Squeak

WARNING: Contains content about eating disorders and parental abuse

It's 6:30 in the morning. The cold bathroom tile makes my whole body shiver. I rub my arms and step on the bathroom scale. It creaks as it compresses under my weight. I feel conscious of every pound that makes up my body. The red needle flies up, then settles at the number 99. I let out a sigh of relief. My mother nods, "Not bad, we really gotta keep you under 100." She's sitting with her legs crossed on a stool. I nod and step off the scale. Last week I was 103. My mom had just about lost it. I put my shoes back on, bring me back to the forbidden hundred pounds.

The two of us get into the Jetta. The engine rumbles to life and we are on our way to the studio. I am still waking up, so I roll down my window. The cold morning air stings my face, but I need it to work its magic. I need it to make me feel less tired, at least for the next few hours. I don't get breakfast, so this is the only pick-me-up I'm allowed.

I stick my hand out and let the air push it away from me. I pretend I'm a bird, spreading my wingspan. The wind whirrs in my ears, and strands of hair fly infront of my eyes. I look at the cars ahead of us. If I were really a bird, I'd be able to read the license plates of the cars furthest away.

I see my mom turned towards me, her shouts muffled by the wind. She's pointing to the window. I shut it, and she reaches over to smooth my hair out with her fingers. "Layla, your hair," I start smoothing my hair with her, my hand still cold from the outside air.

"I pay way too much on it to have you ruin it just before a big audition." I squeeze the ends of my hair like a sponge to make sure the curls are still as curly as can be. "Sorry mom," I mumble, not sure what else I can say. She sighs heavily and turns the radio up. We drive past a school. I see kids playing on a playground. They're chasing eachother around, screaming with glee. I want to tell my mom to stop the car. I want to hop the fence and join them. Instead, we are driving to an audition, because my mom is somehow convinced that I'm destined to be a famous actress. We arrive at the studio. I grab my copy of the script, my mom grabs her purse, and we walk through the parking lot..

Inside are a lot of teenage girls just like me. We all have our own agents who got us this audition. We also all have moms with us who think we are the best one for the part, that there's no chance any other girl is getting it. We all sit in chairs. We all smell like hairspray. Some girls close their eyes and whisper their lines to themselves, like reciting a prayer. Some girls text their friends on their phones. Some girls talk to eachother. I do nothing but stare at the beige wall infront of me. A familiar gnaw is in my belly. I try to ignore it. It's like a little mouse, chewing on the inside of my stomach. I can hear the little mouse squeak, feed me Laya! We're so hungry. I sink into my chair. I cover my stomach with my hand, hoping it doesn't roar. My mom pokes the back of my neck and I sit up straight again. She's reading a magazine, probably imagining that it's me she's reading about. The girl across from me saw my mom poke me and scoffs. She is one of the girls who is ritualistically whispering the lines to herself. I hope she gets the part, and not me. If one of us is going to get it, it should be the one of us who wants it the most. Besides, if I get enough rejections, maybe my mom will finally give up.

"Layla Reinheimer?"

My mom gives my knee a squeeze to wish me luck. Like a soldier standing at attention I shoot up. I march down the hall. One two one two. Eyes shoot up from the chairs as I walk past. The girls are eyeing their competition. They're wondering if I'm any good at acting. The moms are seeing how skinny I am compared to their daughters. The mouse in my belly has grown, and it's crawled its way through my stomach, leaving it hollow. It's now crawled into my chest, making my heart thud. My arms feel heavy, but I march on.

A steel door opens and I am in the audition room. Two women and a man are seated infront of a table. A boy around my age has the same script as me. The rest of the room is our makeshift stage. This movie is really about his character, not mine. I hold the script loosely at my side, so I can pretend it isn't there. I already know the lines. We begin. I have turned into Sarah, the sweet, God fearing girl next door, who is oblivious to her neighbor's very obvious crush on her. I giggle, I blush, I twist my hair playfully. I've decided that Sarah is just pretending to be nice, in order to end this conversation with her weirdo neighbor as soon as possible. As soon as he leaves her alone, she's going to go back to the spyware in her room. You see, she seems like a good girl next door, but she's actually an agent for the CIA that was sent there to-

"Okay great, you guys can start again." The casting director cuts in. "This time, Tyler, I want you to be a bit more shy. This is the girl you have a crush on, you can't be too confident."

We have been asked to run the scene again, which is usually a pretty good sign. The casting director had no notes for my first run, and I wasn't even trying. I ask them for a few minutes to prepare. They agree, and I turn to face the other way. I look over the script, and I wonder if I can actually do this. In my first acting class, we would play improvisation games. There was one where you had to continue the scene by starting your next line with the next letter of the alphabet. If someone said "Can you pass the salt?" You could say "Don't tell me what to do!" or "Don't you need to watch your sodium levels?" Whatever you said would decide what kind of story would be told. Most kids would get stuck, but I could make it through the alphabet three times over if they let me. That was when acting was fun, but I don't get to just act anymore, I have to be perfect. I have to whiten my teeth and scrub the dead skin off my lips and smile, smile, smile. I have to cover my face with smelly powder and my skin with smelly lotion. Tyler doesn’t have to do any of that. He probably hasn’t stepped on a scale in months either. I glance over at him and see him chewing his lower lip as he concentrates.

I look down at my own script and notice my hands are shaking. I wipe the sweat from my forehead. Tyler whispers to me, "you're doing great, don't be nervous." I smile politely instead of telling him I'm not nervous at all, I just haven't eaten in two days.

What’d you have for breakfast this morning? Yellow paint! It’s all my mom lets me eat. Ready to go get lunch with us, Layla? Sorry, I’m not allowed!

They ask us if we're ready, I nod, ready to let go of myself and really become Sarah this time. We run the scene three more times. Then we run a different scene, this time taking place at school. Then they ask me to do a monologue by myself. The whole time, the mouse is laying peacefully in my stomach. Sarah ate a full breakfast this morning. She had eggs, toast, orange juice, and granola in yogurt. The table tells me thank you, and I turn to leave. Suddenly, the mouse jumps out from its hiding place and bites me hard. It's scratching with its claws and squeaks, Layla please feed us! Layla! Layla!

I focus on getting out of the room before anyone notices. I feel like I'm walking through water. The door is getting further away, not closer. I think back to the car ride from earlier this morning, and and the cool air on my face. I spread my wings and fly through the air. The cool air is on my face again. I blink and turn on my back. Four faces are all staring down at me. The cool fresh air was actually the tile floor. The mouse is clawing at the back of my throat, It's still squeaking Layla, Layla, Layla, are you okay? Layla, can you hear me?

I'm back in my mom's Jetta, with my knees to my chest. I hold my hands infront of the vent to warm up. The casting director gave me a snickers. She's having a talk with my mom. My mom looks concerned, nodding every now and then. Suddenly her face lights up. They shake hands, and she comes back to the car. "I knew you'd get it Layla, I just knew it!" On the way home, my mom is rambling about the audition, asking me questions, says we need to work on my confidence so I don’t faint again. It’s not like me to be so nervous for an audition. I’m only halfway listening to her, because I’m trying to concentrate on the movie script. We come home to a languid afternoon. I study my lines until I have to squint the pages, and my mom calls me down for dinner.