Cut the Lights

by Karen Krossing

  So I’m left staring at them for an awkward moment, until I decide to face the gossip head on.

  “So, our play is cursed.” I wipe my palms on my jeans. “At least, that’s what I hear.”

  Mica studies me, his forehead knotted. Sonata scowls, her eyes flicking to Lorna. Clayton and George exchange a startled look.

  “But I’m not willing to give up,” I say. “So I want to hear from you. We have less than two weeks to get this thing right. How do you think we can do that?”

  Sonata’s eyes narrow. “You’re asking for our ideas?” She sounds exhausted.

  “I guess I am.”

  “That’s a first.” She leans back, taking in the six other rehearsals. “To start, we should practice somewhere else. This place is toxic.”

  “That’s actually a good idea.” George nods.

  “Don’t sound so surprised.” Sonata glares.

  “I like it too,” I say quickly, before a fight erupts. “George, can you book the rest of our rehearsals in our performance room? If we can’t get it, any classroom will do.”

  “Yeah, sure,” George says eagerly.

  “Thanks.” I’ll need to check later that he’s done it.

  Then Sonata starts in on all the blocking she doesn’t like. I stiffen, trying to listen without interrupting her. Finally, I say, “I’ll think about your ideas. We can try out some of them in rehearsal, but remember that I have the final say.”

  Sonata sucks in her cheeks and says nothing.

  Mica is still withdrawn. I don’t want to force him to speak, so I move on to Clayton.

  “What about you, Clayton?” I ask.

  “Huh?”

  Inspiring Clayton may be impossible. “Well,” I begin, “I know you haven’t been comfortable with your character—the glitter and all. Since I have to work out costumes over the next week, I thought maybe we could tweak things, help you find a way into this character.”

  “I guess.” Clayton gives the usual shrug, but he seems relieved. Maybe I should have listened to him earlier.

  “What about his arm?” Sonata says. “Since when does a Star have a broken arm?”

  “Maybe he’s a fallen star?” George asks.

  Mica snorts. Sonata raises one eyebrow.

  “You know, that could actually work.” I scribble a note to myself, thinking how we could add in a line or two, with Ratna’s approval. “Okay, enough chatting.” I stand up before Sonata can object to George’s idea.

  I grab my backpack off the floor, ready to reveal my new warm-up plan.

  “I want to start today’s rehearsal with a game of Twister.” I pull the spinner and mat from my backpack.

  Everyone looks surprised.

  “Why?” Sonata’s tone is cold.

  “I knew you’d ask.” I smile, even though I’m not sure if Twister will do what I want it to. “It’ll remind us that this Fringe Festival is supposed to be fun. And”—I glance from Mica to Sonata—“it’ll help us get more comfortable with one another.”

  “But it’s a kids’ game!” Mica says.

  “Yup.” I lay out the mat.

  “How is Clayton supposed to do it?” Sonata’s lip curls into a sneer.

  “He can just use one arm. Let’s get started. You too, George. I’ll work the spinner.” I give it a twirl. “Left foot on red,” I announce.

  People from other groups watch us curiously. I turn my back on them.

  As we play, Mica avoids touching Sonata and ends up pretzeled at one end of the mat. Wiry Clayton is surprisingly good at it even with only one arm. George is having too much fun to care whether he wins. Sonata places each hand or foot precisely on the mat.

  When George finally makes everyone collapse in a heap, Mica leaps up while the others laugh. From across the room, Samuel gives me a thumbs-up. A few actors watch as if they want to join in. Mr. Ty nods, which is great.

  But I still need to get the play working.

  We run through a few scenes. When I incorporate two of Sonata’s blocking ideas, her shoulders relax slightly. And Sonata and Mica’s stage chemistry isn’t too horrible. Sonata is more aloof now, which works well with her character’s failing marriage. Mica’s hurt expression fits better since his character doesn’t understand why his wife is so demanding. It must be hell for Mica to act with Sonata now that she’s rejected him.

  Eventually, we wrap up and head out. Mr. Ty follows me, his pile of marking under one arm.

  “Twister was a nice touch,” he says. “How did you come up with it?”

