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Prime Time
Make Me a Star, Book One
By Susan Beth Pfeffer OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA
Copyright © 1985 Susan Beth Pfeffer
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4976-8283-2
CHAPTER 1
"Cattle calls are the pits."
"What?" Miranda Newgate asked.
"I said, aren't cattle calls the pits," the girl standing next to Miranda replied.
Miranda had only been in California for four days, but she'd already become aware that people there had whole different vocabularies. Her cousin Wendy, whom she was visiting, was forever talking about things Miranda didn't understand.
"What are cattle calls?" she asked. Her parents had taught her that if she didn't know the meaning of a word, she should feel free to ask.
"Cattle calls," the girl said. "You know, open auditions. Everybody shows up with a picture and a résumé, and hopes for the best."
"I don't have a picture or a résumé," Miranda said. "Do I need one?"
"I guess not," the girl said. "Too many amateurs here."
It was a comfort to Miranda to hear that she wasn't the only amateur around. Of course her cousin Wendy was one too, but her cousin Wendy was still outside in the main hall, waiting for someone to discover her.
It had been Wendy's idea that they go to this audition. She'd heard they were casting kids as extras for some new TV series, and she'd insisted the two of them go. Miranda hadn't minded, since it seemed like just the sort of thing someone visiting from Massachusetts should do on a spring-vacation soon-to-celebrate-her-sixteenth-birthday California trip. And it would be a lot of fun if Wendy did get cast. Miranda would be sure to watch for her.
Only Miranda had been the first one to be picked. Some distinguished-looking man had selected her from the crowd of kids, asked her her name and age, and told her to go through the doors, into the next room. So she'd found herself separated from Wendy, herded into a smaller room, making small talk with some strange girl who talked about cattle calls and amateurs.
"Are you an amateur?" Miranda asked her.
"Do I look like one?" the girl asked.
Miranda looked at her and didn't know what she was supposed to answer. The girl was short, maybe three inches below Miranda's five feet five, thin, and had blond hair. She was cute, though, with a tiny pug nose and a broad, cheerful smile. Even her eyes seemed to twinkle. Miranda realized an amateur's eyes didn't twinkle. "Have you done a lot of TV work?" Miranda asked, proud of her insight.
"I only wish," the girl said. "But I did hear they weren't especially looking for people with lots of TV. Except they always say that, and then they only cast people who were practically born on TV."
"Movies, then?" Miranda asked. She couldn't remember ever having seen the girl in a movie, but she didn't get to see that many R-rated films.
"Theater," the girl said. "My name is Molly O'Malley."
"Excuse me?" Miranda said.
"I know," the girl said. "You heard it right. Molly O'Malley. It's kind of a stage name."
"Oh," Miranda said. "What's your real name, then?"
"That is my real name," Molly said. "But O'Malley isn't exactly my family name. Actually, it's my mother's name. My father's name is Horowitz. Well, it used to be Horowitz, but he changed it to Harvey."
"So why aren't you Molly Harvey?" Miranda asked. "Did your parents give you your mother's name as a feminist stand?"
"Not exactly," Molly said. "They're just into cute. I was Molly Harvey until I started working, and then they had it legally changed to O'Malley."
"When was that?" Miranda asked, happy to have someone to talk with.
"When I was five," Molly said. "Actually I was four, but they lied about my age. I was a year older than I actually was until I was nine, and then I was nine until I was eleven. I was eleven for two years, and then I turned fourteen. I skipped thirteen altogether."
"You didn't miss much," Miranda said. "My name is Miranda Newgate."
"Classy name," Molly said. "You look classy too. If they're going for classy, I can pack up and go home."
"There's classy over there," Miranda said, and gestured in the direction of a girl who had just walked in. She was incredibly pretty, almost perfectly so, with long blond hair, a creamy complexion, and blue eyes so large, Miranda could see them from where she stood.
"I've seen her recently," Molly said, pursing her lips. "Oh yeah, on TV."
"Is she a star?" Miranda asked.
"Sort of," Molly replied. "She's this year's Miss Young America."
"What?" Miranda asked.
"Oh you know," Molly said. "It's one of those teenage beauty contests. You know the kind. They can't have the girls parade around in bathing suits because it's all supposed to be judged on personality and smarts, so they show up in running shorts and halter tops instead. That one had this year's best pair of personalities, so she won."
Miranda giggled.
"Oh well," Molly said. "They're obviously looking for tall, gorgeous all-American teenage girls. I didn't want to be a TV star anyway."
"Isn't this the room for extras?" Miranda asked.
Molly shook her head. "They're not casting extras today," she said. "They're looking for people for the leads."
"Don't be silly," Miranda said. "I don't have any acting experience. Why would they consider me?"
"Maybe to make us professionals look better," Molly replied.
"You really think so?" Miranda asked.
