A Grey Christmas

The Last Day Before the First Day

"There's no business like show business..."

Farrah O'Shay-Bernstein sings from Annie Get Your Gun at the top of her lungs, making me want to get my own and turn it on myself, as Taylor and I watch her from our seats in the conference room at the Plaza. No, she's not married—she's six and she has a "consciously coupling" set of parents, whatever the fuck that means. Isn't that accurate for one night shack-ups as long as everyone's awake? I've endured act after tiresome act, sitting here watching these "professional children" belt out their Broadway best—or rather their off-off-off-Broadway loudest—to be cast as Phoebe's Eloise. But, Farrah O'Shay-Bernstein I loathe the most.

"You don't have to sing," I say to Farrah as I've said to every one of them, but they all fucking insist on singing something, ranging from some Good Ship Lollipop nonsense where the kid nearly fell off the stage because of poor hoop-skirt to child ratio on the twirls; to Fame, where "I'm Gonna Live Forever" sounded like a threat; to something completely inappropriate by Shakira that was accompanied by a bead-shaking salsa dance that her idiot mother was encouraging her to do—with her. And believe me, it looked more like the bowl of dip you stick a chip into than the dance.

It leaves me to wonder—How the fuck is any of this Eloise?!

"The role doesn't require musicality," I say.

Farrah scrunches her nose and the pancake make-up she's wearing cracks, and oddly she looks exactly like her mother, Rosemary, who's sitting in the front row and keeps motioning with her hands for Farrah to fluff her hair. Jesus, any more fluff they'll dye it pink, swirl it on a stick and sell it at the carnival.

"But, it really showcases my entire jewel case of talents," Farrah O'Shay-Bernstein says, all snarky and pursing her lips like she just sucked a lemon. Yes, now I know who she reminds me of—Kavanagh.

"I don't care if the rubies in your case are stuck to slippers straight from Oz, there's no singing tonight!"

"As an artist, I feel I should be—"

"You're six! Just be six!"

"Mr. Grey," Taylor says, I'm sure in an effort to cool me down. This has to be the fucking weirdest thing we've ever done, including the time he had to help me untie Dawn from the ceiling of the playroom. "Maybe she should just act out some lines from the book, sir."

"Right, good idea. Some lines from the book."

"Which book?" she asks as she starts to tap dance. Why the fuck is she tap dancing?

"The Christmas one!" I say. "That's what we're auditioning for and we don't need the tapping, either!"

"But, Christmas is over," she says, continuing to tap. The clicking of those shoes against the wood floor is driving me mad. If someone wished me straight to hell, they'd just have to send Farah O'Shay-Bernstein to dance on my grave.

I've had it.

"So is this audition. Thank you, Miss—"

"It's Ms.," she says. "I don't want to be immediately personified by my marital status."

I just look at her for a moment.

"You're six!"

"You'll be sorry when you see her in the Gypsy revival," her mother says, pulling her off the stage. It's appropriate her name is Rosemary, since her child is the spawn of Satan.

"You're right; I'll make sure I miss it to avoid the suffering."

She huffs off with her daughter, but I can still smell the Aqua Net hairspray left in their wake.