Someday, Someday, Maybe Read Free Page A

Anyway, you wouldn’t have to actually smoke the cigarette, I don’t think—Jenny, does she have to put it in her mouth? No? Okay, so you’d just have to hold the lit cigarette while smoke comes out of it. You’d get extra for hazard pay. Let us know!
        BEEEP
    Today, I have an actual audition, which helped me to arise promptly at—well, only a few minutes past—my ideal rising time of eight. But that victory is behind me, and now I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and glare at my reflection in an attempt to look menacing. I’m a matador facing the angriest bull, but I won’t be defeated. Armed with the diffuser attachment by my side, I dip my fingertips deep into the jar of piney-smelling, jiggly Dep gel and pull out a giant dollop of green goo. Today, I’ll get you with quantity —you didn’t see that coming! Take that, hair!
    I finally tear myself away from drying and scrunching to face my very small, very packed closet. Over time I’ve realized that commercial characters tend to fall into one of three types, so I’ve gotten it down to three audition uniforms: Upscale Casual (person who works in an office—black blazer with padded shoulders, collared shirt), Mom Casual (person who works at home—denim shirt or plain sweater, khakis), and Slutty (person who dresses slutty). I’m so used to choosing an outfit to play someone else that on my days off, I struggle to get dressed as myself. I keep trying different looks, but I’m not sure what “me” wears yet. A few weeks ago I thought I’d found it: I’m bohemian , that’s it. I wear hippie skirts and hand-embroidered cloth shirts. I’m colorful but laid back. I combined the best of my flow-y pieces and proudly modeled them for Jane.
    “Was there a clearance sale at Putumayo?” she said, after a moment of silence.
    “It’s my new look,” I told her.
    “For the Stevie Nicks Fan Club?”
    “Jane, seriously. Say something helpful.”
    She tilted her head, studying me carefully. “Honestly, Franny, all I can think of to say is—you look like you work at a really great bakery in Maine.”
    I have class tonight after my audition, so today I go for young mom meets acting class: black sweater, black tights, short black wool skirt, and my Doc Martens oxford lace-up shoes—not super momish, but practical for walking. I’ve worn this combination so many times before that today my all-black outfit feels a little boring, a little blah. What would Jane do , I think to myself, and pull a chunky brown leather belt from the top shelf of the closet, slinging it low around my hips. Finally, taking weather and product into consideration, I take the top part of my hair and tie it into a small black velvet scrunchie on top of my head.
    The phone begins to ring from its place on the landing between my room and Jane’s.
    “Hi, Dad.”
    “Hello?”
    “Yes. ‘Hi, Dad,’ I said.”
    “Franny? This is your father.”
    “Dad. I know.”
    “How did you know it was me?”
    “I told you. We have caller ID now.”
    “Is it curable?”
    “Dad. It’s that thing where your number comes up when you call.”
    “What a horrible invention. Why would anyone want that?”
    “So you know who’s calling before you pick up.”
    “Why don’t you just say, ‘Hello, who’s calling’?”
    “Dad. What’s up? I have an audition.”
    “To the point, then. Your Aunt Mary Ellen wanted me to remind you to book a room for Katie’s wedding.”
    “ Shit —er, shoot. I keep forgetting.”
    “Of course the wedding’s not until June, but if you want to stay at The Sands by the shore, she said to book early.”
    “Okay, thanks.”
    “Franny, I’m worried about you.”
    “Why?”
    “Well, from my initial calculations, this new telephone identification system could save you upwards of twenty to twenty-five seconds per day. I’m concerned about how you’ll adjust to all the new free time.”
    “Har har.”
    “Also, one of my students says there’s a show