Wishing in the Wings (37 page)

“We did it,” he whispered. “We actually, finally did it.”

“I know it’s not what you planned,” I said, when I could think coherent words past the distracting things his lips were doing to the pulse point in my throat.

“Plans,” he murmured. “Who needs plans?”

“Especially when you’ve got a genie or two to pitch in.” We both laughed at that, only to be startled into silence when the door to the theater opened.

“Okay, you two,” Kira said. “Out of here. I need to lock up.”

“Are you coming over to the Pharm?”

“I’ll probably stop by later. John is going to meet me here in about ten minutes.” John. Her husband. The man she’d met in Minneapolis, when Teel had been her genie.

I started to tell her what Teel had just done, how he’d shaped my last wish. But before the words were out of my mouth, I realized that they’d only lead to questions—questions about Ryan, about how I could discuss a genie in front of him, about Jaze, about the four wishes Ryan had spent before I knew him.

It was easier just to say goodnight. Easier to take Ryan’s hand in mine. Easier to walk out the door of the Mercer.

I stopped dead when I saw the carpet of crocuses underneath the plane trees. I’d forgotten about Dani’s handiwork, about the Gray Guerillas. The purple and yellow flowers were just starting to close in the twilight. Seeing them reminded me that I never had gotten my omelet for lunch. I was suddenly starving. “I need something to eat before we head over to the Pharm.”

“There’s a Popcorn King on Fifth. I hear they have some great snacks.”

“Bite your tongue!”

“Or we could just go home,” Ryan said. “Order something in for dinner.”

Head home. To my apartment, the perfect one with a view of the river, with the sparkling lights of New York City displayed like candles on a cake. The one that had plenty of room for two people to share, for two people to build a life together in the chaotic, demanding, insane, perfect world of New York theater.

“What were you thinking?” I asked. “Chinese? Indian?”

He shrugged and wove his fingers between mine. His hands were warm, filled with promises, as we started the familiar walk back to the Bentley. “I don’t care,” he said. “You decide. Your wish is my command.”

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Wishing in the Wings
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Teel's adventures conclude in
Wish Upon a Star
, when the magic lamp is transferred to one more lucky woman. Here’s your chance to read the first chapter of that novel, absolutely free!

* * *

THEY SAY THAT bad things come in threes.

One
.

Like every good aspiring actress, I arrived early for my four o’clock audition. I spent the time in the hallway with all the other hopefuls, running through my monologue. Again. For the thousandth time. What was I worried about? I knew my lines cold.

Precisely ten minutes before my time slot, the audition monitor appeared with his clipboard. “Erin Hollister!” he barked, squinting at his computer printout and refusing to look any of us aspiring stars in the eye. I leaped forward with a professional smile, handing him a pristine folder that contained my head shot and résumé. He took it without a word and disappeared into the sanctified privacy of the audition room.

I bowed my head and shook out my hands, trying to relieve the tension that had crept across my shoulders and down my arms. I could do this. I could read for a role in David Mamet’s newest Broadway play. I could impress the casting director with my raw power, my vigorous style, my willingness to grapple with thorny texts and thornier social messages.

The door to the audition room opened, and the monitor barked out my name again. Quickly, before he could even notice, I crossed the fingers of both hands and muttered, “Please, just this once.” I wasn’t quite certain who or what I muttered to, but I’d had the habit of wishing, ever since I was a little girl.

The silly ritual centered me, settled me into place. I pasted a professional smile on my lips before I said, “Thank you,” to the monitor. I preceded him into the space, knowing enough not to offer my hand. If he wanted to shake hands, he’d extend his first.

Inside the room, three people sat on chairs, gazing at me with bored expressions. I forced myself to smile as I took two precise steps forward. I knew this audition room well; I’d read for roles here at least a half dozen times before. A half dozen unsuccessful times before.

