“Unscripted Transformations” Chapter One
***I’m very excited to share with you the first chapter of my next novel which I hope will be released by this Fall. This happens to be my second favourite product of my imagination, second only to An Altered Ending. Unscripted Transformations is a semi-sequel, taking place five years after Heart Pulled to Pieces. I hope you enjoy.***
Chapter One
“I’m really sorry,” The guy who bumped into me says as he lightly grips my arms, keeping me from falling into the back of an empty chair behind me. All the dishes I was carrying toppled to the floor and shattered around my feet. When the coffee house is this light on patrons, guys normally only do the ‘run-in’ to get a chance to ask one of us out. I think it’s supposed to be an icebreaker; ram into the waitress with a tray of mugs and plates, then ask if she wants to grab (of all things) a coffee. This guy, however, seems genuinely apologetic. His prismatic blue eyes are pleading for forgiveness, as if he’s pissed off far too many women in his lifetime and is afraid of the karmic consequences of doing it again.
“It’s okay,” I say, hands in the air, the round black tray I was carrying still in my left hand. He lets go of me and takes a step back. “I’m fine,” I kneel down, picking up the pieces of broken ceramic off the floor, setting the tray on the ground to load them on to. I’m surprised when the man, dressed in expensive looking brown dress pants, kneels down on the dirty floor and helps me gather the bits.
“I really hope this doesn’t come out of your paycheck.” He says, shaking his head, guilt in his voice.
“If it’ll make you feel better, it doesn’t.” I reply awkwardly. I work ‘for fun’ as my friends call it. I like my job, it makes me feel normal to work seven to eight hours a day on my feet.
I look up to reassure the poor guy, meet his eyes, and smile. He’s kind of cute, with black, wavy hair, a little on the longish side, a strong jaw line, and a beautiful smile (when it finally cracks through). He’s clean shaven; a businessman I’d guess by the way he’s dressed.
After the mess is cleaned I do something rare, especially at work. I set the tray of broken china on the table behind me, brush my hands on my brown apron, and introduce myself. “I’m Isla Milton.” I offer my hand for the man who slightly surpasses my five foot nine stature.
He takes my hand, squinting at me. “Isla Milton?” He repeats. ‘As in Milton’s Macchiato?’ he’d ask, as they all do. It’s the name of the tiny coffee shop chain my Grandfather opened, and my father franchised when he took over more than thirty years ago. My last name is not that common around here, and when said inside the first shop in the franchise, people tend to react as though I’m a celebrity.
“Yeah,” I nod, feeling little bashful.
He lets go of my hand, snapping his fingers and pointing at me. “You have an audition today at three forty-five at the opera house for the Pike Kindred production, don’t you?” He smirks.
My jaw drops. That’s where he recognized my name from? This guy must be on the casting staff for the production I’m auditioning for. How bad is my head shot that he remembers my name? I know my blonde hair is frizzy a good ninety percent of the time, and it shows a bit in the black-and-white photograph that I handed in with my small acting and modeling resume, but is it that memorable? I pick up a lock of hair from my ponytail and begin to tug. “Yeah,” I reply dumbly.
“Great,” He beams, “I’ll see you then.” He waves and walks away, setting off the chime as he exits the café, disappearing into the crowd on the busy sidewalk.
I watch people walking by, leaning back against the chair behind me with both of my hands gripping the top, my right foot resting against the seat. I don’t know the guy’s name, don’t know how big a part he plays in my getting a part, but I’m glad that I wasn’t mean to him for bumping into me while talking on his cell phone.
“He. Was. Hot.” Gabrielle says as she approaches me, looking out aimlessly out the window. “I would even say he’s more gorgeous than Maxwell, and considering how much I hate you for getting him, that’s saying something.” She folds her arms, turning to face me.
Maxwell is my boyfriend of seven years. We met in our second year of college when Max attended a seminar my father was invited to speak at. Max stayed after the lecture to talk to my father, and I came by to see if he wanted some father daughter time. Max saw me and was instantly smitten, though I never knew why. It took me about six months to go on a date with him, and only after my father did some digging and found out the Max’s family owns a small Italian restaurant on the far North side of town, assuring me he wasn’t a gold digger.
