The Score
Page 36
“I’ll give it another read tonight,” I promise. Then I try to conjure up some enthusiasm about potentially playing Bonnie, but I’m not feeling even an iota of wheeeee!
Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve read anything that’s triggered my wheeeee! meter. The last project I was excited about was the play I did for Brett Cavanaugh this summer.
“Casting starts in February,” Ira tells me.
I furrow my brow. “That’s almost three months from now. Why did they cast the part of Zoey so early?”
“They wanted to lock down Kate Ashby before another network could poach her. The producers are wrapping up the final season of their other show, and then they’ll be ready to get the ball rolling on this project. They want you to fly out on February sixth.”
My stomach drops. “I can’t. Widow opens on the eighth. We have dress rehearsals that week.”
“Widow?”
“The play I’m doing at school.”
Ira sighs. “Any chance they’ll let you skip dress rehearsals?”
“Not a one.”
“Shit.”
Silence ensues. Ira does that a lot, falling deep in thought for minutes at a time. I think he forgets we’re on the phone and not in the same room.
“Ira?” I prompt.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Thinking…” After another long pause, his brisk voice returns. “All right, let me get Virgil’s assistant on the line. I’ll see what we can do.”
He disconnects the call without saying goodbye, which is another bad habit of his. He insists he doesn’t have time for “that crap.”
Ten minutes later, I walk up the path to Bristol House and swipe my ID at the entrance. I probably won’t hear back from Ira today, and a part of me hopes the producers come back and say, Tough shit. If she can’t read on the day we want her to read, we’ll give the role to someone else.
Which is a crazy thing to hope for, because, again…Network. Television.
What is wrong with me?
Many things, apparently, because not only am I considering skipping an audition that could launch my career, I’m also planning on having sex with Dean Di Laurentis tonight.
Yep, our sex date is still on like Donkey Kong. I haven’t changed my mind. In fact, I’m…God have mercy on my soul…anticipating it. I’m even bailing on my workout today to prepare for it.
After wolfing down a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, I call a cab to drive me to the salon in Hastings.
Tanya, my mani/pedi/wax guru, is ready and waiting when I stroll through the door. I decided long ago that she’s a sadist, because she’s alarmingly gung-ho about torturing my nether regions. We get the Brazilian out of the way first, because I don’t like having the idea of Hot Wax Torture hanging over my head during my manicure.
Once I’m bare as a baby’s bottom, Tanya rubs soothing oil over the sensitive area and ducks out of the room while I slip my undies and leggings back on. It usually takes a few hours before the redness down below subsides, but Dean’s not coming over until nine, so I’ll have plenty of downstairs recovery time and then I’ll be good to go.
I leave the wax room and join Tanya at her manicure station. An hour later, I waltz out of the salon rocking fire-engine-red nail and toe polish, because I think Dean will get a kick out of seeing my bright red nails scraping his washboard abs. I’d asked Tanya to make them shorter and rounder this time, so I don’t scratch the shit out of him again.
On the cab ride back to the dorm, I try to figure out whether I’m excited, or disappointed in myself. I still can’t believe I caved in to Dean’s potent masculinity, but I can’t deny I’m eager to reacquaint myself with his magical penis.
Unless…what if it’s lost its appeal? I mean, how many times can you really rub a genie’s lamp before its magical powers run out? Or does a genie’s lamp hold an infinite number of wishes?
Deep thoughts with Allison Jane Hayes, folks.
Huh. Maybe that should be my television show.
*
By the time nine o’clock creeps up, I’m ready to, as Will Smith so aptly phrased it, get jiggy with it.
I’ve undergone a beautification process from head to toe. I’m waxed, polished, scrubbed and lotioned, and I even flat ironed my hair after blow-drying instead of leaving it at its natural state of kinda wavy.
It feels like a waste to go through so much trouble beauty-wise and then not wear a little black dress or some sexy lingerie, but I figure Horndog Dean is going to rip my clothes off the second he gets here, so I’m in yoga pants and a tank top. No bra (because, again, what’s the point?) but I am wearing panties because I don’t like going commando unless I’m feeling scandalous. Sometimes I’d do it when Sean and I were going to a fancy restaurant. It drove him crazy knowing I wasn’t wearing anything underneath my—
You’re not allowed to think about Sean when you’re minutes away from sleeping with another guy!
Too late. Sean’s in my head now. I still haven’t agreed to meet him in person, but I know I should probably give him an answer one of these days before he resorts to the bulldozer approach. He does that a lot.
Case in point—showing up at my dorm uninvited.
Which drove me to flee to the safety of Garrett’s house.
Which drove me into Dean’s bed.
Seems like there’s a morality tale in there somewhere, a nugget of wisdom that Sean would benefit from acquiring. Push your ex-girlfriend too hard and she sleeps with a manwhore.
Or maybe it’s better if he skips that particular lesson. Besides, it’s an unfair indictment on my part, because it wasn’t Sean’s fault I slept with Dean. It was my decision to do it.
And now I’m making the decision to do it again.
Dean is five minutes late. I fidget impatiently on the couch while I wait for him, unable to concentrate on the episode of Solange that’s playing on the TV. I haven’t watched the show since the night Dean was over, and I’m startled to realize it’s not as much fun without him. I kind of enjoyed his running commentary, and how every five minutes or so he’d pause the show to announce, “Allie-Cat, I have no fucking idea what’s going on!”
It was…cute.
Oh brother. Did I really just use the word cute in conjunction with Dean? I jot down a mental note to never say that out loud. He’d probably accuse me of having a crush on him.
