by Ted Michael
“Thank—thank you,” I whisper. “Good luck tonight.”
She laughs, skipping to the door and pulling it open wide. “We don’t need luck! Just our fabulous vocal cords. See you in there!”
I watch the door swing shut behind her, the room feeling smaller and colder in her wake. She doesn’t need luck. I don’t, either. I need to be someone else, is all. I turn back to my reflection. She’s tapping her finger against the glass impatiently, mouthing something silently.
Wait.
“You have my voice,” I mumble, remembering the call that my dad couldn’t tell wasn’t me.
She shrugs impatiently, nodding as she jabs her finger at the sharp center of cracks in the mirror.
I stand up straighter, still watching her in the mirror. I move my shoulders back, trying out the same posture she has. Lifting my chin. Looking boldly forward. “You don’t have any voice until you take mine,” I say, and this time I do not mumble or whisper. I speak clearly and I speak loudly. “It’s my voice. My voice in the audition, my voice that made Mrs. Jolley cry, my voice that Brianna thinks is as good as hers.”
She looks puzzled, and then her eyes flash slyly. She raises an eyebrow at me. She pantomimes singing into a microphone, and mouths the words: so many people. She opens her mouth like she’s singing and grabs her throat, eyes widening in terror. Dropping her hands, she smiles at me again. You can’t, she mouths, shaking her head.
My shoulders drop. She’s right. I can’t. I can’t face the fear, the worry that if I open my mouth and let my soul out, I’ll be laughed at. I’ve hidden for so long, I don’t know how to handle the idea of being seen for who I really am.
I close my eyes. I will never know how the dream ends. I will never know how the audience reacts. I lift my hand, ready to cut my finger, ready to check out and let my double take my place. I cling to the dream, to the only space I’ll ever be able to sing.
And just before my finger touches the glass, I stop. Because I have evidence now, from Brianna and Mrs. Jolley, that I can sing well enough to avoid embarrassing myself. But even more, I’ve realized something about the dream I never saw before.
I always thought I was waiting for the audience’s reaction, but the truth is it doesn’t matter. They don’t matter. The way I feel when I’m singing, the truth of my soul coming out in the notes—that’s what the dream is about. That’s where the magic is. That’s where my heart is.
The audience doesn’t react because I don’t need them.
My voice is mine.
“Mine,” I say, opening my eyes. I pull my hand back and my double looks up at me, her eyes as sharp as the razor edges of the mirror.
I step back, smoothing the front of my dress. “It’s not about them,” I say. “All these years I thought so, but I was wrong. It’s about me. I’m the one who chose to hide. I didn’t need to. And I can stop now.”
Her face contorts in rage, and she silently screams at me. She brings her fist up and slams it against the glass, again and again. And I step back again, suddenly scared that maybe she’ll break her way out.
She smashes her palm into the glass a final time, and with a loud crack the mirror splits in two, coming loose from the pegs that hold it to the wall. I duck, covering my face. When the noise of shards raining onto the tile ends, I turn, dreading what I’ll find.
But when I look down, all I see back are a hundred versions of my own face. I look scared, the same as I feel. I also look . . . hopeful.
And I hope I look brave.
I walk into the hall and toward the auditorium. Ms. Jolley is standing outside the stage entrance doors.
“There you are! You’re next!” She beams at me as I walk past her and into the dim, cord-strewn backstage. I can see a free-standing microphone in an island of light on the dark stage.
I can see the audience, too. But they don’t matter. This song, and every song after it forever, is mine. I smile, and walk out onto the stage.
I’ve finally found my voice.
ANECDOTE: GRETA GERWIG
Clues that I have always wanted to be an actor/writer/director/annoying:
I.
When I was five, my parents enrolled me in a kiddie tap class. We had a recital, tapping to “Johnny Be Good” and wearing bee costumes. There was one girl who didn’t know it so well. I became increasingly aggravated by her and finally, halfway through the song, I pushed her into the wings. Then I tapped back onstage to finish the routine, much relieved that she could no longer muddy up the stage picture.
