Bad Romeo: Starcrossed 1 Page 3

  He nods and swallows.

  “You have three minutes to prepare.”

  She leaves, and Holt and I move to the back of the room. He stands close and he smells good. Not that I should be noticing something like that, but my brain is looking for a distraction from my nerves, and his good smell is it.

  “Look,” he says as he leans down. “I need this, okay? Don’t screw it up for me.”

  I flush with anger. “Excuse me? You have just as much chance of screwing it up as I do. And what did Erika mean when she said ‘Three strikes and you’re out'?”

  He leans in closer but doesn’t look at me. “This is the third year I’ve auditioned. If I don’t get in this time, I’m done. They won’t let me re- audition. Then my father would say a big, fat ‘I told you so’ and expect me to go to medical school. I’ve worked hard for this. I need it, okay?”

  I’m confused. I’ve been watching him all day. Are these people blind?

  “Why haven’t you gotten in before? You’re really good.” In a disturbingly intense kind of way.

  His expression softens for a moment. “I find it hard to … mesh … with other performers. Apparently Erika believes that’s an important attribute for her actors to have.”

  “It didn’t look like you had any problem with Zoe.”

  He scoffs. “There was no connection there. I felt nothing, as usual. Erika could tell.”

  I glance over at the dark-haired lady who is studying us. “She’s auditioned you before?”

  He nods. “Every year. She wants to offer me a place, but she won’t give me a free pass. If I can’t prove I can do this particular exercise, which I’ve completely sucked at each time I’ve auditioned, then it’s over.”

  “One minute!” Erika yells.

  My heart rate kicks into overdrive. “Listen, just do whatever it takes to ‘connect’ with me, okay? Because if I don’t get this, I have to go back to my overprotective parents, and I seriously can’t fluffing cope with that. I know this might come as a surprise, but you’re not the only one with something to lose here.”

  He frowns. “Did you … did you just say ‘fluffing’?”

  I feel a fierce blush engulf my throat. He’s laughing at me, just because I refuse to curse my head off like every other fluffer in this place. “Shut up.”

  His smirk widens. “Seriously? Fluffing?”

  “Stop it! You’re wasting time.”

  He stops laughing and sighs. He seems more relaxed, but I’m guessing that’s because all his anxiety has transferred to me.

  “Look, Taylor—”

  “My name is Cassie.”

  “Whatever. Just relax, okay? We can do this. Look into my eyes and … Jesus, I don’t know … make me feel something. Don’t lose concentration. That’s what’s screwed everyone else so far. Just focus on me, and I’ll focus on you. Okay?”

  “Fine.”

  “And don’t say ‘fluffing’ any more, ‘cause that shit cracks me up. You know it’s a porn term, right?”

  No, I didn’t know it was a fluffing porn term. Do I look like a porn-watching pervert?

  I exhale and try to focus. My thoughts are chaotic. I need to be calm.

  “Hey,” he says as he touches my arm. It doesn’t help my concentration at all. “We can do this. Look at me.”

  I look up into his eyes. His lashes are ridiculous.

  As he gazes at me, something jolts straight into the pit of my stomach.

  He must feel it, too, because his mouth drops open, and he inhales sharply. “Holy shit.” He blinks but doesn’t look away.

  The energy crackling between us is too intense. I close my eyes and exhale.

  “Taylor?”

  “Cassie.”

  “Cassie,” he whispers, his voice soft and so very desperate. “Stay with me. Please. I can’t do this without you.”

  I swallow and nod. Then Erika yells at us, and we walk to the center of the room.

  We turn to face each other, only a foot apart.

  He’s much taller than I am, so I stare at his chest, watching it rise and fall as he tries to calm himself.

  “Ready?” he whispers.

  I want to yell, “No, God, please, I’m not fluffing ready!” but instead I say, “Yeah. Sure,” like this wasn’t life or death, or at the very least, really important.

