Prologue

“I didn’t fail the audition, go fuck yourself.”

She snapped into her smartphone. Someone was laughing at her. A few heads turned as a young woman stormed out of the theater and onto the streets of Galway.

“Listen—no, shut up and listen, Sam. First off, it’s not an ‘audition.’ They don’t do cattle calls anymore. I was at a callback. I sent in my tapes and I got a callback. I was one of three for the leading role, understand?”

Her boots kicked onto the pavement as she strode through a blinking crosswalk. A huge scowl was set on her face, and her brown ponytail bounced with each stomp.

“I. Didn’t. Fail. I walked out. What?”

She listened to the voice on the other end.

“No, I wasn’t intimidated. I can sing better than both the other two. I left because—I hated the main character. I was going to fail. So I cut myself. I couldn’t see myself doing the part. She’s too idealistic. It’s not a realistic story.”

One hand ran her fingers through her hair. Trimmed. She’d gotten dressed up for today. Audition clothing casual; t-shirt and jeans, nothing fancy. You were the star, not the clothing. But she had prepped and been memorizing her lines on the bus ride over. All gone to waste.

“It’s a sappy lead. She’s supposed to be this ingenue who has a dream, gets it crushed, and then her hero swoops in. Only, it’s not a guy so it’s progressively amazing. It’s…”

She stared up at the sky as she came to a second crosswalk, seamlessly joining the other people waiting for the light to change. They ignored her. The young woman’s lips moved.

“Unrealistic. You’re not getting that hero. And she’s not the heroine. She’s some dumb kid who gets lucky the entire way through. That doesn’t happen in real life, and this is supposed to be a realistic musical. You know what I mean. You don’t get random heroes, Sam. Or if you do, it’s a bad story.”

The young woman stopped. For a second, her face twisted up and she closed her eyes.

“It’s…not real. You know what I mean, Sam. I couldn’t do it. I know it’s acting but I couldn’t. I really wanted the role…”

The voice on the other end turned instantly sympathetic, and she turned snappish.

“It’s my fault. I take responsibility. And don’t tell me there’s next time! You get one shot!”

She was still annoyed with herself. Or rather—all that effort gone to waste. What next? Get home, wash off makeup, compose a message for when her parents inevitably called and asked, ‘did you get the role’? Sam was the test case.