Twenty

Sally Priest had always believed acting was a dangerous profession.

In the end, every actor was a survivor.

Acting involved willingly tearing down her ego and instinctive psychological safeguards. True, in one sense, she simply pretended to be someone else. In another, it was like emotionally stripping bare in front of strangers.

Besides that, even with a solid performance, the actor almost never had any control over the final product. The most she could hope was for the director to grant another take if time, budget, and his whim allowed, and then hope the edited composite of takes and angles captured her at her best. She didn't have a say in whether that one perfect scene ended up in the film or on the cutting-room floor.

But Sally didn't think about any of that as her taxi stopped in front of Max Maurey's house. She thought what made acting most dangerous was people.

Yet another glance at her watch. Six minutes late now.

To an audition.

Sally forked over rolls of pennies to pay the driver and bolted toward the house. On the long drive home from screaming at the Joshua trees, her Austin had developed a coughing problem that led to a visit to the shop. Nicholas had promised a ride, but he'd never showed. She'd run back upstairs to her apartment to call a taxi, only to find the phone ringing for a heavy-breather call.

The casting brief that Louise, her talent agent, had messengered over read:

IF WISHES COULD KILL, horror feature film, shooting 11/3–11/30, Lyman Entertainments, Max Maurey directing, Los Angeles, Big Bear Lake, and Bombay Beach.

A young woman and her friends return to their dead town to resolve childhood traumas and lift a deadly curse that threatens to claim them one by one.

PENNY, major character, early twenties, no accent. Penny is the woman who launched the curse. Haunted by vague guilt and suppressed memories, she is sweet and pure of heart but fragile and prone to paranoia.

Major character? Damn, Penny was the lead! Horror's newest incarnation of the Final Girl, a perfect fit for the right scream queen.

People could say what they wanted about Max Maurey, but the man proved a rarity in that he wasn't filled with hot air. And for once, Sally had laid eyes on a female character profile that didn't say super sexy but isn't aware of it.

"Break a leg," Louise had told her. "Make us proud, Sally."

Her agent didn't have to add, And be on time. A guideline so sacred it was practically a commandment. You showed up early, you waited somewhere between ten minutes and all day, and then you went in and gave your all.

Seven minutes late now, and she had a gnawing doubt her watch ran slow.

Steeling herself with a deep breath, Sally entered the house where weeks earlier she'd woken up from a major drug trip to discover a director who wanted to engage her in a theoretical chat about horror over gourmet coffee. A horror director with a prissy little dog. Only in Hollywood.

Judging by the number of cars parked outside, she guessed only a few people had been invited to the casting call. This at least proved accurate. They sat on Max's furniture in nervous silence, as if waiting their turn to see the doctor and find out whether they were going to live or not.

Nicholas flushed scarlet at the sight of her, while Ashlee, nestled against him on Max's sprawling couch, offered a look of smug condolence.

"I'm so sorry, Sal," he said. "I totally spaced out."

"After he picked me up, we kind of got distracted." Ashlee giggled.

Megalomaniacal directors, misogynistic cameramen, casting directors trying to get in her pants, Sally considered these all common and recognizable hazards in her profession. She'd learned to navigate them to avoid being used without blacklisting herself.

Sometimes, however, other actors were the worst. Sally would rather piss off the Mafia than find herself on an actress's shit list. Because that actress came at you sideways. You ended up like the hunky dude in the horror movie who offers the Final Girl a confident smile assuring her he'll protect her with his life. A moment later, his head topples off his spurting neck, already dead but unaware of it.

Anyway, she had only herself to blame for trusting Nicholas, who was out for himself and worked in mysterious ways that would make even the Lord wonder at his cunning. Sally had always considered herself immune to the games he played, as they weren't competitors.

Ashlee held his hand in a tight grip on her lap. They'd taken their publicity romance one step closer to a real marriage of convenience. According to the grapevine, Nicholas's agent strong-armed Max for a role, and Ashlee now clung to the actor to hitch her own ride. The vine also reported that Max favored Sally for the Final Girl, a part to which Ashlee no doubt felt entitled.

