Path of the Extra Chapter 369: Leo Karumi [3]
Previously on Path of the Extra...
A faint aroma of coffee, dust, and chilly air from the over-loud humming vent filled the waiting room. Pale, nearly clinical white light from fluorescent bulbs illuminated every corner. Rows of folding chairs hugged the walls; kids in vivid T-shirts and spotless sneakers squirmed restlessly while their moms murmured instructions, straightened locks, and brushed away nonexistent specks from cheeks.
Positioned near the row's end, Leo's feet dangled just shy of the floor. His green gaze drifted silently from one room edge to another, driven not by the fidgety energy of the other children, but by genuine interest.
No leg-bouncing from him. No humming tunes. No muttering lines to himself.
Instead, he listened intently.
Close to the entrance, a girl declared with bold, monotone assurance, "I hate you, you’re not my real dad," addressing thin air, her mother bobbing her head supportively like a trainer. A boy clad in a superhero hoodie repeatedly inquired about the end time. From somewhere behind Leo, a woman's laughter erupted too boisterously at her phone's content.
"Leo," Jeanne whispered gently, inching nearer.
"Recall your opening line?"
He kept his eyes averted. They fixed on the shut door at the corridor's far end—the portal swallowing kids one after another, spitting them back moments later, diminished in stature.
"Yes," he answered.
Jeanne examined his side profile.
"No need for nerves. Among all here, you're far superior. You've graced numerous plays before; this might loom larger and fresher for you, yet you won't let me down, will you? You'll deliver Mom a stunning show, won't you?"
"I will," he responded.
His thumb rubbed the stapled sheets resting in his lap, sensing each textured fold. Twelve readings of the scene lay behind him.
One finger outlined the title.
GLASS HOUSES
The door swung open, and the recently entered girl trudged out, face flushed, mascara faintly blurred beyond her years. Her mom drew near with a tender, "You did amazing, baby," laced with undue protectiveness.
"Leo Karumi?" echoed a voice.
Leo's head snapped up prior to Jeanne's shoulder squeeze. Rising, he clutched the pages orderly and approached the casting helper who'd summoned him.
"Step inside," the lady instructed, her grin practical yet warm.
With the door sealing shut, the surroundings constricted.
The audition space chilled beyond the hall's temperature. The glaring fluorescent glow intensified, the atmosphere drier. A single strip of blue gaffer tape marked the room's heart on the floor.
Four grown-ups occupied seats behind a simple folding table: a weary-eyed middle-aged fellow draped in a costly scarf—the director; a laptop-toting woman with glasses balanced on her nose's edge—casting lead; a clipboard-wielding younger man with a pen—the aide; and an elderly lady with silver hair in a tight bun—the scriptwriter.
Leo absorbed their presence without gawking. He spotted the loosely capped water bottle, the note-stuffed script, the swiftly cleared laptop alerts. Their countenances bore that standard adult look for kids: tolerant, mildly doubtful.
"Hi, Leo," the casting head greeted.
"How are you doing?"
"I’m fine," he said.
"Your debut audition?" queried the scarf-clad man.
"First for a play," Leo clarified. "I’ve handled school shows."
The man let out a chuckle.
"Okay. Position yourself on the tape when prepared. We'll opposite your reading. No rush."
Leo advanced to the mark. The ground shifted subtly, air thickening imperceptibly. Visibility to them remained clear yet distant. Ideal. He drew a soft breath, chest rising minimally.
The aide raised his script version.
"Scene Five, ’The Suitcase,’" the casting director noted.
"Noah's your role."
"I know," Leo affirmed, eyes locked on his held pages.
A subtle smile crossed the aide's face, followed by a throat-clearing shift into Elise's maternal tone—solid, impartial, unobtrusive reading style.
Tension built as they anticipated his initial line, the opening sound that would pigeonhole him as "standard kid performer" or "callback contender" at best.
He dropped his view, centering rather than concealing. Visions formed of the depicted living room: sofa, partially filled luggage, hallway's ajar exit. He evoked the idling car's rumble outside, the budget clock's ticks, neighbors' subdued chatter through flimsy barriers.
Unbidden, his mind sketched his home's entryway, his mother's bag from another season.
His throat constricted. He permitted it.
The aide began.
ELISE
Leo held back his response momentarily.
No dialogue prompted it—yet the quiet belonged to him, wielded purposefully. Page-focused, his frame adjusted minutely, mimicking a youth caught mid-compliance or feigned deafness.
The aide continued, simulating entry:
ELISE
Leo raised his head gradually, emerging from a distant place. His eventual words emerged diminutive yet strikingly lucid, consonants sharp, lending an oddly mature edge while preserving the seven-year-old timbre.
NOAH
The utterance landed nearly toneless, yet laden. It lingered, weighty for one beat, implying foreknowledge and a plea for deception.
The director's reaching hand for his bottle halted.
The aide pressed on:
ELISE
Leo fixed on the aide's torso, treating it as Elise's vocal source over his features.
NOAH
A tiny hesitation preceded "why," a swallowed inhalation turning query into a dreaded charge.
The scriptwriter's gaze rose from her text.
ELISE(sighs)
NOAH(overlapping)
That phrase often jarred in print. Prior kids had faltered or delivered it with smug precocity, TV-style.
Leo voiced it with pain. As if witnessing the dress's folding drag on, grasping its import midway.
A prolonged blink followed; his lashes gleamed moist upon reopening.
The aide gulped.
ELISE
NOAH(shakes head)
Volume stayed even, no dramatic quiver. The "either" softened to near-inaudibility, laced with shame for the mere notion.
The space, quiet before, strung tight.
The casting lead's keystrokes ceased.
