Debut

The audition room reeks of stale coffee and mothballs. Not particularly surprising, all things considered, as the place is on the third floor of some obsolete office building off the west side. A flash of worry crosses my mind for the safety of my Mercedes, but I push it back with a quick reminder of my situation. This is more important. My headshot got me this far - now is the time to prove myself. 

The space isn’t anything special, mostly empty. Some studio lights, a blank backdrop behind me. Two shriveling forms huddled behind a cheap plastic table strewn with styrofoam cups and loose-leaf paper, neither of them looking at me. The only eyes on me are from the cameraman in the shadows. I steady myself in my four-inch heels, squeeze the packet of paper in my right hand. After about ten seconds, the larger shape - a male - turns his gaze toward me.

“Name?” Showtime.

“Jennifer Sloane. But, please, just call me Jenny.” I extend a limp hand toward the drooping man behind the table, and he eyeballs it for a moment before wrapping his sweaty fingers around mine. 

“Sloane, alright. You got the script and everything already?” His head is low again, eyes focused on something on the table. I tip my chin back, study him from my superior vantage point. Is he flustered? A guy like this, constantly surrounded by actresses and models, sitting here all greasy and distracted. The woman next to him hasn’t looked up from her phone the entire time. I can hear the gum popping in her mouth.

“Of course.” 

“Alright. Could you stand on that X for me?” His beady little eyes are on the floor now, a pen waving around in one hand. I follow his gaze to the spot near my left heel. 

“This one?” 

“Yeah, the red tape. Just a little farther back, that’s good.” If he was flustered, he’s regained his composure by now. I bite back a frown, fix my hair with one hand as I look back to him. I put on what I hope is a compelling smile. The woman behind the table has put down her phone and is staring at me with utter disinterest. 

“Camera?” She doesn’t bother looking behind her, just barks the question to the shrimpy college kid operating the tripod. 

“All good.”

“Right. Sloane, you got scene two?” I give her a little nod and flip to the second page in the script. A quick scan of the words, a millisecond-long mental rehearsal. I look back up at the table. Deep breath. Smile harder.

“Ready whenever you are.”

I’ve never met this man before, and apparently he’s also never met me. I found our half-finished conversation buried under twenty others, sent a quick apology for being so busy, and asked if he was free anytime soon. Somehow, it worked. And here we are, sharing an overpriced lunch at an Italian restaurant my sister used to sing praises of. 

For a dating app catch, he’s none too shabby. 24, well-built, clean haircut, fresh shave. No ring on his finger, that’s always a win. I’m willing to bet he’ll insist on paying for my shrimp scampi and aged wine. 

“How’s the pollo alla piccata?” My question freezes him for a moment. He looks up from his plate mid-slice and fixes me with a small grin.

“Oh, just perfect,” he says. “The scampi?”

“To die for.” 

I don’t remember this man’s name. He looks back to his plate, a light blush dusting his tan cheeks, and I slip my phone out of my pocket under the table. Tap in my sister’s birthday, scroll through dozens of unopened messages, navigate to his profile.

“So, Jerome.” His eyes snap up to meet mine, fork hanging an inch from his open mouth. “What do you do for, you know… fun?”

“Fun?”

“Yeah. Like, hobbies, working out…” I let my eyes wander over his shoulders, down his pectorals. “Whatever you do in your free time, you know.”

“I, uh…” He puts his silverware onto his plate. I lean back in my chair, tilt my head to the left. Push a curious pout onto my lips - he’s practically drooling. “Oh, yeah. Just working out, really. I’ve been trying to get into cooking, too, lately.”

“Oh, cooking? Really?”

“Yeah. I mean, if you want, I could always make us a meal.” He wants it. He’s begging, on his knees. If I asked him to turn over $500 right now, he just might.

“How chivalrous,” I goad, glancing to the right as I dab at my lip gloss with a pinky. Never hold eye contact for too long, keep him guessing. “I should probably finish my scampi first.”

