Read Online Sweet Valley Confidential: Ten Years Later by Francine Pascal - Free Book Online Page B

there was any hint of the legendary passion, it was not obvious.
    Even though Elizabeth had been writing about theater for eight months and seen lots of shows, this empty theater with its unique population made her realize that she had been looking in from the outside. Now she was inside, and even though she wasn’t in the line of fire, she felt nervous and edgy. Everyone was edgy.
    By the end of the first week of rehearsals, Elizabeth had mastered the uniform: sneakers, jeans, and a heavy black sweatshirt she could throw over her black T-shirt as soon as she got into the empty theater that, no matter how hot it was outside, never felt above fifty.
    She thought it strange that no one else seemed bothered by the constant sharp draft of air-conditioning; these were not people who held back complaints. She’d heard the actors, desperate though they were for the work, stop everything to whine about minor inconveniences like a dressing-room bulb that wasn’t bright enough or a dripping faucet. Ultimately, no matter their age or how valid their complaints, they were infantilized by the director, whom they were encouraged to call Bob but treat like Mr. Ross, and nothing changed.
    Except when Mr. Ross himself complained, and he never held back. That’s when everyone listened. It was rare that he wasn’t quietly disappointed, so quiet as to be almost martyred. In the pecking order, he, Bob Ross, was the top, and everyone else stepped gingerly, more than a little careful not to be the cause of his unhappiness. Even the producers cowered under his rule. This show business was nothing like the song. It was scary.
    Needless to say, Elizabeth, tucked away in her hiding place, was almost faint at the prospect of being noticed by either the director or, as she thought of him now, the shithead writer, who was no slouch when it came to projecting his own air of discontent.
    One couldn’t be certain whether director or writer would come out on top since they hadn’t clashed yet, but it was coming. Elizabeth could see from the hunch of Connolly’s shoulders that he was strung tight and crouched to spring.
    Elizabeth wasn’t about to risk the chance that he might spring at her. She hadn’t renewed her request for an interview; she had decided she would just be an observer and write what she wanted. If her subject, Mr. Connolly, didn’t like it, too bad; he shouldn’t have been so rude. All she wanted was an interview. What an asshole.
    She’d started off on his side; he was a young, first-time playwright, big chance and all that. At least before he turned around and she saw that face. The shock of the resemblance to Todd was like a whack in the stomach.
    That very first day, when the casting session was over, she’d just sat there in a sweat and stared.
    Connolly had twisted around to see her. “What?” he’d said in an impatient tone, more comment than question.
    He’d waited a couple of seconds, and when she didn’t answer, shrugged and left.
    Bala Trent, the nice producer, had tried to make some excuses, but when Elizabeth still didn’t respond, she just smiled and said, “Y’all come back tomorrow and you can have a nice long chat with Will. All right, sugar?”
    Elizabeth finally managed to nod and form something like a smile before she picked up her papers, hurried up the aisle, and ran out the door. She didn’t stop running until she got to Seventh Avenue. Instead of going to the office she went straight home.
    That night she rehearsed how she would tell David, her editor, that she didn’t want to do the interview. Then she decided she did, and then she didn’t, and by morning she understood she was being ridiculous. The interview was a plum, something she could maybe work into a monthly column. She’d have to be really dumb to give up this chance because Will Connolly looked a little like her ex-boyfriend.
    It was probably just the bad lights in the theater. She was definitely doing the interview. That was