You tell yourself that it only matters that you were good enough or impressive enough to be called back, no matter what happens after that.
You tell yourself that as long as you get a part in just one of the plays, that's all you wanted.
You tell yourself that you don't need the extra work that comes with a lead role.
And regardless of what you tell yourself, that part deep down, the you that only comes out onstage in front of an audience, aches to be able to come out and shine again. Or at least to feel like it's shining.
And so you pace and wait and jump and take a walk and stand around just outside the place they're going to post it, waiting, waiting, waiting.
(I've read the letters Syl writes to Ellen so many times to prepare that I'm talking like her now.)
And then you see the list, and you scan for your name first, and you blink a few times and you try to understand what it says, and then the realization that it's not you sinks in.
I wanted to be happy for Sarah. I also wanted her to be Bea. She wasn't supposed to get my part. Don't directors know not to put roomates up next against each other? I did give her a hug. Two, actually. And I told her I was so proud of her! And that it was great cause we were in the the play together. (I did get a smaller part, and I suppose I should take it as a consolation. Or more, I should just be excited about it for what it is, right? Maybe tomorrow.)
You tell yourself that if I had read that one scene in callbacks, the one that she read and the one that you just got skipped over for, that would have made the difference. It makes you feel better.
(You have no idea how much this sounds like one of Syl's letters. Ouch.)
And that's that. Another one bites the dust. Have a Happy New Year.