Categories > Celebrities > My Chemical Romance > .waste.of.time.
“Okay!” said a short man with dark hair and a clipboard. “I need 44 through 48!”
Gerard and I stood up. I was expecting him to look somewhat nervous or uncertain, but he didn’t.
I certainly felt the butterflies. I guess the difference was he didn’t care if he got in or not and I cared.
He could have at least tried to be less obvious about it, though, because he was just making me even more nervous.
Why on earth had I wanted him to come? If I’m going to make a complete fool of myself, I’d rather do it without someone I know well watching.
I think.
I got in line behind 44, a skinny blonde with a nose piercing, and felt Gerard step in behind me.
“Are you 46?” the man asked Gerard.
“Yeah.”
“I need 47 and 48!”
Nobody moved.
“Well, I guess it’s you three.” The man shook his head and sighed. “Follow me.”
He led us through wooden double doors into the theater. I instantly liked the place. The walls were painted a deep red color to match the seats, which were on a slight incline, and the stage was about four feet off the ground.
I liked that a lot, because I hate low stages.
Below the stage was a table where a tall bald man, a redheaded woman, and a white-haired man sat, all looking somewhat tired and impatient.
“You,” said the man, pointing to the blonde, “come on up.” He pointed to Gerard and me. “You two have a seat.”
I sat down three seats in off the aisle in row 5. Gerard sat next to me.
“I’ll take that,” said the dark-haired man, holding his hand out for the blonde girl’s form. She handed it over, and he took it to the table.
“What’s your name, honey?” said the white-haired man. He had a grandfatherly-sounding voice.
“I’m Lindsay Margolis,” said she. “And I’m seventeen years old.”
“Okay,” said the bald man. “What are you going to sing for us?”
“’L.O.V.E.’ by Ashlee Simpson.”
“Okay, go.”
She began to sing. She had a good voice, deep and gritty and powerful. I wasn’t all that surprised. She looked like she’d have that kind of voice.
“All right,” said the woman, cutting her off in the middle of the song. “Do you have a monologue prepared?”
Lindsay Margolis froze. “No, I don’t . . . um . . .”
The woman waved her off and held out a piece of paper. “Read this.”
Relief washed over Lindsay’s face, and she came forward to take the paper. “Thanks.”
“Just begin, please.”
Lindsay read the monologue on the paper. I wasn’t impressed. Maybe it was just the cold reading, nerves, or she could have just been a bad actress. But she talked too fast, her voice had no emotion, and it fell flat.
“Thank you,” said the bald man when she finished.
Lindsay walked offstage, handed the monologue back to the woman, and sat down next to Gerard.
“Next?” said the dark-haired man.
I stood up, feeling one of the butterflies fluttering up in my throat, and walked over to the table to hand the auditioners my form before I went onstage.
“Hi,” I said before the auditioners could say anything. “I’m Alixz Stevenson, and I’m sixteen years old.”
“Great!” said the white-haired man. “What are you going to sing for us, Alixz?”
“’What’s This’.”
“What is what?” he said.
I shook my head and had to laugh a little. “No . . . the song is called ‘What’s This’.”
“Oh. Well, okay. Go ahead.”
I sang. I thought my voice was going to shake, because one of the butterflies had decided to lodge in my throat, but it didn’t . . .
Or maybe I was just too keyed up to notice.
Now I just prayed to God that I would hit that last high note.
I think I did?
Gerard clapped, which inspired Lindsay to clap, too.
“Thank you,” said the bald man. “Do you have a monologue?”
“I do,” I said, and turned around so my back was facing the audience.
Fuck.
I couldn’t remember a word of it.
I turned around. I was not going to read that insipid piece that Lindsay Margolis had read. I was just going to have to wing it.
Somehow, my mouth opened, and my monologue came out, and then there was more clapping, and the auditioners thanked me, and I found myself sitting in my seat before I realized what was happening.
I took several deep breaths. Who would have thought that I’d be so nervous?
At least all the butterflies had mysteriously disappeared.
I was just hoping my song sounded okay, and my monologue didn’t come out flat and stilted like Lindsay’s.
Because, if nothing else, mine was rehearsed.
“Next.”
Gerard stood up.
The butterflies came back.
I watched him casually saunter down the ramp and over to the table before handing his form to the auditioners and walking onstage.
“What’s your name?” asked the woman.
“Gerard Way.”
"And you're how old?"
"Sixteen."
“What are you going to sing for us?” asked the white-haired man.
“’Revenge’.”
The white-haired man chuckled. “Okay. Go ahead.”
