Followers

by Anna Davies

  “Sorry. But I just wanted to let you know. Since you don’t have our resumes or anything.”

  “Just act!” Mr. O’Dell barked.

  “Okay!” Skye squeaked, heading up onstage.

  My phone buzzed.

  Tristan Schuler

  Hey @alleyesonbree, seems like the sky might be falling … does that make you #riledup?

  I shot Tristan a warning glance. It was one thing to make general snarky comments, but another to make it sound like I had a crush on Eric or that I was jealous of Skye. Because I didn’t. And I wasn’t. Or at least I didn’t want anyone, even my nonexistent followers, to know that.

  Sorry, Tristan mouthed.

  I nodded slightly to let him know it was all right.

  Everyone near us was shifting around, playing on their phones, desperately flipping through scripts. I sat with my spine ramrod straight and watched Skye’s performance.

  Despite Tristan’s prediction, Skye was good. She performed a monologue from All’s Well That Ends Well, clearly one she’d worked on last year. But it was honest and genuine and people laughed in certain parts of it. I bit my lip.

  A few people in the audience clapped as Skye finished. Mr. O’Dell swiveled around, finally stopping his gaze on our section.

  “You!”

  “Me?” I croaked.

  “Yes. And hurry up, please.”

  My legs shaking, I stood up.

  “All Eyes on Bree,” Tristan said approvingly. My stomach plummeted. I knew he was just trying to be supportive, but it would seem like a disruption to Mr. O’Dell.

  “How nice to have a fan,” Mr. O’Dell said, directing his focus squarely on Tristan. “Can you please let me know who you are and why you’re in my theater? As I made clear with Mr. Mathis earlier, I’m not auditioning clowns. So it might behoove you to leave.”

  “That’s cool.” Tristan slung his messenger bag over his shoulder.

  “Wait,” Mr. O’Dell commanded.

  “Yeah?”

  “What’s your name?”

  Tristan shrugged. “I’m just an observer who can’t resist a good show. And trust me, sir, this one is already amazing.” With that, Tristan delivered a mock salute toward Mr. O’Dell as he turned and slunk out of the theater.

  Ripples of laughter broke out around me. I turned apologetically to Mr. O’Dell, hoping he didn’t think I was connected to Tristan.

  “Who was that, Ms. All Eyes on Bree? Was that a friend of yours?” Mr. O’Dell’s voice was smooth and deadly and caused my already weak limbs to feel even more like liquid.

  “Kind of,” I said, reddening. “And my name is Briana. Briana Beland. And I apologize for any disruption.” The intensity of Mr. O’Dell’s gaze made it clear that wasn’t enough of an answer. My heart pounded harder. And then a thought crossed my mind. “He’s sort of like the campus Falstaff,” I said shyly. “Every Shakespeare play has a fool. And every campus has a … Tristan….” I trailed off amid a smattering of laughter. But I didn’t care about the audience. I cared about Mr. O’Dell, and right now it was impossible to gage Mr. O’Dell’s reaction. “He’s the editor in chief of the school newspaper. I guess he’s writing about auditions or something.”

  “All right. Thank you for that explanation, Ms. All Eyes on Bree Beland. You have our eyes. The spotlight is on you. What will you do with it?”

  I took a deep breath, glanced up at the lighting booth, crossed my fingers for luck, and began.

  “O my lord, my lord, I have been so affrighted!”

  I thought back to the two eyes in the woods, imagining them watching me, feeling the fear creeping in my veins, as I imagined Ophelia felt the first time she realized that Hamlet — the person she loved most in the world — may be going mad. My voice had shaken a bit on the first two words, but the more I felt Ophelia’s fear, the more the shakiness was from her own panic, not the jittery stage fright nerves I’d felt walking onstage.

  The emotions crashed over me as the lines poured out. It was as if I was Ophelia, confessing to her father. It wasn’t until I said the last words that I realized I’d finished.

  “Thank you,” I said in a small voice.

  “Good,” Mr. O’Dell said smoothly. I let out a sigh of relief and kept my head down as I walked back to my seat. I didn’t want to see what other people thought.