Everything fell into place. Today, she had to work hard at embodying sweet and pure of heart to portray Penny. The paranoia, however, came easily.

Sally glared at Nicholas. "Very disappointing."

He shrugged.

Ashlee said, "I could be wrong, darling, but I think they called your name right before you came in. They're all in Max's office."

Sally stomped off toward where she remembered the office being located, passing other actors who sat around in anxious contemplation.

From the other side of the closed door, she heard voices. She gripped the doorknob and twisted. Then she froze.

Ashlee was messing with her.

Or maybe not. Maybe Sally really was just being paranoid.

She imagined barging into the room and interrupting an actor in the middle of a scene. Not only would she announce herself as late, she'd mess up an actor's audition, another cardinal sin.

Perhaps she should knock instead—

Damn it.

Retreating back to the living room, Sally stood fuming with hot energy. Some of the actors offered her a curt nod; she thought sweet and pure of heart and forced a smile. One of the men gave her a warm, genuine smile back, which he could afford as they weren't competing for the same role.

She'd run through her final vocal warm-up exercises in the back of the cab, where she'd left the Jack Ketchum paperback she'd brought to browse while waiting her turn to audition. Nothing to do now but wait to face the music.

Use the time, Sally told herself. Pull it together.

Bracing her feet with her body straight but relaxed, she placed her hands on her stomach and breathed in for a count of four seconds and out for another four.

"Ssssss," she hissed like a deflating balloon.

Then breathed in again for four and out this time for six.

"Mmmmm—"

"Why am I even auditioning?" Ashlee wondered. "He's never seen me act?"

Nicholas patted her knee.

"He wants to make sure you get the best role for you, Ash."

She sniffed. "I already know what the best role is, and it's not Wanda."

He turned to Sally. "Some budget that old Max pulled together for this little art project, huh? Casting out of his house. This is indie even for an indie."

Sally concluded her exercise with a final sigh.

"Maybe he's being cautious," she said.

"What do you mean?"

"You know, with Jordan passing."

"You think the financing is in jeopardy."

"I don't think anything," Sally said with a sense of déjà vu, feeling like she'd quoted Nicholas back to him from some past conversation. "I'm here to act."

"Who are you reading for?" Ashlee asked her.

Sally lifted her chin. "Penny."

"Cool beans. I'll bet Maude is mega excited."

"I couldn't ask for a better cheerleader. She's always praying for me."

"I mean, damn. A lead in a horror movie! It's an ace step up for your career. I'll bet she's really rooting for you."

Sally glowered, regretting ever introducing Maude to Ashlee at some minor celebrity fundraiser for kids with cancer. No doubt Maude had dished about her many disappointments in her rebellious progeny while couching it all as high praise. The two women certainly had one thing in common, which was the ability to sniff out someone's weak spot. If Ashlee and Maude had been around in the days of Homer, they would have sized up and ended the invincible Achilles in a matter of minutes.

Then Sally regretted glowering. For a gal who considered herself dedicated to the craft of acting, she still had a hard time faking certain things. While she'd worked in Hollywood long enough to understand its hidden language of bullshit, innuendo, and smiling delivery of verbal paper cuts, she didn't speak it fluently. She had two general modes: being nice and, when confronted by naked threat, going to war. Passive-aggressive remained a subtle art she'd never mastered.

As a result, nothing came to mind to shoot back that didn't make her sound like the asshole. In any case, Ashlee had already triumphed; if her goal had been to worm into Sally's head before her audition, she'd succeeded.

Nicholas patted the woman's hand again, as if to say this time, That's enough, Ash, she's bleeding.

Ashlee said, "I think you have something in your teeth."

Sally resisted the urge to run to the bathroom. It was just another head game.

"There's about to be something in your teeth," she said. "My—"

The office door opened. Braids dangling, a heavyset woman popped her head out, glanced at her clipboard, and bawled, "Sally Priest, batter up!"