I hated this room. It was tiny, apparently carved out of the much larger dance studio next door, a sort of architectural afterthought. The wall to my right was covered with mirrors, and a ballet barre bisected my reflected waist. In the past, I’d described this room as the “Check Your Teeth” audition venue—every single person in those chairs would instantly be able to spot a stray fleck of spinach across the cramped space. Or catch a whiff of garlic, for that matter.

I threw back my shoulders. I’d fortified myself with a Wint-O-Green Life Saver in the hallway, for I was wise in the way of auditions. Knowing that I had a total of three minutes to impress the watching trio, I said, “My name is Erin Hollister, and my monologue is from
The End of My So-Called Affair
by Jeanine Thompson Walker.” I took a deep breath, trying to ignore my own reflected image as it loomed in my peripheral vision. I began: “‘I can’t take it anymore!’”

The casting director waved her hand dismissively. “That’s enough. Thanks for coming in.”

Thanks for coming in?

Thanks for nothing.

“Thanks for coming in” was the universal kiss of audition death. The supposed politeness meant that they’d sized me up from my head shot, already made a decision before I even walked through the door. I wasn’t the “type” they were looking for. There was no room in their show for straight blond hair, for blue eyes, for a fresh, Middle America–wholesome actress. I wasn’t worth three minutes of their time.

“Thank you,” I said, pasting an automatic smile across my lips. New York might be the largest city in America, but it was still too small to alienate a single casting professional. I didn’t wait for them to nod, or to shrug, or to grimace, or to do whatever they would do to prove that they were Much Too Busy to pay further attention to me.

Two
. (Remember those bad things, coming in threes?)

I tugged on my light jacket—just right for late May in New York City—as I ducked out of the Equity Audition Center, glancing dispiritedly at my watch. I was late for my Survival Job, the employment that gave me money for food, shelter and general life expenses while I waited for my big break onstage. Or my medium-size break. Or even a little one—who was I to complain?

Concerned Caterers had been a godsend for the three years I’d been trying to break into New York theater. I could schedule my catering gigs around auditions; I would even be able to remove myself from the schedule for a few weeks if I ever landed a real role.

When
I landed a real role, I remonstrated with myself firmly.

I slipped into my pavement-eating New York stride, doing my best to ignore a blossoming headache as I dug my cell phone out of my cavernous tote bag. I punched a single button and waited for Sam to pick up.

Ring. Ring. I was going to get his voice mail. Ring.

“Hey, babe,” he said, just as I was preparing to leave my sad little message. He sounded rushed.

“Hey.”

I heard him suck air between his teeth. He’d obviously parsed my tone. That was the advantage of dating a guy for two years, living with him for nearly ten months. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I know how much you wanted that role.”

“Yeah—” I said, but he interrupted.

“Can I put you on hold? Opposing counsel’s on the other line. I think we’re going to settle the Lindstrom case today.”

“Go,” I said. “I’ll see you tonight.” He clicked off without saying goodbye, obviously eager not to let his opponent’s feet grow cold.

I shoved my phone back into my bag, trying not to take the dismissal personally. Sam had been working on the Lindstrom case forever. Settling that monstrous litigation was a big deal, especially for a guy who was up for partner at the end of the year.

It wasn’t like I had tons of time to talk, anyway. I was a block away from the Van Bleeker Mansion, where the Knickerbocker Alliance was holding its annual awards dinner. I glanced at my watch again. Half an hour late. I’d hoped for an earlier audition slot but had taken the only time open for a nonunion actress.

Determined to do a perfect job to make up for my tardiness, I bounded up the mansion steps. With the experience of a trained caterer, I made my way to the service area of the gigantic home. Sure enough, a white-draped card table crouched in the hall outside the kitchen. A swag of fabric was clipped to its front, proudly proclaiming: Concerned Caterers—Your Happiness Is Our Concern. A clipboard was centered precisely on the white square of cloth.

Jack Skellar was managing the event. Jack Skellar, who had disliked me since he joined Concerned as a supervisor, six months before. Jack Skellar, who stood in the kitchen doorway, glaring at his watch. Jack Skellar, whose main purpose in life seemed to be finding catering jobs for every single one of his dozens of cousins. He had already fired at least three friends of mine for minor violations of Concerned’s policies, replacing each hardworking actor with a rat-faced relative who was immune from his nit-picking supervision.