“What do you do for a living?” He’s fighting to keep the momentum as I begin twirling noodles around my fork. I don’t respond for a few seconds - bring the fork to my mouth, suck the noodles in with my tongue, skewer a single shrimp and add it to the mix. I look back up at him as I’m chewing, brows high, lids low. I chew. I chew. I chew. And I swallow.

“I just quit my office job the other week. I’m starting a career in acting.” His pupils dilate to twice their size. 

“Acting?”

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted to be an actress, and I figured there’s no time like the present.” I look back at my plate, start twirling more noodles. “I just had an audition this morning, actually. Thought it went pretty well.”

“That’s really cool, actually. Putting yourself out there like that.”

“Well, you know.” I chew for exactly eight and a half seconds. He doesn’t break eye contact until I do. “What about you?”

I don’t hear a single word he says. I’m doing the math - if we go back to his place now, spend a few hours fooling around, I should be back to the house in time to leave for my 6:30 spa appointment. I won’t take him up on that dinner invitation tonight. I give this a ten percent chance of making it to a second date. Do I really want to be stuck to a guy named Jeremy?

He pays, of course. Tip and everything. 

“Why did you choose to do it?”

“Do what?”

“What you talked about at lunch. Quitting your job, becoming an actress.” He tilts his head toward me. I turn away from the intensity of his gaze. “Did anything, like, prompt it?”

We’re laying in his bed, TV playing some reality show in the background. I can’t even see the screen from my vantage point, only his bare body curled beside mine. His fingers are making light circles on my skin, growing larger, then smaller, in diameter. It’s a nice sensation, forcing me to relax against him. I focus on the feeling for a few seconds before answering.

“I guess my sister, probably. She just got out of prison.” I’m staring at the ceiling, but I can feel him stiffen next to me.

“Prison? For what?”

“Just shoplifting.” I chew my lip until a flake of skin peels off. I bite it off, chew, swallow. “She had priors.” 

“That’s a shame.”

“Yeah, well.” My lip begins to bleed, and I suck the blood into my mouth until all I can taste is copper. “She’s living in my house now. Reminding me of things I thought I’d let go of.”

“Good things?” His hand is roving over my bare back, pulling me closer by the small of my waist. The girl on TV is whining about her manicure. I stare at the ceiling, count the ridges in the white paint. 

“I wouldn’t be acting, otherwise.” He’s not really listening, preoccupied with my collarbones, smattering them in sloppy kisses. I can make out the vague shape of a person in the ceiling, a woman staring right back down at me. Splayed out naked across a stranger’s bed.

“Mm-hm.”

“We’re really similar, really, her and I.” He’s in a different dimension now, not even looking at my face. I could say anything. I could tell him I want to kill him, detail how I’d rip him to pieces, and he’d just keep touching me, humming along with yeahs and sures. Because nobody cares what you have to say when you’re pretty. Nothing you say is worth listening to. It’s just a race to get into your pants. 

“Sure.”

“But she could never get past me, not as kids, not as teenagers. Our parents only saw me. They never even acknowledged her, after a certain point.” I run a hand through his mess of hair. His grip on me tightens. “I was a genius. I’d go onto Hollywood, tear my way through business school, whatever I wanted. She was dead to them the moment she started shoplifting. She didn’t even have to do time the first time, they just refused to pay bail.”

“Yeah.”

“Because who gives a shit about the little sister, the failure? Who wants a criminal to taint the good daughter’s perfect image?” I dig my nails into his scalp, and he winces. I cover it up with another head rub, and he ignores the damage to begin kissing up my neck. 

“Jenny?” I look at him for the first time, breath catching.

“Yeah?”

“You are so sexy.” My heart sinks as he leans into my ear. “Round two?”

I tell him I have a 3:30 spa appointment.

The house is cold when I step inside. I kick off my heels, toss the car keys onto the front table, peel off my bra from under my shirt, throw it onto the couch. By the time I reach the kitchen, I’m a new woman, a comfortable woman, a woman in desperate need of a cold glass of red wine.