"Break a leg in there," Ashlee said, sounding sincere.

"You really are a good actor," Sally said.

She returned to the office to find a giant mohawked beauty blocking the doorway. The woman smiled down at her.

"Look at you, Sally Priest!"

With only a handful of seconds before Sally had to go in, they whispered a rapid exchange in passing.

"Hi, Clare! Who were you reading for?"

"I read for Katie, love. The smart-aleck comic relief. Can you believe it? Must be the jaunty Irish accent and all, though they made me drop it for a second read."

"I hope it went well for you."

"I'm just glad Max gave me a chance. I'll wait for you. Break a leg!"

"Wait! Do I have something in my teeth?"

Clare had already stomped away in combat boots. After running her tongue over her teeth one last time, Sally walked into Max's office wearing a confident smile she hoped wasn't marred by a slab of lettuce.

She could do this. She had to do this.

Actors excelled at willing suspension of disbelief.

The director's desk had been moved and converted into a table. Behind it, three people sat on chairs swiped from the dining room. Max, the director in his usual black suit and New Wave band tee, his wild hair now sporting a few more streaks of silver since she last saw him; a sullen boy who looked barely out of high school and who perked up with sexual interest at the sight of her; and the heavyset woman who looked familiar and whom Sally guessed was the casting director. Another kid stood behind a video camera mounted on a tripod.

Despite the room having the air of a military tribunal, Sally offered a little wave. "Hi, everyone."

"Hey, yourself," said the kid behind the camera. "I'm Donovan."

Max scowled at him before mustering a smile for Sally. "Hello."

It wasn't a happy smile. He appeared distracted.

Be confident but not cocky, she thought. These people are on the clock. Respect their time. Make one little point of connection and move on.

"Thank you for inviting me to read," she said. "Where's the puppy today?"

The director's face darkened as if a storm cloud crossed over it.

"Lady Susan passed away quite unexpectedly."

Flustered, Sally blurted, "Like Mr. Lyman."

Max let out a bitter cackle.

"Exactly like Jordan," he said.

"I'm sorry to hear that." Jesus, this day was such a disaster. Every time she tried to stand up, the ground moved under her. She was like a walking earthquake.

"My name is Dorothy," said the woman with the braids. "I understand you're already acquainted with Max. And this is Carter, who will be reading with you. You know the drill, right?"

"Oh, I know you. You're—"

Sally shut up before she set off another tremor for the Richter scale. But she did know this woman.

At the little industry wake for Raphael Rodriguez at Jordan Lyman's Bel Air mansion, she'd wandered off to gaze at the sunset and brood over Maude's jarring pronouncement at lunch: You know precisely how it worked out.

She'd turned to spot Max following this woman into the house. The mysterious outsider had caused a rolling wave of gossip across the party. A writer, the vine informed. A real hoot. Max Maurey is buying her story for his new project.

Now here sat Dorothy in a tie-dyed shirt and Native American headband, presenting like a Grateful Dead fan posing as a casting director. Nicholas appeared to be dead right about the budget. Or maybe her guess had been correct that Lyman's death had frozen the accounts. Or perhaps something else, that Max wanted total control of casting and Dorothy was here as window dressing. Or maybe cover so he could avoid promises he'd made to certain people.

Most of it wasn't good. None of it mattered now. Max and Dorothy had created a character and wanted someone who inhabited it in reality while also being able to perform. It was time to give them the real Penny.

"Yes, I know the drill," Sally said.

She took two strides to stand on a little slice of blue tape on the carpet, then faced the camera to do the slate. The kid behind the camera raised his thumb to signal he'd started recording.

"I'm Sally Priest, reading for the role of Penny. My agent is Louise Berkman."

"Anytime you're ready," said Dorothy.

Sally closed her eyes, reminding herself this was for all the marbles. Then she also remembered: This is the fun part. The thing she loved doing more than anything in the world.

