Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83961 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“But weren’t you saying that dating Maddox seemed to bring out a different side of her? One that wasn’t so straight-laced?”
“Yeah, but…” Dinah rubs at her forehead. “It’s one thing to try something new with a romantic partner. Something like sky diving, or bungee jumping. To take off out of nowhere for a trip lasting God knows how long…”
“I see your point.” I stroke my chin. “And the only correspondence you’ve received from her is by text?”
She nods. “Those two texts. That’s all the word I’ve had in a month.”
I pull out my own phone, scroll through my mail app. “And the only communication I have from her is when she sent an email to the St. Charles admins telling them she was taking some time off.” I scratch my head. “Only texts…”
“Doctor?”
I hold up a hand as I call Maddox.
“Hey. This is Maddox Hathaway. If this is related to my shop, please call the Hathaway Haberdashery’s landline directly. If not, please leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”
The phone beeps, but I end the call. No point in calling the haberdashery. I know Maddox isn’t there.
I call again. Again it goes straight to voicemail.
“Alissa’s phone does the same thing every time I call her,” Dinah says. “Is it possible the two of them decided to unplug for this trip?”
“That could be it. Still…” I rub at the back of my neck, where my hairs are standing upright. “You’ve only received texts from Alissa, right?”
“You already asked me that, Doctor.”
“You’re not understanding my question.” I set down the chart. “When was the last time you heard Alissa’s voice?”
2
BIANCA
Three bucks, two bags, one me!
Those were the words ping-ponging through my head when I stepped off the plane at LaGuardia Airport. The words of the Star-to-Be in the musical Annie. It’s a small role with a single solo in the show, but it’s launched the career of many a Broadway starlet, the likes of which include Sutton Foster and Laurie Beechman.
I had just finished four years of school at Oklahoma City University. Musical theatre major, of course. I spent years perfecting my sixteen-bar audition cuts, studying the acting theories of Uta Hagen and Stanislavsky, and learning the intricacies of ballet, jazz, and tap dancing.
And just like a billion women before me, I stepped off that plane a girl with a big dream.
My name in lights. Singing my heart out to a crowd of strangers. The roaring applause of hundreds as I take my final bow.
Of course, dreams are for nighttime.
By day, my life in the Big Apple has been a nightmare.
No one prepares you for this part of an acting career in school.
Rent in NYC is astronomical. If you don’t have rich parents footing your bills, you can expect to either live in a shoebox or share a larger space with five roommates.
My parents are rich, but they’re not footing the bill. No, Robinson and Circe Montrose thought their second-born daughter should be doing something more monotonous, something more in line with her timid nature. Maybe Rouge, their golden child, could have made it on Broadway.
But Bianca? Sweet little Bianca, with her light-blond hair and porcelain skin?
The Big Apple was going to eat her alive.
But I was determined to prove them wrong. I got a decent scholarship at OCU and took loans to cover the rest.
Of course, the problem with loans is that you eventually have to pay them back.
That plus rent quickly exhausted what little money I managed to put away during college.
So I grabbed jobs wherever I could. A lot of barista gigs, some retail. Even a short stint as a receptionist for a law firm.
But the problem with those jobs? They conflict with auditions.
I would either have to beg a coworker to cover for me whenever an opportunity popped up or let it pass me by so I could eat that week.
Eventually I quit going for those gigs and turned to dancing in my underwear for complete strangers in a bar in Midtown. I’m on my way there for my shift right now.
The hours are good—they leave my days open for auditions—and the tips excellent.
Not exactly what little Bianca dreamed of when she stepped off that plane, but I’m getting paid to perform, right?
At least that’s what I tell myself every time I get on that tiny stage, my tits spilling out of the microscopic bikini top I wear.
It’s a means to an end. A waystation on my road to the Great White Way.
But…when will I reach the end?
I’ve been dancing there for five years now, and taken audition after audition, each one more fruitless than the last. I’ve done everything I can. Consulted countless vocal coaches, worked my monologues to death, starved myself for two weeks to get that Kate Moss look for my headshots. Stood in line for hours for every cattle call I could find. And all I’ve gotten after every audition is a brisk “thank you” and a gesture to the door. That was the case for my first audition, and that was the case for the three auditions I took just this last week.