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Fluorescent lights hummed overhead, children coughed around me, popcorn ceiling hung over me, hopeful parents spoke to dreamy children. There were nervous faces all around me, but some were playful and confident; I knew those to be my true competitors. The walls, yellowed, seemed to stare back at me. I imagined they had once been off-white, before too many people had smoked in the room. The scent of stale cigarette smoke lingered, hanging in the air like the hope on the faces of everyone in the waiting room.
This was my second audition of the day, fifth of the week. Adrian had promised to buy a decent camcorder for me — on my dime, of course. But the man had followed through on what he said in my dressing room, His efforts were clear in how many auditions I had lined up. I felt hopeful for all of them.
Hope dies last… who had said that? I couldn't remember. Still, the saying hovered at the forefront of my daydreams.
I started to count the hopefuls, left to right. There were fourteen boys who all looked slightly older than me. Thirteen parents or grandparents had come. Because one set of boys were twins. Wasn't that a dilemma? If one of them was cast, who'd be the sad boy left behind? That was like being told that you're worse than yourself, same looks, same opportunities, and you were rejected while the other went on.
Linoleum flooring and a corkboard plastered with headshots of actors I couldn't name. Were these all the people the casting director had actually cast in films, or the ones who'd sent their headshots only to be rejected, now haunting the place like old ghosts? Either way, the wall spoke of shattered dreams; each picture held a hope, and even if they had succeeded, dozens others had been in an audition room like this one only to have their fire smothered out.
Adrian had told me how the audition process went. How long I would wait until I heard something. So far I had been in Children of the New Forest and Vanity Fair, one of them I had come for a day and only stayed for an hour. In fact, the only thing I remembered from that day was the food and searching for ghosts in the old manor in Buckinghamshire. Castles and manors were always a great sight to see and a better place to visit. Neither of those two series were released yet, even though it felt like I had done them a lifetime ago.
"Joe Sowerbutts." the old lady called out.
"Here." Joe, a blonde boy, stood up like a boy giving attendance at school.
He seemed as nervous as I'd ever seen a boy. The mother seemed to give him encouragement before they both went in together.
I started to hear the muffled greetings. I was so close to the thin walls that I could make out most of the words. It was going to be one of those audition rooms. Had the other hopeful boys heard it? If so, they'd be even more nervous. There was something unsettling about the audition being audible outside — a private moment exposed unkindly. My concern wasn't entirely that. After all, acting in a theatre was rehearsed in front of cast and crew and later performed before thousands of people. No, my annoyance lay in the thought that my interpretation of the sides might be compromised.
Trying my best at shutting my ears, I opened the sides. It was a simple sheet, portion of the script, containing a scene. This particular one had no direction. Background work it was, as were good chunks of my auditions since I had contracted for Dolittle. I liked those because I could do them even while I was on stage most of the week. Not that I'd gotten a chance to do so… Yet.
"If I don't have a party, I'll end up with no friends!" a boy shouted.
Joe, I presumed. He was the one to enter. He was also one of the few kids in the room who were close to my age.
I looked through my side to find no line similar to what Joe was saying. My side was a tiny description of me playing with a scientific specimen suspended in a chemical solution. The entire page mostly described the exact faces I should make, and there was one small scene where I would hug my on-screen sister. No speaking part at all.
"Why don't you bring Gina?" Joe said with a chuckle.
I couldn't help listening to it, my head was leaning back against the wall and absorbing the vibrations so I could hear Joe's words better. I searched my side again: only two dialogues were written in it. Neither were mine.
Unable to help myself, I eyed the sides that the other kids were carrying. Theirs were thicker than mine, which wasn't hard considering mine was only a single page.
"Excuse me?" I asked the boy next to me.
"Yeah?" he replied back.
"Mind if I see your sides?"
"My side, what?"
"Like those," I pointed out.
"Oh! Right, yeah take it. I'm so bored of reading it." He handed it over.
I read the title: [My Parents Are Aliens, Written by Andy Watts]. My face must've been a riot to see because the boy snickered.
"You have the wrong script?" he asked.
"No, I think I'm at the wrong audition." I replied with a shaking head.
"Excuse me—" I stood up and went to the receptionist.
"Sorry, is this not Angela Grosvenor's office?" I asked the older lady.
"It is, dear." she said.
