Foot In The Door

Bethany sat in that sad folding chair, ears perked, while two other actresses moaned about hawking foot spray. Yvette and Deedra swore this gig was for suckers—until Deedra's phone buzzed. Her agent had spilled the tea: Chris Dillon, a legit movie guy, was behind the camera. Both women suddenly sparkled like they'd won a weekend in Maui. Bethany swallowed hard. If she nailed this, maybe she'd stop scrambling for scraps. The door swung open, Grace the casting director waving her in. Inside the room waited Tina and Chris himself. Bethany took a breath, launched into the sales pitch, kicked off her shoes, wiggled her toes just so. Not a single eyebrow lifted. Grace offered the classic brush-off—"We'll call you"—and she and Tina walked out for lunch. Bethany lingered, heart racing. Chris stayed put. She leaned closer, voice low, desperate. If he wanted to remember her name, she'd make him remember every damn inch.