I shrug, spin on my heel and get back to work. I pick up the tray with both hands and head behind the counter. “He was alright,” I lie as I make my way out back, stepping around boxes on my way to the back door. Gabby must be following me, because I can hear her cursing as I put my key in the alarm, and open the door with my hip. I flick the tray in a way that it sends all the broken pieces flying into the dumpster. They all go in.
Turning back to Gabby, I say, “He doesn’t seem like he’s a guy’s guy though.” I let the door slam shut as I step back in, pulling out my key and putting it back into my apron pocket. “He’d be a good guy for you, Gabs. Want me to get his name and number for you after my audition this afternoon?”
She laughs, making me smile. Gabby is the one out of the two of us who should be a model and actress. She’s Mediterranean and flawless, with full lips and curves that I wish my athletic build would let me have. Her eyes are olive, and with her bronze skin and long, silky black hair she looks exotic and alluring. The number of guys she dated is small a fraction of the ones who ask her out. In her mind, she’s chronically love challenged and has the worst luck with men. In truth, she just falls for the wrong ones. “I doubt that dream boat would want me.”
“Shut up,” I say as I use the hand washing sink, scrubbing off the dirt and coffee as she leans against the stainless steel back counter. “You know any guy would have you if he could.”
She purses her lips. “Maybe.” Then to change the subject, “What’s the play you’re auditioning for?”
“It’s a story about girl who falls in love with her fiancé’s best friend.” I hit the paper towel dispenser a couple of times with my arm, tearing away the sheet and dry my hands. “I’m auditioning for the part of the girl’s friend.”
“Isla, why won’t you audition for the lead?” Gabby demands.
“Because I’ve never played one, nor anything close to one. I don’t have the experience to go for a part that big.” I reason as a customer comes up to the counter. Gabby turns, smiling a tiny, polite greeting as the guy rambles off his order without looking up.
I start making his drink, some extremely caffeinated concoction that can’t be good for his heart. I turn back to Gabby after he picks up his drink.
“If you don’t start going for the bigger parts, then you aren’t going to get them.” She says matter-of-factly. “I mean seriously. Just try, give it your best. If you really want to go in there and try for ‘the friend,’ then do it. Just don’t think you can’t do the lead because you’re not experienced enough. You’ve been performing for years, you’ve got that perfect blond hair, blue eye look, you can get it.”
“Thanks for the motivational speech.” I snort. The way she holds her posture tells me she’s trying to be serious, and I smile. “I have to get going, I have to get ready for the damn thing.” I say as I the door chimes and Kate, my replacement for the afternoon, walks in. I look back at Gabby and twitch my eyebrows before I take off my apron, moving to the staff room to hang it up, grab my stuff, and skip out the door. Auditions always make me giddy.
It’s a perfect June day, the mix of heat and clean air a pleasant change from the humidity the city usually has. My hair may actually survive the day without turning into a fuzz ball.
I get out my phone start to check my messages as I make my way down the street toward home. I’m not surprised when I don’t see anything from Maxwell. He’s not always (okay, never) supportive of what I want to do with my life. He’s not thrilled with my choosing not to join my father and brother at the head office.
The message I do have is from my only sibling.
Isslee, good luck today. If the weather changes, you’ll need it. No one wants to hire a frizz head, and we both know that there isn’t enough money in the world to fix your hair once it starts to turn. Love you, and see you tomorrow at Mom and Dad’s. – Greg
I laugh aloud as I put my phone away. I’ll have to think of some smart ass remark to respond with. Greg and I have always teased each other, and it became worse as we started texting and instant messaging. But it’s all out of love, a product of Greg and I being close. If anything ever happens to one of us, the other is equally devastated.
I cross through a couple of intersections and make my way to a small side street and across the tiny front parking lot into my building. I don’t have a doorman, the simple entryway makes people question how nice the units inside are, and the elevator makes a grinding noises as it moves up and down the shaft, but I don’t care. This is where my home is.
