Sprinkles and Secrets (11 page)

Chapter 18

I
am so glad when Monday finally arrives, I almost kiss the calendar. It'll feel good to get the audition over with so I can get on with my life. Since last night, I've had what my dad calls “haunted-house stomach.” It's that feeling you get when you're about
to do something both exciting and terrifying. Who knew stepping in front of a television camera would feel just like walking into a haunted house?

I shower, blow dry and curl my hair, and then put on outfit number twenty-one. That is, last night I tried on about twenty-one outfits before I finally decided on this one. It's a black skirt with a light-blue sweater along with my favorite necklace. Grandma gave it to me last year for my birthday. It's a long silver chain with a big, puffy heart hanging from the end of it.

After I'm dressed and have looked in the mirror enough times to make myself sick of me, I go out to the kitchen where oatmeal with blueberries is waiting for me at the kitchen table.

“You look beautiful, Sophie,” Mom says. “Are you nervous?”

“Yeah, a little bit.”

“Well, try not to worry. You're going to do great.”

I eat my oatmeal while she cleans out the dishwasher. When she's finished, she comes and sits down across from me.

“I know this whole thing with Isabel has been
upsetting to you, and I probably didn't help,” she says. “But don't think about any of that today. Just do the best you can, and soak up the experience, okay?”

Mom and I already had a long talk about me lying to Isabel. I've promised to tell her this week, and to apologize.

I nod, agreeing to do my best, and I finish my glass of milk. “I'm ready. Can we go?”

She raises her eyebrows before she says, “After you brush your teeth and wipe the milk off the corners of your mouth.”

On the way to the bathroom, I run into a sleepy Hayden.

“Break a leg, Sophie,” he says. “Why do they say that, anyway? It makes no sense.”

“I don't know, Little Brother Man. But thanks. I think.”

Soon, we're in the car and on our way to Portland. Mom puts the
Wicked
CD into the CD player and squeezes my leg. “For some inspiration, huh?”

I nod, sit back, close my eyes, and let myself go back to that magical night.

It takes about two hours to get to Portland. Mom pulls off the freeway, drives into downtown, and I look up at the big, tall buildings. It's so different from our cozy town of Willow. Mom finds a spot in a parking garage across the street from the building where the audition is being held.

When we get inside the building, a woman at a reception desk greets us. She asks us to sign in on a piece of paper, and then sends us to the fifth floor. Once there, a woman directs us to a long line of kids and their parents. It's noisy. I check out my competition. There are all kinds of kids here—girls and boys, short and tall, average and beautiful. Most of them look to be about my age. A couple look older, but I'm guessing most of them are in middle school, like me.

We wait. And wait. And wait.

When we finally get to the table, Mom pulls the paperwork out of her purse and hands it to the lady sitting on the other side.

She looks at the paperwork, then looks up at me and smiles. “Hi, Sophie. Welcome to the audition. Here
is a page of lines. You'll want to work on memorizing a couple of them so you can say them when it's your turn, okay?”

I take the paper from her and nod. She marks some things on one of the pages Mom gave her, then hands me a large piece of card stock with the number 99 written on it. Does that mean ninety-eight people are auditioning before me? I turn around and look at the line that's formed behind me. There's got to be another thirty people there.

It really hits me how competitive this industry is. If there's this many people here for a simple commercial, what's it like when it's an audition for a TV show or a movie? It must be harder to get an audition at that point. I bet the headshots become a lot more important. I wonder if you have to be exactly what they're looking for, or you don't get called in.

The lady sends us to a large room where everyone is standing or sitting around, waiting to have their number called. Mom finds us two seats in the far corner of the room.

I read through the lines. Some of them sound a little cheesy.

Do you ever wake up in the middle of the night, craving a delicious snack? Head to Beatrice's Brownies now and stock up before the snack attack hits!

There's only one thing that beats the homework blues. Come to Beatrice's Brownies for all of jour snacktime needs.

We wait through the sixties and the seventies.

I study the lines.

We wait through the eighties and the nineties.

I keep studying.

The boy sitting next to me has been playing cards for the last hour. Guess he feels like he's got the lines down. I think I do too. Wish I had brought a book to read or something. Who knew this would be worse than waiting at a doctor's office? Except here, we're waiting for a different kind of shot—a shot at making our dreams come true.

“You doing okay?” Mom asks as she reaches over and puts her hand on my bouncing leg. “Not too

“I might have been, like an hour ago,” I whisper back. “I can't remember. All I know is that I'm starving and I want to get this over with and go eat lunch. What time is it, anyway?”

