A/N: Thanks to my fabulous reviewers: Silver Ice, Weasel Princess, neespence, and Misshogwarts1125!
I own none of these characters except the ones I created. I also don't own Carmen or The Phantom of the Opera.
Chapter 2: Two Heated Discussions
"Acting in general, is something most people think they're incapable of but they do it from morning to night. The subtlest acting I've ever seen is by ordinary people trying to show they feel something they don't or trying to hide something. It's something everyone learns at an early age." –Marlon Brando
"Hermione! Hermione! Over here!" What seemed to be the entire Daily Prophet staff beckoned me to the area they'd staked out in the hallway the second I left my dressing room, clad in a black sweat suit. Chelsea tried her best to hold them back, but she was struggling. One of the photographers looked to be about two hundred pounds; he could've eaten tiny Chelsea for breakfast.
"See you tomorrow, Hermione!" Amy Larson, the woman who played Elphaba, and a good friend of mine as well, poked her head out of her head out of her dressing room, her face still smeared with green makeup. Even her dark chestnut hair had a few streaks of the goop.
"Oh, no, I won't be here, I'm taking a mental health day," I joked. "Annabelle's doing it."
"Damn it, you're leaving it to the amateurs, Weasley? I'm disappointed!" She winked. We had an ongoing joke about Annabelle Buchanan and Casey Dean, two chorus members who also understudied our roles. They were only a couple years younger than us, but they still treated Amy and me as if we were royalty, similar to Colin Creevey's obsession with Harry in second year. It was a little flattering and amusing at first, but the novelty quickly wore off. I mean, we really weren't that much more experienced or talented!
"I'll be back before you know it." I smiled at Amy.
We would have continued to bash the younger girls, but then the obese photographer snapped a picture of Amy's makeup-smeared face. Big mistake…she responded with a string of expletives that not even Ron could top, even on a bad day. I giggled to myself. Even the little things reminded me of him. I apparently hadn't graduated from the twelve-year-old crush-phase just yet. I turned from Amy's door, still beaming, and walked smack into my boss.
"Oh! Delia! Great show, huh?" I spouted off nervously.
Delia Robbins, executive producer at the Star Crossed Magic Players, was one person you didn't want to cross. She could make your life a living hell if she so desired. She could end your career faster than you could say "Expelliarmus". And at this very moment, she looked pretty peeved about something.
"Mental healthy day, Hermione?" she questioned frostily, raising a thinly plucked blonde eyebrow. "That's the last thing you want to say in front of the press, you know…they'll think you're stressed out…"
"Sorry." I apologized, though I couldn't detect any remorse in my voice, and I'm sure she didn't either. "I'll be more careful next time." I stepped to my right, hoping to escape, but she stopped me again.
"I wasn't aware you were taking the day off tomorrow."
"Delia, we cleared this three weeks ago!" I blurted angrily. "I'm spending time with some family and going Christmas shopping with my husband."
I stood, silently seething, as Delia pursed her red lipsticked lips and glared at the photographers, who were eagerly cooking up a headline for the next big scandal they'd discovered.
"Fine," she responded coolly, her voice cutting through me like ice. "Annabelle will take it tomorrow. You can have your fun. However, Hermione," she looked at me with a steely gaze, "you need to seriously consider what would be best for your career at this point. You've only been here for a year; I'm not sure you have the power to ask for a shopping day whenever you please. Remember, you have a reputation to maintain, and it's not like your career's going to last thirty years after this, anyway. Your days are already numbered."
"Thank you, Delia, I must be going now," I muttered through gritted teeth. "My check, please?"
She dug in her enormous dragon skin purse and pulled out a blue envelope, which she handed reluctantly to me.
"Thank you very much," I forced as cheerfully as possible. I even pasted on a fake Cheshire cat smile for good measure. I knew Delia saw right through it—she'd seen enough bad acting over the many (many, many, many…many—hah! I thought to myself) years. Before she could add anything else, I walked about three feet away from her and Apparated back to the flat that Ron and I now shared.
