by Anna Davies
“Nah. I mean, I don’t think so. Are you?”
“No. Please. I don’t get nervous. I get excited. It’s much better to replace a negative emotion with a positive one. But I am sad that —”
“You and Eric broke up?” I clapped my hand over my mouth as soon as the words left my lips, mortified to have said it out loud.
Skye blinked in surprise and shook her head. “Ugh. I knew that everyone would be talking about me and Eric. I mean, I don’t blame them. I know everyone likes to gossip. But here’s the thing. Even though Eric and I have decided to go our separate ways, we’re still friends and still each other’s number one fans.” She plastered on a smile as though she’d just finished giving an interview to a member of the press. “And that’s not why I’m upset. I’m sad about Dr. S.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, forgetting momentarily about Skye and Eric.
“You didn’t hear?” Skye asked in that tone of voice that meant she knew something gossipy and I didn’t. “He died.”
“What?” My blood turned to ice. Dr. Spidell was blustery and dramatic and always seemed like he was on the verge of a heart attack. But I couldn’t imagine him dying. “What happened?”
Skye shrugged. “I’m not sure. Don’t say anything. I guess they’ll make an announcement or something. My mom heard because she’s a trustee. But I guess the show must be the thing, or whatever they say.”
I ignored Skye’s garbled version of the phrase, trying to process the information. How could Dr. Spidell be dead? I’d seen him in Theater Arts only two weeks before, where he surprised us and said that instead of a final, we were going to have a party. He’d brought the entire class to his house on the edge of campus, where he’d served paprika biscuits spread with fig-and-chocolate jam. Instead of grades, he’d given everyone a copy of the Shakespeare play he personally felt they needed to read. Mine had been Pericles. Tears pricked my eyes as I visualized it, untouched, on my bookshelf.
“Look at you, crying on cue,” Skye said approvingly. “That’ll look so good in auditions. I try all the time, but just I can’t do it!” She sighed dramatically.
We’d reached the theater doors now, and I couldn’t believe I’d spent last night there, imagining what Dr. Spidell would think of the audition, when he wouldn’t think anything. When he was dead.
“Dr. Spidell died.” My voice echoed in the lobby. Groups of kids surrounded us, but the tears had blurred my vision, making it hard to see who I knew. None of them turned when I said it. Did no one care? Or did everyone know? They must not have, or else Eric would have said something the night before. It didn’t matter who knew. What mattered was that he was no longer here.
“And I feel like he’d want that,” Skye said solemnly.
“He’d want us to fake cry for him?”
Skye shook her head. “Not for him. For us. To improve our acting.”
“Do you know what happened? Was it a heart attack or … ?”
“I mean, he was old.” Skye shrugged.
Just then, a three-tone buzzer, usually meant to inform audience members that intermission had ended, dinged.
“So who’s going to direct?” I hadn’t even thought of the question until now.
“Hopefully someone real. I mean, Dr. S was nice and all, but having some high school teacher directing us isn’t exactly preparing us for professional careers or anything, you know?”
Skye continued to talk, but my attention was drawn to an easel set up in the corner of the lobby. A bouquet of roses lay at its base. My skin prickled. That definitely hadn’t been there the night before. I stepped toward it and squinted at the center photograph, of a blonde girl wearing pearls and a black sweater. It was the typical uniform for undergrad picture day at MacHale, but the photo looked faded and out-dated. I took another step.
THE MACHALE CIRCLE THEATER: DEDICATED TO SARAH CHARONNE
Underneath was another line in italicized font.
The curtain may have closed too quickly on her young life, but she will always have a place in the spotlight of our hearts.
I reached out and allowed my fingers to graze the glass frame. I traced my fingernail down to the other photos surrounding the headshot, clearly ones from past productions. I stopped at one faded and creased candid in the lower left-hand corner. According to the description, it was from a 1985 production of Hamlet. Sarah was in the center of the stage, her mouth open in mid-speech and her eyes radiant. She was in the spotlight. But my eyes drifted toward someone on the edge of the photograph. I recognized the high cheekbones, the arched eyebrow. It was my mother. Not in the starring role, but in the background. Why hadn’t she told me she and Sarah had been in a play together? Why hadn’t she told me she’d been in Hamlet?
