Free No Ordinary Life by Suzanne Redfearn Page B

not to panic and scream, What the hell difference does it make? We just need to memorize these two pages before they call your name and we go into that room and they ask you to recite your lines. These lines. These eight lines that, at this moment, you don’t know!
    “Because they’re taking care of a bunny with a hurt paw, and their mom told them they couldn’t keep any wild animals, so they have to get food for the bunny without their mom knowing,” I say in an amazingly calm voice.
    “Oh,” Molly says, mercifully satisfied. “Wread it again.”
    I do, then I show her which parts are hers.
    The door opens surprisingly quick, and Dana Kincaid bursts through in tears, her mother racing after her. Satisfied smirks cross the faces of the two women beside the door.
    “Marley Harkin,” the woman in the doorway announces.
    My heart bounces around like a pinball in my chest, until I realize she said Marley not Molly, and Harkin not Martin. Which means there’s no rhyme or reason to the order in which the kids are called. It isn’t alphabetical, and it doesn’t follow the sign-in list. Somehow this adds to my anxiety, the uncertainty of when we might be called.
    Molly and I run through the script again, this time with her saying her parts. She doesn’t get every word exact, but the gist is close and I hope that’s good enough.
    “Should we go over it one more time?” I ask, knowing we should, since every other pair in the room is huddled in deep concentration, rehearsing again and again.
    Molly shakes her head. “I got it.”
    She bounces her legs and smiles at a girl a row away, and the girl returns the grin, giving me back some of my faith in humanity until her mom snaps at her, “Becka, focus. Now remember, you’re supposed to be scared. And on the last line make your eyes well up with tears. Don’t cry, but make them like you’re about to cry. Let’s go over it again.”
    I pull Molly closer to me, and Molly doesn’t look at the girl again.
    Marley walks out, and everyone in the room watches. Marley is very pretty, petite and fairylike. She has blue eyes and rosebud lips, and I could imagine her on television. I listened to her and her mom rehearsing, and she was very good. America would fall in love with her.
    Bodies straighten and eyes study Marley’s and her mom’s faces for smirks of triumph or frowns of defeat, but as they walk through the room, their faces reveal nothing, not giving hide nor hair as to whether the rest of us still have a chance.
    Another girl is called, then another, and another, and with each audition, the nervous energy builds—nails are chewed, wedding bands are twisted, and the air grows thick like a pressurized chamber. At one point, laughter drifts through the door and everyone freezes—a good sign for whoever’s inside, a bad one for those of us still waiting our turn.
    I don’t want to get caught up in it, but as the moments tick by, it’s impossible not to. Like being in a race or a tug of war, you can’t help but want to win. And the longer we wait, the more the desire builds.
    “Maybe we should practice again,” I blurt.
    Molly glances at me like I’ve lost my marbles. Which I have. I feel like my brain is going to explode.
    “Say it with more urgency,” one of the remaining moms snaps at her daughter.
    We should practice. Everyone else is practicing.
    Another pair walk from the room.
    “You did so good,” the mom beams. “You were the best.”
    The girl gives a weak smile, betraying the mom’s attempt to make it seem better than it was and completely undermining her mom’s lame attempt to deflate the hopes of those of us who remain.
    “You’re my special girl. I love you so much. You’re such a star.” She swings the girl’s hand back and forth between them. “How about ribs for dinner? Your favorite.”
    The group has been winnowed from thirty pairs down to six, the two women beside the door still among the remaining few. A willowy blonde wearing