  I take a deep breath before looking up. His expression is less desperate now, and it feels like I’m seeing him—really seeing him—for the first time. I feel his energy. It’s like a wave of heat all around him. We stand there for a few seconds, just breathing, and as we gaze into each other’s eyes, the air between us solidifies, connecting us like two parts of the same person.

  He raises his hand, and I follow, as if we have thousands of tiny strings between our arms, tugging them into alignment. I match his speed exactly, moving when he moves, breathing when he breathes.

  We move again, and our bodies are perfectly aligned. It feels so natural. More natural than I’ve felt in a long time. Maybe ever.

  We step closer. He leans forward, and I lean back. I tilt sideways, and he follows. The invisible strings tighten between us. Our movements become faster, but every one is perfect and precise. Intricate choreography that we’ve never learned, but our muscles somehow remember.

  It’s thrilling.

  We’re in the zone. That magical state performers sometimes achieve when everything is flowing and open. Heart, mind, body. I’ve felt it before, but never with another person.

  It’s amazing.

  Smiles spread on our faces. I notice Holt is kind of beautiful when he smiles.

  Our arms are above our heads, and as we bring them down, our palms come together. His hands are big and warm. My skin tingles where we touch. Then I’m looking into his eyes, and we’re both not breathing, and I don’t know why.

  In a second, Holt’s expression fills with panic, and he tenses. He blinks and drops his gaze, and suddenly it’s like all the buoyancy has gone out of the air. Our energy slams into the floor and drains away.

  Holt steps away and exhales before looking over at Erika. “Are we done? Nobody else went for that long. We’re done, right?”

  Erika tilts her head and studies him. His posture is tense and challenging.

  I lower my hands. They’re cold now, and I clench them at my sides as my heart beats fast and unsteady.

  “Are we done or not?” Holt says, and every good thing I felt about him fades in the shadow of his rudeness.

  “Yes, Mr. Holt,” Erika says calmly while glancing at me. “You and Miss Taylor completed the exercise. Well done. You two have some interesting chemistry, don’t you?”

  He glares.

  She gives him a warm smile. “You may sit down. Everyone, give them a round of applause.”

  The whole group breaks into applause. I hear murmurs of surprise that we were so good.

  No one is more surprised than I am.

  Holt stalks back to the bleachers and sits. Zoe gushes beside him as she touches his bicep. She’d be more subtle if she ripped open her shirt and begged him to grope her. He ignores her and leans his elbows on his knees.

  I make an effort to stop staring at him.

  The rest of the afternoon passes in a blur. People get cut, and the pairs get swapped around as more scenarios are played out.

  At the end of the day Erika dismisses us, and we file outside to wait for her to post the callback list.

  We’re all on edge. None of us know that we’ve done enough to move on to the next round. Even Zoe is unsure. She bites the inside of her cheek and paces.

  I gnaw at my cuticles and chant, “Oh please, oh please, oh please” over and over again, as if begging the universe could possibly help me now.

  At the end of the corridor, Holt sits with his back against the wall and his legs pulled up to his chest. He looks like he’s in pain.

  Despite his behavior today, I feel sorry for him. Everyone’s nervous, but he seems really sick.

  I
walk over. He’s leaning his head against the wall, eyes closed. When I touch his shoulder, he jolts like I’ve Tasered him.

  “What the fuck?” He glares, but it’s hard to find it intimidating when he’s so green he could get a job with the Muppets. “You okay?”

  He drops his head down to his knees and sighs. “I’m fine. Go away.” I don’t know why I even bothered. “You’re a jerk, you know that?” “I’m aware.” “Just making sure.”

  I go to leave, but he puts out an arm to stop me. “Taylor, look …I—”

  “My name is Cassie.” “Cassie …”

  The way he says my name is … Well, it does strange things to me. It might be best if he goes back to calling me Taylor.

  He gestures for me to sit, and I do. “The thing is … we’re not going to be friends, so I figure there’s no use in wasting energy on each other, right?”

  I blink a few times. “Uh … okay.”

