you one more chance was one chance too many. He said your head’s just not in the game. You know, all his regular cop-show shit. He said you can pick up your last check anytime after Wednesday. Sorry, Franny. You’ll still come to my show though, right?”

“Yeah, of course.”

Then the following Tuesday in class, Penelope Schlotzsky showed up with a new haircut and lighter blond highlights. She ran her fingers through her new long layers with indifference: “Oh, this?
They
did it. For work. I had to do it for this
job
.” “Job” might as well be “jail” for how unglamorous she made it sound.

“What’d she get?” I asked Casey. “What job?”

“She’s like, the new lead on
Pinetree Lodge
,” Casey said with a shrug.

“Oh, really?” I said, trying not to sound too surprised. “I read for that.”

“You
did
?” Casey, said, impressed. “Wow. All I had last week was a go-see for Ebony Breeze perfume.”

“I almost went in on that, too.” I said, and Casey gave me a funny look as Stavros dimmed the house lights. “I’ll explain later,” I whispered into the darkness.

Penelope Schlotzsky
, I thought.
Of course
. I would have given it to her over me, too. But it still stings. How can a part I had no chance of ever getting still feel like it belonged to me, even a little?

So when Stavros assigned James Franklin and me to do a scene together, I was less excited than I might normally have been. I need a job like his girlfriend has, not a headache like him.

Still, a few days later, when I hear his voice, or what I think is his voice, talking into the answering machine upstairs, I run so fast that I bang my knee on the circular staircase while lunging for the phone.

“Ow, I mean, hello?” I say, a little short of breath.

“Franny?”

“Yes?”

“It’s James. Franklin.”

“Oh, hi.” I actually have to cover the receiver while I try to catch my breath. I’m audibly gasping for air.

“You okay?”

“Yes. Are you okay?” I shoot back, boldly.

“Am I … okay?” he says, sounding confused.

I try to adjust my tone and sound more breezy. “I mean, how are you? Okay?”

“Yeah, uh, I am. I’m actually in the neighborhood. Want to take a walk? I thought we could work on our scene, if you’re free.”

Am I free? I’m not sure. It would definitely be cooler of me not to be free, but I’d like something to do, since I do happen to be free. And anyway, he isn’t asking me out, therefore the never-say-yes-to-being-asked-out-on-the-same-day rule doesn’t apply here. It definitely doesn’t apply to scene partners from class who are just getting together to work.

But I hesitate. Who’s actually ever just in the neighborhood? Brooklyn is huge. I’ve never even told him my address. He could be in Coney Island inviting me to take a walk on the boardwalk for all I know.

“How can you be sure?” My question sounds mysterious and confident, I think, as if I’m a detective in a British mystery. I’m combing the misty London streets at night with my magnifying glass, finding clues no one else can see.

“How can I be … what?” he says, after a moment.

“How would you know where I live?” He must have not only kept my number, but researched me, too. Maybe he looked me up in the phone book, although I think we’re only listed under Jane’s name. That means he must have really had to work hard to find me. Then it hits me—James is also a client at Absolute. Maybe he called Richard at the agency and told him he needed to reach me, and maybe now there’s a rumor going around the office that we’re dating. I wonder whether the agency thinking that I’m dating an actor who actually gets auditions and books jobs will make them think more highly of me.

At any rate, he found me, I think to myself proudly. He somehow found me, so it must mean he’s at least a little interested.

“We’re all in the, uh, on the class contact sheet? I live sort of close by.”

Oh. Right
. Stavros’s class contact sheet. I forgot about that. We all have each other’s addresses and phone numbers so we can rehearse together. So I guess he didn’t really have to work that hard to find me. But that day on the street he asked for my number. Why would he ask for it if he had it already?

“So then, what was the point of asking for my number that day?”

I close my eyes and cringe.
Shut up
, I tell myself.
You’ll be working together for the next three or four weeks. Be cool
.

“I guess, because I wanted to call you?”

“Why not just use the contact sheet, then?”

For some reason I’m trying to ruin everything, even before there’s anything to ruin.

He clears his throat. “Because I guess I wanted to call you in the personal way, not the class-contact-sheet way.”

I’ve gone from bumbling idiot to positive genius, even if only in my own estimation. I have been forthright and bold, like a woman with actual confidence would be, and in return for my bravery I have received a direct and pleasing answer. I must always be this daring and spirited. I’m like a woman in a perfume ad. I’m carrying a briefcase, skipping through Manhattan in a flowing yellow pantsuit and impossibly high heels, so you know I’m not only hugely successful and independent, but irresistible, too. I picture James and me strolling hand in hand through the neighborhood in Brooklyn, a place where I’ve never strolled hand in hand with anyone.

I shake my head in an attempt to clear it. It’s ridiculous to be thinking of James as a potential boyfriend. He’s just my scene partner. We’re in class together. We’re working together, that’s all. His saying he wanted to call me in the personal way is cute, but he didn’t actually call me until today, so it doesn’t mean anything. Plus, as far as I know he’s still with Penelope, which means he likes someone whose signature contains a smiley face in the “o” of her name. If he likes her, I’m definitely not his type. I have to act more professional around James. He’s a real working actor in a world I’ve only imagined, and I want to be composed enough to potentially learn something from him.