Melinda’s Journal

Pat has his big audition today. Before he left, he looked just like those pictures I had seen of people from the 1970s. His outfit was perfect. His hair was perfect. He had even dyed it brown, like Patrick Barrett.

I hope he gets this part. It was meant for him.

Pat’s Story

After my Friday morning run, I took my shower as usual, then ran my razor around my face for the first time in a couple of days. I had purposely not shaven yesterday so I could do it this morning. My goal was to be as clean-shaven as possible for my audition. I wished I could grow out my sideburns like they did when Patrick Barrett was my age, but I knew I could never pull it off.

I hopped back into the shower to get my hair nice and damp again, then stood in front of the mirror with my magic mousse. I poured a small amount into my hands and massaged it into my hair. It didn’t go very far. So, I used a little more. And a little more. Half an hour later, my comb and hands both looked like I had been playing in the mud. But my hair was no longer red. It wasn’t quite as dark as I wanted, but I knew it was the best I could do with the ginger hair.

I used copious amounts of soap to get my hands clean and got dressed before heading down to breakfast. Melinda smiled, but Walter raised his eyebrows at me. He actually put down his fork and pointed to my head.

“What’d you do?”

I shrugged. “I really wanted to look this part.”

“Mom’s gonna freak,” he said in a sing-song voice.

I echoed his tone. “It washes out.”

“Well, I like it,” Melinda said with a smile as she sat beside me.

When Mom joined us, she didn’t freak out, but she looked between me and Walter many times before voicing her opinion. “You know? One of you needs to be a red-head or else I’m never going to be able to tell the two of you apart.”

Melinda started giggling. “See? I told you guys you look alike.”

After breakfast, I changed into my new clothes. I felt like I was wearing a Halloween costume, but I knew I looked the part. And looking the part was a step closer to getting the part. I packed my regular running shorts and the new shorts in a bag with my sneakers. I threw in a few more things, including some extra cans of mousse and a change of clothes. After a quick good-luck kiss from Melinda, I headed to my audition.

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I felt a little silly walking into the conference room. I saw two guys about my age, both dressed in skinny jeans and a T-shirt. One had his hair spiked upwards, the other had a goatee. There were three guys about my dad’s age, too. One was wearing a brown tweed suit, but the others were in jeans and dress shirts. All three had full beards, complete with bushy mustaches. Since I had met the real Coach Williams, I couldn’t really picture any of these guys in his shoes.

I took a seat in the corner and closed my eyes. I tried to picture Patrick Bennett as I thought I knew him. As I slowly breathed in and out, I tried to transform myself into him.

“Alright. Listen up.”

I opened my eyes to see the casting director standing in the doorway. More people had arrived in the room. There was another older man, this one completely clean-shaven, and two more guys my age. One was dressed to go running. The other was wearing a suit and tie. I focused on the director as she gave us instructions.

“There will be three cameras in the room. One will remain on Patrick Barrett. The other will film Coach Williams. The third will record the two of you together.”

The director droned on for a long time, giving a lot more details than I expected. The coaches would take turns in the audition studio and call us in one by one to begin the scene. After the coach went through all the candidates, he was free to leave. The Patricks had to stay in the hallway until we had gone through all four coaches.

The director called a name, and the man in the tweed suit stood. I joined the other guys my age as we followed him and the director down the hall to the other office. I knew it might be awhile, so I leaned against a wall, trying to remain in character. Around me, I could hear guys practicing their lines. I tried to tune them out as the first guy was called into the office.

I was the last one. I took a deep breath and sauntered in, knocking on the doorframe as I entered.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

I was a little startled to see the man sitting behind the table. A chair on the other side faced him. He gestured for me to sit. I did as I continued my lines, fidgeting nervously as I expected Patrick Barrett would have. It was something Melinda and I had practiced, and I was suddenly glad she had made me rehearse all those different scenarios.

Although I was pleased with my performance, I could almost immediately feel there wasn’t a lot of chemistry between me and the guy in the tweed suit. When I did the scene with the second coach, he stood in front of the table, leaning against it while I sat in the chair. I liked his style, but he had a slight attitude that I didn’t care for. I wasn’t sure if it was the character or the actor, but I wasn’t sure whether I’d be able to work with him. The third coach and I stood facing each other for the entire audition. He knew the lines and expressed them with emotion, but he wasn’t very animated. I almost felt like I was performing with a cardboard cut-out.

The final coach candidate was the clean-shaven guy and he and I really hit it off. As I had in every scene, I knocked on the doorframe as I entered the room.

“You wanted to see me, Coach?”

He was sitting behind the table and gestured to the chair opposite him.

“Yes. Please, sit down.”

I sat on the edge of the chair, my right foot bouncing with nervous energy. “Look, if this is about Rick—”

The coach shook his head as he stood. “Patrick, I just found out that a talent scout is coming to this week’s race.” He came around to the front of the desk, half-sitting on the front.

I sighed and leaned back in the chair. A sudden image of my brother watching television popped into my head. Mimicking him, I rested my right ankle on my left knee, leaning the chair backwards so the front legs were in the air.

