“Ryan and I... we never have sex, Bobby. Ten times in three years.”
“Why, Ray-Ray?”
“I’m used up.”
“Then leave.”
“Someday.”
“When?”
“When I’m on that stage in those lights, pointe-shoes on with ribbons binding my ankles, my heart poured out for the world to see... then I’ll know I can leave.”
“Pointe shoes? But you’re a tapping chorus girl.”
“You know how you always say that you could never write for a newspaper because it’s soulless?”
“Yes.”
“You know how poetry moves you?”
“I do.”
“Being a chorus girl is like writing for a newspaper. Your poetry is my ballet.”
“Leave him.”
“I know.”
“Leave him.”
“Bobby...” Sarah Huggins froze in her most dramatic display of acting prowess. Without any movement visible to the human eye, she pressed a solitary drop from her tear-duct, let it fall to her cheek (a trick she spent hours perfecting in the mirror), leaned forward from her seat and kissed Bill Carmel on the lips. “...I know.”
“Cut!” announced the steely man behind the camera.
Sarah cleared her throat and wiped away the tear. Bill slouched in his chair but remained transfixed.
The cameraman stepped between them with paperwork and a pen. “Alright, Miss Huggins,” he said. “A few questions.”
Sarah split her gaze between the man invading her personal space and the sliver of the director’s eye visible from behind the imposing chest.
“Will you do nudity?” asked the man.
“I was told there wasn’t any nudity in this film.”
“Not yet, but we’d like to reserve the right to add or change scenes if--”
“No,” she said. “I don’t do nudity.”
The man murmured something unintelligible and scribbled a note.
The director remained silent.
“Is your summer schedule open?” the man asked.
“If I get this role, nothing else will matter.”
“I don’t see any other film work listed, here...”
“I’ve been in Michigan my whole life. But I’ve performed in several plays--”
“Theater and film are very different mediums, Miss Huggins.”
Sarah tried not to stammer. “Of course. I uh...” From the corner of her eye, she noticed Bill Carmel’s head slide into view from behind the cameraman’s shirt. She glanced over just in time to catch the director’s eye but he jerked his head back when they made contact. “I know the differences,” she continued. “But I’m confident in my ability to make the transition.”
“One last concern; the lead in this film is twenty-four, but it says here you’re only twenty.”
“I can mend a four-year gap. Twenty-four won’t be a problem.”
The man made another note, stepped aside, and finally revealed the director to Sarah. “Was that good for you, Bill?” he asked.
“It was good, Stan,” he replied.
YOU ARE READING
The Brandywine Prophet
General FictionSuburban life has turned William Carmel from a drug-fueled creative prodigy to a gentle husband and father. When the voice of God commands him to construct a million-dollar amphitheater on the hill behind his home, the budding prophet obeys and unle...
