Followers

by Anna Davies

  Mr. O’Dell nodded. “Good. Let’s begin.”

  I walked to my seat in the audience and allowed my body to relax.

  “Hey. What did I miss?” Eric slid into the seat next to me.

  “Drama,” I said as I watched the corners of Eric’s lips tug into a small smile.

  I smiled back. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Skye walk back into the auditorium. Her gaze landed on us, her face darkening as she took in the scene. I gave her a tiny shrug.

  Didn’t she know that, in Shakespeare and in life, all was fair in love and war?

  * * *

  Three hours later, after an audition that seemed more like a boot-camp-style rehearsal, Mr. O’Dell dismissed us. I burst out of the auditorium, finally allowing my brain to slow down and try to process what had happened. The audition was like nothing I’d ever experienced. He’d stop us mid-sentence, ask why we’d read a line a certain way, and ask us to switch parts mid-scene. I’d heard him murmur when I’d read certain parts, seen him nod his head.

  “What was that about?” Eric exploded as soon as we emerged from auditions. It was five o’clock and the weak winter sun had completely set beyond the pond. The gas lamps lining Scholar’s Walk cast a warm glow on the snow-dusted path leading up to the dorms. It was one of those picturesque moments of a typical winter evening that should have been shot for the admissions brochure, but I couldn’t appreciate the view. My stomach growled, my temples ached, and I had the same Is this real life? sensation I’d had last spring, when I’d stayed up nearly forty-eight hours in a row to finish my MacHale application.

  “I know, right?” My voice sounded flat and dispassionate; I’d given everything I could onstage. Eric, however, was furious. His mouth was set in a firm line and there was a whiny edge to his voice.

  “Who does this guy think he is? I mean, whatever, they want to add Forsyth. Cool. But then he acts like he’s this god, embarrassing everyone onstage…. It’s just low. No, it’s not low, it’s disrespectful. I mean, we all came back early from break, presumably we want to be in this play … so why does he act like he’s doing us a favor?”

  Skye caught up to us. “Eric! You were great!” Her cheeks were red from the cold, and she had a victorious expression in her eyes. I glanced at her suspiciously. Where had her confidence come from?

  “Thanks,” Eric grunted. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Well, I thought you were amazing. Like, beyond,” Skye continued, still ignoring me.

  “I thought so, too, Eric.” I wanted to make it clear to Skye that I was here first, that Eric was talking to me. But I also hated how down on himself he sounded. After all, Mr. O’Dell hadn’t been very hard on him, not like the one Forsyth student he’d reduced to near-tears when he asked if he was trying to do a bad job on purpose. He’d had Eric read for Hamlet, Laertes, and Polonius, stopping him mid-monologue with an “I have what I need.” But he’d done that for most everyone else, too.

  “Do you think I was good?” Skye pressed.

  “Sure. You were fine,” Eric said in a noncommittal tone.

  What about me? I wanted to ask.

  “What about Andi?” I finally said.

  “What about Andi?” Skye shrugged. “She’s probably fine. Everyone faints at MacHale. Don’t you know that by now?”

  She did have a point. I’d seen a few girls faint in gym, and in the dorms, and once during a French presentation. MacHale ran on caffeine and ambition, and a lot of people overdid it. But Andi didn’t seem like that type. Still, Skye knew MacHale better than me.

  “You know that’s not normal, right?” I arched an eyebrow. I didn’t want to be talking to Skye at all, but talking about Andi was better than talking about auditions.

  “We’re not normal. We are la crème de la crème. Unlike these people,” she said as a gaggle of Forsyth kids walked by, apparently unaffected by the audition drama. They were laughing loudly, interrupting one another and giggling as they pointed out the sign for the riding trails, the tennis center, and the ceramics workshop. My gaze landed on the blonde girl I’d sat behind during auditions. Her hair fell loose on her polar fleece–covered shoulders, and she laughed easily as a tall, skinny dark-haired guy tried and failed to grab on to the low-hanging branch of an oak tree to the right of the path. I wondered if she’d end up in the cast. If we’d end up as friends. I gave a small smile as she walked by.

  “Do you know her?” Eric’s gaze followed mine.

  “That’s Kennedy Clifford,” Skye said importantly. “From Forsyth. I think O’Dell liked her. And, I mean, I guess she was all right. At least, she was compared to me. I was terrible,” she said, emphasizing the word as her eyes darted between both of us for compliments.

  I glanced over at Eric, pleased that he didn’t offer up an automatic compliment. I hated the competitive vibe Skye was giving off. And from the way Eric was looking at the ground and shifting from one foot to the other, I could sense that he didn’t like it, either.

  “Anyway, good luck, Skye. You were great. Seriously.” Eric nodded. Skye’s eyes widened as she realized that Eric was politely dismissing her.

  Skye turned on her heel and stomped off.

  “I guess I should go, too?” I said, the words tumbling out like a question.

  “No. Don’t. I mean, unless you want to. But I guess I was wondering if you wanted to … get dinner or something?” Eric asked shyly.