Jack pointed at the clipboard and enunciated, “Hol-lis-ter.”

Great. He’d be gunning for me all night long.

“I am so sorry,” I said, loading all of my acting skill into my apology. “I had an audition—”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “Hurry up, Hollister. Grab your shirt and get into the dining room—they’re still arranging flowers for the centerpieces.”

As I scrawled my name on the clipboard, along with the shamed admission of my late check-in time, Jack tugged a cardboard box from beneath the white tablecloth. Inside was a tangle of chartreuse and orange, a color combination so atrocious that my eyes started to cross.

“You have got to be kidding,” I said.

Concerned Caterers occupied the elite top tier of Manhattan catering. One of the gimmicks that set us apart from the riffraff was a unique “costume” created for each engagement. I got to keep my costume at the end of every gig—one of the so-called perks of working for the very best.

Alas, Concerned’s idea of a costume was the cheapest grade of T-shirt that money could buy. The company scooped them up by the gross (and I
do
mean gross!), dyeing them for each individual job. In theory, the colors matched something about the client, bringing together a variety of unique qualities into a single tasteful statement.

In practice…

Jack plucked one shirt out of the tangle, shaking out wrinkles with a violent flick of his wrists. Shockingly, the fluorescent green and orange wasn’t the worst thing about the shirt. A glittery red lion was stamped across the front of the tee, its claws raised up like it belonged on some fancy coat of arms.

My not-so-beloved employer had really outdone itself this time.

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“The chartreuse is from jenever.” I must have looked as confused as I felt, because Jack sighed in exasperation.
“Jenever,”
he repeated. “Dutch gin. There’s some brand that’s packaged with a chartreuse label. We’re serving it in the parlor for cocktail hour.”

“And orange?” I studied the horrific garment as if it might somehow come to life.

“William, Prince of.” He glared at me as I pondered my scant knowledge of Dutch history. “And before you ask, the lion is part of the Knickerbocker Alliance coat of arms. Let’s go, Hollister. We haven’t got all night!” Jack thrust the hideous shirt into my unwilling hands.

With a twist of nausea, I saw the size label. Small. I’d been with Concerned for long enough to know that the T-shirt wholesaler gave us deep discounts on size small. And their smalls were
really
small. All of the comfortable shirts designed to fit normal human beings with breasts had been snatched up by my goody-two-shoes coworkers who had arrived early. Or at least on time. Or, to be more accurate, not a full half hour late.

I sighed and took the hint from Jack’s imperious finger, heading down the hallway toward the staff restroom. As expected, the shirt was tight enough that my rather ordinary…assets looked like some porn star’s inflated balloons. Worse, the sleeves cut into my armpits. I stretched my arms above my head, trying to loosen the damn thing, even a little. My back protested the movement with a sharp twinge that settled into a dull ache, making me wonder if I was coming down with something.

No time for speculation, though. I hurried out to the dining room.

The curious might ask, What flowers go with chartreuse and orange? The answer was…fake ones. Lots and lots of fake, silk chrysanthemums, dyed to match Concerned Catering’s unholy version of the Knickerbocker Alliance coat of arms.

Within an hour, the banquet hall was decked out completely. Fake flowers, golden charger plates at every seat (adding to the visual, um, flair), white serving plates, wine glasses, water glasses, an entire battalion of silverware… Before I could admire our collective handiwork, or at least finish blinking away stars from the visual clutter, Jack pounced.

“Coatroom, Hollister,” he commanded.

I gritted my teeth as I obeyed. I hated coatroom duty. Far away from the camaraderie of the kitchen crew, the coatroom was lonely. And boring. And cold. Every time the door to the street opened, a blast of unseasonably chilly air gusted across the marble foyer. My thin tie-dyed tee didn’t provide a whole lot of protection.