AS I LEFT the stage after my audition, I could feel it. The power. The future. I knew that someday when celebrity magazines wrote about me, they would say this moment was when my rise to stardom began.
My sister Diana’s ballet slippers pinched my feet, but I figured that was helpful. In The Twelve Dancing Princesses, the princesses danced all night, every night, so they probably had sore feet, too. My performance was more authentic because of my pain. I imagined the ghost of the great acting coach Constantin Stanislavski patting my back and saying, “Good job, kid.”
No, no. My fantasies were taking me out of character, and I needed to show my commitment even when I wasn’t onstage. I approached Mr. Ellison, the drama club advisor, and curtsied low the way I’d been practicing.
He cleared his throat. “Right. Thanks, um . . . Gillian. Casting will be posted tomorrow. You may leave now.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, using the almost-British pronunciation of Hollywood stars in the 1940s. “I would love the chance to work with a professional such as yourself.” Before he became
