“Brooklyn, your drink is ready!” The barista called. It was a cold, drizzly day in London, and I was looking forward to my hot chocolate.
“Thanks!” I said loudly over my blaring music. I walked through the park humming ‘Master of the house’ and as ‘On my Own’ started, I sung softly. I strolled down the pathway in peace until someone tapped my shoulder, making me jump.
“Sorry to scare you like that...” said an adorable IRISH accent, “I heard you singing and--”
“Sorry, Sorry!” I apologized quickly, “I’ll stop.”
“No! I mean... no. Please, Just... Queens Theatre. Auditions are tonight... for Les Miserables, I can tell them. Just please come.”
“I don’t even know you...” I raised an eyebrow. (But who could resist that accent?)
“Oh! Right! I’m Francis, Francis Fee.. but you can call me Fra.”
“Brooklyn... Brooklyn Peters...” I responded warily. “Queens theatre, what time?”
‘Six. So you’re going?” He asked eagerly.
“Maybe. Tell them Maybe...”