She pulls back the sleeve of her jacket and holds her watch out so I can see the time. It's almost one o'clock. No wonder I'm so hungry. Luckily, I have the smartest mom in the world. She reaches into her purse and pulls out a granola bar. I look around and see other kids snacking too.

Mom leans in while I'm chewing. “Just remember, honey, they probably have something specific they're looking for. Either you have it or you don't. If you don't, it's nothing personal. You just aren't
the one
this time around. You know what I mean?”

Not really, but I nod anyway. How do they know what they want until they see it? That's why so many kids are here today. I think it's my job to make them think I'm the one. Except maybe I don't want to be the one, which makes the situation ten times more confusing.

I finish the granola bar in no time, and am about to go in search of a drinking fountain, when the woman with the clipboard who keeps coming in and calling numbers yells out, “Number ninety-nine?”

Mom squeezes my hand as I get up. “Good luck,” she says.

I mumble a quick “thanks” and then make my way through all the people to the door, and follow the woman down the hall and around the corner.

She leads me into a room with a light-blue cloth hanging at the front of the room. I'm directed to stand in front of the cloth and hold my number up in front of me. There's a cameraman not far away with a real-life television camera. I tell myself to breathe. Just smile and breathe.

The lady with the clipboard says, “After you say your name and the agency you're with, you can put your number down. Then look at the camera and say one of the lines. If you need help, we've put a couple of them on the easels here and here.” She points to two big easels on either side of the camera that have large pieces of paper taped to them with lines written in big black marker.

“Okay, action,” she says.

“I'm Sophie Wright,” I say. “CPE Agency.” I put my hand holding the number down by my side, and then I smile really big and say one of the lines I could actually see myself saying in a real commercial.

“Tired of store-bought cookies in your sack
lunch? Stop by Beatrice's Brownies and get the dessert everyone will be
begging
you to trade!”

“One more, please,” the woman tells me.

“Come and try a Beatrice's brownie today. After all, Delicious is our middle name!”

“Great,” the woman says. “That's all we need.”

That's it? What was that, about thirty seconds? She walks over, takes my number, and says someone will be in touch with my agent very soon if I'm one of the kids selected.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “I hope I did all right.”

She smiles. “You did great.”

I leave the room feeling like I can leap the tall buildings in downtown Portland in a single bound.

It's over. I did it!

When I make it back to the waiting room, I stand at the doorway and wave to Mom. She rushes over.

“How'd it go?” she asks as we walk toward the elevator.

I shrug. “I don't know. But she had me read two lines, and I didn't mess up or anything.” I look at her. “She said I did great. So I guess it went pretty well.”

She puts her arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze. “I'm so proud of you, Sophie. Good job. Now let's go find some lunch.”

In my best fake-actress voice I say, “And we should stop by Beatrice's Brownies and stock up before the snack attack hits!”

We giggle all the way down to the first floor.

Chapter 19

H
ow'd it go yesterday?” are the first words out of my best friend's mouth.

“It's hard to know,” I tell her as I grab my science textbook along with my binder.

“I can't wait to hear about it at lunch,” she says.

I pull my lip gloss out of my pocket. “I need to do
something else at lunch today. Can we get together after school? Maybe have a chocolate jam tart, since today's December first?”

“Oh, yeah!” she says. “Sounds fun. Meet you at the bike rack, okay?”

“Okay. Oh, and Is, can you do me a favor? You have science class with a new kid. Austen? Can you tell him to meet me here, at our locker, at the beginning of lunch?”

She gives me a little eyebrow raise, which tells me she's thinking I've got a crush on the guy. “No, it's nothing like that. Long story. Will you tell him?”

She shrugs. “Okay. See ya later.” She scurries off to class and I touch up my lip gloss before I close the door and go to science. When I get to class, I go to Dennis's desk. He looks half-asleep. I know the feeling.

I drop a card in an envelope on his desk in front of him. He jumps a little, sits up straight, and reaches for it. Inside the sealed envelope is a note I wrote to his mom telling her that Dennis told me he wants a camera for Christmas. I gave her all of the important information for the red camera, since that's the
one the salesman recommended. I'm hoping it will improve his chances of getting a new one versus getting one from the thrift store.

“Can you give that to your mom, please?”

He turns the envelope over and reads “Margie” in my best cursive handwriting.

“Should I be worried?” he asks.

I start to joke with him and tell him of course he should be, but I don't want him to rip it open and read it. “No, I promise, nothing to worry about. Just wanted to say thanks for letting us study at your house and for the delicious cookies.” He sticks the card into his binder. “Oh, and I need you to meet me at my locker at lunch, okay? First thing after the bell rings.”