She'd reviewed her sides—the two-page scene she'd perform, typical as most scenes in movies were two or three minutes long—and had run the lines with Monica so many times that she'd internalized them. In this scene, Penny is exploring the ruins of her old house with Michael, a man who still carries a childhood crush on her. Sally had it nailed.

Sweet. Pure of heart. Fragile. Prone to paranoia.

For weeks, Dan Womack had taught her his approach to acting, applicable to screen work but with a major theater bent. Regardless of medium, the entire history of performance was to make it more natural to engage the audience with empathy.

In theater, actors performed live across space. They projected, playing to the back row, feeding on the audience's active energy. Performing for a camera proved a whole other ball of wax. The audience came after the fact, and you acted while ignoring a hyper-focused crew. The camera eliminated the stage and its distance to make the viewing experience cozy, even voyeuristic. For the camera, you weren't really performing at all, you were living.

Softening her gaze, Sally settled her focus on a framed "Fear Favorite" award Max had received from Fearmonger magazine and mounted on his wall.

She entered the zone.

"You know, I don't really remember my dad," she said.

She waited. Dorothy, who'd silently mouthed Sally's line along with her like an anxious parent watching her daughter do a school play, nudged Carter with her elbow.

"What do you remember?" the kid read in a monotone.

Sally shot him a quick, distrustful glance. Then she raised the back of her hand for a brief inspection.

"Hands," she said with grim certainty.

"That's it? Hands?"

By the time he finished his first question, she'd already nodded in response. Acting wasn't only waiting to talk, it involved listening, responding. Engaging with the other actor in a real conversation.

"Hammering nails into wood," she said. "Whittling. Sweeping his old metal detector. Pointing where he wanted me to go. Gripping my arm. Pulling an amulet out of the dirt."

"I think it's healthy to remember."

"Even if it's not worth remembering?"

"It's always worth it," Carter read. "I remember—"

He stopped with a little choking sound. Dorothy glanced at the script and muttered, "Oh, for Pete's sake, boy. Just say it."

She spoke to him with a familiar intimacy. The way a mother did to a son. Talk about low budget. The casting director was the scriptwriter, and the reader appeared to be the scriptwriter's kid.

"I remember being in love with you back then." The boy grimaced. The kid behind the camera snickered. Probably a friend of Carter's from high school.

Sally struggled to stay in the zone.

"I've never been in love," she said. "Not the real kind."

You have shit in your teeth, Ashlee said.

Heat flared in Sally's chest. She fought it back down and finished the scene well enough, but the heat had already torched Penny's fragility and replaced it with a steely anger. She didn't perform the scene so much as conquer it.

Acting was dangerous.

Max tilted his head. He'd noticed the change as well and now eyed her as if she were a beautiful puzzle with a critical piece missing.

"I'd be happy to do it again," she said hopefully.

"No, it was very good." His hands steepled under his nose. "Sally…"

She waited.

"I can't… I need to know…"

She kept holding her breath.

He asked, "How bad do you want to be in this movie?"

"I want this role more than anything." The only answer she could give, as it was true. "Max, I think this is going to be a once-in-a-lifetime movie."

"Even if it cost you everything?"

Well, that sounded weird, but she took it in stride. Actors had a reputation for being drama llamas, but directors had their own penchant for dramatic flair, especially when it came to discussing commitment to a passion project.

"I want to be in this movie," Sally said, repeating, "more than anything. And I will give it everything I have."

Max bowed his head behind his hands and grimaced. She had no idea where all this was going, but it didn't look good. The man appeared to be in actual physical pain.

At last, he sighed and nodded to Dorothy, who looked more than a little confused herself. The writer–slash–casting director turned to Sally.

"We'll be in touch, honey," she said.

Sally left in a daze. Back in the living room, Nicholas offered a sympathetic smile from the couch, where he now sat alone.

"It went great," she said before he asked.

"That bad, huh?"

"Where's Ashlee?"

