Page 3 of You Spin Me

“We are. We’re engaged.”

“Damn, Will. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I didn’t either, but when it’s right, it’s right.”

“Well, congratulations. That’s awesome news.”

“Nineteen eighty-nine. I think that’s a good year to get married.”

“I have to go, but… good job, man. She’s a keeper. And congrats onHamletagain.”

“Thanks. Bye, J. Let me know if they call.”

Proud of myself for mustering the goodwill to wish my friend well when I’m losing out on every front, I stare at the phone on the wall for a few minutes. I am truly happy for him and Kate. They’re great together. I mean, a part of me is a weensy bit jealous since I can’t seem to find a guy I’d actually want to spend more than a few nights with.

Maybe it’s like that Groucho Marx joke. I don’t want to be a member of a club that’ll have me as a member.

At the same time, it kind of pisses me off that I’m too old to play Ophelia, but Will’s not too old to play Hamlet.

My headshot stares at me from my desk, where the tools of my trade sit in neat and organized piles. A box of stationery, big brown envelopes, and my cute Apple computer. Everything’s set for me to send out the 8 x 10 photos of my carefully made-up face and painstakingly styled hair, the attached resumes—which I spent hours cutting down to size and gluing to the backs of photos—formatted in neat columns stuffed full of Shakespeare heroines.

It’s all a waste, all the time and energy and money I put into making this face as presentable as it can be, this body as attractive as it can be.

It doesn’t matter. I’m thirty. I can’t be an ingenue anymore. Yet I’m not old enough to play a matron, so I may as well not exist.

It’s too late to go to law school or med school, even if I didn’t have a learning disability which would make those pursuits impossible. My brother (lawyer) and sister (doctor) have both covered, anyway. I guess I could join the Peace Corps or something, but I doubt they’d have much use for a dyslexic actress.

Enough, Jessica.

I may not have a class to teach tonight, but there’s always a dance class to take. Better than staying home in this cold apartment, where I’d probably stress-eat. I may no longer be an ingenue, but if I want to have a chance at any acting work at all, I sure as hell can’t let myself go.

When I check the dance studio’s schedule stuck to my fridge, the date on the calendar brings back memories.

On my twelfth birthday, I got to start pointe classes in ballet.

On my eighteenth, I went out clubbing in downtown Boston with my drama-geek college buddies with a not-fake ID.

On my twenty-first, I finally got rid of my virginity.

On my twenty-fifth, I landed my twenty-fifth professional theater role: Hermia inMidsummer Night’s Dream(my fourth time playing the role).

I guess my thirtieth is when I stop celebrating birthdays.

It’s a much longer driveto Chichester from Boston than I calculated—I probably didn’t add up the little red numbers on the map correctly—so it’s almost five by the time I step inside the theater. Even though it’s the end of their day, there are still plenty of people waiting to audition. When I sign in, I’m dismayed to find sheet after sheet filled with the names of actors who got here before me. They must’ve seen hundreds of people today. If I hadn’t driven over an hour to get here, I’d turn right back around and go home. The casting director must be in a coma by now.

Worse, the gatekeeper hands me a selection of scenes to choose from, explaining that even though the audition notice said they wanted to hear a comedic monologue, the director wants us to read from the play he’s casting. Since I decided to do this last-minute, I didn’t have time to get a copy of it. All I know is that the playwright is known for farcical comedies and there’s a role for a woman in her thirties. A good little actress would have read the whole thing a few times so she could make informed character choices. Looks like I’m winging it today.

Since a quick read of the scenes is impossible for a dyslexic person like me, I give the woman my most conspiratorial smile and ask which scene fewer people have read today. She gives me a knowing nod and hands me a scene which is blessedly short.

After a quick scan of the room, I find a guy sitting by himself and looking bored. I sit down next to him and lean over, squeezing my boobs together with my upper arms. If I have to carry around these jugs, I may as well get something out of them. “I am such a silly goose; I left the house without my reading glasses”—a bald-faced lie, but whenever I tell people I have a reading disability, they treat me like an idiot?—“so do you think you could read the scene with me?”

Man-gaze drops to cleavage first, then meets eyes.Score.

“Uh, sure,” he mumbles.

Pressing my palms together, I recite, “‘I can no other answer make, but thanks, and thanks.’” When he gives me an odd look, I clarify, “That’s fromTwelfth Night.” Snuggling in closer, I add, “If you can read both parts the first time through, that’d be so totally awesome.”

He gives the tatas another appreciative glance. “No problem.”

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