I’m starting to wonder if I’ll ever get her out of my system.

*

Allie

I went on my first casting call when I was twelve. I was super pumped about it, and although I didn’t get the part, I still had a blast reading for the casting director, who was the loveliest woman I’d ever met. She gave me valuable feedback I still remember to this day and advised me to keep at it because she saw “something” in me.

It wasn’t too long after that when I realized the audition process isn’t always kittens and rainbows. Doesn’t matter if you’re reading for commercial gigs or day player jobs or juicier roles—you’re bound to face this particular hurdle at least once: the difficult acting partner.

Yep, there’s one of those at every audition. The person who tries to sabotage you even though you’re reading for different parts. Or out-act you because they need to look better. Or behave like an unprofessional ass and forget all their lines, making you look bad in the process. Or sometimes they’re just jerks, and you’d rather boil every inch of skin off than be in the same room as them, let alone read a scene together.

I’ve encountered all types of scene partners over the years, and the best advice I ever got about how to handle it came from Jack Emery, the acting coach at the drama camp where I volunteered.

He told me to use the negative energy.

You can’t control how the other actor is going to behave. You can’t force them to remember their lines, or force yourself to make nice with someone who, frankly, doesn’t deserve the energy it takes for you to fake a smile. Jack instructed me to take that negative energy and channel it into my own performance. Sure, the advice doesn’t necessarily apply when you’re reading for a cereal commercial and you’re supposed to be happy-go-lucky, all smiles as you shovel sugar into your mouth.

But it absolutely helps if your characters have a combative relationship. In that case, it’s easy to use the anger or irritation or just plain hatred and bring it to the performance.

Which is what I’m desperately trying to do at Thursday night’s rehearsal with the senior who’s playing my sister.

I’ve had classes with Mallory Richardson in the past, but this is the first time we’ve acted together on stage. Last week, we had our scripts on hand because it was the start of rehearsals.

This week, our student director wants us to perform sans script. Not the whole play, but a couple of script-free scenes to jumpstart the memorization process. I’m fine with that, because I’ve memorized half the play already.

Mallory? She can hardly string together a full sentence.

“Face it, Jeannette, you’re weak,” Mallory says flatly. “Why do you think Bobby left? Because he couldn’t—” She stops. “Line,” she calls to the front row, where our director and two student producers are seated.

There’s no mistaking Steven’s frustration. I don’t blame him. This past hour, I’ve heard Mallory shout “Line!” so many times that the word has lost all meaning.

“‘He couldn’t stomach your sniveling,’” Steven supplies, his baritone voice carrying through the cavernous room. “‘You’re pathetic. You—’”

Mallory interrupts. “Thanks, I know the rest. I tripped up on the sniveling part.”

Steven signals for us to start again.

“Face it, Jeannette, you’re weak. Why do you think Bobby left? Because he couldn’t stomach your sniveling. You’re pathetic. You fall apart… line!”

I resist the urge to lunge across the stage and tackle her to the ground. Maybe scream the words into her ear at top volume so they sink into her lazy brain.

Steven rattles off the next line.

We start again.

“I’m tired of being the one who has to hold your hand and wipe your tears and—”

“Bobby is dead!” I roar, staggering toward her. “If I want to cry about it, I’m damn well allowed to! And nobody asked you to hold my hand. I didn’t ask you to come here, Caroline.”

“I’m here because…”

I wait for it.

“Line!”

And on and on it goes.

Line.

Line.

Line.

We have the auditorium until ten-thirty, which leaves us another hour to rehearse. Normally Steven makes use of every available second. Tonight, he’s clearly had enough. He stands up and announces that rehearsal is over.

I’m surprised it took him this long.

“We’ll regroup tomorrow,” he says. “We’ve got the space from noon til three, so we can cover a lot more ground then. Read over the scenes a few more times, Mal. You really need to nail down your lines.”

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” Mallory moans. At least she has the decency to look embarrassed. “I didn’t get a chance to study the scene last night. I was preparing a monologue for Nigel’s class.” She sighs loudly. “I’m swamped right now.”

Welcome to college, I want to say, because come on, does she think she’s the only one with a heavy workload?

I’m taking a screenwriting course that requires me to write two scenes a week. My film theory prof assigns so many readings my eyes are starting to cross. For my audition workshop, we’re expected to prepare monologues every week; the seminar is designed to help student actors get comfortable and build confidence for the audition process, but apparently it’s too “easy” to let us use existing material to fake-audition with.

Needless to say, I’m equally swamped, but you don’t see me making excuses. Nope, I still find time to memorize a few measly pages of dialogue.

I’m happy that rehearsal is over, though. I’m too close to throttling Mallory, who doesn’t even say goodbye as she leaves the stage.

“We’ll do better tomorrow,” I assure Steven. I feel awful that we let him down today, because I know how serious he is about directing.

The first time we met, I teased him that he should be in front of the camera and not behind it. Seriously, the guy is gorgeous. Dark-chocolate skin, flawless features, mesmerizing eyes. He reminds me of Idris Elba minus the sexy British accent. But Steven isn’t interested in being an actor. He once told me that his goal is to win a Best Director Oscar by the time he’s forty.

“You’re not the one who needs to get better,” Steven replies. “You’re doing a terrific job.”