Unnaturally Green by Felicia Ricci Read Free Book Online Page B

in the corner of the room opposite from everyone else. The other girls, also scattered about, seemed just as confused.
    This was great news. There’s nothing like the thrill of realizing your competition isn’t so bad after all—or, I should say,
is
bad. It’s a terrible, sick feeling of evil pleasure. But, if you’ve ever auditioned for anything, you know what I’m talking about.
    I traipsed to the other side of the room, poised to grab my water bottle and head out the door. But the torture had only just begun.
    We had to learn another combination, a hybrid of random steps from a bunch of songs throughout the show tacked onto something called the “Ozdust Ballroom” dance. In this combination, we had to spin ourselves in various directions, while tangling and coiling our hands around our wrists, squatting, jumping, and hitting various “broken scarecrow,” positions, which for me meant I, again, did The Robot, while spazzing out.
    As we danced I eyed Craig, lurking by the door, beside the drummer, texting. I could only imagine he was corresponding with some Wicked higher up, writing something to the effect of:
    Craig: 4:14PM no castable girls. may have to cancel everything.
    Snare, high-hat drum kick! And here we go!
    I spun around, flopped down, then shot up off the ground, my arms and legs kicking and bucking in many directions, as I imagined someone would do if they got pricked while going to the bathroom, bare-assed, in the woods.
    What now?
    My right brain swung into gear, and all of a sudden I was repeating the first part of the dance—the little bit I happened to remember—once, twice, three times.
    John Travolta, here I come .
    I flicked and kicked around with the pop, pow! Corinne was referring to earlier. After all, it wasn’t about the steps, right? Maybe it was just about showing her my potential—even if learning the steps might not happen until some rare, distant, apocalyptic day.
    The drums came to an abrupt halt. In my periphery I saw Edvard Munch still spinning, caught in her own momentum, until she eventually wound down to stillness.
    Corinne sat in a wide dancer split at the front of the room, looking distraught, her head cradled in her hands.
    “Okay, why don’t you all hang outside for a bit,” she said.
    Back in the hallway the vibe was tenser than ever, and instead of trying to talk I simply buckled under the pressure, curling up on the couch in the fetal position.
    “So have you guys been in for Wicked before?” asked one of the boy-twins.
    “Never.”
    “Nope.”
    “Nah,” I chimed in.
    “I was seen a while back,” said the other boy-twin. “For Fiyero cover in another company. So I know the dances pretty well.”
    Just as I was about to start sucking my thumb, the studio door opened and Corinne and Craig reappeared. They were both smiling like pageant contestants.
    “Thanks so much, guys, for all of your hard work today. Everybody can leave.”
    Yep. There it was.
    We’re toast.
    “Except Felicia—could you please stay behind a minute?”
    I sort of did a spit-take, but without any liquid in my mouth, which meant I basically made a fart noise with my lips.
    “Sure thing!” I said, jerking my body upright.
    “Come on into the studio.”
    As I re-laced my sneakers, the others milled through the exit, silent and gazing at the floor. I felt a twinge of survivor’s guilt. If the tables were turned, I knew I’d be crushed. Or worse, totally pissed, ready to go Jerry Springer on their asses.
    Whatever the case, I had to keep it together: this could be my chance to actually succeed in fooling Wicked into casting me! I shook myself awake and stepped inside the studio.
    “We’re going to teach you some lifts,” said Corinne. “Do you have any experience doing lifts?”
    “Not really. But I have been known to lift things,” I said.
    “We need to see you do the lifts that would be part of your ensemble track,” Corinne said.
    “Right,” I said.
    “This is Patrick,”