  I barely watched as student after student went onstage. Always, Mr. O’Dell would end their monologue with a head nod, as well as a one-syllable word: Good. Thanks. Nice. Right. From his tone, it was impossible to know if any of them meant anything.

  Eric climbed onstage. It was the first time I’d seen him all morning. He was wearing a blue sweater over a blue-checked collared shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. Of course. His angular jaw was covered with a grazing of stubble and his eyes were bloodshot. It looked like he hadn’t slept all night. Maybe he’d been more anxious than I thought. His eyes darted like a nervous deer around the auditorium. I leaned forward in my seat, hoping he’d see me. For a split second, his eyes landed on me.

  It’s okay, I mouthed. But then his gaze continued. I craned my neck to see who he was looking at, already knowing who it had to be.

  Skye.

  “To be or not to be …” Of course I’d heard the monologue a million times before, but Eric’s rich baritone made me snap to attention. Each word was given weight, and the easy way he moved around the stage instead of standing rooted to one spot made him impossible not to watch.

  “Thank you.” Eric nodded once, then stared at the floor.

  “All right.” Mr. O’Dell nodded impassively, then clapped his hands twice. “I think I’ve had enough.”

  People around me sighed and started packing their bags, but Mr. O’Dell raised his finger. Everyone stopped mid-motion.

  “I’ve seen enough for the morning,” Mr. O’Dell clarified. “I’ll read off a list of names of those who I want to see after lunch, at two p.m. sharp. Skye Henderson?”

  “That’s me!” Skye called jubilantly from the rear of the auditorium.

  “Indeed,” Mr. O’Dell said as laughter rippled around me. I grabbed one wrist with the fingers of my opposite hand, so tightly I could feel my blood whooshing through my veins at twice the speed it normally did. Please.

  “Briana Beland?” Mr. O’Dell called. My hand fell from my wrist and I giggled in surprise. I’d made it. I’d made it!

  Mr. O’Dell rattled off a few more names, including Eric. Not like that was a surprise. But what was surprising was how Eric left the auditorium as soon as his name was called, his jaw set and his mouth in a firm line.

  “For those of you who I’ve called, I’ll see you at two. For those of you who I didn’t … best of luck,” Mr. O’Dell said.

  “What about me?” Andi’s voice called in the darkness.

  “Oh. You. How about we have a brief talk? You know, to work out details. I’m thrilled to figure out what to do with you.”

  His tone did little to dampen Andi’s enthusiasm. She practically sprinted onstage.

  I grabbed my script and shoved it in my bag.

  “Wanna get lunch?” a confident, cheerful voice asked, a little too loudly.

  I looked up into Skye’s heavily lined eyes.

  “Me?” I asked.

  She laughed. “Yes, you, silly! I want to talk to you!”

  “Oh … um, okay.” Part of me didn’t want to go out to lunch with Skye. Part of me wanted to focus on preparing for callbacks. But another part of me felt like the audition had been more than just one for the school play. It was an audition to be accepted into the MacHale community, to be seen as someone worth getting to know. And even though I found Skye annoying and exhausting, I was flattered that she wanted to hang out with me.

  The auditorium had emptied out quickly. Onstage, Mr. O’Dell was conferring with Andi, who was earnestly nodding to something she said. It felt like I was spying.

  “Let’s go.”

  “We should just go to the campus café. We on
ly have an hour,” Skye said worriedly.

  I nodded, pulling out my phone so I could glance at the time.

  Instead, my eye was drawn to the Tweet window at the center of my screen.

  Hamlet’s Ghost @hamletsghost

  Seems @alleyesonbree had fun at #machalehamlet auditions. Finding humor in tragedy is a talent…. Can she keep it up?

  I frowned.

  “What?” Skye peered over my shoulder.

  “Nothing.” I angled my phone away from her.

  “Okay.” She shrugged. Together, the two of us walked toward the café. Skye was babbling about Mr. O’Dell, the auditions, and whether or not I thought he’d have us do the same monologues again, or if we’d have a chance to try something else. I nodded and made appropriate noises, but I wasn’t paying attention. Who is Hamlet’s Ghost? And why is he Tweeting at me?

  We walked into the tiny café, housed in the building adjacent to the admissions office. The café only had sandwiches and salads, and was clearly priced for parents, but it was our best option, since dining hall food, always questionable, was especially suspect during break.