I kept my tone mournful. “It doesn’t matter. There’s no way I’ll be able to go to college.”

“He’s from the Olympics committee.”

The chair slammed forward as I put both feet on the floor and choked out my line. “The—”

The coach nodded. “They say you’ve got a shot at the Montreal games.”

I stood up, trying to weave sarcasm into my disbelief. “Yeah right. There’s cross-country at the Olympics?” I took a few steps away from the coach.

“They think you can run the 10K in under thirty minutes.”

I turned back to him, surprised to see the small smile on his face. I tried to do the math on my hands as I had done in my previous audition. “How many laps is that?”

“Twenty-five. It’s a little over a lap a minute.”

I whistled as I sat back down, then smirked. “I bet I could do it.”

“It would mean training every day.”

I waved a dismissive hand. “I already run every day.”

The coach shook his head, looking me straight in the eye. “Not running, Patrick. Training. You would be doing calisthenics. Weight training.” He threw his hands up in the air and walked back to his desk chair, swearing. “They might even put you on some sort of special diet. I don’t know. What I do know is that you,” he pointed at me for emphasis, “have a talent. I’ve been doing this for twenty-three years and I’ve never seen anyone who could run like you.”

I crossed my arms, my hands practically in my armpits. “You think I could go to the Olympics?”

The coach shrugged. “I think you better run one helluva race this week.”

The casting director followed me back to the conference room, where she informed us we had ten minutes to change into our running gear. As I headed to the men’s room, I held an internal debate about which outfit to wear. Ultimately, I stayed in character and opted for the old shorts with no shirt. I pulled my tube socks as high as they would go before returning to the conference room.

The casting director was waiting for us. The guy with the spiky hair was the last to return. As soon as he walked into the room, the director told us to follow her.

I grabbed my bag and followed everyone out of the room. When we got outside, the director climbed into a golf cart. A cameraman was sitting in the rear seat with a camera in his lap. Another cameraman was riding on a personal transporter. We all followed the cart off the lot and across the street to a local high school. When we reached the track, the cart pulled onto the football field and the director pointed to a nearby bench.

“You may put your bags and drinks there. We’re going to run a few laps. You are to stay behind the cameramen. You are NOT to pass the cart. This is not a race. We want to see how you run, what you look like on camera. Is everyone ready?”

I was. I had known this was coming as soon as Dave told me to pack my running gear. Looking at the other guys’ faces, I realized I was the only one. We lined up side-by-side behind the finish line on the synthetic track. The cart stayed in the grass, but the other cameraman began rolling backwards on the track in front of us. I was a little impressed. Although I knew it was a filming technique, I had never actually seen it done.

After both cameramen gave her a thumbs up, the casting director moved beside the cameraman in the cart. “And action!”

The other four guys bolted toward the camera as if they were sprinting. I doubted any of them were serious distance runners. There was no way they were going to maintain that pace. Sure enough, by the time we reached the first turn, everyone seemed to slow down. The guy with spiked hair even gave up running and started walking with his hands on his hips. I glanced at him as I passed. His face was flushed, and he was wheezing. I turned around, jogging backwards to talk to him.

“Hey. I have a couple of extra bottles of water by my bag. Grab one. You don’t want to cramp up.”

When he only glared at me, I shrugged and turned back around. I quickened my pace until I was almost even with the cart. When we reached the straightaway, the cameraman on the track zoomed further ahead of us. I figured he was trying to pan out a little, but the rest of the runners took that as an invitation to sprint.

The director screamed at them. “This is not a race!”

They either couldn’t hear her or just didn’t care. Two of the guys ignored her and overtook the cameraman as they approached the second turn. Shaking my head, I quickened my pace to catch up to the cart, which was near the guy who had slowed down. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimmer of surprise in the director’s face. I ignored it as I continued running.

After rounding the second curve, the two guys in the lead sprinted to the finish line. They wore bright smiles as they sauntered toward the bench to grab their waters. But the cameras kept going. I wasn’t surprised. I knew we were running, not sprinting.

By the time we reached the next turn, all three of the guys who had quit had caught up to me. They all seemed out of breath, but I was hitting my stride. I knew my limits, and I still had another twenty minutes in me.

On the straightaway, the director called out to us. “Okay. Now, I want you all to pretend I’m someone you know. Your coach, your girlfriend, whatever. I’m going to call each of you by name. I want you to respond how you think Patrick Barrett would. Brian.”

The guy with the spiky hair barely managed a wave. He looked like he might throw up soon. The two sprinters both waved as well. The guy beside me panted out a “hi” and instantly looked like he regretted it.

“Patrick.”

“Hey, Mrs. Drummond.” I turned around to run backwards, hoping the cart would stop and pretend to be the neighbor. “Listen, I know I owe you that history paper. I’m working on it.” Pointing at the camera, I flashed my famous smile. “I’ll have it on your desk before graduation.” I turned back around and continued running without any hitch in my stride.

Melinda’s Story

Melinda’s story will return in Episode 161.

Attention Hammerheads

Melinda is always trying to build her vocabulary. What were some words in this episode that were new to you? She will add them to her vocabulary journal.