Shaking my head, I asked the burning question. "The other kids have a different script than mine; I just have this." I showed my sides, or rather just a side, for it was a single sheet.
"Ah, no worries at all, my dear. Angela's casting for multiple productions. You must be here for…" she checked her notes, "Silent Witness! Yes, we'll be doing that after this one."
"I see, thank you." I said, taking my seat back.
I informed my Nain of the issue, but she was mostly paying attention to her book.
A boy with spiky hair tapped his feet to unheard music; it pissed me off because he kept no particular rhythm. The gaggle of children and herd of parents started to converse. Auditions had finally started, and no one was eager to remain silent. Nervousness would linger if they remained too quiet for too long.
"That was cool!" Joe's muffled voice shouted in wonder behind me.
"That was pretty cool." a boy rehearsed the same line opposite me.
Sighing, I tried to think of my experiences so far. Producing a pen out of my rucksack, I took notes.
My Parents are Aliens—this was a show I had told Adrian not to book an audition for me. ITV had greenlit the series for three seasons. The lead roles were three orphaned children. If I got the role, I would be locked out of Harry Potter. Timeline wasn't quite guaranteed, but I was working by the fast-and-loose rule of one season per year. Releasing in 1999, it could run until 2001; it could get canceled or extended, but I'd rather play it safe. Harry Potter was the goal I'd been working towards all this time, and I couldn't be on hold when it came to play in it.
My pen scratched into the single sheet of the side, remembering the names of the shows wasn't easy, but by my count I had auditioned for forty-eight productions. BBC and ITV accounted for almost all of them, and they were mostly background roles. I did the napkin math on it: two roles booked out of forty-eight. That was just over a four percent hit rate. This week I would hit fifty. Next week I would hit sixty-five, seventy-two if Adrian had my camcorder ready.
What would happen when I hit two percent? Hundred tries and only two bookings. At my peak, my success rate was sixty percent. Hundred percent if you counted only Doctor Dolittle. Was that some sort of divine intervention? I had booked my biggest role in my very first audition. Now I was halfway to a hundred with nothing else in sight.
There were a few that I was sure I'd get. Only I hadn't heard anything in over a month. Only callback to my name since May was a featured role. They too hadn't contacted me since.
Door handle shifted; it made this ugly noise of metal and wood contracting. Out walked Joe Sowerbutts along with a blonde woman. Boy had a name I wouldn't forget for weeks and months to come.
"Tobias Henshall." an authoritative voice said.
Angela Grosvenor, I guessed. A confident-looking boy stood up and made his way towards Angela.
Forty-eight auditions to TV series and films, only two booked. Would I dare audition for more musicals? I still had a hundred percent success there. Remembering that seemed to make me feel better. Part of my pride was happy but other parts made me feel shame.
Singing.
#
Music.
I was great at that, but perhaps terrible at acting. Julie Andrews, who had personally been informed by Queen Elizabeth II about being knighted for her work, had told me I was good. Yet none of the casting directors seemed to agree. Julie had spent her life in the United States; she was a Broadway star, a New Yorker in the truest sense. A city of immigrants chasing the American Dream — and she had achieved it.
But much like Leslie, she hadn't done anything great in some time. Call it my doubt or disillusionment, but I was starting to question Julie's judgment. There were forty-six casting directors who disagreed with her. Was that just the aura of doom and gloom hanging over me? Because I was exaggerating, after all; some of these casting directors I had seen four, five times. They had their reputation for casting child actors well or working for BBC productions exclusively and other things. Real number was somewhere in the twenties. But the previous number was hard to move past.
"Ahhh!" boy cried out.
Sounds of odd sneezes followed after; I tried not to dwell on my surroundings.
Tick-tock, the wall clock on the wall behind me sounded. Boy tapped his feet, electric hum buzzed above, parents buzzed in delighted conversation. Trying to ignore it, only highlighted the noise around me. I cupped my hands over my ears, drowning out the noise around me. Instead of the sweet silence I wanted, I could hear the rumbling noise of my body: blood rushing through my body, muscles tensing, pressure on my ears from the my pressed hand.
Sighing, I leaned back at the ceiling to count the popcorns or find shapes in it. Even that failed because my eyes only saw the tiny portion that was peeling away. A loose piece hung by a thread. When would it fall? Vibrations emitting from two dozen people here hadn't affected it. Something was making it peel away, something had leaked through the floor upstairs. Some time it would fall.
