Kelly’s hackles were up from the moment people were asked for their annual income on the application.  She smelled a rat in here somewhere, a rat named Larry K. Mildew, head of the children’s talent agency.  The minute she got home she’d IMDB'd him.   
   All the hopeful parents and their progeny sat in comfortable plush theater chairs and stared at an empty screen.  Mildred, Mildred’s mother and her mother’s best friend—recently unemployed Kim—sat expectantly.
   In the background you could hear the one mother coaching her child, “No Deisha, that was blasé.  Put some zip into your voice!  Deisha, like this,” flinging her arms skyward, “Look ma, no cavities!”
   The stagestruck mother performed her line with the gusto of a kid on a Halloween sugar high. A rumpled man took a live mike, occasioning a loud thump that left half the crowd needing to schedule appointments with an ear specialist.
   “Ladies and gentlemen, we’re not looking for the next Britney Spears, River Phoenix or Ed McMahon,” the parents were so ravenous for fame and residuals that none noticed Ed McMahon wasn’t even a child actor.  “We just want kids who are kids.  Kids who wanna have fun and consume sugar.  And all of this should be fun for kids and parents.  I speak from experience,” said the man, “I’m Larry K. Mildew.”
   The man seemed to be a child trapped inside a sagging middle-aged body. A sandy mullet dropped down below his collar.  He jumped and twirled around the podium with the energy of an Olympic tri-athlete, doing curlicues with the microphone in his hand.  “I had my first bowel movement on ‘Golden Girls,’  my first kiss on ‘Punky Brewster,’ my first STD on ‘Full House’ with the Olsen twins—and I was only three years old!  That child actor’s life riding a tricycle in the fast lane is no bed of roses.  No sir.  And my parents, with their clever accountant found ways to siphon money off my Jackie Coogan account—you’ll learn more about that—and spent nights on the town while they overdosed me on pediatric cough syrup and locked me in a closet.  Lemme tell you, that stuff put me into therapy for 50 years and I’m only 39 years old—go figure.”
   Mr. Mildew put his head down on the podium and wept bitterly.  After a minute he struggled again to speak:
   “Because of my pain, I live to see that each and every child actor is rewarded with utmost respect and humane treatment.”
   “And don’t forget the residuals!” heckled the stage mom.
   Kelly, the former casting agent, watched it all with a jaded eye, as finally the children were called up one by one to do their test.  Their innocent faces were projected onto the large screen.  Little Mildred spoke in a low inaudible voice and swallowed her lines.  The audience couldn’t have discerned if she was pitching tooth paste or Viagra.  Her performance was greeted by polite but muted applause.  Meanwhile, the girl who had been relentlessly coached did a superb job, striking a balance between clarity and goofy childhood exuberance.  Olivier couldn’t have done it better, and yet, after the applause petered out, from behind the last aisle of plush seats, came the cruel sound of a maternal hand applied smartly to buttocks and the child’s heartbreaking squawl pursued everyone’s ears.
   “I told you to do it with feeling,” the mom hissed.  “That sounded like death warmed over.”
   Mr. Mildew returned at the end, somewhat recomposed with his mullet toupee askew, and told the audience that only the top 20 most talented children would be chosen for ‘development’ by his agency.  Mildew sowed high drama, for dozens of children had responded to the cattle call.
   “As you exit,” Mildew said, “stop at the table with my associates to turn in your application form.”
   Kim, Mildred’s mother was smitten, as they exited the theater. 
   “Did you see Mildred up there?  She’s fantastic.”
   Meanwhile, little Mildred said, “I wasn’t fantastic, I was fabulous. . .  Now I want ice cream.  And none of the cheap Rite Aid crap, either.”
   Kim, Kelly and Mildred waited in line.  Fortune had placed them right in front of the stage mother.  Kelly said how talented she thought her daughter Deisha was.  The stage mother flushed with pride at these words.  Kelly got her phone number with the promise of her casting agent connections.  In fact, Kelly was doing some detective work; what she really intended was to get the results of talented Deisha’s audition and compare them to homely Mildred’s.
   When little Mildred seated in front of Mr. Mildew’s ‘associate,’ she asked for the business card they had received at the Oxnard Stawberry Festival.  There ensued a neurotic search through pockets and handbags.  Kelly asked, “Why do you need the card?”
   “The associate who discovered your daughter has their employee code,” she replied, “and they will get her commission for the find.  Now,” the woman turned to Kim, little Mildred’s mother,  “We will call you within three days.  Only the top 20 most talented children will be chosen to work with Mr. Mildew.  Good luck!”