  A grin spreads across my face. “I just grabbed it out of my closet this morning. I thought it might help.” I don’t tell him that I was staring hopelessly around my room, desperate to find some way to get Sonata and Mica to work together.

  “Good instincts.” Mr. Ty opens the cafeteria door for me.

  “Thanks.” I walk through feeling eight feet tall, until I see Mica scurrying down the hall like a wounded animal and Sonata striding the opposite way.

  I shrink down to size.

  Obviously, one good rehearsal is not enough.

  Eleven

  Outside Whitlock. Monday after school. A stream of students follows the worn path through the trees to the street. The smell of cigarettes wafts from the smokers’ corner, near the sidewalk.

  I trudge toward the bus stop. A squirrel leaps over some dandelions with more energy than I have. Today’s rehearsal was exhausting, but at least we’ve blocked the whole play—finally.

  I catch sight of Mica up ahead. His shoulders are rounded, and his head droops. God, he’s taking Sonata’s rejection hard. In rehearsal, Sonata was as high-strung as usual, and she looked right through Mica when they were offstage. Nice.

  I hurry to catch up with him, thinking I can take him to Bean Me Up for a coffee and a pep talk—until I remember that’s where it all went wrong for him.

  I change my tactic.

  “Hey, Mica?” I fall in step with him. “Do you like frozen yogurt? Now that the weather’s warmer, I have this craving for pistachio yogurt at Menchie’s, and...well...do you want to come?”

  He nods. “I like that place.”

  “Great. Are you busy now?” I remember how he used to try to get Sonata to go for coffee with him after rehearsal.

  “Uh, no.” He kicks a stone along the path.

  It’s a five-minute walk in the opposite direction from Bean Me Up. We talk about his character on the way over—how oblivious Martin Wright is when Sylvia throws a slipper at him.

  “He can be thick-skinned,” Mica says.

  “Nothing like you.” I smile.

  When we arrive, the shop is crowded with loud preteen girls who seem to fluster him. The bright décor is almost gaudy, and the girl behind the counter is overly cheerful.

  We each grab a waffle bowl. I go for a nonfat pistachio yogurt with hot fudge, while Mica gets Red Velvet Royale with jelly beans, marshmallows and anything else he can pile on it. Then we escape to the patio overlooking the tree-lined side street.

  Mica hunches over his bowl and digs in. I put my feet up on a nearby chair and take a bite of waffle mixed with yogurt, which tastes fabulous, as usual. I wonder how I can help Mica get over Sonata, or at least be able to tolerate her presence. Twister warm-ups are a start. Still, it’s obvious that he’s hurting.

  “In the play, Sylvia’s too hard on Martin.” I keep my tone casual, even though I’m thinking about how Sonata’s been too hard on Mica. “He’s not perfect, but everyone deserves respect.”

  “Yeah.” He takes a huge bite of yogurt.

  “He doesn’t talk about his feelings, but I think she really upsets him.”

  He looks sideways at me, still chewing. “It’s a comedy, Briar.”

  “It has a serious side too.” I twirl my spoon in my yogurt.

  “I guess.”

  “Sylvia’s giving up on a good guy,” I say.

  Mica swipes his hair out of his eyes. “Who are we talking about here? Sylvia or Sonata?”
<
br />   “What do you mean?” I widen my eyes and pretend not to get it.

  Mica shakes his head. “You’re so subtle.”

  “I’m just saying that Martin has a lot to offer. Maybe he needs to find a different girl. One who suits him better.” I stuff my mouth full of yogurt.

  Mica stares into the distance. “Maybe you’re right.”

  The main-floor drama room. Wednesday after school. One week to opening.

  I arrive at rehearsal with a box of costumes and props. Sonata, Clayton and George are already there. Mica follows me in. When he tries to help carry my load, I brush him off.

  “I’ve got a surprise!” My voice rises. I’m so much happier rehearsing away from Lorna and the others.

  “I hope you’re not putting me in an ape suit.” Mica smirks.

  “How’d you guess?” I say. After our frozen yogurt, he’s more relaxed with me, although he still avoids Sonata when he can.