I tore my gaze away from the photograph. It seemed like whether I liked it or not, my mother was here for my audition.
The kids around me were chattering nervously to one another, but the din was too loud for me to make out individual strands of conversation. The auditorium lobby had gotten noticeably more packed since I’d arrived, but I didn’t recognize any of the people around me. Who were they? I knew I was the new kid, but it wasn’t like MacHale was enormous.
I stood on my tiptoes and craned my neck for Eric. I spotted Vanessa Templeton, Camille Chatterjee, and Scott Eichner in one corner. They were three underclassmen I vaguely knew from acting with them as background extras in the one-act festival last year. I was about to make my way over to them when the auditorium doors opened and the kids around me poured inside. I followed them, caught up in the herd. But instead of sitting in the center section of the auditorium with them, I veered off to the left, sitting in the upper back corner of the theater. I still didn’t see Eric anywhere.
Dr. Conger, the headmistress, emerged from the wings, followed by an overweight red-faced older man and a guy wearing a black sweater, skinny jeans, and sunglasses. He had blond hair that was just starting to go gray at the temples, a goatee, and looked like he belonged in some California juice bar. He certainly didn’t look like a MacHale teacher.
“Hello” — Dr. Conger squinted into the lights — “and welcome back from break. As some of you may have heard, MacHale recently lost a trusted, valued, and dear friend. Dr. Spidell was loved, respected, and will be missed by our entire community. A moment of silence.” Dr. Conger briefly placed her hand over her heart and looked down as the heads in front of me bowed in unison. I kept my eyes glued to the stage, sure Dr. Spidell would emerge from a trapdoor to say he was fine, that this was just a joke.
But he didn’t.
“Thank you,” Dr. Conger said quietly. “Next, we’re thrilled to welcome Breckin O’Dell to serve as drama instructor. Mr. O’Dell comes to us by way of New York City, where he’s worked extensively off and off-off Broadway. He’s looking forward to upholding MacHale’s tradition of excellence. And with that said, as Mr. O’Dell will soon learn, one of the hallmarks of MacHale traditions is making new ones while keeping the old.”
“I thought that was the Girl Scout motto,” I heard someone mutter. I snuck a glance in the direction of the voice and saw Tristan one row behind me. He raised an eyebrow and moved into the empty seat next to mine.
“What are you doing here?” I whispered.
“What does it look like?” He nodded down at his iPad. “Serious journalism. This is Pulitzer-worthy material and I’m here for the behind-the-scenes scoop. Wanna give me a quote?”
“What’s in it for me?” I asked quietly before forcing my attention back to the stage.
“And with that said, I’m thrilled to announce our decision to open auditions to Forsyth High.” Dr. Conger beamed as angry “What?’s” and sharp intakes of breath erupted around the room like fireworks. Forsyth was the public school, a small one-story brick building on the opposite side of town that primarily catered to the blue-collar local families who worked in the nearby restaurants, inns, and logging companies.
“My parents are paying tuition for me to han
g out with public school kids?”
“You would think the MacHale girls would know how to dress better. I mean, have you looked at what everyone is wearing?”
“MacHale mixes with the public school. First thoughts. Go.”
Snippets of conversation swirled around me as the man next to Dr. Conger was talking about the importance of an alliance between MacHale and Forsyth. He was obviously the Forsyth principal, and from the way he kept repeating the phrase ambitious experiment, it was clear he was just as dubious about the prospect as everyone else seemed to be.
“They all look so smug,” Tristan whispered loudly.
“Don’t you mean snug?” I whispered back, noticing the way the Forsyth principal’s stomach strained against his shirt buttons.
“Brilliant.” Tristan’s fingers flew across his screen. All of a sudden, my phone buzzed.
Tristan Schuler
Turns out @alleyesonbree is as observant as her Twitter handle suggests. Spot-on observations of #forsythfashion coming your way.
