that got the arts funding all but cut from my school in the first place. The only thing children should be connecting to , my dad would say, is each other, in a football uniform. Or connecting to a blasted scholarship. I’d like Nathan to connect to a nice pre-med scholarship before he ups and connects to a flipping movie about a bunch of queer kids and their pet alien friend .
WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE PART IN THE MOVIE, AND WHAT DO YOU CONNECT TO MOST IN THE STORY?
I liked how the dad was never around.
WHAT IS YOUR AUDITION SONG TODAY:
“Bigger Isn’t Better” from the Broadway musical Barnum
HOMETOWN:
I think on this one. They’re probably looking forBroadway-savvy people who won’t get lost on subways and be late for rehearsals. But I decide on a seven-lie limit for this application, and calling myself twenty-one probably counts as four. I wish Anthony’s fake ID weren’t such a stretch. I could probably pull off eighteen, blaming it on a condition, some shrinking-boy thing, but twenty-one . . . I dunno.
HOMETOWN: Jankburg, Pennsylvania
IF YOU ARE HIRED FOR E.T., AND AREN’T FROM NEW YORK, WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO RELOCATE TO NEW YORK CITY? If I don’t get hired for E.T., I’d be willing to relocate to New York City.
ARE YOU A MEMBER OF ANY ACTORS’ UNIONS?
I pause.
“An actors’ union,” Uncle Robert says, and I realize he’s looking over my shoulder, “is what professional actors belong to, with years of authentic training and time spent in the trenches, slaving away in New York, trying their hardest to make it.” The froth is back on his lips. “So you can put no , you’re not a member of any actors’ unions.”
“Okay.” Union s , plural. There are multiple. Wow. Probably separate unions altogether for child jugglers and people who can do the splits.
“And then,” he continues, “you can erase myperforming arts studio as a reference. Unless,” and Uncle Robert stands and clears aside a horrible little hallway throw rug, “you’d like to get up and have a pirouette competition with my nephew Shawn, right here. And if you can beat him , by all means.” The black girl with the flute is staring at us now, having finished the polishing business and begun nibbling celery. “If you can beat my Shawn, I’d love to claim you as a student.”
Nephew Shawn does a knee bend and cricks his neck from side to side, like he’s done this a billion times. If a pirouette actually were a pastry, I’d be delighted to have a pirouette competition with Shawn. I could out-eat anyone here, I bet you.
“No, thank you,” I say, the crowd of auditioning onlookers moaning in disappointment, “I don’t want to twist my knee in these new Adidas.” I wave them for everyone and erase Robert Poppins School of Performing Arts from the application, feeling a total moron. “Sorry about that, Professor Poppins.”
“Okay!” the large flowy man from before sing-songs, shocking me out of my embarrassment, forcing a scratched line across the whole audition form. “We want the first fifty kids, lined up single file outside this door. And, moms! That means you have to put away your iPads and your purses and your own dreams!” This gets a tremendous roar from all the moms. “Andclear this aisle so your kid can be the next big thing. But listen!” Everything is exclamation points with this guy. “We only want kids who really, really want to be here, who go to bed at night and dream of Broadway and wake up in the morning and cry for Broadway! Who eat, bathe, and juggle Broadway.” Here, he pats one of the juggling boys on the head, like he already knows him from Juggling Union membership meetings. “So please, please, only line up if you and you alone want to be here, kiddos!”
All the kiddos, everyone but me, who is horrified at this clown, jump up and down like he’s handing out chocolate-covered cotton candy, and Uncle Robert takes Shawn’s hand and starts toward the lineup.
“Where are you
WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE PART IN THE MOVIE, AND WHAT DO YOU CONNECT TO MOST IN THE STORY?
I liked how the dad was never around.
WHAT IS YOUR AUDITION SONG TODAY:
“Bigger Isn’t Better” from the Broadway musical Barnum
HOMETOWN:
I think on this one. They’re probably looking forBroadway-savvy people who won’t get lost on subways and be late for rehearsals. But I decide on a seven-lie limit for this application, and calling myself twenty-one probably counts as four. I wish Anthony’s fake ID weren’t such a stretch. I could probably pull off eighteen, blaming it on a condition, some shrinking-boy thing, but twenty-one . . . I dunno.
HOMETOWN: Jankburg, Pennsylvania
IF YOU ARE HIRED FOR E.T., AND AREN’T FROM NEW YORK, WOULD YOU BE WILLING TO RELOCATE TO NEW YORK CITY? If I don’t get hired for E.T., I’d be willing to relocate to New York City.
ARE YOU A MEMBER OF ANY ACTORS’ UNIONS?
I pause.
“An actors’ union,” Uncle Robert says, and I realize he’s looking over my shoulder, “is what professional actors belong to, with years of authentic training and time spent in the trenches, slaving away in New York, trying their hardest to make it.” The froth is back on his lips. “So you can put no , you’re not a member of any actors’ unions.”
“Okay.” Union s , plural. There are multiple. Wow. Probably separate unions altogether for child jugglers and people who can do the splits.
“And then,” he continues, “you can erase myperforming arts studio as a reference. Unless,” and Uncle Robert stands and clears aside a horrible little hallway throw rug, “you’d like to get up and have a pirouette competition with my nephew Shawn, right here. And if you can beat him , by all means.” The black girl with the flute is staring at us now, having finished the polishing business and begun nibbling celery. “If you can beat my Shawn, I’d love to claim you as a student.”
Nephew Shawn does a knee bend and cricks his neck from side to side, like he’s done this a billion times. If a pirouette actually were a pastry, I’d be delighted to have a pirouette competition with Shawn. I could out-eat anyone here, I bet you.
“No, thank you,” I say, the crowd of auditioning onlookers moaning in disappointment, “I don’t want to twist my knee in these new Adidas.” I wave them for everyone and erase Robert Poppins School of Performing Arts from the application, feeling a total moron. “Sorry about that, Professor Poppins.”
“Okay!” the large flowy man from before sing-songs, shocking me out of my embarrassment, forcing a scratched line across the whole audition form. “We want the first fifty kids, lined up single file outside this door. And, moms! That means you have to put away your iPads and your purses and your own dreams!” This gets a tremendous roar from all the moms. “Andclear this aisle so your kid can be the next big thing. But listen!” Everything is exclamation points with this guy. “We only want kids who really, really want to be here, who go to bed at night and dream of Broadway and wake up in the morning and cry for Broadway! Who eat, bathe, and juggle Broadway.” Here, he pats one of the juggling boys on the head, like he already knows him from Juggling Union membership meetings. “So please, please, only line up if you and you alone want to be here, kiddos!”
All the kiddos, everyone but me, who is horrified at this clown, jump up and down like he’s handing out chocolate-covered cotton candy, and Uncle Robert takes Shawn’s hand and starts toward the lineup.
“Where are you
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