Exit Stage Left

by Nall, Gail

  I smack at him, but my hand just barely brushes his shaggy brown hair. He ducks and runs laughing from the family room.

  Oh. My. God. He’s right. I’m going to have the most hideous costume of all time. A nun costume is not going to exactly enhance my assets. I might as well be dressed as a rock. For a moment, I wonder if Trevor will notice, but then I throw my script aside. Even doing pre-calc homework sounds like more fun right now. And it will make me stop thinking about Trevor.

  “But they’re children!” Amanda exclaims. She flings her hair over her shoulder for even more emphasis.

  I redo the line in my head the way it should be. I’m scoring massive bonus points in the BFF department right now. I remind myself that I’m happy for her and I’m being a good friend, so . . . I suppose it could be worse. I could be listening to Danielle or Gabby.

  We’re lounging on the white-carpeted floor of her clean-freak bedroom. I’m pretty sure she vacuums it every single day. If he wasn’t lying on the bed, you’d never know she has a huge, hairy sheepdog named Toby. I’ve never seen a stray dog hair on Amanda’s floor—ever.

  I recite the next line without consulting the script, then I sneak a look at my phone for the time. Maybe I can distract Amanda from reading lines. I could offer to listen to her new piano piece, but she’s probably already gotten her day’s practice in. And I bet she’s finished every little bit of homework.

  Maybe I can pretend to faint. Or have a heart attack. Or go into a diabetic coma. I wonder what the symptoms of Ebola are? I should add hypochondriac to my weekly method acting.

  But why bother doing that when my acting career is obviously over?

  “Casey? Hello.” Amanda slaps my knee with her script.

  “Sorry. Where are we?”

  “I say—” Her phone beeps. She fumbles under Toby, finds it, and reads the text.

  “Who is it?” I ask her.

  She frowns. “Trevor.”

  Chapter Eight

  “Trevor? What’s he want?” I ask Amanda.

  Better question: Why is Trevor texting Amanda?

  “I don’t know. . . .” Amanda taps away at her phone.

  I drum my fingers on the carpet. I told her all about what happened in the parking lot on Friday. She asked me what I really wanted, and I repeated that I wasn’t getting back with him after I reminded myself about a hundred times of how bad we are together. But after a while, the words lose their meaning.

  “He wants to run lines,” Amanda says.

  “With you?”

  “Of course with me. We have a lot of scenes together.” She pauses. “What do you think?”

  I shrug, like it’s no big deal that my ex-whatever-he-is wants to hang out with my best friend.

  “If it weirds you out, I’ll tell him we’re busy.” Amanda’s fingers hover over her phone, waiting for me to say something.

  “No.” I sigh and call up all my professional bravery. It’s just lines. They’re going to have to practice, and I’ll have to get over it. And not think about how he felt like the only normal thing in my life on Friday. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. Invite him over.”

  “Right now? Are you sure?”

  I nod and lie back on the carpet, arms over my face, while Amanda texts Trevor.

  “He’ll be here in an hour. It’s okay if you want to leave,” she says.

  “It’s all right. I’ll stay. I would’ve had to deal with him if I’d gotten the role anyway.” I move my arms up over my head so I can see Amanda, who’s looking super concerned. I sit up. “Really, it’s fine. I’ll jump in during my parts. And read the other parts for you guys, too.”

  “Okay.” Amanda bites her lip. “But if you suddenly remember that you have to wash your hair while he’s trying to flirt with you again, I promise I won’t mind.”

  I flip through the pages of my script and don’t meet her eyes. I feel like she’s telling me not to let him flirt with me, which is weird. “Come on, let’s work some more before he gets here. You need to practice sounding like you’re in love back here in Scene—”

  Amanda thwacks me in the arm with her script.

  “What?” I rub my arm and bite back a smile. “Just imagine you’re going to the spring formal again with Ben Taylor. You were soooooo in love with him—until he ran off to make out with Trista—”

  Another thwack, but she’s laughing. Probably because I’d gone out to the Alcove of Sin, bought a can of Diet Coke, shook it, and then accidentally-on-purpose opened it toward Ben and Trista.

