Bad Romeo Read Free Page A

down strict guidelines about where I could go, who I could see, and what I could do. Apart from that, he ignored me unless I was doing something really right or really wrong. I quickly learned there was less yelling and being grounded when I did stuff right. Getting good grades made him happy. So did winning awards for drama and public speaking.
    So, I worked hard. Harder than a daughter should to get her father’s attention. It’s safe to say all of my people-pleasing hang-ups came from him.
    My parents weren’t happy about my plan to go to drama school, of course. I believe Leo’s exact words were, “Like hell.” He and Mom were okay with me acting as a hobby, but with my grades, I could have had my choice of highly paid professions. They didn’t understand why I’d throw that away for a vocation in which 90 percent of college graduates were forever unemployed.
    I convinced them to let me audition by bargaining that I would also apply to the law program at Washington State. That bought me a roundtrip plane ticket to New York and the faint hope of leaving my approval-seeking husk behind.
    I knew when I started the application process that my chances were slim, but I had to try. There were other schools I would have been happy to attend. But I wanted the best, and The Grove was it.
    Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove Auditions
    My leg is shaking.
    Not trembling.
    Not shuddering.
    Shaking.
    Uncontrollably.
    My stomach is tying itself in knots, and I want to vomit. Again.
    I’m sitting on the ground with my back against a wall. Invisible.
    I don’t belong here. I’m not like them.
    They’re brash, and outrageous, and seem comfortable using the “F” word. They chain-smoke and touch each other’s private parts, even though most of them have just met. They brag about the shows they’ve done or the films they’ve been in or the famous people they’ve seen, and I sit here getting smaller and smaller each second, knowing the only thing I’m going to achieve today is to prove how inadequate I am.
    “So then the director says, ‘Zoe, the audience needs to see your breasts. You say you’re dedicated to your craft, and yet your misguided sense of modesty dictates your choices.’”
    A perky blonde is holding court, telling theatrical war stories. The people gathered around look captivated.
    I don’t really want to hear it, but she’s so loud I can’t help it.
    “Oh my God, Zoe, what did you do?!” a pretty redhead asks, her face contorting with exaggerated emotion.
    “What could I do?” Zoe asks with a sigh. “I sucked his dick and told him I was keeping my shirt on. It was the only way to protect my integrity.”
    There’s laughter and a smattering of applause. Even before we’ve stepped inside, the performances have begun.
    I lean my head back and close my eyes, trying to calm my nerves.
    I run through my monologues in my head. I know them. Every word. I’ve dissected each syllable, analyzed the characters, subtext, and layers of emotional subtlety, yet I still feel unprepared.
    “So, where are you from?”
    Zoe is speaking again. I try to block her out.
    “Hey. You. Wall Girl.”
    I open my eyes. She’s looking at me. So is everyone else.
    “Uh … what?”
    I clear my throat and try not to look terrified.
    “Where are you from?” she asks again, like I’m mentally challenged. “I can tell you’re not from New York.”
    I know her snide smile is directed at my department store jeans and plain gray sweater, as well as my boring brown hair and lack of makeup. I’m not like most of the girls here, in their vibrant colors, large jewelry, and painted faces. They look like exotic tropical birds, and I look like a grease stain.
    “Uh … I’m from Aberdeen.”
    Her face crumples in distaste. “Where the fuck is that?”
    “It’s in Washington. It’s kind of small.”
    “Never heard of it,” she says with a dismissive wave of her lacquered nails. “Do you even have a