I was wrong. So miserably wrong.
His entire personality seemed to change in the space of a minute, and from then on, I had no friends. Sickening names were muttered behind my back whenever I walked through the halls. People jostled me, bumped my lunch tray, cut me out of conversations. The teachers did nothing, and the bullies grew bolder.
They cornered me one day at dismissal when most of the teachers were busy. I remember their mouths vomiting slurs, their hands cuffing my face and tugging my jacket. One of them kicked my shin.
And then Christine burst into the group, her face blazing like an avenging angel. She scattered the boys, scolded them viciously—hissedat them with her teeth bared. She grabbed one boy’s coat and hurled him away from me, and when she let go, the fabric had five distinct cuts where her nails were. I remember thinking it was odd for a middle-school girl’s fingernails to be that sharp.
“Raoul.” My codirector Marjorie bumps her elbow against my arm.
I return to the present, suddenly conscious that the woman onstage has ceased caterwauling and is looking at me expectantly.
I clear my throat. “Yes, thank you very much for coming in today. We’ll be in touch.”
She nods and ambles off the stage.
“Next we have…” Marjorie peers at the next paper on her stack. “Carlotta Vanetti.”
“You should really wear your bifocals, Marj,” I tell her.
“Fuck that.” She chuckles and takes a large gulp of her coffee.
“Carlotta Vanetti?” exclaims Gil Leveque from my other side. His family are distant cousins to the de Chagnys, and he’s a partner in the management of the New Orpheum Theatre. My sister, Philippa, insisted that if I wanted to use family money to back thismusical, I must make him one of the directors. So there are three of us directing—me, Gil, and Marj, who is the only one with true experience. She has actually lived in New York and has worked on Broadway musicals.
“Carlotta Vanetti has hundreds of thousands of followers on socials and a killer voice, too,” mutters Gil. His hot breath stinks of cigarettes, and a droplet of his spit hits my ear.
Jaw tight, I shift slightly away from him.
“She’s got a bit of an attitude,” he continues. “But she’s fucking hot, with a great rack. And real talent always comes at a price. She’s our lead, Raoul. You can be sure of that.”
“So you’ve cast her already? Before we’ve heard her sing?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Carlotta fucking Vanetti.” His eyes bulge, boring into mine, as if I should be awed by the very name. “She’ll bring so much visibility to the show. We need her.”
“Visibility is great, but influencers also come with a lot of risk, especially if they’re easily pissed off,” Marj counters. “If something doesn’t please her, she could go on socials with her complaints and rally her followers to tank the show.”
“I appreciate both of your perspectives,” I tell them. “Let’s table this until we’ve heard her sing, okay?”
“Fair enough,” says Marj.
Gil grumbles, “Fine. But I’m telling you we need her.”
“Noted.” I raise my voice and call, “Carlotta Vanetti.”
She saunters to center stage with a brilliant smile, dressed in a low-cut red dress and white leather boots. I have to admit, she’s striking, and she commands attention with her very presence. Right from the start, she fixes her attention solely on me, barely giving Gil or Marj a second glance.
“Good morning,” she says brightly. “I’m Carlotta Vanetti, and I’m the star you’ve been looking for.”
The statement throws me a little, and I fumble over the first few questions, which only seems to inflate her confidence. Her dazzling grin and her laser focus on my face unsettle me. She’s like a predator, and I’m the prey, the elusive prize she’s determined to get. I can feel my cheeks heating, my anxiety kicking into high gear along with my fight-or-flight instinct. With me, it’s usually flight.
“So…Carlotta…” I shuffle papers around in an attempt to look busily professional. “What are your thoughts on the musical’s female main character, Eugenie?”
“Well, she’s a strong, independent woman who doesn’t take shit from anyone,” says Carlotta. “She’s ready to kick some ass and take names. Whatever she needs to do to reach her goals, she’ll go for it. Nobody’s getting in her way. Let me tell you, I relate to this girl. She and I are the same. If someone disrespects me, they’re gonna regret it.”
“Wonderful.” I force a smile. “All right, I think it’s time for you to sing for us if you’re ready.”
“I was born ready, darlin’.”
She doesn’t introduce the song, just snaps her fingers at someone in the shadows. The person—her assistant, I assume—trots onstage after her and sets up a huge, purple boom box bedazzled with silver stars. Our pianist, Sam, glances questioningly at me, and when I nod, he sits back to watch.