  When Trevor finally arrives, Mrs. Reynolds yells up the stairs for us.

  “Hey, Amanda,” Trevor says when we appear at the bottom of the stairs. He glances over and says, “Casey,” complete with sexy smile.

  “Hi,” I say in my most not-interested, Friday-didn’t-happen voice.

  “Ready to run lines?” Trevor asks Amanda.

  “Sure. Want to go up—”

  “You kids can stay in the living room or kitchen,” Amanda’s mom shouts, from the kitchen this time.

  I stifle a giggle. Amanda’s mom will probably float in and out of the living room the whole time Trevor’s here. She likes to hover that way. When she finally caved to Amanda’s begging for a boy-girl party in eighth grade, I had to distract her with a made-up sprained ankle emergency so that Amanda could finally get an orchestrated-by-Casey moment with Joey Barnes, who she’d had a raging crush on for a year and was the whole reason she’d even wanted a boy-girl party to begin with.

  Amanda rolls her eyes, flips her hair over her shoulder, and points at the couch. “Well, let’s just sit here, I guess. Sorry. Maybe we can go to your place next time. My mom’s a control freak.”

  I snort. Trevor’s place wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t inhabited by the Grimaldi twins 90 percent of the time. Trevor looks at me with eyes that clearly say, You can come to my place. I shift and act like I’m deciding where to sit.

  They take the couch. I grab a spot on the floor and lean against the recliner, ignoring the space on the couch that Trevor creates for me. Toby lies on my feet. Or, actually, he lies on the whole lower half of my body. Good thing I’m not planning on going anywhere.

  “Where do you want to start?” Trevor asks Amanda.

  “Mmmm . . . how about the scene where Maria and the Captain first meet?”

  “Why don’t we start at the beginning?” I ask.

  “Why the beginning?” Amanda frowns.

  Because I have lines at the beginning, obviously. Instead, I sing a line from the show: “Because it’s ‘a very good place to start.’”

  “Well . . .” Trevor trails off as he pages through his script.

  “Casey, I think Trevor wanted to run through the lines he has with me, remember?” Amanda gives me a pointed look that reads, This is not all about you.

  I get that she’s trying to be professional. But this is going to be one long day if I never get to run my own lines. Except . . . the faster they get through their parts, the sooner this whole awkward thing will be over. So I shrug. “Okay. No problem. I’ll fill in for the other parts.”

  They start reading, and I distract myself by trying to get into the different characters as best as I can.

  “Case, you don’t have to do that,” Amanda says after I read Gretl’s line with a little-girl voice.

  “Why not? I’m making it more realistic.” Out of habit, I turn to Trevor to get my back, but he’s looking at Amanda.

  “Just read the lines, okay? Otherwise, we’ll be doing this all night.”

  Usually Amanda is super tolerant of my quirks. I chalk it up to her being nervous about the role, and I read the lines in a dull monotone. But is it a crime if I can’t help adding an accent when I do the Baroness’s lines? It makes Trevor smile, as usual. At least someone appreciates my talent, even if Ms. Sharp can’t see it.

  “I’m trying to be happy for Amanda,” I say to Harrison as my locker door clicks shut on Monday afternoon. “But I really can’t figure out what Ms.
Sharp was thinking.” And it’s turning me into a bad friend.

  “I’m wondering if I’m meant to be an actor,” Harrison says.

  “What?” I stare at him.

  He’s leaning back against the lockers, his backpack hanging loosely from his right hand, and he’s looking across the hall at nothing in particular. “I wonder if I’m supposed to be an actor.”

  “Of course you are. Isn’t theater all you’ve ever wanted to do?”

  “Yeah, but I’m not so sure now.”

  “Don’t you want to go to New York?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know how I’ll get in now.” He toes the floor. “My dad’s pushing me to go to Notre Dame. Legacy and all, you know.”

  “No way. You can’t do that,” I say, although I’m not really sure I believe it myself. I start off down the hallway toward rehearsal. Harrison peels himself off the lockers and follows me.