  “I don’t like surprises,” Sonata says.

  “It’s not really for you.” I won’t let her ruin my good mood. “It’s for Clayton.”

  “Me?” Clayton squirms.

  “I promised I’d rework your character, and I did.” I rifle through the clothes. “Can you moonwalk?”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’ve heard you’re in hip-hop club, so I know you can move.” I glance up at him. “But moonwalking?”

  Clayton gives me a quizzical look. Then he jumps onto the stage and moonwalks across it.

  George hoots. Even Sonata applauds.

  I pick up his costume, piece by piece, and pass it to him. A black faux-leather suit with a pink shirt and bow tie, and a single white rhinestone glove—all from the Whitlock costume room. “Looks like you earned these.”

  “What’s going on?” Sonata says. “Briar—”

  “Let me explain.” I hold up my hands. “The word ‘star’ has two meanings. Clayton’s character is a star in the sky, but he can also be the other type of star.” I pause as everyone stares at Clayton’s costume. “I’m playing our Star character with a Michael Jackson theme.”

  “What?” Sonata gapes.

  Mica nods at Clayton. “You even look a bit like him.”

  “Cool,” George says.

  A grin creeps across Clayton’s face.

  “Each time you’re about to come onstage, we’ll play the beginning of ‘Billie Jean,’ and then you can moonwalk in,” I say. “Michael Jackson wore an outfit like this one in his music video, and he first did the moonwalk during a performance of ‘Billie Jean.’”

  “I suppose that will work, but what about his broken arm?” Sonata gestures at Clayton’s cast and sling.

  “Ratna’s added two new lines. The first time we see the Star, Sonata will say, ‘What happened to your arm?’ And then Clayton will say, ‘I fell.’”

  George snorts. “It’s my fallen star idea!”

  “Yup. I hope it’ll get a laugh.” I turn to Clayton. “So what do you think? It’ll modernize the play—we’ll set it in the eighties instead of the fifties.”

  Clayton pulls on the glove. “I can get into this.”

  “Great!” I say, relieved.

  “What will Mica and I wear?” Sonata eyes the rest of the pile I’ve lugged in.

  “I’m sticking with mismatched outfits for Sylvia and Martin.” I show everyone a plaid suit for Mica and a dress with a zigzag print and fluffy orange slippers for Sonata. I also have the multicolored apron that Darla gave to Mom and two of Mom’s dishtowels. “I hope the clothes fit.”

  The jacket is too big for Mica, but it’s better than too small. Sonata slips behind a curtain to change into the dress. It fits her beautifully—she looks good no matter what she wears. With his small frame, pert nose and curly black hair, Clayton pulls off a terrific Michael Jackson.

  George takes photos of them for the program—my Martin, Sylvia and Star. They’re so perfect, it makes my eyes water.

  Mica, Sonata and Clayton change back into their regular clothes for rehearsal. George and I take our positions in the audience. The opening scene goes well, but Mica’s acting is flat in the slipper-throwing sequence.

  “Okay,” I say. “Let’s run through that scene again, but this time—”

  “Not again, Briar!” Sonata’s neck muscles are pulled tight. “We need to—”

  “Thanks, but I’ll decide what we rehearse.” I ignore her dark look. “Although I do want to talk about your character’s needs in this scene,” I say, crossing my fingers that she’ll cooperate. “What do you think Sylvia wants?”

  Sonata leans against our makeshift sink, sighing loudly. “She wants to get Martin’s attention, to make him notice her now that he’s home. She doesn’t want him to work after dinner, like he always does.”

  “Great. I love the detail about working after dinner.” I praise her, since she really does know how to get into character. “And what are your character’s objectives here, Mica?”

  He glances at Clayton, who shrugs. “Uh, I’m not sure,” he finally says.

  Sonata folds her arms, frowning. “Martin wants to—”

  “Let Mica do it,” I interrupt. Spots of color appear on her cheeks. I turn to him. “Okay, Mica. Let me say it this way. What does your character want at this moment in the play?”

  “Uh”—he examines the stage lights—“to understand?”

  George gives him a thumbs-up.