II.
In kindergarten I became obsessed with Starlight Express. I used to ask the other children on the playground if they wanted to be in the schoolyard version I was directing. I’d play most of the parts and they (the two who agreed) would “skate” around me. I was always disappointed by their lack of commitment to the material.
III.
At seven, I participated in a children’s summer theater production of Peter Pan. I was annoyed that I’d been relegated to the background, one of the dozens of “lost children.” To amend this situation, I memorized the entire script. If one of the lucky children who had a big part did not say their line IMMEDIATELY, I would jump in to say it for them.
IV.
In high school I ran for student council every year. Not because I had a burning desire to be part of student government, but because I loved doing the speech. Each September, I would create an original rap that I would perform in front of the entire school. And I wasn’t one of those well-loved students that everyone thought “Oh, Greta, she’s such a personality!” I’m not even sure that a single person besides me enjoyed it. I never won, but I had an audience for my material, and that was all I really wanted to begin with.
V.
But the REAL moment for me, the biggest of the big and utterly sincere, happened my senior year in high school.
During high school—I grew up in Sacramento, California—I had done all the shows and musicals I possibly could, but I had never gotten a lead. The best I could hope for was a sidekick kind of role, which was fun and funny but not THE part. So senior year, the school held auditions for the spring musical: The Wizard of Oz.
It was already a tense time in my house—we were talking about colleges. It must not be easy for your kid to say “I want to be an actor” when you are looking at taking out tens of thousands of dollars in loans. I kept saying “I want to be an actor,” but I wasn’t sure I really believed it. I still lacked that inner trust and confidence. So when my mom said to me “Do you really think you’re as good as Meryl Streep?” and I responded “I just have to be as good as ME,” there was still a great deal of unacknowledged doubt.
In any case, we were in one of those classic parent struggles, and my mom asked why I would want to audition for The Wizard of Oz—what would I hope to get? I said, “I’d play a Munchkin just to be onstage!” (Side note: I was, and am, five foot nine. I should also mention that I had a shaved head due to an infatuation with Ani DiFranco. And wore a lot of cargo pants. I did not look very Lullaby-League.)
The audition: We sang, we read scenes, and then there were cuts—I stayed. Again singing, again scenes, again I stayed. And then, to my amazement, the director asked me to sing “Over the Rainbow.” And then I was asked to read for Dorothy with two other girls. It seemed like a mistake. The other girls had hair and could sing really well and looked like girls. I looked and sounded like . . . me. I did the best I could and went home, telling my mom I was sure I’d at least be a Flying Monkey.
When I looked at the casting list the next day, there it was: I was Dorothy. ME.
Mom asked if they were doing something “weird.” It turns out they really were. The director (who is still one of the best directors I’ve ever worked with) had us show up to the first day of rehearsal with the script and a red pen. Over the course of the rehearsal process, the student cast completely rewrote The Wizard of Oz. We put in jokes and asides. We decided that the tornado should be represented by two
guys holding leaf blowers. Dorothy became kind of a punk rocker (ruby-red Converse). We made it our own.
The months that followed were what put the finishing touches (or nail in the coffin, depending on your perspective) on my lifelong love of being on the stage and behind the scenes. Rehearsal for The Wizard of Oz is what made me know that storytelling was what I wanted to do with my life, and that I could do it. I had never been encouraged in that way before, to create original content and then perform it.
When the play finally went up, and I was onstage, getting laughs for jokes I had written myself—well, basically nothing has ever felt better and I have essentially spent the rest of my life trying to re-create that feeling. I finally felt like there was a way for me to make sense of all of the things inside of me that had never quite fit clearly into one path or goal.
Deep down, I’ve always known this is what I wanted to do, but I never would have done it if I hadn’t had the good fortune of knowing the people who showed me the way. People like the high school theater director who saw that this strange, tall buzzcut girl could be Dorothy.
