Someday, Someday, Maybe Read Online Free PDF Page B

of people. But then again, in my case, none of those things are true.
    “So are you going to class from this torture session?” she says, flicking an incredibly shiny strand of blond hair back from her face. “Want to go with me to that diner on Eighth and get a salad in between?”
    Salad. Oh yeah. I’m supposed to eat more salad. It just never seems appealing. In fact, I was already planning to go to “that diner” on Eighth for my usual pre-class dinner: grilled cheese, french fries, and the New York Times crossword puzzle. But for some reason I find myself making an excuse.
    “I, ah, can’t. I have another, you know, torture session after this one.”
    The lie comes out before I can even consider stopping it. I’m totally unprepared if she asks what my other audition is for, or where it is. Maybe I can recycle one from a few weeks ago, but what if it’s one she had, too?
    Luckily, she doesn’t seem to care. “Good for you,” she says, punching me lightly on the shoulder. “You’re PERFECT for commercials. I suck at them. I totally TANKED in there.”
    Somehow I doubt that Penelope “tanked” in there. I bet she seldom “tanks” anywhere. And something about the way she said I’m “perfect for commercials” makes me bristle. That’s the only explanation for what comes out of my mouth next.
    “Yeah, and actually, after that, I have, um, a rehearsal, too.” I roll my eyes like, Rehearsals, pah, I have them every day.
    One summer at camp, they tried to teach us to water-ski. I stood up for approximately two seconds before I fell. Forgetting everything I’d been told, I held onto the rope and was dragged, bumping across the lake, until the driver finally noticed and brought the boat to a stop. That’s the feeling I have right now, telling lie after lie to Penelope—I’m powerless to stop myself.
    “Auditions and rehearsals!” Penelope exclaims, as though she’s just seen her two best friends in the whole world. “Isn’t it all so mad ?”
    “It is mad,” I tell her. “Mad.”
    “Well, next time then. Nice to meet you, officially,” she says and shakes my hand, gold bracelets clattering and clinking. “See you on the boards!” She giggles and waves over her shoulder, a general wave that is for me, but also seems to generously include the entire room. Charisma , I think to myself. That’s what someone with charisma does to a room full of strangers. Together we watch as Penelope and her tiny white pants disappear down the hall.
    I feel sort of depressed after she leaves, but I don’t know why. The spectators in the room seem similarly unsettled. They stare after her longingly, like they miss her already and wish she would come back. Gradually, they seem to realize their entertainment won’t be returning, and one by one they go back to reading, looking at their newspapers or their commercial copy—something I should have been doing this whole time.
    I must never lie again , I think. Why did I say no to Penelope and her offer of salad, besides my ambivalence regarding salad? Because she’s the type of person who uses the word “mad,” as if she thinks she’s British? Now I’ll have to go to the worse diner on Sixth Avenue, two long blocks farther away from class and much more expensive.
    Keep your eyes on your own paper , I hear Stavros say, and right then, I resolve to become friends with Penelope. I imagine how wonderfully supportive I’ll be from now on, clapping loudly after every scene she does in class. I’ll be gracious, I’ll be kind, I’ll eat more salad.
    “Frances Banks, you’re next,” a monotone voice says. A bored-looking girl in vintage ’50s glasses, a baby-doll dress with a suspender clip in the back, and a pair of lace-up combat boots reads my name from the sign-in sheet.
    Crap . I thought I had more time. I haven’t even looked at what I’m supposed to say, not one word of it. I should have gotten here earlier, shouldn’t have spent time chatting. I was