“Don’t!” I hissed.
Tristan shrugged. I dropped my phone and sack of bagels in my bag as butterflies crept back into my stomach and forced myself to turn my attention to the stage, where the Forsyth principal was wrapping up his speech. There were four girls I didn’t know in the rows ahead of me. I crossed my fingers. Please let them all be terrible actresses.
“Mr. O’Dell will take it from here. We look forward to the play, and to a new, more positive chapter in the MacHale-Forsyth relationship after the sadness and confusion of this past summer’s discovery,” the principal said, trailing Dr. Conger offstage. A blonde Forsyth girl in front of me turned over her shoulder. Our eyes locked. I was the one who turned away first.
Mr. O’Dell strode to the edge of the stage and sat down, panning the room with his eyes. His expression didn’t change, but there was something about the way his gaze landed on each of us that made me feel like we had all somehow disappointed him. Already quiet, the room became positively silent. I could hear the clock in the lighting booth tick.
Finally, he nodded. “All right. So here we are. And as your leaders have said, this is a new tradition for MacHale and —”
“Doesn’t he mean MacHell?” a male voice from the back of the room piped up. Heads swiveled toward the source of the outburst. It was a Forsyth guy I hadn’t seen before. He had reddish-blond hair that matched the reddish stubble on his jawline, and I couldn’t help but notice the clear outline of his biceps underneath his tight flannel shirt. He looked like he was in college. And he didn’t look the least bit nervous or flustered about the fact the hundred or so people now in the auditorium were all staring at him.
A half smile formed on Mr. O’Dell’s face. “MacHell. I’m sure no one has ever thought of that. You must be so incredibly clever, Mr…. ?”
“Mathis. Zach Mathis.” I winced. From his confident tone, it was obvious he was completely oblivious to Mr. O’Dell’s sarcasm.
“Mr. Mathis. You may leave. Shakespeare kindly provided us fools already. Any more is a waste of time.”
“Excuse me?” A red flush rapidly spreading from Zach’s neck was the only clue that he was anything but confident.
“Go,” Mr. O’Dell said calmly. “Can I make it any simpler?”
“I can’t just go. I’m here for the audition. And I don’t think you want to kick me out.”
“Oooh!” one girl muttered from the audience. Collectively, everyone’s head snapped toward the sound.
“Quiet!” Mr. O’Dell sputtered. “I will not have anyone take my spotlight until I give it to them. I don’t care if you’re Ryan Gosling. I don’t care if you’re John Gielgud. I don’t care if you’re God. You are not welcome in my theater. So good-bye and good luck.”
The boy rolled his shoulders back, as though he were preparing for a fight. I swallowed, realizing that I’d been holding my breath. But then he shook his head once, grimaced, and walked out of the theater, his boots thudding ominously with every step.
Around us, there was a collective rustle; the telltale signs of iPhones subtly being pulled out, recorders turned on, photos taken. Tristan poked my arm, causing me to jump. He widened his eyes. I shook my head. Then he angled his iPad toward me.
Tristan Schuler
At least he kicked out one of the Forsyth kids. Show them the meaning of a #mac-down. (mac-down = smackdown, obviously)
I pushed his iPad away and craned my neck toward the exit. Teachers at MacHale complimented, encouraged, cajoled. They did not mock. It was terrible to watch. It was fascinating. And it was effectively taking the spotlight away from my own tangle of nerves and excitement.
“As you can see, I run a tight ship. I’m a professional, and I demand professionalism. When you’re in this room, you aren’t a boarding school snob or a townie or whatever you label one another. You are an artist. Is that clear?” he asked.
I squirmed. I’d just gotten an idea too irresistible not to share:
Briana Beland @alleyesonbree
“Townies make me frowny.” — William Shakespeare, playwright, snob
Just then, Mr. O’Dell’s gaze swiveled toward us. I paused, frozen, afraid to breathe, all of a sudden aware of how stupid I was being and furious at myself for testing my luck. For what? To get Tristan to laugh? Dumb, dumb, dumb.
