CHAPTER 23 (3)

` Two other hands go up—a guy named Jorge I met in Entertainment Management and another girl. “Wonderful. Dilettantes in our midst.” Andie snorts next to me, and she shoots me a “WTF” look as Ms. Tamayo turns away. “Today’s challenge is as follows,” the professor continues. “I will hand you a sheet of paper with a scene on one side and the character’s bio on the other. Read the scene without looking at the bio. Your task is to get into your character’s head quickly and understand them from their words alone.” She points at me. “You want to be here so badly, let’s find out why.” I head to the front of the room, squaring my shoulders. I can do this. I’ve been in front of far larger crowds. But this feels like my first sort-of performance at Vanier, and it matters. “I wish you’d listen to me,” I read off the sheet she hands me. “I know you think I stand in your way, but I’m not trying to stop you. I’m trying to save you.” A few snickers sound from my classmates looking at the back of my card. I ignore them and go deeper. I feel the pain in the words. Burrow into it as I read. When I finish the scene, I draw a long breath. Ms. Tamayo gestures at my card, and I flip it over. “Wait—I’m a crossing guard?” The class bursts into laughter, and my cheeks flame as I go back to my seat. And it’s Andie’s turn. She gives a more subtle performance, and I realize this is harder than I figured. For the last year, all I could think about was coming here, how everything would be solved. Now, as I look at my talented classmates, I realize how far from the truth that is. “That was brutal,” I blurt as we head back upstairs after class, passing a dozen practice rooms, all occupied. “I’ve been booed off stage before, so I’m not going to lie to you. It was pretty bad,” Andie replies. “I need to get out of here,” I decide as we emerge from the stairwell and head down the hall toward our rooms. The door to my room is open, and Rica’s inside, at her desk on her computer with headphones covering her ears. “Then let’s go out tonight,” Andie says, dropping onto my bed as I set my books on my desk. “I saw this place called Leo’s that looks cool. They have an open mic night Wednesdays.” “You’re gonna need ID.” We both look over in surprise at Rica’s voice. She turns toward us, tugging off the headphones. “My cousin gave me her old license,” Andie says. Rica crooks a finger, and Andie digs out a driver’s license. Rica scoffs. “She’s got four inches and thirty pounds on you.” “I’m an actor. It’s all about posture.” Andie snatches the card back and shoves it in her pocket. “I don’t have ID.” I’m sure I could’ve figured out how to get one, but back home, there weren’t clubs close by. An idea strikes me. Jacob. I fire off a text. The response comes almost immediately. Beck: Two hours. Fifty bucks. I got you, Manatee. After dinner, someone drops off an ID at my door and waits while I get her cash. I try not to overthink my outfit, deciding on tight black jeans and a matching tank top with my black suede boots. In case it’s cold, I throw on a denim shirt overtop. I twist my hair up in a high bun, then add a hint of mascara, plus some matte red lipstick. By ten, Andie and I find ourselves outside Leo’s. It’s beautiful, industrial, like nothing I’ve seen back home. Like an old factory with stories to tell. It’s also packed. “Who is Leo?” I wonder aloud as we wait in line. “Owner’s dead dog,” Rica answers. “Really?” I ask. I’m still surprised she came, but maybe this is a spot of hope. “No fucking clue.” She ducks out of line, and we stare before trailing after her. Rica stomps up to the door. The bouncer ignores the line of people waiting to glance at our IDs and let us inside. “How did you do that?” Andie demands of Rica but doesn’t get a response. The inside of the venue is exposed brick, long and skinny, and one story with high ceilings and a stage at one end. The bar’s in the center of the room, two thirds of the way from the stage. It’s round with a number of bartenders working different sections. The lights behind the bar are old-school theater style, and they spell out “LEO’S” in a burnt-orange glow. A guy’s on stage playing piano, crooning into a microphone. He’s good, and I let myself fall into the spell he’s weaving. “You came all the way down here to watch?” Rica tosses at me before disappearing through the crowd. “You know what?” I call to Andie. “She’s right.” I head toward the stage doors, Andie on my heels, and find the woman in charge of the open mic slots. She looks me up and down, from my tight jeans to my plaid shirt to my ponytail. “We’re full.” Dismay works through me as I crane my neck to see her list. “The whole night? Can I at least get on the list for next week?” “We’re full every week. I can’t bump one of my regulars for you. Gotta keep this crowd happy.” I bristle, but Andie grabs me and drags me to the bathroom. “She’s just putting you off.” Half a dozen other girls compete for sink and mirror space, washing their hands and touching up their careful makeup. Every one of them looks different, but they’re all unforgettable. It’s a reminder I’ve never lived on my own, never truly made my own way. I’m in a strange city, lying to everyone about where I am and who I am… And for what? To drink and watch someone else play music? Fear slams into me as I stare into the mirror. “You done?” an unfamiliar voice demands, jockeying for position. You didn’t come here to blend in. You survived getting heartbroken, worked your ass off, and now you’re here. Don’t let them say no. The resolve I’ve built over the past year is a block of iron in my chest, heated by my frustration until it glows red. I strip off my shirt, leaving the tank underneath, and tug out my elastic, fluffing out my hair so it explodes around my head, falling in crazy waves around my shoulders. I pull out a dark pencil and use it to rim my eyes, top and bottom, until my lashes look even thicker and my eyes pop. Then, I pull out gloss and slick it over my red lips. “I’m not sure what your plan is,” Andie drawls, “but this doesn’t go with your outfit.” She unclasps my necklace and hands it to me. I hesitate before dropping it carefully into my purse. “Thanks. Art is art,” I say, turning to inspect myself from the side. “But they need to sell drinks too.” Andie lifts a brow. “You sure you want to do this?” I take a deep breath. “No.”