Come to think of it, it’s been a while since I’ve read anything that’s triggered my wheeeee! meter. The last project I was excited about was the play I did for Brett Cavanaugh this summer.
“Casting starts in February,” Ira tells me.
I furrow my brow. “That’s almost three months from now. Why did they cast the part of Zoey so early?”
“They wanted to lock down Kate Ashby before another network could poach her. The producers are wrapping up the final season of their other show, and then they’ll be ready to get the ball rolling on this project. They want you to fly out on February sixth.”
My stomach drops. “I can’t. Widow opens on the eighth. We have dress rehearsals that week.”
“Widow?”
“The play I’m doing at school.”
Ira sighs. “Any chance they’ll let you skip dress rehearsals?”
“Not a one.”
“Shit.”
Silence ensues. Ira does that a lot, falling deep in thought for minutes at a time. I think he forgets we’re on the phone and not in the same room.
“Ira?” I prompt.
“Sorry, sweetheart. Thinking…” After another long pause, his brisk voice returns. “All right, let me get Virgil’s assistant on the line. I’ll see what we can do.”
He disconnects the call without saying goodbye, which is another bad habit of his. He insists he doesn’t have time for “that crap.”
Ten minutes later, I walk up the path to Bristol House and swipe my ID at the entrance. I probably won’t hear back from Ira today, and a part of me hopes the producers come back and say, Tough shit. If she can’t read on the day we want her to read, we’ll give the role to someone else.
Which is a crazy thing to hope for, because, again…Network. Television.
What is wrong with me?
Many things, apparently, because not only am I considering skipping an audition that could launch my career, I’m also planning on having sex with Dean Di Laurentis tonight.
Yep, our sex date is still on like Donkey Kong. I haven’t changed my mind. In fact, I’m…God have mercy on my soul…anticipating it. I’m even bailing on my workout today to prepare for it.
After wolfing down a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch, I call a cab to drive me to the salon in Hastings.
Tanya, my mani/pedi/wax guru, is ready and waiting when I stroll through the door. I decided long ago that she’s a sadist, because she’s alarmingly gung-ho about torturing my nether regions. We get the Brazilian out of the way first, because I don’t like having the idea of Hot Wax Torture hanging over my head during my manicure.
Once I’m bare as a baby’s bottom, Tanya rubs soothing oil over the sensitive area and ducks out of the room while I slip my undies and leggings back on. It usually takes a few hours before the redness down below subsides, but Dean’s not coming over until nine, so I’ll have plenty of downstairs recovery time and then I’ll be good to go.
I leave the wax room and join Tanya at her manicure station. An hour later, I waltz out of the salon rocking fire-engine-red nail and toe polish, because I think Dean will get a kick out of seeing my bright red nails scraping his washboard abs. I’d asked Tanya to make them shorter and rounder this time, so I don’t scratch the shit out of him again.
On the cab ride back to the dorm, I try to figure out whether I’m excited, or disappointed in myself. I still can’t believe I caved in to Dean’s potent masculinity, but I can’t deny I’m eager to reacquaint myself with his magical penis.
Unless…what if it’s lost its appeal? I mean, how many times can you really rub a genie’s lamp before its magical powers run out? Or does a genie’s lamp hold an infinite number of wishes?
Deep thoughts with Allison Jane Hayes, folks.
Huh. Maybe that should be my television show.
*
By the time nine o’clock creeps up, I’m ready to, as Will Smith so aptly phrased it, get jiggy with it.
I’ve undergone a beautification process from head to toe. I’m waxed, polished, scrubbed and lotioned, and I even flat ironed my hair after blow-drying instead of leaving it at its natural state of kinda wavy.
It feels like a waste to go through so much trouble beauty-wise and then not wear a little black dress or some sexy lingerie, but I figure Horndog Dean is going to rip my clothes off the second he gets here, so I’m in yoga pants and a tank top. No bra (because, again, what’s the point?) but I am wearing panties because I don’t like going commando unless I’m feeling scandalous. Sometimes I’d do it when Sean and I were going to a fancy restaurant. It drove him crazy knowing I wasn’t wearing anything underneath my—
You’re not allowed to think about Sean when you’re minutes away from sleeping with another guy!
Too late. Sean’s in my head now. I still haven’t agreed to meet him in person, but I know I should probably give him an answer one of these days before he resorts to the bulldozer approach. He does that a lot.
Case in point—showing up at my dorm uninvited.
Which drove me to flee to the safety of Garrett’s house.
Which drove me into Dean’s bed.
Seems like there’s a morality tale in there somewhere, a nugget of wisdom that Sean would benefit from acquiring. Push your ex-girlfriend too hard and she sleeps with a manwhore.
Or maybe it’s better if he skips that particular lesson. Besides, it’s an unfair indictment on my part, because it wasn’t Sean’s fault I slept with Dean. It was my decision to do it.
And now I’m making the decision to do it again.
Dean is five minutes late. I fidget impatiently on the couch while I wait for him, unable to concentrate on the episode of Solange that’s playing on the TV. I haven’t watched the show since the night Dean was over, and I’m startled to realize it’s not as much fun without him. I kind of enjoyed his running commentary, and how every five minutes or so he’d pause the show to announce, “Allie-Cat, I have no fucking idea what’s going on!”
It was…cute.
Oh brother. Did I really just use the word cute in conjunction with Dean? I jot down a mental note to never say that out loud. He’d probably accuse me of having a crush on him.
