Two girls beat her to the end of the line. For some reason, Eleanor felt more threatened by these two than all the rest, as if watching them assume her spot in line was foreshadowing for what would happen in the audition. One of the girls was a short redhead, her hair more brilliant than Eleanor’s, the other tall and reedy.
“I hope they make us dance,” the redhead was saying. “Though you’ll be better than me.”
Dance? Was that even an option? Eleanor had memorized the Charades audition notice. Dancing wasn’t mentioned. Sixteen bars of your best musical theater ballad, the ad had specified. Eleanor had brought three choices. In addition to “The Man I Love,” she’d brought a Don Mannheim selection called “Somebody” and a piece by a composer called Marc Blitzstein titled “I Wish It So.”
The auditions began at ten. How early had the first girl in line arrived? Eleanor shuddered at the thought that there were girls here who might do more for a role. Vague images ran through her head of experience she didn’t have and games she didn’t understand. She had heard of the casting couch. She’d never done more than kiss a boy. In the privacy of her mind, she admitted she would do anything for the role if she knew how.
After an hour, a young man holding a coffee in a cardboard cup came by with a sign-up list. Eleanor gave him her brightest smile.
After another hour, the line began to move.
“I thought the auditions were at ten?”
The redhead in front of her turned. Eleanor noticed her whole face was freckled, in an uncommon but pleasing way. She held herself like she wasn’t even embarrassed about them, as Eleanor was about her own. This girl had the high-volume version of Eleanor’s looks: her hair flame, her eyes bright amber. She looked at Eleanor like she could not have been more bored with her question, shrugged, and resumed her conversation with her willowy friend.
The line continued to move slowly. Eleanor was now even with the marquee. It wasn’t lit up because it was daylight, but she could see the bulbs. The logo was bright blue with yellow accents, and in the morning sun, the artificial colors and modern font clashed against the sky. Everything in Times Square did. Standing there, looking up at the blue and remembering she was on Earth, the same place that held trees and creeks and Wisconsin, she felt vertigo.
The line moved again, and she was at the box office door. Through it she could see deep-red plush carpet, the walls beige with golden accents running along the bottoms. Behind another set of doors was the actual theater. Before she could stop herself, she began to cry.
Crying was terrible for singers. Talking through tears was hard enough; sustaining notes was a trick, and controlling vibrato was next to impossible. Eleanor shut her eyes tight and tried to breathe, too loud. Once again she attracted the attention of the girls in front of her.
“Are you all right? You look like you’re about to keel over.”
“I’m fine,” Eleanor said. “Just overcome. I’ve never been to New York before.”
The girls softened, as if she were a child. “How do you like it?”
None of the words that came to mind were enough. “I want to live here.”
The redhead touched Eleanor’s arm. “Darling, no you don’t. I’ve lived here my whole life and I can tell you Manhattan is on the way to the dump.”
Eleanor thought the girl was lucky to be worldly enough to hate this place.
“I’ve never been in a Broadway theater either,” she said before she could stop herself.
The girls looked surprised at this. Eleanor didn’t know why—if she hadn’t been to New York, then she hadn’t been to a theater.
“My name’s Maggie Carmichael, and this is Lisa.” Maggie, the redhead, nodded to her friend. “I grew up on the Upper East Side.”
So close to where Don Mannheim lived. “Where are you living now?” Eleanor asked.
“Excuse me?”
“You said you grew up on the Upper East Side,” Eleanor said. “Do you still live there?”
“No. Two friends and I have an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen, on the corner of Eighth and Forty-Third.”
Something rang a bell, until she remembered Tommy’s warning about Eighth Avenue. “Do you like it there?”
“Sure. A girl’s gotta audition, and the apartment’s close to the theaters. Where are you from?” Maggie’s eyes looked expectant. Something inside of Eleanor turned over and rose up, like an animal awaking from sleep. This girl was a predator, and Eleanor must not let her take a bite.
“The Midwest. Near Chicago.”
“I’ve always wanted to go there,” Maggie said.
Me too, Eleanor thought. The line began to move again.
* * *
Eleanor alternated between checking her watch and lifting her aching feet off the ground, and panicking as she got closer to the front of the line. If she weren’t so nervous, she’d have been hungry; after four hours in line, she had left just once, to use the ladies’.
Then the young man returned.
“Name?”
“Eleanor O’Hanlon.”
He held out his hand. Eleanor shook it.
He blinked in annoyance. “Headshot and résumé, please.” Maggie turned and giggled.
Eleanor realized her mistake and pulled out her résumé, a typed-up list of her choir solos, with a photograph paper-clipped to the top, and handed it to him.
The man scanned her paltry résumé but did not offer opinions.
“You three can go in.” He indicated Maggie, Lisa, and Eleanor.
Eleanor felt a twist. It was time. Don Mannheim was inside.
She stepped through the box office doors, then to an open door off to the side.
Backstage at the Plymouth. Her skin prickled with awareness. It smelled like sawdust. The hall was bright, with tile floors and beige-painted walls. Facing her was a cork bulletin board, where a sign-in sheet hung. She peered and saw scribbled initials of various members of the cast, starting yesterday and going back two weeks. Eleanor recognized some of the names from the newspapers.
The stage, according to large white letters, was beyond a pair of double doors. All of her senses reeled. Despite her feelings about her companions, she couldn’t stay quiet.
“He’s in there,” she said. “Isn’t that amazing?”
Maggie smiled with half of her mouth, but in her expression was true excitement even she could not conceal. “It’s the scariest thing in the world, when what you want is so close.”
Eleanor agreed so much that she couldn’t respond.