"Feeding her olfactory muse."

"I hope she breaks a leg." Her tone betraying the wish as literal.

"It isn't personal with her, Sal. It's just business." He reconsidered. "Though for Ash, it's probably the same thing. Do you need a ride home?"

"I'll take her," Clare said as she entered the room with a glass of Max's wine.

Sally eyed it thirstily. "Can I have a sip of that?"

"I poured it for you, love."

She chugged the entire glass and came up gasping. Then she stretched her mouth in a chimpanzee grin. "Do I have something in my teeth or not?"

"All I see are pearly whites," Clare said.

The woman drove her home nattering about Hollywood and how you could still be discovered, if not in a malt shop then at an estate sale for a dead director. Still brooding, Sally grunted at her cues.

Returning to her little shared apartment in her crummy building, she inhaled the familiar homey scents of pot, stale beer, and chip dip. Monica chilled on the couch with her bong, wearing a wool winter hat despite the stifling heat.

"How'd your thing go?" her roommate asked.

"Fantastic," Sally growled, and went to her room for a good cry.

This done, she went to the bathroom to inspect her teeth while drawing a warm bubble bath. At some point, she'd find whatever had gotten stuck in there. Instead, she ended up once again hating her overbite. Then she found herself in the cooling tub with only a hazy recollection of how long she'd been soaking.

Reaching over the edge, she swiped her bottle of white zinfandel and poured another sloppy glass. The bottle was almost empty.

"I've never been in love," she said. "Not the real kind."

The line came out slurred, but it sounded utterly natural.

Of course it did, as it was true. Acting had always come first. Which was a shame, because Sally had so much love to give.

Instead, she'd sacrificed romantic love along with so many hours and gallons of sweat. Which was fine, if it all helped her reach her dreams of living the life she wanted. Dreams like getting into this movie. She'd meant what she'd told Max. More than anything, she wanted to be in If Wishes Could Kill, which, just from the sides she'd read, promised to be something special.

And then she'd flubbed it. Sally had discovered a razor-edged nuance for her character only to let all the shit get in her head and come out as blunt anger. She wanted to blame Ashlee, the teens, Max, and even her mom, but a real pro rolled with the pressure and always delivered on point. Looking back, she fretted she'd overacted, a cardinal sin when playing a deep character in a complex drama. In one way, acting was like murder; it only succeeded if no one caught you doing it.

Actors flubbed auditions all the time. It was part of the trade. One more thing to roll with. You dusted yourself off and moved on to the next. This time, she'd allow herself to sulk first. She'd really wanted to be the Final Girl.

The telephone rang in the living room. Sally sank deeper into the bubbles.

Screw it. She'd never leave this tub.

But it kept ringing. And as disappointed as she was in herself and life right now, she couldn't let go the eternal hope that the next incoming call might be the one that answered her dreams.

Wrapping herself in a towel, Sally hustled dripping out of the bathroom and shot a glare at Monica, who hadn't moved an inch.

She picked up the phone. "Hello?"

Heavy breathing on the line.

She slammed it back into place. Jesus, what a day.

The phone rang again.

"Son of—" Sally wrenched it off the hook. "Don't call this number again, you jerk! No one wants to hear you wasting oxygen."

Silence. She basked in this dark day's single moment of triumph.

"Uh, Sally? It's Louise."

Her agent! "Oh, hi, Louise, I'm so sorry, I thought—"

"Right, right." As if Sally's shouting at her had filled up their obligatory quota of small talk. "I heard from Lyman's people. I have some good news and not-so-good news."

Sally's heart pounded. "What's the good news?"

"Your audition apparently went very well. We already got an offer, and it's above guild scale for a production of this size."

This announcement struck her like lightning.

"Oh. My. God," she said.

Louise said nothing. The silence stretched, more ominous than the heavy breathing.

"Um," Sally added. "So, what's the not-so-good news?"

"The offer is for a different part. They want you for the role of Wanda."

Wanda, the Bad Girl.