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thinking character roles at the same time
she told her about a chance she had to land a role in War of the Soccer Moms ,
a studio film about a war between two groups of suburban
moms.
    “Women reach a certain age, and a good meaty
character role is about all they can hope for,” Frances had said as
they sat in her tiny little beige office and popped chocolate-
covered cherries, one after the other.
    “A certain age?” Leah had echoed, mildly
confused.
    “Late thirties.”
    “Except that I’m not in my late thirties,”
Leah pointed out, reaching for another chocolate-covered
cherry.
    Frances adjusted her black, thick-framed
glasses and leaned across her desk, her eyes reminiscent of a
mutant fly. “Don’t fool yourself, Leah. You’re getting close to
late thirties, and frankly, thirty-four is not that far from forty
in the greater scheme of things.” She leaned back. “When you hit
forty, forget it,” she said, making such a grand sweeping gesture
that the fleshy part of her arm created a breeze, “The well dries
up, and you are lucky if you can even get an audition anywhere,
unless you make a name for yourself doing character roles. You
really need to do this film.” And with that, Frances shoved the
casting information at her, stuck a pencil behind her ear, and
closed the box of chocolate-covered cherries before Leah could
snatch another one.
    “Get something soccer
mom-ish to wear to the audition,” she’d said, waving her heavily
jeweled hand at Leah’s outfit. “You know, Keds, or something like
that. Maybe one of those shirts with flowerpots or kittens on it.
Do not go looking
like a hottie. Soccer moms aren’t hotties.”
    “Okay,” Leah said uncertainly.
    “Great. Now go be a soccer mom,” Frances
said cheerfully, then swiveled around in her seat to her computer.
The meeting was, apparently, over.
    Leah opened the box and took one more
chocolate cherry before she went to pursue a career in character
roles.
     
     
    AT the time, she hadn’t been too crazy about
the film, but now, as her car hissed and shuddered its way onto
Sunset Boulevard, she prayed she got the damn part. She made it all
the way home, her car gasping its way into the driveway of the
house she shared with Roddick Anthony—or as she’d known him since
she met him in an acting class four years ago, Brad.
    Brad was home, lounging as he often did. His
skinny, lanky frame was barely enough to hold up his boxers, his
loungewear of choice. He was sprawled across a plaid rent-to-own
couch, eating Doritos, drinking cheap beer, and flipping channels.
“Hey, how’d it go?” he asked as Leah dropped her bag in a chair
next to the enormous, lopsided, half-finished peacock, her latest
work of origami she refused to part with. She was going to finish
it. Really.
    “Apparently, I do not possess the acting
skills necessary to portray a sick housewife,” Leah said solemnly
before heading for the kitchen.
    “Bummer. By the way, your agent called,”
Brad said, looking away from the boob tube for a split second.
“Something about soccer moms.”
    Leah stopped midstride and jerked around.
“Soccer moms? What? What did she say?” she cried, suddenly hurtling
toward the couch and Brad, who instantly fell back and raised the
remote between them as if he was afraid she was going to hit
him.
    “She said to call her, she had good
news.”
    “Aaaiieee !” Leah shrieked and
twirled around, lunging for the phone. “ War of the Soccer Moms is a huge
studio film that Harold Bristol is directing!” she said
breathlessly as she punched in Frances’s number. “You know Harold
Bristol, right?”
    “Yeah,” Brad said,
twisting around on the couch. “He got the Academy nomination
for Red Devil ,
right? So what’s the war?”
    “It’s this, like, war that happens in a
suburban neighborhood between these soccer moms. It starts over
something like a cheating husband and then escalates into
full-scale war. They form armies and wage guerrilla