My home: I like to emphasis that point. I own my apartment, the one thing I bought with the money I was granted at twenty-one. It’s my sanctuary with white walls and light wood hardwood floors. My kitchen and living room are divided with a countertop used primarily as a place to eat. All the appliances and my furniture are black. I have photo-collage frames filled with pictures of my friends and family all over the apartment. My bedroom is huge with a private bathroom. It also has all black furniture, purple linens on my bed, and the pictures are snap shots of Irish, Scottish, Australian, and English landscapes. My guest room is a smaller version of mine that doubles as a craft room, and there’s a guest bathroom that can be accessed from the living room.
Max tried to get me to move in with him last year, and I refused. When he tried to move in with me I laughed. I wasn’t about to have him come in and mess with my sanctuary, despite how long we’ve been together. I gave him closet space to put some of his suits and work clothes in, and told him could stay over often, but this place was still mine.
I kicked off my shoes at the entry way, hearing them hit the back of the closet with a thud. It’s overly stuffy with the windows being closed all day. As I move through the living room to open my balcony doors, I notice I have a message on my answering machine. I like the novelty of having a house phone, and the only reason I have a digital answering machine is because my old cassette style one died. I hit play.
“Isla, it’s Mom. Just wanted to wish you good luck today. You know your father and I are proud of you regardless if you get it or not. And listen, don’t forget we’re getting together at the house for dinner tomorrow night in honor of your brother’s graduating…even if it is for the third time. Love you.”
I stand in the balcony doorway and smile. Hearing my mother’s voice is always calming, and I think that’s why she calls before every audition or photo-shoot.
I turn on my stereo and turn up the music before going in my bedroom, stripping off the white blouse and black pants of my uniform. Jumping into the shower, I dance around while washing my hair and singing badly along with the song.
After getting clean, I set about the daunting task of blow drying my hair. I use five different hair products to prep the strands before I go to town with a flat brush and a blow dryer. I carefully replicate the process my mother’s hairstylist taught me, taking me about an hour to get it the way it’s supposed to look: straight.
I pick out a loose fitting T-shirt and a pair of dark-blue jeans from my closet, and I dig around the bottom of it for my silver strappy high-heeled sandals and find them with a victorious cry.
I come out of my bedroom while awkwardly putting on my shoes, giving me an extra inch of height and a lot more instability. Feeling like a newborn giraffe, I find a pair of flip flops to change into after the audition is done in my coat closet. I grab my purse and stuff them into the bottom. I check the microwave clock, two fifty-five: time’s up. I take a deep breath and leave.
I walk down the street, concentrating on the sidewalk ahead and trying not to touch my hair. I want to put it into a pony tail. It’s too hot for it to be down, and I feel uncomfortable walking around feeling dressed up on a Tuesday afternoon.
I keep going, forcing myself to walk faster in the shoes I can barely stand in, but by the time I’m a couple blocks away from my place I want to cut my feet off. I reach into my purse and grab the white ‘after audition’ shoes and put them on. I smile at the people who walk past me, probably wondering why this crazy girl is changing her shoes in the middle of the sidewalk. After putting the fancy shoes in my purse, I search for an elastic. My fingers wrap around one, and I turn to face a storefront window beside me, my reflection casting against the glass. I make sure the top of my head is smooth as I pulled back my hair and tie it up, my chin length bangs hanging off to the side. I still look good, just not nearly as professional as I had before. But I’m more comfortable, and maybe that’ll score me points. I may get the part by going in feeling more like myself. Then again I may be laughed out of the audition for being under dressed.
The guy from the café pops in my head. He’s on the casting staff; he’s already seen me at my worse. I can picture him leaning in and saying to one of his partners, “You think this is bad? You should’ve saw her early.”
I stop in front of the theatre doors and take a deep breath before grabbing the door handle and yanking it open. I can hear a man’s voice echoing off the walls as I step inside. Moving to the theater, I can see the small dot on the stage where the guy is reading lines. I focus on him as I make my way down to where others are sitting.
Two rows from the back a woman jumps into the aisle and stops me. “Do you have an audition?” She asks quietly.
“Yes, Isla Milton.” I spell my name for her.
She looks down her list and smiles, handing me a small script from her clipboard. “Here you go; they’ll be ready for you in a few minutes. Just have a seat down there.” She replies, pointing to where I was heading anyway. I move quietly, taking a seat and place my purse in the empty chair beside me. I read over the script a few times, getting familiar with the lines in front of me while half watching those on the stage play off what the directors suggest.
