don’t fool yourself into thinking you could do this role justice opposite someone else, because we both know that’s bullshit.”
“I’d be willing to try,” I say and give him my sweetest smile.
He’s about to protest when more groupies show up.
They all but push me out of the way to get to him.
They’re welcome to him. I’m done being his fangirl.
As I walk away, he calls my name.
I don’t stop.
Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
Sixth week of classes
He’s staring at me.
I keep my focus on Erika and try to concentrate. It’s tough. His gaze gives me an electric tingle that starts at the back of my neck and spreads all over my body.
I’d tell him to knock it off, but that would involve acknowledging his existence, and there’s no muffing way I’ll be doing that in the foreseeable future.
Since he read my diary nearly two weeks ago, I’ve avoided him at all costs. Whenever I look at him, a huge wave of humiliation washes over me, followed quickly by vicious anger, and ending with a strong urge to rub myself all over him. I thought he was going to kiss me. It looked like he was. Then he left, and now I have no idea what’s going through his brain.
Just thinking about our almost-kiss has my girl parts all excited. I don’t have the heart to tell them we’re going to die without ever experiencing an orgasm. It would depress them too much, and I really can’t afford to have a sad vagina.
“Miss Taylor?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Erika’s looking at me. So is everyone else. Except him. Oh, the irony.
“I asked why you think we become actors,” Erika says. “What drives us to pursue this profession?”
Okay, stay cool. Answer her question honestly. Don’t just give her the answer you think she wants to hear.
“Miss Taylor,” Erika says, “I promise this isn’t a trick question. Why do you think we act?”
“Well…” I take a deep breath and try to ignore all of the eyes on me. “I think it’s a way to communicate ideas and concepts. I guess we’re like mediums. Channeling different personas and characters in order to bring other people’s work to life.”
Erika nods. “You don’t think you’re a collaborator in that work? That your character choices add something to the original vision?”
“Well, yes. But only if my choices don’t suck.”
People laugh.
Holt scoffs.
“Mr. Holt? Your thoughts?”
He leans back in his chair. “We’re actors because we want attention. We’re standing around saying someone else’s words and trying not to screw up.”
Erika smiles. “So, you don’t think there’s anything artistic in what you do?”
He shrugs. “Not particularly.”
“What about a musician, interpreting someone else’s music? Do you consider them artistic?”
“Well, yeah…”
“And a visual artist? A painter who interprets images through their brushes? Artistic?”
“Of course.”
“But not actors.”
“Not really. We’re parrots, aren’t we? We learn lines and repeat them.”
“So then,” she says, “if you don’t think acting is a creative endeavor, why do it, Mr. Holt? Why act? If you’re merely a puppet and have no personal investment in what you’re performing, why dedicate yourself to it for three years of your life? Surely you can find something you’re more passionate about.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t passionate. I just think we’re fooling ourselves if we think it’s difficult.”
“Perhaps it’s not difficult to you. But to most people, getting on stage in front of hundreds or thousands of people would be impossible.”
He laughs.
“Mr. Holt,” Erika says patiently, “did you know that in a recent survey, almost ninety percent of participants said they would rather run into a burning building than get up and speak in front of a large group of people?”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Not when you look at people’s top ten fears, with ‘fear of public speaking’ at number two. Other
“I’d be willing to try,” I say and give him my sweetest smile.
He’s about to protest when more groupies show up.
They all but push me out of the way to get to him.
They’re welcome to him. I’m done being his fangirl.
As I walk away, he calls my name.
I don’t stop.
Six Years Earlier
Westchester, New York
The Grove
Sixth week of classes
He’s staring at me.
I keep my focus on Erika and try to concentrate. It’s tough. His gaze gives me an electric tingle that starts at the back of my neck and spreads all over my body.
I’d tell him to knock it off, but that would involve acknowledging his existence, and there’s no muffing way I’ll be doing that in the foreseeable future.
Since he read my diary nearly two weeks ago, I’ve avoided him at all costs. Whenever I look at him, a huge wave of humiliation washes over me, followed quickly by vicious anger, and ending with a strong urge to rub myself all over him. I thought he was going to kiss me. It looked like he was. Then he left, and now I have no idea what’s going through his brain.
Just thinking about our almost-kiss has my girl parts all excited. I don’t have the heart to tell them we’re going to die without ever experiencing an orgasm. It would depress them too much, and I really can’t afford to have a sad vagina.
“Miss Taylor?”
“I’m sorry, what?”
Erika’s looking at me. So is everyone else. Except him. Oh, the irony.
“I asked why you think we become actors,” Erika says. “What drives us to pursue this profession?”
Okay, stay cool. Answer her question honestly. Don’t just give her the answer you think she wants to hear.
“Miss Taylor,” Erika says, “I promise this isn’t a trick question. Why do you think we act?”
“Well…” I take a deep breath and try to ignore all of the eyes on me. “I think it’s a way to communicate ideas and concepts. I guess we’re like mediums. Channeling different personas and characters in order to bring other people’s work to life.”
Erika nods. “You don’t think you’re a collaborator in that work? That your character choices add something to the original vision?”
“Well, yes. But only if my choices don’t suck.”
People laugh.
Holt scoffs.
“Mr. Holt? Your thoughts?”
He leans back in his chair. “We’re actors because we want attention. We’re standing around saying someone else’s words and trying not to screw up.”
Erika smiles. “So, you don’t think there’s anything artistic in what you do?”
He shrugs. “Not particularly.”
“What about a musician, interpreting someone else’s music? Do you consider them artistic?”
“Well, yeah…”
“And a visual artist? A painter who interprets images through their brushes? Artistic?”
“Of course.”
“But not actors.”
“Not really. We’re parrots, aren’t we? We learn lines and repeat them.”
“So then,” she says, “if you don’t think acting is a creative endeavor, why do it, Mr. Holt? Why act? If you’re merely a puppet and have no personal investment in what you’re performing, why dedicate yourself to it for three years of your life? Surely you can find something you’re more passionate about.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t passionate. I just think we’re fooling ourselves if we think it’s difficult.”
“Perhaps it’s not difficult to you. But to most people, getting on stage in front of hundreds or thousands of people would be impossible.”
He laughs.
“Mr. Holt,” Erika says patiently, “did you know that in a recent survey, almost ninety percent of participants said they would rather run into a burning building than get up and speak in front of a large group of people?”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Not when you look at people’s top ten fears, with ‘fear of public speaking’ at number two. Other
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