It is so easy to doubt and fall and not be true to your heart. But I had been right—I did only have to be as good as me.
P.S. My mom is now very proud of me and happy for me.
GRETA GERWIG is an actress, writer, and director. She stars in the film Frances Ha, a comedy she cowrote with Noah Baumbach. Gerwig also starred in Woody Allen’s To Rome with Love and Whit Stillman’s Damsels in Distress. Other credits include Greenberg with Ben Stiller, Arthur with Russell Brand and Helen Mirren, and No Strings Attached with Natalie Portman and Ashton Kutcher. She cowrote Hannah Takes the Stairs, and cowrote and co-directed Nights and Weekends. Gerwig graduated magna cum laude from Barnard College, and currently resides in New York City.
TALENT
Claudia Gray
“Don’t be upset.”
It was sweet of Claire to comfort him, Landon thought—especially since she had to be elated.
“Mercutio is a great role,” Claire continued, “and everybody knows the only reason you didn’t get Romeo is because Mrs. K is saving you for Harold Hill.”
This was comforting largely because it was true. Landon had decided before auditions for Romeo and Juliet began that he’d rather have the lead in The Music Man, and Mrs. Kowalski never chose the same students to star in both the fall play and the spring musical. Mercutio was precisely the part he’d wanted. Claire, meanwhile, had succeeded on pure talent—which Landon admired even more than he envied.
“That, plus you’re the only possible choice for Juliet,” Landon said, “and fate decreed the best actress in our school should be three full inches taller than the best actor.”
Claire held her hand to her forehead, a showy silent-movie gesture. It was a game they played: mocking the stereotype of over-the-top drama students, which Landon knew they mostly did so they’d never have to find out how close to the stereotype they really came. “I can’t help it that I’m built like a model,” she said.
“And I can’t help it that I’m . . . portable.” It was becoming clear to Landon that five foot seven was about as tall as he was going to get. “I figure if it didn’t stop Tom Cruise, it doesn’t have to prevent my own ascent to superstardom.” He tossed his floppy brown hair, doing his best impersonation of Tom Cruise’s plastic grin.
Claire pretended to bow before him. “Only a matter of time, darling. You know nobody can resist you.”
It was only a joke, one she couldn’t have known would make him cringe. So he tried to hide his reaction, picking up the pace as they walked toward Claire’s car. She caught up within a few steps, her bracelets jangling on her wrists. “Hey, don’t let it get to you. Sean—he’s talented, but he doesn’t begin to compare to you as an actor. You know that, right?”
“I’m not jealous of Sean Pryor.” The sooner he could stop talking about himself, Landon figured, the better. “You know, I didn’t even pay attention to the other roles once you started screaming. Any surprises?”
“Exactly what we predicted, except for one bona fide shocker.” Claire clutched at his jacket sleeve in a way Landon knew meant major revelations were in store. “Tybalt? Is Jesse Pearce .”
Jesse Pearce wasn’t involved in the theater program. It was pretty much the only program, team, or activity at Scotsville High Jesse hadn’t yet conquered. He was the school’s star swimmer, enrolled in the honors courses, voted Most Handsome twice already and expected to three-peat this year. There were all kinds of rumors about Jesse—who he was dating, what schools were throwing scholarships at his feet, whether he was a wonderful human being or actually a stuck-up jerk who thought nobody at Scotsville was good enough for him. Landon hadn’t actually seen Jesse’s audition since he’d read early on, skipped watching the other auditions to cram for a chemistry test, and only caught a glimpse of Jesse standing around staring at his script. At the time, he’d wondered whether the attention had gone to Jesse’s head and made him believe he could do anything. But apparently, he could do anything.
“He can act, too? It’s not fair.” Landon was more intrigued than jealous. “Wait. Tybalt’s the one who kills Mercutio. Jesse’s going to run me through with a sword. How . . . symbolic.”
Claire elbowed him. “Remember how Jesse practically mated in public with Hannah Silverberg all last spring? Your team is the only one Jesse’s not on.”
