𝐁𝐎𝐘𝐈𝐒𝐇// 𝐄𝐃𝐃𝐈𝐄 𝐌𝐔𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐗𝐎𝐂

𝐱𝐢𝐢𝐢. ✭ 𝐓𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐑'𝐒 𝐏𝐄𝐓

JULY, 1983; CHANCE

"Pretty thing. Aren't you?" The casting director chuckled, a cigar between his lips. "How old are you, Sweetheart?" He tilted his chin down and I could see the tops of his eyes over the sunglasses framing his face.

"Fifteen." I half-lied, straightening out my skirt on the stool I sat on. My birthday was only a week away. Fourteen was dripping away like a leaky faucet. "Can I sing now?"

There were colorful bracelets hanging on my wrists, I'm almost certain of it. I remember how the vibrant thread was woven around me. The small room was filled with only the man and me.

It was only us.

"Your voice don't matter too much in this industry." He removed the cigar, squashing it into an ashtray. His name was Mr. Riesling. The golden name placard on his desk said so. Standing from his chair made of fine hickory, he strode on over to me. "All that really matters is a pretty face." His thick hand grabbed my face, trailing over my cheekbone.

It made me sick. It made me want to throw up. I didn't like how he smelled like whiskey. I didn't like how he wouldn't let me sing. His cowboy hat casted a shadow across me, blocking me from the sunshine from his office window.

But I knew better. Even as he looked down at me with that glint in his eye, I knew to not say a word as his fingers ran over the patch of freckles on my face.

Eddie used to do that. When we were little we'd lean against each other as we watched movies in his trailer's living room. He'd trace shapes on my cheek, trying to connect the freckles burnt in my skin.

Then I'd reach over, splay my hand across his face, touch all his features, and pinch his cheeks along with his nose.

A few low laughs would fall from our lips. We were fine with just laying tangled together, small hands over each other's faces.

The point is, that I knew better than to speak up. To do anything. With help from Grandma's teachings, I knew that important people didn't want someone who would tell them no. So I did everything the producers asked. Even if I didn't want to.

I'd dance, play with my hair, smile, blush, cross my legs, uncross my legs, jump, and skip around rooms. I did it all. I even stayed as still as a doll when one touchy important person decided they wanted to place their hand all over my face.

As I spaced out, my mind was pulled away to dreams of stardom. There I was, just me on a stage, the spotlight shining down to bask me in fame.

I was a showgirl. That's what Grandma molded me into. Being a showgirl was all I knew how to do. Every part of my life was taken over by performing.

Every one of my actions was simply a stroke in the portrait of my life. That's why everything I did had to be absolutely perfect.

My fantasies of fame are what drove me feral to get the spotlight. I was a creature with an insatiable appetite. The only thing that could sate me was a camera in front of my face.

The only thing that fed me
was the big stage.

OCTOBER, 1985; CHANCE

"Hey, watch the step." Kimberly Moore warned over her shoulder as she clung to the railing affixed to the staircase leading down from the theater. She was in Grease with me, playing Frenchie. "Almost slipped on the way down! It doesn't seem to be too safe to walk on."