Gerard stood there and stared at the floor for a moment before he began to sing.
My jaw dropped.
Gerard and I stood up. I was expecting him to look somewhat nervous or uncertain, but he didn’t.
I certainly felt the butterflies. I guess the difference was he didn’t care if he got in or not and I cared.
He could have at least tried to be less obvious about it, though, because he was just making me even more nervous.
Why on earth had I wanted him to come? If I’m going to make a complete fool of myself, I’d rather do it without someone I know well watching.
I think.
I got in line behind 44, a skinny blonde with a nose piercing, and felt Gerard step in behind me.
“Are you 46?” the man asked Gerard.
“Yeah.”
“I need 47 and 48!”
Nobody moved.
“Well, I guess it’s you three.” The man shook his head and sighed. “Follow me.”
He led us through wooden double doors into the theater. I instantly liked the place. The walls were painted a deep red color to match the seats, which were on a slight incline, and the stage was about four feet off the ground.
I liked that a lot, because I hate low stages.
Below the stage was a table where a tall bald man, a redheaded woman, and a white-haired man sat, all looking somewhat tired and impatient.
“You,” said the man, pointing to the blonde, “come on up.” He pointed to Gerard and me. “You two have a seat.”
I sat down three seats in off the aisle in row 5. Gerard sat next to me.
“I’ll take that,” said the dark-haired man, holding his hand out for the blonde girl’s form. She handed it over, and he took it to the table.
“What’s your name, honey?” said the white-haired man. He had a grandfatherly-sounding voice.
“I’m Lindsay Margolis,” said she. “And I’m seventeen years old.”
“Okay,” said the bald man. “What are you going to sing for us?”
“’L.O.V.E.’ by Ashlee Simpson.”
“Okay, go.”
She began to sing. She had a good voice, deep and gritty and powerful. I wasn’t all that surprised. She looked like she’d have that kind of voice.
“All right,” said the woman, cutting her off in the middle of the song. “Do you have a monologue prepared?”
Lindsay Margolis froze. “No, I don’t . . . um . . .”
The woman waved her off and held out a piece of paper. “Read this.”
Relief washed over Lindsay’s face, and she came forward to take the paper. “Thanks.”
“Just begin, please.”
Lindsay read the monologue on the paper. I wasn’t impressed. Maybe it was just the cold reading, nerves, or she could have just been a bad actress. But she talked too fast, her voice had no emotion, and it fell flat.
“Thank you,” said the bald man when she finished.
Lindsay walked offstage, handed the monologue back to the woman, and sat down next to Gerard.
“Next?” said the dark-haired man.
I stood up, feeling one of the butterflies fluttering up in my throat, and walked over to the table to hand the auditioners my form before I went onstage.
“Hi,” I said before the auditioners could say anything. “I’m Alixz Stevenson, and I’m sixteen years old.”
“Great!” said the white-haired man. “What are you going to sing for us, Alixz?”
“’What’s This’.”
“What is what?” he said.
I shook my head and had to laugh a little. “No . . . the song is called ‘What’s This’.”
“Oh. Well, okay. Go ahead.”
I sang. I thought my voice was going to shake, because one of the butterflies had decided to lodge in my throat, but it didn’t . . .
Or maybe I was just too keyed up to notice.
Now I just prayed to God that I would hit that last high note.
I think I did?
Gerard clapped, which inspired Lindsay to clap, too.
“Thank you,” said the bald man. “Do you have a monologue?”
“I do,” I said, and turned around so my back was facing the audience.
Fuck.
I couldn’t remember a word of it.
I turned around. I was not going to read that insipid piece that Lindsay Margolis had read. I was just going to have to wing it.
Somehow, my mouth opened, and my monologue came out, and then there was more clapping, and the auditioners thanked me, and I found myself sitting in my seat before I realized what was happening.
I took several deep breaths. Who would have thought that I’d be so nervous?
At least all the butterflies had mysteriously disappeared.
I was just hoping my song sounded okay, and my monologue didn’t come out flat and stilted like Lindsay’s.
Because, if nothing else, mine was rehearsed.
“Next.”
Gerard stood up.
The butterflies came back.
I watched him casually saunter down the ramp and over to the table before handing his form to the auditioners and walking onstage.
“What’s your name?” asked the woman.
“Gerard Way.”
"And you're how old?"
"Sixteen."
“What are you going to sing for us?” asked the white-haired man.
“’Revenge’.”
The white-haired man chuckled. “Okay. Go ahead.”
Gerard stood there and stared at the floor for a moment before he began to sing.
My jaw dropped.
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