  “Me?” I asked despite myself.

  Eric nodded wordlessly, not pulling his gaze from Skye’s back. But as soon as Skye was out of our sight line, Eric turned to me. “Sorry you had to witness that.” He jerked his chin toward the direction Skye had walked.

  “That wasn’t bad. I didn’t mind.”

  “It’s just the Am I good? Tell me I’m good. How good was I?” Eric parroted. “It gets exhausting. And since she and I aren’t together or anything, it just seems … unnecessary.” He jammed his hands in his pockets and turned on his heel, heading in the opposite direction of the dorms. I trailed behind him, my feet crunching through the snow as I tried not to laugh at Eric’s comment. Didn’t he realize he was Hamlet, all moody and insecure? I wished I could point it out, but I couldn’t. Not yet. I fast-forwarded a few weeks in my mind, when he and I would be making a mid-rehearsal coffee run and I could tease him for his inability to shrug off his character offstage.

  “So, what did you think of auditions? And this isn’t a plea for you to tell me I’m good,” he said as he hopped the split-rail fence that separated campus from the woods. Several faded PRIVATE PROPERTY: TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED signs hung on the trees surrounding the area, but fresh footprints in the snow made it clear that no one took the threats that seriously.

  “I’m tired,” I said honestly, evading the question. It’d be one thing if we were just talking about auditions. I knew I’d done a good job, better than anything I’d ever done in front of Dr. Spidell. Mr. O’Dell may have been some Broadway jerk, but he was also someone who didn’t know me as a transfer, as a failed commercial actress, as the daughter of a celebrated MacHale alum who didn’t shine half as brightly as her mother. That had been Briana. But now I was Bree, the passionate and fearless actress he’d seen onstage. But then there was the Skye stuff, the Andi illness, the weird Hamlet’s Ghost account that had been Tweeting at me…. It was a lot to process. And I felt lonely knowing that there was no one I could talk about it with, not really. I couldn’t tell Eric about Skye without sounding jealous. I couldn’t tell Willow about Eric without risking everyone on campus knowing by tomorrow. I may have been only two feet away from Eric, but the loneliness hadn’t gone anywhere.

  “I thought you were really great. It’s like what I said last night, I really didn’t know how talented you were. What else are you hiding, Bree?” Eric asked as his footsteps crunched in the snow.

  The fact that I think I’m falling in love with you, I wanted to say. Of course I didn’t.

  “You were good, too.” I said quietly. “But you h
ave to know that, right?”

  Eric shrugged and kept looking straight ahead. “I feel like I don’t know anything anymore.”

  In front of me, I saw a yellowish light. I stopped in my tracks. It looked like the eyes I’d thought I’d seen last night.

  “You okay?” Eric asked over his shoulder.

  I nodded and took a few steps forward. The light disappeared. I squinted, then saw an orange square piece of plastic attached to a tree.

  “Oh, they’re reflectors!” I said out loud.

  “Huh?”

  “On the tree. Yesterday, I thought … I thought they were eyes.”

  “Man, you really do have an overactive imagination!”

  “Sometimes.” I laughed. “Sorry, I’m just not really that woodsy, I guess.”

  “Well, don’t worry. I’m here to protect you.” We walked in silence up a small incline. At the top, I saw a church spire in the distance. We were coming into town by the railroad tracks. I did a mental inventory of what was nearby. There was the tiny Italian restaurant that upperclassmen went to on dates, the fancy French fusion restaurant that people only went to when their parents were in town, the sandwich shop … nothing quite right for a non-date.

  Instead of turning right, though, toward town, Eric turned left.

  We walked across the railroad tracks near the Runnymede River and dam. This was the area of town MacHale kids didn’t usually visit, the place where the body of Sarah Charonne had been found. It wasn’t like we’d been issued a specific warning or had been told to stay away from the actual, non-touristy town of Forsyth, but every single RA, housemistress, advisor, and Things to Do handout made it clear that MacHale kids weren’t especially welcome over here. Especially now.

  “Where are we going?” I asked, walking behind him as the sidewalk ended and both of us walked on the side of the road. A dirty blue pickup truck passed us, its tires rolling into a slushy puddle and sending a spray of water on my dress. My teeth chattered. Just then, Eric turned down a side street, where grimy looking businesses were dotted among one-level homes.

  “You don’t know anything about MacHale until you’ve had pizza from here. Way better than Italian Village,” he said, naming the place nearby campus that stayed open 24/7 over exam week. Their pizzas tasted like cardboard, but that was made up for by the fact that they delivered straight to your dorm room door.

  He walked through a gravel parking lot. Rows of motorcycles were parked against the wood siding. A fluorescent sign, several of its letters burnt out, spelled out THE USTY AX. The Rusty Ax? I squinted, noticing the missing letters were a T and an R. The Trusty Ax. That made me feel a little bit better. But not much.

  “Is this a bar?” I asked uncertainly. If it was against MacHale rules to go off campus, it was certainly not okay for us to be at a bar.