“Okay Thank you,” Says the man on the right (who I think is from the café) as he waves a redhead off the stage. I turn my eyes up from the paper, watching with my head still lowered as the two men in the front row nod their heads with what seems like approval. It would appear that rusty boy got the part. “Isla Milton?” The one in the left calls out. As I stand, I notice the one on the right starts looking around. I don’t look at them as I make my way to the stage. I leap up the steps and walk into the middle where a semi bright spot light shines down. I glance into the rows of seats, but can barely see their faces. “Now you’re auditioning for the part of Sarah-Lynn, is that right?” asks the guy seated stage right.
“Yes, I am.” I reply with a short, quick nod.
“Okay, we’re going to get you to read the middle section on page two, please.” He says kindly.
I nod, clear my throat, turn to the page, and begin to read. “Beth, Bob is a great guy. He loves you, and he respects you. I know he hasn’t been around much but if you would give him another chance then maybe…”
“Stop,” The same man cries out. I look up, feeling the panic set in. Was I so bad that they want me to stop already? That’s enough, go home? I watch as the guy from the coffee shop leans in to his partner, pointing to a section of the script. The shot caller nods before saying, “Isla, change of plans. Can you please read Bethany’s speech, which comes immediately after Sarah-Lynn?”
I nod again and turn the page. I don’t dare clear my throat, fearing I’d hurl all over the stage. Then the audition would really be over. “I do love Bob, I think he’s amazing. But when I look at Andre I can’t help but feel the rush, the excitement, the possibilities. I don’t see myself married to Bob in five years, let alone a lifetime. He’s always so busy with his work, his art, that he sets me aside. I don’t see he and I wanting the same life. With Andre, it’s different. It’s like I finally understand why it didn’t work out with anyone else, we fit.” I hadn’t noticed how lost in the moment I was until the echo of my final word reverberated off the walls, and was taken aback by the sound of my voice.
I look down at the two men down front. They’re smiling. “Thank you,” says the shot caller. As I step out of the light, I get a better look at him. He has matted brown hair, shoulder length with random blond streaks. He has facial hair that looks better maintained than his mane. He doesn’t look like someone who would be in charge. “Miss Milton,” He calls, “can you please stick around until the end of auditions? They wrap up at four thirty.”
I nod, smiling weakly, and move back to my chair. I’ve never been asked to stick around after an audition before, and I wasn’t sure it was a good thing.
I try not to focus on anything, preferring to concentrate on keeping my legs crossed, not moving the foot off the ground in a tapping motion, or play with my hair.
I snap my head up as the two men stand, the auditions over. Somehow I killed half an hour of waiting by making sure my mind was preoccupied. I stand abruptly, grabbing my purse strap and throwing it on my shoulder. I grip it with white knuckles while I watch the guy from the cafe approach me with a big grin on his face, and a script in his hand. “Congratulations,” He says as he hands the bound pages to me. “You’re our Bethany.”
“Seriously?” I ask in disbelief. He nods, and I laugh with excitement. “Wow, that’s great. But, really, I auditioned for Sarah-Lynn, I’m sure you should put me in that role.”
“Trust me, I wrote the play and you’re most definitely our Bethany. You fit the part like I wrote it for you. Hell, I would’ve given it to you on spot if Pike wasn’t so insistent that we wait to see how the other two girls panned out.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I exclaim as I run my hand over the front page, reading the author name. It makes me do a double take. “Wait, you said you wrote this?” I look up at the man in front of me, guessing him to be no older than thirty.
“Yeah,” He says with a bashful smile, putting his hands in his front pockets, and rocking on the balls of his feet.
I look back down, double-checking the name on the cover. I’ve read his scripts in drama classes in high school, performed in one during my third year of University. My first professional acting job was a very minor role in the second run of one of his most famous plays.
“You’re Mund Sky?” I ask, not really sure I believe him. I always thought he’d be older.
Mund laughs. “Edmund Lansky,” he stops rocking back and forth. “Call me Eddie.”