  “I remember rehearsals being fun last year,” I say to Harrison after an hour of sitting in the theater. Only one of my scenes has been called, and that was ages ago. I’ve mostly been entertaining myself by watching Tim, the lighting designer, tap away on his tablet, and imagining how he’s designing the light plot. Which is something I know a little too much about, thanks to my dad, who does the same thing professionally.

  Harrison’s slumped in the seat next to me, glasses resting on his chest. “It was fun because we were onstage so much last year.”

  Someone shuffles down the aisle and sits down on my other side. It’s Silent Hollywood Guy. Oliver, I correct myself.

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  He doesn’t say anything.

  “Um, hi?” I say again.

  “Hey. How’s it going?” he finally says.

  “Fine. You?”

  “Good, thanks.”

  Well, this is a scintillating conversation. I flip the pages of my script. Oliver doesn’t say anything else for several minutes. And I can’t think of anything to say to him. Why did he sit here? There’s a whole theater full of seats where he could’ve stuck his quiet self.

  I go back to watching Tim and wondering if the desire to leave your kids is a prerequisite for being a lighting designer.

  Out of nowhere, Oliver says, “Your friend Amanda is a good actor.”

  “Yeah.” Apparently so, since she got the lead and I got the nun part with no lines and an ugly costume, I want to add.

  “That Blakeman guy’s not so bad, either,” Oliver continues.

  Harrison gives an audible sigh, but Oliver doesn’t notice. Instead, Oliver’s perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes following Amanda and Trevor as they go through their scene.

  I take the opportunity to get a good look at him since I’m tired of imagining the light plot and thinking about Dad. I like to study people and their habits and quirks. It’s good for the dramatic soul. Although I learned early on to do it when they aren’t watching. People get kind of weirded out when you stare at them too long.

  Oliver is a puzzle. He’s gone from silent to kind of talkative. And he definitely doesn’t look like he’s from Hollywood. His long legs are covered in torn jeans. They jut out at angles, like they don’t completely fit in the small space between his seat and the seat in front of him. His dark hair is pushed back so it’s sticking up. He’s wearing a Nirvana T-shirt, which is like the third or fourth band shirt I’ve seen him in. Musician, definitely. Guitar. I can spot a guitar player from a mile away, thanks to having grown up with one. His shoes are an old, worn pair of Vans, and the left one is untied.

  It looks like he spends a half hour on his hair, but his clothes are a disaster.

  “Not bad, huh?” he says, turning toward me.

  “Um . . . no . . . you’re not bad.” My cheeks flame. I add Big Ego to my mental checklist of Things That Make Up Oliver.

  He raises one eyebrow. Which I always thought was impossible. I mean, I’ve practiced it in the mirror and could never get it. “Thanks,” he says. “I meant Amanda and Trevor, though.”

  Oops. “Oh. Yeah, they’re not bad. Sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry, but I am.” Dammit, Casey. Just shut up before you make it even worse.

  He runs a hand through his hair, like talking somehow made it go flat. Then he swallows as if he was going to say something but changed his mind. He moves to another row without a word.

  I slump back into my seat, in the same position as Harrison. “I don’t get him,” I whisper to Harrison.

  Harrison shrugs, and the corners of his mouth turn up just a little. “He’s not so bad.”

  At first, I think he’s finally admitting his status as last year’s Christmas sweater. Until I realize he’s just making fun of me. I elbow him hard in the ribs.

  Late that night, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Something Harrison said earlier in the day is bothering me.

  I wonder if I’m supposed to be an actor.

  All I’ve wanted, ever since I was a little kid watching the actors run around in the productions Dad worked for, is to be onstage. And I thought I was good at it. I always got great parts—until this year. But maybe I’m not as talented as I thought. There’s no way I’ll be able to convince NYCPA to give me an audition with just one of the two required recommendations. Not when they’ve got thousands of other hopeful students with two glowing recommendations.

  Theater has turned me into a depressed, grumpy person, too selfish to be a real friend to Amanda and too confused to remember my pride when it comes to Trevor. I don’t like myself right now, and I’ve never felt that way before.

