get into the role. Her lines are so boring — “No, Dorothy” this and “poor Toto” that. When I finish, the panel claps again and Brian asks me what I’m going to sing.
“‘Over the Rainbow,’” I say. Suddenly I feel a little foolish. I bet everyone sings “Over the Rainbow.” Maybe another song would be more memorable, or at least a change of pace. Now I will be compared to every single girl who sang “Over the Rainbow” before me. Oh, well, too late to change now.
“I probably would’ve picked it even if I wasn’t auditioning for
The Wizard of Oz
,” I say. “I really like the song.”
Brian winks at me. “Me, too. It’s a classic. Do you need Nelu to give you a starting note?”
I shake my head, no, and silently curse my mother for never putting me in piano lessons. I could be halfway to being an opera star right now instead of floundering around like a fish out of water, a fish who wouldn’t know what note to start on if you gave her the choice of notes to pick from.
I have to clear my throat two times before I start, but when I sing, I think I sound all right. I look over the heads of the audition panel into the empty auditorium. It dawns on me just how many seats are in here. As I wonder whether or not I could sing in front of a full house, my voice wavers a bit. I decide to look over the audience and into the balcony, at the back windows. I imagine I’m looking for a rainbow, or at least a bluebird.
When I finish, my cheeks are flushed and I am feeling pretty proud of myself. The panel claps again and Brian leans over and says something to Nelu, who gets up and goes to the piano.
“Very nice, Clarissa. Now if you don’t mind, we’re going to get you to sing it again in a different key,” he says pleasantly.
“Key?” I repeat.
Nelu’s fingers spread over the piano and she plays a chord, followed by a single note. “Can you sing this note?” she asks.
I open my mouth and try to match my voice to the sound coming from the piano. It sounds right, although it’s just a little higher than I like to sing.
“Good,” Nelu says. “We’re going to sing it again, and this time I’m going to play with you. Just follow along with the piano.”
She makes it sound like the easiest thing in the world, but the song is much faster than I remember, and too high. My voice gets thin and reedy and I can’t seem to take in enough air to get through all the words. Soon I’m caught between whisper-singing and gasping for air. When we finish, my breathing is ragged, like I’ve just run the four-hundred-metre dash, sprinting the whole way. I’m so embarrassed I want to crawl under a rock and die — but I can’t, because I still have to do something called a range test.
The panel claps again, but this time it seems insincere, their smiles phoney. They probably have to clap after every person, no matter how good or bad they are. Nelu talks me through the range test, but my ears are buzzing and I’m trying so hard not to cry that I barely hear the instructions. She plunks notes and I follow along, trying to squeeze out the notes between the lumps that have formed up and down my throat.
When it’s over, Karen says something about a list and callbacks and thank you very much for coming, but I can tell by the way she is smiling indulgently at me and the pityin Nelu’s eyes that I will not be getting a call. The effort of holding back my tears is enormous, and starting to burn my throat. Images of my entire life, the life that I was meant to lead, flash before my eyes: me bowing on stage while fans throw roses at my feet; me at my first premiere; me on Oprah; me getting my first Oscar. They all disappear like words in the sand, washed away by the tide.
Karen gets up to shake my hand and I smile weakly before turning and getting the heck out of there as fast as I can without running.
Fine
When I get back, Mom and Denise are giggling over something in the kitchen. It’s embarrassing to
“‘Over the Rainbow,’” I say. Suddenly I feel a little foolish. I bet everyone sings “Over the Rainbow.” Maybe another song would be more memorable, or at least a change of pace. Now I will be compared to every single girl who sang “Over the Rainbow” before me. Oh, well, too late to change now.
“I probably would’ve picked it even if I wasn’t auditioning for
The Wizard of Oz
,” I say. “I really like the song.”
Brian winks at me. “Me, too. It’s a classic. Do you need Nelu to give you a starting note?”
I shake my head, no, and silently curse my mother for never putting me in piano lessons. I could be halfway to being an opera star right now instead of floundering around like a fish out of water, a fish who wouldn’t know what note to start on if you gave her the choice of notes to pick from.
I have to clear my throat two times before I start, but when I sing, I think I sound all right. I look over the heads of the audition panel into the empty auditorium. It dawns on me just how many seats are in here. As I wonder whether or not I could sing in front of a full house, my voice wavers a bit. I decide to look over the audience and into the balcony, at the back windows. I imagine I’m looking for a rainbow, or at least a bluebird.
When I finish, my cheeks are flushed and I am feeling pretty proud of myself. The panel claps again and Brian leans over and says something to Nelu, who gets up and goes to the piano.
“Very nice, Clarissa. Now if you don’t mind, we’re going to get you to sing it again in a different key,” he says pleasantly.
“Key?” I repeat.
Nelu’s fingers spread over the piano and she plays a chord, followed by a single note. “Can you sing this note?” she asks.
I open my mouth and try to match my voice to the sound coming from the piano. It sounds right, although it’s just a little higher than I like to sing.
“Good,” Nelu says. “We’re going to sing it again, and this time I’m going to play with you. Just follow along with the piano.”
She makes it sound like the easiest thing in the world, but the song is much faster than I remember, and too high. My voice gets thin and reedy and I can’t seem to take in enough air to get through all the words. Soon I’m caught between whisper-singing and gasping for air. When we finish, my breathing is ragged, like I’ve just run the four-hundred-metre dash, sprinting the whole way. I’m so embarrassed I want to crawl under a rock and die — but I can’t, because I still have to do something called a range test.
The panel claps again, but this time it seems insincere, their smiles phoney. They probably have to clap after every person, no matter how good or bad they are. Nelu talks me through the range test, but my ears are buzzing and I’m trying so hard not to cry that I barely hear the instructions. She plunks notes and I follow along, trying to squeeze out the notes between the lumps that have formed up and down my throat.
When it’s over, Karen says something about a list and callbacks and thank you very much for coming, but I can tell by the way she is smiling indulgently at me and the pityin Nelu’s eyes that I will not be getting a call. The effort of holding back my tears is enormous, and starting to burn my throat. Images of my entire life, the life that I was meant to lead, flash before my eyes: me bowing on stage while fans throw roses at my feet; me at my first premiere; me on Oprah; me getting my first Oscar. They all disappear like words in the sand, washed away by the tide.
Karen gets up to shake my hand and I smile weakly before turning and getting the heck out of there as fast as I can without running.
Fine
When I get back, Mom and Denise are giggling over something in the kitchen. It’s embarrassing to
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