As far as bachelorette pads go, this place is a dream. I did some research on Zillow out of curiosity the other day - around 1,200 square feet. Two bathrooms, two bedrooms, a fully furnished kitchen, family room, dining room, and a half-finished basement. A luxury home. Almost too much for one person. 

I make a lap around the kitchen while sipping on my wine, pile some miscellaneous food onto a paper plate. Two slices of sharp cheddar, a nice bunch of green grapes. Two slices of wheat bread. A little pile of salted almonds. I weigh the plate in my hand, add another slice of cheese. A healthy, balanced meal. 

The basement has a distinct smell, one you can pick up as soon as you open the door. It’s not a bad smell, per say, but it’s definitely noticeable. I grimace as I pick my way down the stairs, feeling my way through the dark with my wine glass in one hand and the plate balanced on the other. I can only turn on the lights at the bottom of the stairs - a pretty glaring design flaw, if you ask me. They didn’t mention that on the Zillow page.

A muffled groan sounds from the far end of the basement at the presence of light. A crumpled form begins to twitch, drawing itself upright against a metal support beam in the middle of the floor. I give it a smile and extend the plate toward the ceiling.

“Dinnertime!” It lets out another grunt of displeasure and resumes its violent twitching. I place my wine glass on the cement floor and stride toward the source of the motion. It freezes as I draw close, eyes wide and bloodshot. When I crouch down next to it, it tries to pull away. I lean in until it can feel my breath on its face. “Oh, come on, sis. Aren’t you hungry?”

She’s silent for a moment, then begins making her muffled protests again. I steady her chin between my thumb and forefinger before ripping the duct tape off her mouth with my other hand. She doubles forward, gasping for air, saliva dripping from her bleeding lips. She continues like this for a moment, panting and spitting, before meeting my gaze.

“Please.” Her voice is cracked, unrecognizable. “Beth, let me go. I won’t go to the police. Please. I’ll give you mon-”

“You had an audition this morning,” I cut in, picking a grape off the stem and pressing it to her lips. She sucks it into her mouth and chews quickly, eyes beginning to water. I pick more grapes as I continue. “Went pretty well, I think. And after that, you had a date with some guy whose name starts with a J at a nice Italian restaurant uptown. You had shrimp scampi, and it was decent, maybe a seven out of ten.” She stops eating after the third grape because she’s crying too hard. I switch out the fruit for the bread, tear it into smaller pieces, push each one into her gritted teeth.

“Please,” she repeats. I can barely tell what she’s saying. It’s pathetic, really.

“You had sex with him, and that was also decent, maybe just a six out of ten, really. And in, what, three hours, you have a spa appointment, where you’ll get a new set of nails to celebrate your new life.” She turns her head away from me, and I twist her chin to face me again.

“Beth, please. Please. You don’t have to do this.”

“Stop calling me Beth.”

“Beth. Elizabeth. Please.” Snot and tears are running down her face in such great volume, she looks like she just got waterboarded. I pull away in disgust and begin feeling around for the roll of duct tape. “Please, no, no, no, listen to me. Listen to me!”

“You have nothing to say.” My fingers meet the roll of tape, a fun neon pink color from our childhood. Back when we used to make duct tape wallets together. Back when she wasn’t too embarrassed to be seen around me. I peel a nice strip off, relishing the sound.

“Beth! Please! I’m sorry you feel this way, I’m sorry you- no! No!” She tears her face from my grasp and starts screaming at the wall. “Help! Help! Anyone, any-”

And then she’s quiet again, writhing against the metal beam and the layers of duct tape binding her torso, arms and legs to her luxury basement. I kick the plate away from her and retreat across the floor to pick up my half-finished glass of wine. I stand there for a moment, staring at her heaving form from the bottom of the stairs, before flicking the light back off.

I have to get ready for my spa appointment.