"No," Molly said. "Look, the reason I'm here is because the Hollywood Reporter said they were looking for fresh faces. They say they don't care how much experience the kids have. Which is probably a crock, but I figured it was worth a shot. I don't have that many years of being a teenager left, so I might as well go for all the teen roles while I can. Besides, I was doing a dinner theater in San Diego, so it wasn't that much of a trip to get here."
"I thought they were casting extras," Miranda said. "This is crazy."
"Welcome to show biz," Molly said. "Where are you from anyway, Miranda?"
"Massachusetts," Miranda replied. "I'm only here on spring vacation, staying with my cousin Wendy. It was her idea to audition, not mine. But they picked me and told her to wait outside. I can't become a TV star. I have term papers to do, and a project for biology."
"I don't think you have to worry about it," Molly said. "Frankly, I don't think either of us has to worry about it. We'll be home by six. Or at least I'll be back at the San Diego airport by then. I'd better. I have a performance tonight."
Ordinarily, Miranda would have asked what Molly was performing in. There were a lot of questions she would have asked, since she'd never met a professional actress before. At least not one her own age. But her stomach was starting to lurch, and she felt almost dizzy from tension. Which, she told herself, was pure foolishness. There was nothing to feel tense about. They would never think about casting her as anything. She didn't even have pictures or a résumé. She'd be home by six, just like Molly said, and then she'd tell Wendy everything that had happened, and Wendy would be just a little bit jealous, but that would be okay. And boy, would she have a story to tell her friends back home.
"All right, everybody," a man's voice suddenly boomed. "Get in two lines please."
Miranda and Molly got on one of the lines together. Even though they'd only met a few minutes ago, Miranda felt comforted by Molly's presence.
"Now, we're going to conduct some interviews first," the man announced. "We're going to talk with each of you girls individually. If any of you have acting experience or have brought résumés with you, tell us immediately. Otherwise, just relax, answer our questions, and enjoy the experience."
"They like you to enjoy experiences out here," Molly whispered to Miranda. "I've noticed that. And smile. They're very big on teeth."
"I'll try to remember," Miranda said, and gave her teeth a quick once-over with her tongue. Why had she had spinach salad for lunch? Nothing looked worse than spinach flecks.
Miranda and Molly watched as the first batch of girls went for their interviews. Miss Young America was in that batch, Miranda noticed, even though she'd been among the last to enter the room. Miranda wondered what her name was. She also wondered what the TV show was supposed to be about. But mostly she wondered what she was doing there. She began chewing her lips and then realized she didn't want to be interviewed with them raw, so she stopped and tapped her foot instead. There was a lot of foot tapping going on, she realized. Only Molly seemed relaxed. She had chosen to sit down on the floor and had taken a script out of her bag. But when Miranda looked down, she saw that the script was upside down. For some reason, that made Miranda feel better.
She concentrated her attention on Miss Young America then, noting that the girl was wearing a pale blue summer dress that showed off a really wonderful figure. Molly was right. Miss Young America did have a great pair of personalities, and her legs were terrific also. Miranda was wearing well-worn jeans and a short-sleeved shirt that had been brown about a hundred washings before. She hadn't seen any point in getting dressed up just to accompany Wendy on her quest for extradom. Now, comparing her outfit to that of Miss Young America, she deeply regretted it. In fact, as she glanced around the room, she discovered she was the only girl in there miserably dressed. Everybody else had great outfits on and perfect tans and wonderful hairdos. One look at her, and whoever was in charge of these auditions would be sure to know she came from Massachusetts.
She decided to make herself miserable next by staring at her fingernails. They were short and semi-bitten. She'd been trying to quit biting them since her fourteenth birthday, but she never had the incentive before. If they picked her for the show, she vowed, she'd give up nail biting and lip chewing and spinach salad forever.
"All right," the man said. "Next group. Starting with you, dear, in the red blouse, and on through you, on the floor over there."
Miranda and Molly looked at each other. "Good luck," Miranda whispered as Molly got up.
"Break a leg," Molly whispered back.
Miranda had the feeling that was a good wish and not a bad one, so she smiled at Molly as she began the endless walk to one of the tables at the front of the room. There was a young man seated there, and then the man who had picked her out in the first place came over and joined them.
"She has just the look I want for Sally," the man was saying as Miranda sat down. She wondered if she was supposed to hear that, and then decided it didn't matter, since she didn't know who Sally was.
"Hello," Miranda said, trying to position her hands so they wouldn't notice her wretched fingernails.
"It's Miranda, isn't it," the man said. "Soon-to-be-sixteen Miranda."
"That's right," Miranda said. "But I don't believe I caught your name."
The man smiled broadly. "Richard Goldstein," he replied. "Executive producer of Hard Time High."
"I'm pleased to meet you," Miranda said, and extended her hand for him to shake. She removed it fast, though, so he wouldn't have a chance to see her nails.