Landon sighed. “I’ll get to look at him up close, anyway.”
“Who knows? Maybe you can change his mind.”
She was only teasing. Landon knew that. But a chill swept through him, and he wanted to get out of there. So he lied, “I forgot—I have to do some stuff for my parents at the house. We’ll hit Starbucks next time, okay?”
“Yeah, okay, sure.” Usually Claire was like a divining rod, drawn straight to any shift in his mood, but apparently today she was too happy to notice he was upset. She jogged toward her car, silky brown hair bouncing with every step. “Congrats, Mercutio!”
“Congratulations, Juliet.”
Then Landon went home to deal once again with the fact that he was a total fraud.
. . . . .
The thing was, Landon Avery wasn’t an actor. He paid attention in acting class, watched Oscar-winning performances and noticed what people like Jack Nicholson and Meryl Streep did to capture the inner lives of their characters, and intended to major in theater in college. Usually he did his best, which was probably terrible. Deep down, he was sure he’d never done a day’s acting in his life.
His real talent was far stranger than that.
He couldn’t say whether he was born with it, or if it came to him later, or why he had it. All Landon knew for sure was that he’d become aware of his talent—and capable of consciously using it—just over a year ago, the summer between his sophomore and junior year. That was when his mother came home from choir practice and walked into his room at the exact moment he’d pulled up a full-screen naked picture of Michael Fassbender.
“What are you doing?” The hard edge of panic in her voice cut him to the quick. “Why are you looking at—that?”
It just came up on Google. Somebody sent it to me as a joke. But the excuses wouldn’t come out of his mouth. He could only gape at his mother, rolling over so at least she wouldn’t see his pajama bottoms were tented out.
Didn’t matter. She knew.
“Oh, my God. I don’t believe this,” she said, and he didn’t think she was talking about how good Michael Fassbender looked. It was the single most terrifying moment of his life. Landon had stared up at her, unable to speak, seeing only her pale face, the way she opened and closed her mouth, how her hands clasped together so hard the knuckles were white—
—don’t, he thought. Don’t hate me. Please, Mom. Just don’t hate me—
—and he felt it. A soft thump against his chest, though he wasn’t the one struck; he was the one striking out.
What it came down to was this: He wanted his mother to
accept him. He willed her to do it. And she did.
“Oh, sweetheart, it’s okay,” she said. A hollow smile came over her face, and her hands relaxed as color returned to her cheeks. All her shock seemed to have been emptied out. “You like boys, don’t you? I understand.”
“You do?” Landon knew he’d done this, made her accept him, but he still didn’t understand how. His heart was pounding so hard it felt as though it would break his ribs, cave him in. “Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.” Mom patted his shoulder, like he’d just told her something . . . minor. “Maybe I should leave you alone for a bit.”
That night, Mom took it upon herself to tell Dad over dinner. By instinct, Landon had done it again, thump, and Dad’s frown had vanished. “You’re my boy, same as ever. Okay, Landon?”
“Okay,” Landon had said faintly. But his fork remained poised over his plate, touching nothing.
The next day, Landon had headed to the movie theater—the first place he’d thought of where he might find a lot of people together that he didn’t know. There he’d tried a few tests. He figured out that when he used this mysterious talent of his on someone, he could influence that person’s emotions. No, not just influence: control. But his power went no further than that.
He couldn’t make someone start dancing wildly in the lobby. He couldn’t make the bored girl behind the concession stand start giving out free Raisinets. But he could make people think they were hungry, and then snack sales rose.
The Adam Sandler movie was just about the stupidest film Landon had ever seen, and the audience sat there in silent boredom—until he wished for them to find the jokes funnier, and funnier, feeling the thump in his chest each time he did it, until by the end they were applauding and wiping away tears of laughter. Other tests in other places over the next several weeks confirmed his conclusion: He couldn’t control actions, but he could control emotions. People felt whatever Landon wanted them to feel. What they did about their feelings remained up to them.