  “That’s it? Okay?” He seems disappointed, but I don’t know why. “Well, I’ve never really had the ‘you and I aren’t going to be friends’ talk before, so I’m not sure of the protocol. Do I thank you for pointing out the obvious, or … ?”

  He rubs his hands over his face and groans. “What?” I ask. “I don’t know what you expect me to say. I wasn’t planning on being your friend.”

  “Good,” he says, still rubbing his face.

  I inhale and try to not lose my temper. “What is your problem? I pretty much saved your butt in there today, and you treat me like crap?” “Yeah,” he says, his shoulders tense and high. “Because you’re so—” “What?” I say. “Annoying? Irritating?”

  “Bipolar.”

  That stops me in my tracks. “Oh. I … huh?”

  He sighs and shakes his head. “I saw you earlier, playing the popularity game. Giving the cool kids what they wanted, which is ridiculous because most of them are obnoxious creeps who are about as genuine as a three-dollar bill. But with me, you’re all prickly impatience and ball-breaking honesty. What, you don’t like me enough to fake it?”

  I hadn’t realized it, but he’s right. I’ve never, and I mean never, spoken to someone the way I’ve spoken to him. Letting people know I’m annoyed or impatient is not what I do. I get along with people. I’ve done it my whole life. If someone doesn’t like me, I make them.

  But with him, everything’s different.

  “Well, what about you?” I say. “What’s your story?”

  He shrugs. “I’m easy to figure out. I’m an asshole.”

  “I know that.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “Uh, yeah, I do. You’ve spent the afternoon treating me like I was going to infect you with Ebola. So I know what you are.”

  He nods. “Good. Then you’ll know to stay away from me.”

  “I’m sure I won’t have much choice about that, because after Erika posts the callback list, we’ll never see each other again. Problem solved.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because you’re probably going to get a callback, and I’m not, so … yeah.”

  He looks down and fiddles with his laces. “Don’t be so sure. You did okay today. More than okay.”

  It takes a moment to realize he’s just given me a compliment. “Well, gee, thanks. You were okay, too.”

  He looks up with a half smile. “Yeah?”

  I roll my eyes. “Oh, please. You know you were amazing.”

  “Yeah, I was,” he says and nods.

  “So humble.”

  “And good looking. It must really suck to not be me.”

  I shake my head. “So, if you’ve been trying to get in here for three years, what have you been doing in between auditions?”

  He looks down the hallway. “Mostly I worked construction for a company in Hoboken. They build sets for Broadway shows. Figured if I couldn’t be onstage, I’d work behind the scenes.”

  “That’s why your hands are rough?” He frowns. “During the mirror exercise,” I say, “when we touched, your hands were calloused.”

  He looks at his hands. “I prefer to think of them as rugged. Lugging around tons of set pieces isn’t delicate work. Hell of a workout though.”

  “So is that why you have all"—I point at his shoulders and arms— “that?”

  He smiles and shakes his head. “Yeah. That’s why I have all this. And enough money to pay for at least two years if I get in here.”

  “When you get in,” I clarify.

  He stares at me for a second, as if someone having faith in him is incomprehensible. “If you say so, Taylor.”

  I give up asking him to use my first name. It’s probably better that we’re on a last-name basis, considering we’re not going to be friends or anything.

  Except it kind of feels like we already are.

  We sit there in silence for a while. Then the door opens and everyone jumps to their feet as Erika emerges with a piece of paper.

  We all go silent, and expectation hums around us.

  “For those of you on this list, congratulations. You’ll be back tomorrow for the second round of auditions. Those who aren’t, I’m afraid you’ve been unsuccessful. You may reapply next year. Thank you for your time.”

  She sticks the paper to the back of the door before disappearing back inside.

  There’s a huge rush of bodies as we all try to see the list. I push forward, my heart pounding, braced for disappointment.

  When I finally get to the front, I hold my breath.

  There are only three names.

  Ethan Holt.

  Zoe Stevens.

  And … Cassandra Taylor.