  “Are you okay?” Skye narrowed her eyes at me as we stood in line.

  “Yeah. Just nervous.”

  “Briana!” She drew my name out in an exaggerated sigh.

  “What?”

  “Not nervous. Excited. Remember?” With that, she turned away from me and ordered a salad at the counter.

  “Right. Excited,” I said, pulling my phone from my pocket and deleting the Tweets I’d written during the audition. It was too risky to have them up.

  Skye whirled around and I guiltily clutched my phone.

  “Your turn,” she said breezily.

  After I’d gotten my sandwich, I slid in the seat opposite Skye and wished I’d declined her lunch invite. It was hard to seem normal around Skye in the best of times, and now was definitely not normal.

  “So, what did you think?”

  “Of the auditions? I guess they were fine. You?”

  “I didn’t know you were good.” The way she said it sounded accusatory.

  “Is that a compliment?” I joked.

  Skye’s eyes narrowed, then widened. She gave me a grin. “Of course it’s a compliment, silly. I just meant that you were, like, a surprise. I bet you’ll get the part of the Player Queen.”

  I raised my eyes to meet her. “I want to be Ophelia.”

  “Oh, everyone wants that part. It’s not that great, though. I mean, there’s not a ton of lines, and then it’s going to be weird with Eric. I mean, it’s awkward having a love scene with your ex-boyfriend, you know? Unless we get back together. Which I think we will, especially if we’re going to be cast opposite each other as love interests. It just makes the play so much more honest, don’t you think?”

  I put down my sandwich and pushed my chair back. Skye’s self-confidence had made me lose my appetite.

  “Sorry, I forgot something back at the dorm,” I said, not bothering to wait for her response to my lame excuse. I burst out of the café and into the cold air. But instead of turning toward Rockefeller, I raced back down to the theater.

  As I ran, I felt my phone buzz against my hip. I stopped and pulled it out.

  Hamlet’s Ghost @hamletsghost

  Delete all you want, but I enjoyed your earlier Tweets @alleyesonbree. FYI, the real show hasn’t started yet. #getafrontrowseat

  My fingers trembled above the keys. Should I respond? Play dumb? For all I knew, it was one of the other actors, trying to throw me off my game. Not responding would make it seem like they’d rattled me. I had to respond. Finally, I took a deep breath and started typing.

  Briana Beland @alleyesonbree

  Thanks for the heads up @hamletsghost. No fear, Shakespeare … ready for showtime.

  I heaved a sigh of relief. Whoever it was, my response sounded confident, cool, and collected.

  I perched on a bench in the empty auditorium lobby and pulled out the bagels I’d bought earlier, untouched since this morning. And there, sitting across from Sarah Charonne’s unblinking image, I ate my lunch. I wasn’t afraid of ghosts.

  Or jealous actresses.

  Skye Henderson

  Eating lunch alone since @alleyesonbree ditched me. Anyone around to keep me company? #riledup #tragedy #auditions

  I hurried back to the auditorium, hoping Eric was there as well. I hated how Skye made it sound like she’d already gotten the part. What about the Forsyth kids auditioning for Ophelia? What about me? And where had Eric gone so quickly after O’Dell dismissed us? Could his behavior have less to do with his audition and more to do with performing in front of his ex-girlfriend?

  Eric wasn’t inside the theater. But Andi was, pacing back and forth onstage. As usual, her cell phone was jammed in her mouth.

  “Hey, Andi,” I said. Around me, a few kids took their seats. Andi glanced over toward me and squinted, but it seemed like she didn’t know where the voice was coming from. Her eyes were large and unfocused.

  “Andi?” I said again. “Are you okay?”

  She flinched, like she’d been hit with an invisible force, took two staggering steps forward, and then she fell to the ground, her cell phone falling from the stage onto the concrete floor of the auditorium.

  “Andi?” I called again, gingerly inching toward her. She lay on her back, making gurgling noises. Foam and blood sputtered from her lips. I dropped to my knees next to her. “Andi, wake up!” I called loudly, wildly hoping she was just being her weird Andi self. That she’d pop up any second and say she was just testing how the stage would react under pressure.