I dropped my purse on top of the marble-topped counter and spotted a stray piece of paper lying by the stove. It was a note from Ron:
Went out to unjinx one of those damned Muggle Stay-Playtons. Be back as soon as I can. Love, R.
Though I was alone and clearly had nothing to be embarrassed about, I could feel the blood heating my cheeks. It still amazed me how a simple note from him could make me feel so happy.
I left the note on the counter where it was and quickly fixed myself a late dinner of beef stew. After I cleaned up my dishes, I padded into the bathroom and closed the door, eager for a long, hot shower.
Even as a small child, I always sang in the bathtub or shower (the acoustics are best in the bathroom, you know). When I first went to Hogwarts, I annoyed all of the Gryffindor girls by warbling as I shampooed my thick brown hair. Eventually, I learned to shut up, but I hated it—it was like keeping Harry from playing Quidditch: it made me miserable. Thankfully, I enjoyed the luxury of the prefect's bathroom from fifth year on, where I could vocalize to my heart's desire (though Moaning Myrtle occasionally dropped in).
"Quand je vous aimerai? Ma foi, je ne sais pas, Peut-être jamais, peut-être demain. Mais pas aujourd'hui, c'est certain." It was a piece from Carmen I'd been working on in my voice lessons. My teacher, Julianna Evans, put a special emphasis on Broadway, which was appropriate, but insisted that I study classical opera as well. My voice soared effortlessly up to the highest notes and plunged dramatically into my alto range in the next instant. It was a difficult piece, but, as everyone knew, I loved a challenge.
As I wrapped a towel around my body, I switched to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
"Think of me, think of me fondly when we've said goodbye…." I pulled on my favorite comfy blue flannel pajamas. Starring actress I might be, I still remained the same old me.
After I dressed, I walked out of the bathroom, rubbing my hair with the towel and continued singing, lost in my daydream.
"Remember me once in a while, please promise me you'll try-iiiiiiiiie!" My perfect musical phrase was interrupted by a red-headed, freckly man. No, boy…he still seemed to me the same eleven-year- old on the train with dirt smudged on his nose.
He shook his head and chuckled, wrapping his arms around me. "Never stop, do you?"
"I've made a habit of bringing my work home with me, what can I say?" I shrugged as I sat on the queen bed. "Speaking of work, how were the—er—Playstations?"
"Oh, you know…" He looked away from me. "Did you get tomorrow off?
"Yeah, with a bit of a struggle." Ron didn't question me—he'd met Delia before.
"No pay either?"
"No, why would she pay me if I wasn't working?" Unintentionally, I spoke as if I was explaining why grass was green to a three year old.
"Sometimes I get paid vacation."
Though he'd never admitted it directly, I suspected that Ron resented the fact that my paycheck was always twice as much as his. I couldn't understand it—we were working as a team, right? We shared! Why did he feel as if he had to be the breadwinner and support me? It really bothered me when our discussions turned to money now, since I felt like we couldn't speak freely.
After a long pause, I ventured timidly, "You know what, sweetheart, let's just go ahead and go to bed; it's been a long day for both of us. Let's just enjoy the day off tomorrow and not worry about mon—anything."
He looked at me in a hard sort of way, then finally answered, "Alright." He walked into the bathroom and shut the door. I fell against the pillows, suddenly exhausted, and closed my eyes. Within minutes, I had fallen into a deep sleep.
A/N: Please please please…review! I don't understand the logic behind 26 hits and only 4 reviews!
For those of you who have begged me to update: To be honest, I'm not sure what's going to happen with this story yet. I've got it set at nine chapters now, which is considerably shorter than Dance… . I may condense it so I can get through it quicker, since the time I'll be able to update is pretty limited, thanks to stupid summer reading for school (darn you, Upton Sinclair and John Steinbeck!). But I'll do my very best to update once a week at the very least.