But after a moment, Mr. O’Dell glanced away and continued to talk about the unrelenting rehearsal schedule, the complete commitment required to the play, the fact that if anyone in the theater had a second of hesitation, they should leave now. I felt Tristan nudge my leg. I shook my head and edged away from him. In the instant Mr. O’Dell’s gaze had landed on us, I’d felt almost certain he was going to call us out. He’d given us a pass, and I wanted him to make sure he knew I appreciated it — that my behavior had been a split-second mistake, a moment of not paying attention.
“When you get onstage for your monologue, I don’t want to see a teenager. And I don’t want to see any of your own personality.” Mr. O’Dell made a face. “I don’t want to see someone worrying about Facebook or wondering whether they’ve gotten a text. When you get up here, I want to see the souls of kings and queens. He flung his hands wide. “This is our Wooden O. This is where we bring Shakespeare to life. It is your task to take whatever pathetic trials you’re grappling with and push them aside. Shakespeare wouldn’t care if you forgot to sign up for the SATs or can’t find a date for Friday night. And I don’t care, either. When you get up here, I want to see passion. Life. Death. Fear. Commitment. Is that clear?”
A hand shot up from the side of the theater and waved back and forth. As if anyone else was in any hurry to speak. The hand belonged to Andi Schaefer, a junior who usually ran stage crew. Her curly hair was always pulled back into a ponytail so tight it made her eyes bug out, making her look like a permanently surprised guinea pig. She was always chewing on something. Right now, the corner of her iPhone was in her mouth. A flicker of annoyance crossed Mr. O’Dell’s face upon taking in her appearance.
“You don’t need to raise your hand like that,” Mr. O’Dell said disgustedly. “I see you. So what do you so desperately want to know? And who are you?”
Andi pulled her hand down, but kept her phone in her mouth, like it was a security blanket. “I’m sorry. It’s just, I’m Andi Schaefer? Stage crew? And Mr. Spidell and I had specific conversations about me being the assistant director and I just wanted to make sure that was still happening?”
“I can’t understand you with that gadget in your mouth. Could you please enunciate?” Mr. O’Dell asked. A single snort of uncontrolled laughter came from the middle of the auditorium.
“I said that I am usually the assistant director. I’m supposed to be. Dr. Spidell promised,” Andi said, the corner of her phone still sandwiched between her lips. I was impressed that she was able to sound so confident. Did she even know Mr. O’Dell had been making fun of her?
“You’re my assistant director?” Mr. O’Dell asked dubio
usly, as though she’d just announced that she was the newest Vogue cover model.
Andi nodded importantly. Mr. O’Dell offered a tight smile. Tristan snorted and began to type furiously. Seconds later, my phone buzzed.
Tristan Schuler
Here’s an observation @alleyesonbree: Is this Hamlet or a new Animal Planet show starring Andi Schaefer: iPhone Eater?
I stifled a giggle as I elbowed him.
“All right. If no one else wants the position, then I guess we’ll just have to make do. Would anyone else like to step up or address any other general concerns, questions, or comments?” Mr. O’Dell asked, as if he were daring anyone to actually say anything.
One hand shot up from the front of the theater. I could sense a collective intake of a breath, as if everyone couldn’t believe that someone would actually take this guy up on his offer.
“Yes?” Mr. O’Dell asked with a barely controlled sneer.
“Can I go first?” It was Skye.
A slow smile spread across Mr. O’Dell’s face. “A first victim. I like that. Of course. So we’ll begin the auditions. Here’s how it’ll work. I don’t care what part you want. Save that for Twitter. I will decide where you belong. Is that clear, Ms…. ?” Mr. O’Dell raised his eyebrow at Skye.
“Henderson. Skye Henderson. I played Helena in last year’s production of All’s Well That Ends Well. I also did a summer theater program at Sea Breeze Rep in Portland, where I played Julie in Carousel for two matinees.”
“Two whole matinees. Impressive,” Mr. O’Dell said dryly. “But as I was saying, I don’t care who you are in your hormone-riddled worlds. I care about who you can become.
