Bad Romeo (Starcrossed #1)(5)
Author: Leisa Rayven

My new false bravado feels heavy under his gaze. It slides off me all dirty and thick, and I stop laughing.

The gay boy pushes me away and turns to someone else. I’ve lost my vulgar butt-pumping charm.

The tall boy also turns away and sits with his back to the wall. He pulls a tattered book from his pocket. I catch the title: The Outsiders. One of my favorites.

I turn back to the noisy group, but they’ve moved on.

I’m torn between trying to regain my position and finding out more about Book Boy.

The choice is taken from me when the nearby door opens and a woman steps out. She’s statuesque, with short black hair and bright red lips, and she assesses us with the focus of a laser beam. She reminds me of Betty Boop, if Betty Boop were pee-your-pants intimidating and had a patent-leather clipboard.

“All right, listen up.”

The chicken coop falls silent.

“If I call your name, head inside.”

She fires off names, her voice clear and sure.

When she yells, “Holt, Ethan,” the tall boy pushes off the wall. He looks at me briefly as he passes, and it makes me want to follow. I feel false and uncomfortable without him.

Names keep coming. I estimate more than sixty people walk through the door, including “Stevens, Zoe,” who squeals before strutting inside. I flinch when I hear, “Taylor, Cassandra!”

As I grab my knapsack, the intimidating woman says, “That’s it for this group. Everyone else wait here. You’ll be collected by other instructors.”

She follows me through the door and pulls it closed behind her.

We’re in a large, black room. A multipurpose theater space.

On the far wall is a long bank of collapsible bleachers. Most of the group is sitting on them, chatting quietly.

The final count is eighty-eight. Sixty girls and twenty-eight boys. None of them look as nervous as I feel.

I sit, feeling like a clueless hack in a sea of more experienced city kids. My leg starts trembling again.

The instructor stands in front of us.

“My name is Erika Eden, and I’m the head of the acting department. This morning we’re going to do some character work and improvisation. At the end of each scene, I’ll let you know who will stay. I know what I’m looking for, and if you don’t have it, you’re gone. I’m not trying to be a hard-ass, that’s just the way it is. I don’t need to tell you that the Grove only takes the top thirty drama candidates from the two thousand who will be auditioning over the next few days, so put your best foot forward. I’m not interested in seeing hackneyed theatrics and fake emotion. Give me the real deal or go home.”

My fear of failure whispers that I should leave, but I can’t. I need this.

We spend the next half hour doing focusing exercises. Everyone’s desperately trying not to look desperate. Some people are more successful than others.

Zoe is loud and confident, as if her acceptance is in the bag. It probably is. Holt, Ethan is intense. Incredibly so. His interactions fire with restrained energy, like he’s a nuclear power plant being used to light a single bulb.

I try to keep everything real and natural, and for the most part, I succeed.

After each scene, people are cut. Some take it well and some crash and burn. It’s like a war zone.

The group numbers dwindle rapidly. Erika is fast and efficient, and every time she comes near me I think I’m gone. Somehow, I manage to survive.

When we break for lunch, we’re all quiet. Even Zoe. We sit in a circle, our minds stumbling over our monologues while we try to ignore that most of us won’t make it to callbacks tomorrow. A few times I feel my face burn and look up to see Holt, Ethan staring at me. He immediately looks away and scowls. I wonder why he seems so angry.

Back in the room, we’re paired off. I get assigned to a boy named Jordan who has acne and a lisp.

Each duo is given a scenario, and the rest of us watch. It’s like a blood sport. We’re all hoping the others will screw up so we have a better chance.

Zoe and Holt, Ethan are paired together. They’re supposed to be strangers at a train station. They talk and flirt while Zoe tosses her hair. I can’t tell if she’s more eager to impress Erika or Ethan.

Jordan and I play brother and sister. I have no siblings, so it’s kind of nice. We banter and laugh, and I have to admit, we’re pretty damn good. Erika compliments us, and the rest of the group grudgingly applauds.

At the end of the round, people are cut and tears are shed. I sigh in relief as I realize there are only about thirty of us left. The odds are getting better.

The partnerships are switched up. I get Holt, Ethan. He doesn’t look happy about it. He sits next to me as his jaw clenches and releases. I don’t think I’ve ever noticed a guy’s jaw before, but his is impressive.

He turns and catches me staring, and his expression is a perfect blend of a frown and I’m-going-to-kill-you-and-remove-all-your-skin.

Wow. We are so going to suck as partners.

Erika paces in front of the group. “For this last session, everyone will be given the same task. Your scenario is ‘Mirror Image.’”

Sounds easy.

“It won’t be easy.”

Dammit.

“This exercise is about trust, openness, and making a connection with the other person. No self-consciousness. No artifice. Just raw, pure energy. Neither of you leads or follows. You have to sense each other’s movement. Got it?”

We all nod, but I have no flipping clue what she’s talking about. Holt is rubbing his eyes and making a groaning sound. I figure he doesn’t, either.

“Right, let’s go.”

The first pair takes their position. It’s Zoe and Jordan. They take a few minutes to plan, then start to move. It’s obvious Zoe is leading and Jordan is following. They’re all hands and nothing more. At one point, Jordan giggles. Erika scribbles on her clipboard. I figure he just screwed the pooch. I smile. So does Holt.

Another one bites the dust.

The other groups perform in turn, and Erika circles them like a hawk, scrutinizing their every movement. She’s deciding who will make the final cut for callbacks. Most people are cracking under the pressure. I’m thrilled beyond words.

At last it’s our turn, and we stand in front of the group. Holt is jangling his leg. His hands are in his pockets, and his shoulders are hunched. It doesn’t fill me with confidence. I’d really like to pee and/or vomit. Because I can’t do either, I shift my weight from one foot to the other and beg my bladder to stand down.