Leo's petite fists gripped the sheets lightly, sans creasing. Acting evaded his conscious mind. Unresolved script queries—and life's—occupied him.
Why now for packing. Why that dress. Why luggage by entrance over storage. Why grown-ups' stretched, insincere grins with "it’s just for a while."
ELISE(softly)
NOAH(almost immediate)
Words rushed forth, breath suspending after.
The scriptwriter inched ahead. The director's idle sketch on notepad froze.
The aide glanced, cue-missing, but Leo held position perfectly.
Then his head rose.
NOAH(very quietly)
Barely a murmur, yet impactful—the scriptwriter's eyes gleamed abruptly, keen and teary.
No theatrics marred his expression. Pure childish sincerity, terrified of truth yet compelled, ignorance deemed worse.
The aide sighed noticeably, recalling his response duty.
ELISE
Leo's jaw clenched.
NOAH
Throat bobbed. Eyes shimmered, unspilled. Green intensified under harsh illumination.
NOAH
The scripted phrase risked obviousness. In weaker delivery, contrived. From Leo, posture slightly stooped yet straightening, it echoed overheard authenticity.
The director's glance met the scriptwriter briefly. She remained fixed on the child.
ELISE
NOAH
Delivered swiftly, words tumbling as pent-up release.
NOAH
Breath caught on "backpack." Absurd, tangible plea, desperation rendering it poignant.
Tears withheld.
Graver: the visible struggle against them. Lips quivered then steadied; eye-moisture intensified, teetering.
Air thickened oppressively.
The aide, role-forgotten, eyed Leo guiltily.
He botched the following cue.
ELISE
NOAH
A minor retreat, words striking like blows.
NOAH
Script presented seamless:
No direction. No split.Leo fractured it, first part conclusive, second dawning horror.
The director's pen clattered down.
Motionless calm ensued.
Three lines lingered in the scene. Trembling-handed aide voiced them. Leo met each with poised fragility, akin to tightrope navigation over familiar abyss.
Final line arrived—
NOAH
Collective breath suspended with his.
Then:
...silence.
Beyond routine courtesy halt before "Thank you, we’ll contact you." Genuine, uneasy rawness left four experts, versed in countless juvenile readings, facial responses adrift.
Leo remained taped, script lowered. No flourish, no beam, no twitch. Echo of Noah persisted in his stance.
The director broke quiet first.
"Thank you, Leo," he uttered. Standard phrasing, but gravelly awe infused.
"That was... That was very good."
Casting lead's typing halted fully. Screen darkened. Glasses adjusted, veiling eye-glint.
"Can you—" Scriptwriter interjected, then gentled.
"Sorry. Read it anew, unchanged. Precisely as before."
Leo blinked.
"Okay," he agreed.
Script ascended anew, unnecessary now.
Replay unfolded. Aide's tone wavered thrice. Scriptwriter ignored pages, fixated on Leo, palm to chest as if pained.
Identical: pauses, hitches, line-fracture, unshed tears. No enhancement, no variation. Precise repetition, like piano fidelity regardless of audience.
Finish brought briefer, denser quiet.
"All right," casting lead concluded, professionalism resurfacing.
"Thank you, Leo. We're done. Your mom can reach us via email. Thanks for auditioning."
Leo dipped head.
"You’re welcome."
Doorward turn prompted director's musing:
"Your age again?"
Knobb-hand paused.
"Eighth," he stated.
Aide emitted near-silent sound—laugh-curse hybrid.
Leo exited to hall.
Returning to wait area, Leo faced barrage of anxious, fearful kid-glances. Some exuded assurance, dismissed by him.
One gaze alone mattered.
...Absent.
"Leo."
Voice behind startled, spin-inducing.
"Dad...?"
Father loomed, weariness etched.
"Here to fetch you," he exhaled.
Leo averted, unease stirring. Bond functional, not intimate. Standard paternal-son duties fulfilled, effort minimal.
"Where’s Mom?" Leo ventured softly.
"Work crisis. Meeting nearby café, so I came straight."
"...Oh."
Chest twinged sharply, spirits dropping.
...Eager to share director's praise, pride her—
Wanted her pride.
"Leo, work lingers for me. Home drop-off soon?"
Nodding, Leo trailed, pace lagging.
Abruptly, Ronald conversed forward-facing.
"Tournament finals next week?"
"Yeah."
Leo eyed nodding rear scalp.
Muay Thai event, over year in practice. Youth bracket: seven-nine.
Yet Leo loathed the discipline still.
"Bruises faded?" Ronald inquired.
"...Mostly, yeah."
Leo batted lids.
Mom mentioned bruises?
"I'll carve time to view next week."
"...Really?"
Excitement flickered at nod.
"Mom too?" he pressed.
"Time permitting, yes."
"But skipped semis..."
"Selfish not, Leo. Mother's schedule spares no semi. Unworthy."
Leo recoiled at icy snap.
"Sorry..."
"Semi match heard. Tough go, it seemed."
Leo dropped gaze, lips compressed, father's timbre stern-chilling.
"Opponent tough..."
"But—" Ronald interrupted.
"Comeback clinched it. Improvement evident; endurance turned tide, victory yours."
Ronald halted, pivoted with soft paternal grin. Leo stunned, unaccustomed. Memory tallied perhaps sixth true warmth.
"Why the late surge?" Ronald quizzed.
Perplexed yet replying:
"...Stamina?"
Logical to Leo.
Superior endurance, persistence. Foe fatigued, strikes softened, opening win.
"No."
Headshake firm, flinch anew for Leo.
"Opponent reading began. Timing adapted, smarter strikes as foe overreached, patterns predictable."
Utter conviction rang, yet