"I see you're from Massachusetts," Mr. Goldstein said. "So I assume you have no professional acting experience."
"I'm afraid not," Miranda replied.
"It's nothing to apologize for," Mr. Goldstein said. "We're looking for fresh faces. Have you done any amateur theatrics?"
Miranda shook her head.
"Excellent," Mr. Goldstein declared. "That way you won't have picked up any bad habits.
There's nothing worse than a kid with experience in little theater."
"Even so, Dick," the other man said. "We need more than a look."
"Bear with me," Mr. Goldstein replied. "Miranda, do you play a musical instrument?"
"The flute," Miranda said.
"Excellent," Mr. Goldstein said. "Are you in the school band?"
"Yes," Miranda replied. "And I perform with a woodwind quintet."
"I'm impressed," Mr. Goldstein said. "And by any chance, have you ever had dance lessons?"
"Eight years of ballet," Miranda said. "But if you're looking for ballet dancers, I'll never be good enough for anything but a third-rate corps. And I'm not interested in being in a third-rate corps for the rest of my life."
"I'm not surprised to hear that," Mr. Goldstein declared. "But you do have experience performing, then. You've played with your quintet, I assume, and you've danced at recitals."
Miranda nodded and decided to be daring. "I'm a member of my debate team at school," she announced. "We came in second this year in the state competition."
"What was the topic?" Mr. Goldstein asked.
"Resolved: That too much television viewing is injurious to a child's mind and body," Miranda replied. Actually, the topic had been nuclear disarmament, but she wanted to see if she could make Mr. Goldstein laugh.
She could. He definitely chuckled and seemed, if possible, even more pleased with himself.
"You see, Jack," he said to the other man. "She has just the sort of experience we're looking for. What grade are you in, Miranda?"
"Tenth," she said.
"And how many languages do you speak?"
"Three, including English," Miranda said. "French and Russian."
"Say something in French," Mr. Goldstein said. "It doesn't matter what."
So Miranda gave a rather unfavorable opinion of Mr. Goldstein's mother in French.
"You have a wonderful accent," Mr. Goldstein declared. "How long have you been speaking French?"
"Since birth," Miranda replied. "My mother is a professor of French, and I was brought up speaking both languages. I only started Russian in sixth grade, though, so I'm not especially fluent in that."
"It's a shame it isn't Spanish," Jack said. "We could use Spanish."
"Not for Sally," Mr. Goldstein said. "French is perfect for Sally."
Miranda immediately regretted what she had said about Mr. Goldstein's mother.
"Do you sing?" Jack asked.
"I'm in the chorus at school," Miranda replied. "But my dancing is better than my singing."
"Do you know any poetry?" Mr. Goldstein asked. "Something you could recite for us right now?"
Miranda racked her brains for an appropriate poem. The only thing she could think of were jingles. So she finally recited: "I wish I was an Oscar Mayer Weiner. That is what I'd really like to be. For if I was an Oscar Mayer Weiner, then everyone would be in love with me." There was no way Wendy was going to believe any of this.
"That's fine, Miranda," Mr. Goldstein said. "Now one final question. Do you date much?"
"No," Miranda said. "But I do date boys."
Mr. Goldstein roared with laughter. He laughed easily, Miranda decided. But then again, as executive producer of a TV show, he probably had a lot to laugh about.
"We definitely want to do a test with you," Mr. Goldstein declared. "So when we clear out the room of the girls who don't make it, stay here with us and don't get lost."
"I'll try not to," Miranda said, getting up. As she started walking away from the table, she heard Mr. Goldstein say to Jack, "I think we've found our Sally."
She decided she would definitely feel better if someone would tell her just who Sally was supposed to be.
CHAPTER 2
Half an hour later, there were only twelve of them left.
Miranda noticed to her satisfaction that Molly was among the survivors. She made her way over to her newly minted friend, seeing as she walked other freshly formed alliances. Miss Young America was still there too, but she stood alone. Miranda decided she probably hadn't won the Miss Congeniality award.
"This is fun," Miranda announced to Molly, who was glumly staring at her watch.
"Sure it's fun for you," Molly grunted. "Amateurs."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Miranda asked.
"Just that I know I have almost no chance of getting a part on this show, but I don't dare leave just in case, and I have a plane to catch in two hours," Molly said. "If I miss my plane, I miss my performance, and if I miss my performance, I'll lose my job. So what am I supposed to do?"
"You'll make the plane," Miranda replied, trying to sound convincing. She didn't want Molly to leave. She didn't want to be alone again.
"I don't know what to do," Molly said. "I can't lose the job. We need the money."
"You won't lose anything," Miranda said, but then she realized what a child she was being. "Look, if the job is that important to you, why don't you ask Mr. Goldstein to see you first? That way you'll be sure to catch your plane."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Prime Time by Susan Beth Pfeffer. Copyright © 1985 Susan Beth Pfeffer. Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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