"Are you fine, cariad?" Nain asked in concern.
She had started wearing reading glasses; her eyesight had worsened since she had come to London. Granddad had the same happen to him; he complained about his knees or hips more and more. Some days he was too weak to leave the house. My grandparents were peeling away too. Winter of their years had come, one day they would fall.
I sighed heavily. "I'm fine…"
"You don't sound fine." she said with a serious look.
I didn't like that look; it was the dark art that women all over the world seemed to employ. Furrowed brows, narrow eyes, tight lips, and the intense gaze. It demanded an answer, and I was too weak to hold fast.
"It's just that I've been practicing my acting but no one will cast me in anything. I did the math, look." I shoved the sheet to her hands before continuing.
"Forty-eight! I got two roles from my first four auditions, and I was living in Chester and took the train just for those auditions. I've been performing in front of a big crowd every other day. I live in London now, yet I'm getting nothing! Nothing!" I stressed the word.
Conversations around me seemed to quieten, curious parents and children. I didn't care. These were probably the people who'd understand me the best, ones who had a similar experience.
"Oh, cariad…" Nain said sadly as her eyes roved over my chicken scratchings.
"What's the hundred percent for?" she said.
"Dolittle. Musicals." I said.
"Well, that's good isn't it?" Nain asked.
"Yeah, but I told you that Dolittle's terrible. It can hardly be called a musical." I scoffed.
Nain laughed a twinkling laugh. "London's rubbing off on you; soon you'll be speaking in a posh accent and complaining about the peasants. Constantly." She stressed.
"If I'll get more roles speaking more posh, I'd do it. Adrian says it's best that I speak in my own accent though. Not many Chestrians around. Unique is better, memorable is preferable." I explained.
"Your accent sounds like every accent rolled together. How is that even possible?" Nain shook her head.
"Manchester, Liverpool, Wales. Cheshire." I gestured in the air, making a triangle before poking the center of it.
"Hmph." Nain scoffed.
Chester was in the middle of many interesting places with accents more unique than the last. Mum had a Welsh accent, Dad had a Mancunian accent. I hadn't picked up either, but I picked up the Chester accent that combined all those and more. It was what many called a posh northern; I disagreed with the posh word but couldn't deny how accurate that was as far as descriptions went. I was thinking about accents rather than the auditions I'd been failing. Nain was great at distractions, but sadly my mind was quite sharp and all too eager to spiral in anguish.
"Alex Kew!" Angela announced.
Boy who lent his script to me stood up.
"Good luck." I said with a sad smile.
"Thanks!" He beamed.
He walked like a peacock would.
"That boy will get the role." Nain observed.
"Why?" I asked.
"Confidence," Nain intoned, shaking her head. Then she added, "Also, that face screams 'sweet and stupid.'"
"Why would that be good?"
"I read the script Mr Baldini sent. It's a children's comedy — the kid's meant to be a cheeky boy who's always getting into trouble, but still likeable enough for people to relate to. You notice these things if you read books. Every character has a requirement, a face that they must have." Nain said.
"Will you tell me more about these characters? Would be nice knowing which roles I'm suited for." I suggested.
She simply nodded, but then she had a faraway look as she considered something.
"It's interesting to see which scripts and sides you throw away. No commercials, no long series, no photoshoots. You've always done that until you spoke to Mr. Baldini. Now you're happy to do long shoots. Now you want to leave Dolittle. So why reject this?" She pointed a thumb to the wall behind us.
I could hear Alex playing the boy much like the others before him did, goofy and loud. My grandmother was nothing if not observant; my reasons were obvious. Long series could lock me out of Harry Potter. How could I explain that?
"Dolittle contract is only six months, but I can't wait to leave. What if this one is bad too? I'd be locked in for three years." I said truthfully.
"Hmm." Nain said idly.
We sat silently for some time. Room had grown quieter; auditions had gone by. Only the first boy who had gone in, was still remaining. I assumed Joe was reading for Silent Witness like I was. Age range was a lot more strict for that role; you could play a few years up, but it was hard to play a nine-year-old as a kid going through puberty.
"Greg McNeil." Angela called.
Alex left with a wide smile on his face, like he'd gotten the role. I tried to replay the last few minutes. There had been no shouting or lines read. It was silent. Silent because they were speaking about details and moving on to confirm? I eyed my Nain.