  The rest of our group is cut.

  I’m in shock.

  I made it.

  Fluff, yes!

  Holt reads over my shoulder and sighs in relief. “Thank fuck.”

  I turn as he drops his head and exhales. He looks like a death-row prisoner who’s been granted a reprieve.

  “Aw, it’s sweet you’re so happy for me,” I say. “Did you really have any doubt?”

  “About you? None at all. Congratulations.”

  “Congrats to you, too. I guess the medical world is safe from your scintillating bedside manner, for another day at least.”

  “I guess so.” When he looks at me, the pit of my stomach tingles and flips.

  I feel like I should say something else, but my brain is strange and clouded, so I just stand there.

  He doesn’t speak, either. He just stares. His face is fascinating in an annoyingly good-looking kind of way.

  “Well,” I say after an embarrassingly long pause, “I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He nods. “Yeah. Sure. Later, Taylor.”

  He grabs his bag and walks away, but I know we’ll see each other in the morning. I’m looking forward to it and dreading it at the same time.

  I’ve never had this sort of reaction to a boy before.

  I’m pretty sure it’s not a good thing.

  THREE

  BACK TO BEFORE

  Present Day

  New York City

  The Diary of Cassandra Taylor

  Dear Diary,

  The final round of auditions for The Grove was grueling

  The interviews were the worst. A panel of Grove lecturers sat at a long table and grilled everyone about life, family, likes and dislikes.

  The panel expected me to just be myself. That was tough.

  In the end, Erika turned to me and said, “Cassandra, you’re a smart girl. You could have your pick of careers. Why do you want be an actress?”

  I knew I should’ve said something about my passion for theater, or the importance of a vibrant, evolving culture in a world of disposable ideals and reality television. But as she stared at me, I wasn’t able to think of anything clever enough to fool her, so I spoke without thinking.

  “I want to act because I don’t really know who I am. I find relief in being other people.”

  She held my gaze for a moment t
hen nodded before writing something in her notes. Probably “crazy, emotionally dysfunctional teen with self- esteem issues. Don’t make any sudden movements."

  I walked out feeling like I’d left pieces of myself all over the floor.

  Still, I must have done something right, because two months later, I received my acceptance letter.

  The day I got it, I screamed so loudly, I scared the neighbor’s dog.

  I knew Mom and Dad weren’t thrilled about the prospect of me moving to the other side of the country, but they also knew that acting was my passion, and being accepted at The Grove was a pretty big deal. It also helped that I was awarded a partial scholarship that covered half my tuition and on-campus accommodation. Considering that we weren’t the Vanderbilts, that was a huge bonus.

  In the back of my mind was the vague hope that Holt had gotten in.

  I figured if he had, at least I’d know one person. One kind of annoying, strangely intriguing person.

  Six Years Earlier

  Westchester, New York

  The Grove

  First Week of Classes

  I walk through the apartment with a huge smile on my face.

  There are two bedrooms separated by a poky bathroom, a combined living/dining area, and a small kitchen. The furniture is worn and dated, the carpet is hideous and stained with stuff I don’t even want to think about, and I think the upstairs neighbor dances naked in the moonlight while he sacrifices small animals, because seriously, the dude is weird. But despite all this, it’s perfect and beautiful and mine.

  Well, I’m sharing it with a theater tech major named Ruby, but still …

  I can do what I want. Eat what I want. Go to bed when I want.

  No parents cataloguing my every move.

  I’m almost giddy with the possibilities.

  “You owe me thirty bucks for groceries,” Ruby says as she studies the receipt. “Oh, wait, make that thirty-four. The tampons are yours.”

  It’s weird moving in with a stranger, but Ruby and I have been getting along great, considering she’s my polar opposite. I’m mousy brown, she’s fiery red. I’m average looking, she’s spectacular. I’m a people pleaser, she’s brutally honest.

  She flops down in our ugly brown vinyl couch and lights up a cigarette. She holds the pack out to me, and I take one.