Unnaturally Green by Felicia Ricci Read Free Book Online

wasn’t unusual for me to wake up in the morning to find my entire library of books and Xeroxed sheet music either on my lap or directly under my head, with my computer propped up on socks and books, playing This American Life episodes on repeat.
    Finally, I came upon a probably clean pair of American Apparel biker shorts, which were bright red with white piping, and barely grazed the top of my thigh. They reminded me of an adult diaper, if adult diapers were made of retro-colored cotton. I also managed to excavate a navy tank top and a pair of navy leggings. Everything combined made me look like a patriotic diaper-wearing sailor who had shrunk his uniform in the wash. At the last minute I decided to throw on yet another shirt, an homage to the 80s that was peach pink and fell off of my shoulders.
    My theory? The more clothes I wore, the less likely anyone would be able to see my pit stains with the naked eye. (Downside: more layers would actually make me sweat more . But that was my silent cross to bear.)
    I wolfed down another good-luck banana, threw on a pair of running sneakers, and dashed out the door.
     
     
    The callback studio was in a different building in midtown. I took an elevator to a long hallway on the umpteenth floor, with huge numbered doors. I made my way down to the far right, opened the door, and saw a small waiting area with a leather couch and stools, on which there were two girls and two boys, each looking down at their cell phones.
    “Is this the Wicked dance callback?” I said to the air.
    One of the boys looked up.
    “You got it!”
    He was very chipper.
    One girl had curly brown hair and was about my type, while the other was tiny-boned and olive-skinned, with sunken cheeks and pin-straight black hair. Kind of like a figure in an Edvard Munch painting, except pretty.
    No one was talking, so, given the tension, it was obviously my duty to flout social norms.
    “So are you ladies going to wear character shoes or sneakers?” I said, theatrically rooting through my bag, as if I even had a choice.
    “Sneakers, probably,” the brunette said.
    “Yeah, sneakers,” said Edvard Munch.
    “Oh, cool.” I turned to the boys. “What part are you here for?”
    “Fiyero cover. It’s for immediate casting on Tour One. We would leave on Monday. Can you even believe it?”
    The two boys looked so alike it was hard to tell which one was talking.
    “Wow! That’s crazy.”
    “I know.”
    “And it’s just you two guys?”
    “So it seems!” said one boy to the other. Or maybe they were speaking in unison?
    I could only assume the two girls were going in for my part—ensemble/Elphaba understudy. But I was too scared to ask.
    Sunlight streamed through the windows, a taunting contrast to the thick cloud of tension that hung over us all. Something about it being a small group raised the stakes, and made me want to start slapping everybody. If I’d had a choice, I would have preferred a huge “cattle call” audition. Not only would the competition be faceless, nameless, and less intimidating, but when we got into the studio I could disappear behind a cluster of real dancers and, if necessary, duck out the fire escape. At least then I could save face, bowing out of this dreamlike experience with a pathetic whimper, not a humiliating bang.
    However you slice them, dance auditions suck—especially for hacks like me. Sure, I’d had years of dance training growing up—and, accordingly, traumatic John Travolta anecdotes from year-end recitals—but in the triple-threat zone of singer-actor-dancer, I knew the last one fell lowest on my résumé of theater skills. If given enough time, I could pick up most dance combinations, as long as they didn’t require exceptional technique or that I touch my toes.
    But in a fast-paced audition? I knew I was toast.
    All of a sudden a side door swung open, and in drifted a woman with burgundy hair and low-slung dancer pants.
    “Come in,” she said.
     We were told,