"Remind me not to bet against you." I said.
"Oh cariad, men do stupid things all the time. They also never listen to a warning well told." Nain said with a pitiful smile.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a new arrival. Room was now fully made of children around my age. Those who would be reading for Silent Witness. One of the kids who arrived just now fit the role description. But the other one was too different. Their mum, a redhead, exchanged a kind conversation with the receptionist. The hugs and kisses on the cheek, they seemed all too familiar with each other. My eyes went over to the mystery—the only girl in the waiting room. She noticed my stare and came to sit opposite me.
"Hi! I'm Clarista!" she said in an accent not quite so Posh. Perhaps Reading or Berkshire.
I noticed that she had her hand extended out, so I shook it.
"Wilfred." I said awkwardly.
She was a tiny kid, probably just started Year 1, which would make her six years old.
"That's a weird name." she pointed out.
"Your name is Clarista." I chuckled.
"Why does everyone keep saying that?!" Clarista exclaimed.
"Because you always call their name weird first." Boy with severe eyebrows pointed out.
"I don't!" Clarista said indignantly but she had a cheeky smile.
"You do." Boy turned around. "Hey, I'm Nicholas." he said, extending his hands again.
"I'm Wilfred. Hello." I said, shaking hands.
These were some weird kids, for I didn't remember shaking hands with anyone my age.
The door clicked open again; Angela's voice shouted from inside the audition room.
"Joe Sowerbutts!"
"Ughh, I'm first! Again…" Joe complained.
I nervously roved over my sides again; there wasn't anything new in there. So I tried my best to listen, nothing could be heard. I leaned back again, nothing. I turned my head around, my ears against the wall. Even the paper-thin walls blocked out whatever sound being made in the audition room.
Giving up on trying to cheat for the answer, I tried to imagine what I would do with my face. Not even a minute into the exercise, I gave up. There was no point; I'd been to forty of these stupid auditions. Half of them were for non-speaking roles. All of them were the same. I had gotten none of it.
Maybe that was my problem — I was terrible at physical acting. Was I exaggerating my movements too much? Bringing theatre into film? It was stupid to keep doing the same thing over and over and expect it to work. I could slam my head against a wall for years; wall or skull, I knew which one would give first. So, I decided to change things up — I'd do my gestures as I did in theatre. By this time next week, I'd have done seventy auditions: twenty of them performed with theatre-style acting. A decent sample size, with immediate results to guide future decisions.
Hope dies last; I could try different things and see which worked the best.
Door clicked open again; Joe left the room and Angela accompanied him outside again. She then searched the waiting room until her eyes met one of the parents.
"Glenis! Oh it's lovely to see you again!" Angela said, a full smile on her face.
It was repeated by the redhead who had come in with Clarista and Nicholas.
"Angela!" she screamed excitedly — the sound reminded me of the banshees.
At least, my mind reacted as though it had been struck by a banshee's cry. My ears rang, and not from the soundwaves, but from the revelation racing through my head. Only, this revelation had nothing to do with any supernatural gift, it was no memory from the future. No — this one was entirely my own revelation, entirely organic.
"Nick! Look at you, you've grown so much!" Angela smiled as she held Nicholas.
Nick looked cute as he greeted the casting director. Clarista tried her joke again, but Angela didn't mock her name, instead complimenting it.
"How about that audition, Nick?" Angela asked brightly,
Once Nicholas had entered the audition room, I turned over to my Nain. I gave her an expectant look, making a poor attempt of the one she gave me earlier.
Nain shook her head at me.
I kept on with my look.
"Fine." she let out a sigh. "He's getting the role," She confirmed.
"Care to tell me the reason?" I asked dryly.
"I think you already know." Nain said.
My neck leaned back, and I stared at the popcorn ceiling, the peeling paint, the yellowed walls. The answer was up there, in the fluorescent lights, written on the walls. It was too blinding to look at directly.
Hope dies last — because then you realise all your efforts have been futile. I thought I was playing a fair game, but it had never been fair. The game was rigged. It didn't matter how good I was; Angela knew that kid, knew his mother. How many others were like that? Had I wasted all my time auditioning when I never stood a chance?
I had been too blind to see before. But now the writing was on the wall, and it spelled out the word for me to read: nepotism.