Someday, Someday, Maybe Read Free

would if making a snow angel, only the accumulated junk is a lot harder to move. I give up for a moment, resting my cheek against the cool wooden floor with a sigh.
    “Do you have any idea how few actors make it?” people always say. “You need a backup plan.” I don’t like to think about it—the only thing I’ve ever wanted to be is an actor—but I do have one, just in case: to become a teacher like my dad, and to marry my college boyfriend, Clark. It’s not a terrible scenario on either count—my dad makes teaching high school English look at least vaguely appealing, and if I can’t achieve my dream here, well, I guess I can picture myself having a happy normal life with Clark, living in the suburbs, where he’s a lawyer and I do, well, something all day.
    I played the lead in lots of plays in high school and college, but I can’t exactly walk around New York saying: “I know there’s nothing on my résumé, but you should’ve seen me in Hello, Dolly! ” I suppose I could ask one of the few working actors in class, like James Franklin, if he has any advice for me—he’s shooting a movie with Arturo DeNucci, and has another part lined up in a Hugh McOliver film, but then I’d have to summon the courage to speak to him. Just picturing it makes me sweat: “Excuse me, James? I’m new in class, and ( gasps for air ), and … whew, is it hot in here? I’m just wondering … ( hysterical giggle/gulp ) … um … how can anyone so talented, also be so gorgeous? Ahahahahaha excuse me ( Laughs maniacally, runs away in shame ).”
    I just need a break—and for that I need a real talent agent. Not one who just sends me out on commercials, but a legit agent who can send me out on auditions for something substantial. I need a speaking part at least, or a steady job at best, something to justify these years of effort that might then somehow, eventually, lead to An Evening with Frances Banks at the 92nd Street Y. Most people probably picture receiving an award at the Tonys, or giving their Oscar acceptance speech, but the 92nd Street Y is the place my father loves best, the place he always took me growing up, so it’s easier for me to imagine succeeding there, even though I’ve only ever sat in the audience.
    Six months from today , I think again, and my stomach does a little flip.
    Trying to imagine all the steps that come between lying on the chilly floor of my bedroom in Brooklyn and my eventual appearance at the 92nd Street Y, I’m sort of stumped. I don’t know what happens in between today and the night of my career retrospective. But on the bright side, I can picture those two things at least, can imagine the events like bookends, even if the actual books on the shelves between them aren’t yet written.
    Finally, my fingertips graze the puffy ridge on the top of my sneaker, and I wedge my shoulder even more tightly under the bed, straining and stretching to grab hold of it. The shoe emerges along with a box of old cassette tapes from high school, my Paddington Bear with a missing yellow Wellington, and a straw hat with artificial flowers sewn onto the brim, which Jane begged me to throw out last summer.
    I push these shabby tokens of the past back under the bed, put on my shoe, and get ready to run.

2
 
    You have two messages .
BEEEP
Hello, this message is for Frances Banks. I’m calling from the office of Dr. Leslie Miles, nutritionist. We’re happy to inform you that your space on the wait list for the wait list to see Dr. Miles has finally been upgraded. You are now on the actual wait list to see the doctor. Congratulations. We’ll call you in one to sixteen months .
BEEEP
Hello, Franny, it’s Heather from the agency. You’re confirmed for Niagara today, right? Where’s the … Sorry, all these papers! Here it is. Also, just wondering if—do you have a problem with cigarettes? I’m working on a submission for a cigarette campaign to air in France, I think, or someplace Europe-y.