  As she continued to writhe, I knew without a shadow of a doubt that she wasn’t acting. She was really, really sick. I glanced over my shoulder. The few kids in the auditorium were mostly hunched over their phones and wearing headphones.

  “Help!” I called. No one heard me. Andi’s breathing was becoming more and more desperate and shallow.

  “Yo, let’s crush this!” a guy said loudly, bursting into the auditorium from the lobby.

  “Help!” I called. “Help!”

  The guy stopped in his tracks, horror evident in his face. “Whoa. What’s going on?”

  “She’s sick or … something. I don’t know.”

  She groaned loudly, then turned on her side. Every exhale caused flecks of blood to rain down on the stage.

  The guy bounded onstage, followed by a few other Forsyth kids. “Don’t touch her.”

  “Hold her down.”

  “Make sure she doesn’t throw up.”

  People were shouting directions and crowding closer and closer to Andi and me.

  “What are you going to do?” It was the boy’s voice again. It was loud and abrasive and, all of a sudden, I felt like I was going to faint. I needed to get out. I staggered to my feet, then elbowed my way out of the circle. People crushed from all sides around Andi, until I could barely see her. The otherworldly grunts had turned into shallow gasps of air.

  “Guys, we need to call a doctor. Now.”

  The circle opened, giving me a perfect view of Andi. I gasped. Before, Andi’s face had been bright red. Now, it was a bluish-gray hue, the kind of color the sky turned right before a storm.

  Camille Chatterjee burst onto the stage. “I called Dr. Booth!” she announced importantly.

  “Good,” I croaked. I was glad someone seemed to be in charge and know what to do.

  Just then, the auditorium doors banged open. Everyone swiveled toward the noise as Skye ran into the auditorium.

  “Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God,” she repeated over and over as she raced toward the stage. She leapt up the stairs and barreled through the crowd, right to the center of the action.

  “ANDI. CAN YOU HEAR ME?” Skye yelled in her ear. I flinched at her voice.

  “ANDI!” Skye tried again. She grabbed Andi’s wrist, roughly pushing up the sleeve of her black sweater. A delicate silver bracelet circled her wrist, its silver plate glinting in
the stage lights. “Can someone read that? It might be one of those medical-alert things?”

  I tried to step toward Andi, but my feet felt locked in place. I needed to do something. Read her bracelet. Race for the doctor. Anything more than watching Andi helplessly suffer. But no matter how much my brain commanded my body to do something, all I could do was watch and stare in horror.

  “ ‘If found, return to 15 Red Orchard Road, Hillsboro’ … I think it’s her address,” a trembling female voice said.

  At that moment, the double doors burst open and Dr. Booth sprinted inside.

  “She breathing?” he asked sharply, his gaze resting on mine. I nodded wordlessly.

  “She just collapsed onstage. I don’t know why. Briana was here first,” Skye said breathlessly. The words sounded vaguely accusatory from her lips.

  “Hmm.” Dr. Booth nodded dispassionately as he scooped Andi into his arms.

  Just then, Mr. O’Dell walked in, holding a plastic container from Deli-C that contained half a sandwich. His eyebrows raised at the tableaux in front of him: me and Skye kneeling onstage, everyone else watching us, and Andi’s body held in Dr. Booth’s arms.

  “Is everything all right?” His voice was calm, as though he’d walked in to find the lights off or his desk askew. My heart hammered against my chest.

  “Seems this one fainted. They do it all the time here. I’ll get her sorted,” Dr. Booth said confidently as he walked Andi out of the auditorium. I let myself breathe again. The exhales around me made it clear everyone else had the same reaction. Dr. Booth was right. MacHale students did faint all the time. Andi would be fine.

  The doors banged shut as Dr. Booth and Andi exited. Skye ran after them, Andi’s binder clutched in her arms.

  “All right.” Mr. O’Dell nodded once before striding to the same spot onstage where Andi’s body had been only seconds earlier. “And now that everything’s settled, shall we begin part two of auditions?”

  “Yes,” I whispered as I nodded. I couldn’t let anything — even Andi’s accident — throw me off my game. Andi would be fine. It was probably allergies or exhaustion. She’d be fine.