  I roll over and punch my pillow. Something has to change. My grades aren’t good enough for a state school. But even in community college, I’d need a major. And it can’t be theater.

  So, if I’m not supposed to be an actor, then what? What if I was meant to be something else all along? Something I don’t even know I can do yet.

  I mean, think of all the things I’ve never even tried, but I could have some natural talent at. Like baking. Or skydiving. Or synchronized swimming. I was so into theater, even when I was really young, that I never played soccer or took gymnastics like the other kids. Maybe one of those things is my true passion, and acting is just a hobby. Well, probably not soccer. That’s pretty much a lost cause where I’m concerned. But what if I lived my whole life and never found the one thing I’m great at? How depressing is that?

  It’s time for me to completely shed my old life. No more Broadway dreams. Definitely no more Trevor. I’ll be a completely new Casey. I just have to find out what kind of Casey I’m going to be, which means I need to find my real talent.

  Chapter Nine

  I spend most of Physics thinking about what my new purpose in life might be. By lunch, I have a long list of new things to try. And by music theory, I’ve chopped the list down to five possibilities. I’m feeling pretty good for a change when my phone buzzes with a text from Amanda.

  Hellllooooo 2 C . . . what r u doing?

  I peer across the room to where she sits, her long hair hiding her face and her phone. But I’m distracted by Johnny Grimaldi, who’s sitting right behind her and is looking at me. Okay, that’s not creepy at all. I give him a good hard look, and he turns away.

  With Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony blaring through the classroom, I finally type back, Nothing. U? I don’t want to share my life-changing list with Amanda—not just yet. I need Harrison’s opinion first, since he’s going to be my comrade-in-arms. Besides, Amanda has enough to worry about with her part in the show.

  U’ve been writing all morning.

  Homewk, I lie. What r u doing aft school?

  Nothing. Gng home. Lrning lines.

  Me 2, I lie again. Not like I have any lines to learn.

  Want a ride? she asks.

  Nah, will catch one with Eric. Thx.

  The bell rings, and I stuff my phone into my pocket. I grab The List, my purse, and my bag before I meet Amanda at the door.

  “I don’t think I can make it through
Pre-calc.” Amanda runs her fingers through her hair, working out the world’s tiniest tangle.

  I nod and hand her a brush from the front pocket of my backpack as we walk the whole five feet to class. I’m dying to show Harrison The List.

  “Wait!” Amanda stops dead in the hallway and whirls around to face me.

  “Oh my God, what?” I feel my hair for a giant spider. Nothing’s there. “What?”

  Amanda’s pointing at me with the brush. “I figured it out. You’re Quiet Girl this week, aren’t you? Inspired by Silent Hollywood Guy?”

  I blink at her.

  “That’s it, right? I mean, you’ve barely said anything yesterday or today, except in texts or during rehearsal.” Amanda grins like she’s won a game show or something.

  “Um, yeah. You guessed it!” I force myself to smile. The truth is, I said more to Oliver yesterday than I have to Amanda all week. I’ve just been really preoccupied. “Quiet as a mouse. That’s me.”

  “See, I’ve known you too long.” Amanda lifts her chin in victory as we sit at our desks.

  I tap my foot on the ancient, pea-green linoleum as I wait for Pre-calc to start. Before Holland became the regional school for performing and visual arts in South Central Indiana, it was plain old Holland High School. The linoleum is probably vintage HHS.

  Harrison sits across the room from Amanda and me, but I’m not about to text him with something as important and life-changing as The List. When the bell finally rings, I grab my stuff, say good-bye to Amanda, and run after Harrison.

  “Hey,” I say when I catch up to him at his locker. “What’s up?”

  “Nothing. Life still sucks. You?” He throws his Spanish book into the locker so hard the metal wall rattles. His picture with Anthony Rapp, who totally made the role of Mark in Rent, flutters to the floor. It lands tape side down. I pick it up and restick it to the locker door. The Harrison in the photo looks like the normal Harrison I know—happy. We’d stood outside a stage door in Indy years ago, in the freezing cold for an hour, just so he could get that picture. Maybe my great idea will make him look that way again.

  “I have a surprise,” I say.