  “Good.” I nod. “Can you get more specific? To understand what?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Well, Martin asks Sylvia if she hired a chef. So what clue does that give? Does he want to understand why she threw a slipper at him?”

  “No. He wants his dinner.”

  “Great. When does he want his dinner?”

  “Now.”

  “Why?”

  He fidgets. “Because he’s hungry. He missed lunch because of a meeting.”

  “That’s it! That’s Martin’s objective in this scene. Let’s run through it again with that in mind.”

  “Okay.” Mica wipes his sweaty forehead.

  I smile as Mica delivers his lines perfectly, glancing around the kitchen in hopeful anticipation of a delicious meal.

  We stay late to work through the rest of the play, pausing for side coaching when the action gets dull. Even Clayton manages to deliver his lines with more emotion than usual, and no one objects when I schedule an extra practice for the next night.

  At the end of the rehearsal, Clayton sidles over.

  “When I auditioned, I wanted an action part—like maybe a cop. But now…” He pauses. “Playing the Star is cool. Thanks.”

  “No problem. Now will you memorize all your lines?”

  He moonwalks away from me. “You got it,” he says.

  Twelve

  The main-floor drama room—again. Friday after school.

  I practically live here these days, but it’s worth it.

  At our extra rehearsal last night, we worked on scene transitions and making eye contact with other actors. Clayton and Mica managed to stay in character, most of the time. And Sonata only tried to take over the rehearsal three times.

  Today, my actors are finishing the last few lines of our first full run-through with props. No stopping for director notes. No stopping for Sonata to argue with my decisions. I stare intensely, imagining how the audience will react to each scene and figuring out what tweaks I still need to make.

  It helps that I can also watch my first two audience members other than George and me. Ratna and Samuel lean forward in their seats—so far, they’ve laughed in the right places. I’ve promised to watch Samuel’s show later, as his play will be staged here during Fringe Festival too.

  Dust motes float in the beams of light. The stage creaks with Mica’s footsteps. It’s not a perfect performance of Wish Upon a Star, but the entrances and exits are working, Clayton has remembered most of his lines, his cast and sling work onstage, and Sonata and Mica are a believable married couple, com
plete with emotional baggage.

  As my actors perform the curtain call I planned, Ratna leaps to her feet, clapping. Samuel grins at me before he whistles and claps too.

  My first applause is sweet. I finally have hope that we can pull off a decent show, earning me a spot in Mr. Ty’s directing workshop.

  “Awesome work, everyone!” I say as George emerges from backstage, where he’s been assisting with props and calling the cues. “We can still make some adjustments at the tech and dress rehearsals next week, but other than that we’re good to go.”

  Mica and Clayton beam. George fist-pumps the air. Sonata hurries off the stage, rubbing her temples.

  “It’s incredible to see my words performed!” Ratna’s eyes shine.

  “You’ve done a great job.” Samuel gives me a quick hug. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to go out with him—after Fringe is over, of course.

  “Thanks. I bet your play is great too,” I say.

  “You’ll find out soon enough.” Samuel hurries to the hall to collect his actors and props.

  “You’re an excellent Sylvia,” Ratna says to Sonata.

  Strangely, Sonata pushes past Ratna, ignoring the compliment. “I have a headache.” She rushes toward the exit. Her eyes are fever-bright, her movements jerky.

  “What about my director notes?” I straighten my glasses.

  Sonata keeps walking, her back stiff. I frown—she’s been a pain during most of our rehearsals, just the way Samuel said she would be.

  “Remember, we’ll be doing the tech rehearsal on Monday night, the dress rehearsal on Tuesday and then our performances Wednesday to Saturday,” I call as she disappears. “Don’t be late!”

  And she’s gone. I wonder for a moment what’s got into her. But she always performs well—even when she’s challenging me—so I let it go.

  Madame Bouchard’s French class. Monday morning. Fifteen minutes until lunch.

  I spent the weekend planning and replanning my tech rehearsal, fussing over the details. Now I’m watching the clock from the back row of desks, too jittery to conjugate verbs, waiting to meet with Joseph and George at lunch to finalize the sound and lighting cues on paper.