Free No Ordinary Life by Suzanne Redfearn Page A

eyes and nods.
    “Okay then. I’ll read it to you first, then we’ll see if you remember it.”
    She curls her legs beneath her and snuggles against me the way she does when I read her a story.
    Before I can start, the door on the other side of the room opens and a young woman with a clipboard steps through. “Janine Jones,” she announces, causing my heart to leap into my throat. The auditions are beginning, and we have yet to even read the script.
    A pair two rows from where Molly and I sit jump to their feet, and the pudgy mom pushes her pudgy daughter forward. A foot from the door, the mother makes the sign of the cross, then with a deep breath, she and her daughter follow the young woman into the room.
    Everyone quiets, and we all lean slightly toward the door as if a strong wind is blowing us that way, our ears straining to hear through the wood for a clue as to how it’s going, listening for a giggle, a sigh, applause—some sign of whether the woman’s prayers were answered.
    The door is beside the two women who hissed about us earlier, and I realize those are the prize seats, those nearest the casting room where they can hear what’s going on inside. After a minute, I realize not only am I being ridiculous, but I am wasting precious time. The door could reopen at any moment, and we could be called next.
    “Mols, we need to go over this,” I say, my voice tight.
    I read her the script. Ben is asking Annie to sneak into the neighbor’s yard to take some carrots from the man’s garden, and Annie doesn’t want to because she’s scared.
    “Then what happens?” Molly asks when I finish.
    “It doesn’t matter. They just want you to know this part.”
    Her nose wrinkles. “But I want to know the stowry.”
    I stare with fear at the closed door on the other side of the room as if it has claws and teeth, certain that at any second, it’s going to open and swallow us whole. “Baby, let’s just memorize this part.”
    “But why is the giwrl scrawred and why awre they going to steawl the cawrrots? Why not just go to the stowre owr ask the neighbowr fowr some cawrrots?”
    I smile. I can’t help it. Despite my terror that we’re going to make total fools of ourselves when we walk through the rabbit hole on the other side of the room, Molly’s right: without context, the script makes no sense. So with a deep breath, I set down the pages and tell her a story to go with the script. I explain that the neighbor is an old man who lives by himself. He doesn’t talk to the neighbors, and he keeps a gun on his porch. His leg is twisted, so he doesn’t walk right, and sometimes at night, he hobbles around his backyard carrying his gun and making strange noises.
    Because of this, everyone thinks he’s mean and crazy. But the truth is, he’s just old and his leg hurts when it gets cold, so he walks around to ease the pain, sometimes grunting because it hurts so bad.
    He carries the gun, which is actually only a BB gun, to scare off the raccoons that like to eat from his garden.
    “That’s sad,” Molly says. “He’s awll awlone.”
    “He is,” I say, “but I think it’s going to turn out okay because I think Ben talks Annie into sneaking into the garden, and then the old man catches her, but he doesn’t get mad and they become great friends.”
    “And I bet he’s going to give hewr the cawrrots so she doesn’t need to steawl them.”
    “I bet you’re right.”
    “Why’s she and Ben need the cawrrots?”
    The door opens, and Janine Jones and her mom walk out. Judging by their expressions—Janine’s stunned, her mom’s long and lined—I’m guessing it didn’t go well.
    “Dana Kincaid,” the clipboard girl calls.
    My pulse beats a little harder. If they’re calling the girls in alphabetical order, we might be next.
    “Bug, we need to memorize this.”
    “Why they need the cawrrots?” she asks again, her face set in the stubborn look she has that’s difficult to override.
    I force myself