  “More like a restaurant. It’s fine.” He pushed the door open and we were greeted by the scent of stale beer. This definitely wasn’t what I’d imagined, but I followed him to one of the corner booths and slid in across from him.

  A man in the far corner was fiddling with an amplifier, a guitar slung across his back. The air was both pine-scented and smoky due to a brick fireplace on the opposite side of the room.

  “Where’s Blondie?” A waitress with stringy brown hair asked as she slapped our menus down on our table. She must have meant Skye. I watched Eric’s face for a reaction.

  “Not here.” Eric shrugged. “This is another friend of mine. This is Bree.”

  “You kids doin’ that play?” she asked, noting Eric’s crumpled-up copy of Hamlet.

  “Yup,” Eric grunted.

  “My daughter went to the auditions for that. You see her? Kennedy?”

  That caught my attention. It was hard to believe that this tired-looking woman was related to the blonde girl Skye had pointed out earlier.

  “We didn’t have time to do introductions,” Eric explained.

  “Of course you didn’t. Well, I hope she did good. I hope you did, too. Now, you kids ordering food?” she asked, her pen poised over her pad.

  “Yeah. We’ll have the Godfather to split. And mozzarella sticks.”

  “How’d you find this place?” I asked, choosing the safest-seeming question as our waitress walked away.

  “Skye and I used to come here sometimes. When we wanted to get away from the rumor mill.”

  “Skye wanted to get away from the rumor mill?” I asked skeptically. I couldn’t imagine that Skye, who always craved the spotlight, would turn down a chance for people to see and talk about her.

  Eric smiled briefly.

  “Yeah. I know she can sort of be a diva. But she’s also insecure. Sometimes we’d come here so we could …” He broke off his thought, as if he’d caught himself revealing something too personal.

  “Could do what?” I asked.

  A grin flickered on Eric’s face. “We actually used to perform here. She had this idea that we’d start a band together. But she didn’t want anyone real to hear us. So we’d come here. She wanted everyone to be impressed when we performed on campus.”

  “I guess that makes sense….” I trailed off. I hated hearing about Skye and him, but I also wanted to know everything: How long they’d been together. What else they did when no one from MacHale was watching. Who broke up with whom. “Why didn’t you ever end up performing?” I asked.

  “Because we broke up.” Eric shrugged. “Or, rather, because I broke up with her. It’s just as well.” He turned away from me to watch the guitar player in the corner. The music was something I didn’t recognize, something vaguely country-sounding, all plaintive notes on the guitar and lyrics about lost love.

  “Did you guys come here a lot?” I asked.

  “Sometimes. It was kind of cool to remember that there’s more to life than MacHale. That’s what MacHale should encourage. Having us get into town and meet people. Not bringing all of the Forsyth kids on campus. I mean, I think it’s great that they’re doing the play, I just hate how the administration is turning everything into such a big deal. I mean, it’s not like the MacHale campus is that special. I think this place is much more interesting,” Eric said, gesturing to a row of guitars hanging on the wall above the corner stage.

  I imagined Skye and Eric on the tiny stage. Skye singing while Eric’s arms were wrapped around her waist. The two of them entirely in their own world, oblivious to the fact the Forsyth locals were watching them.

  I didn’t want to think about it anymore, so I turned my attention back to Eric. “Seriously, though, why were you so upset about auditions? You did great. You know you did great.”

  “I don’t like when people ask you to prove yourself, you know? I think that’s actually why things ended between Skye and me. I felt like she was always wanting me to act like the perfect boyfriend or whatever.”

  “But isn’t the whole point of acting to not be yourself?” I asked.

  “No, not really.” Eric shook his head. “I mean, I know I’m playing a character. I know that I need to follow whatever direction I’m given. But I don’t want someone to try to manipulate me into being scared, or nervous, or whatever. I don’t like that whole Let’s put you to a test thing that O’Dell did. It wasn’t necessary. Don’t you think?”

  “I guess so,” I agreed. But I’d felt the opposite. I’d loved the challenge, and I still felt the audition adrenaline running through my veins. I only wished that Eric would snap out of his mood.

  “But you know you’re Hamlet. You were the best,” I said as the waitress placed a pizza in between us. Steam wafted from the cheese, curling around the eggplant, meatball slices, and pepperoni. My stomach growled.

  “You’re just saying that so I give you the biggest slice, right?” Eric asked as he slid a large piece onto my plate.

  “Exactly,” I joked.

  My phone buzzed.

  Tristan Schuler

  Looking for @alleyesonbree for a post #audition #gossipsession tout de suite. Where are you?

>   “Ugh,” I whispered under my breath.

  “What?”

  “Tristan.”

  “Let me guess. He’s starting a rumor about us hanging out together. Am I right?”

  I shook my head, relieved I was staring down at the screen so Eric wouldn’t see me blush. “He’s just asking about auditions.”

  My thoughts turned back to the Hamlet’s Ghost Tweets. Of course that had been him. Who else could it have been?

  “Well, just so you know, I wouldn’t be mad if he did start a rumor about you and me.”

  I turned away quickly, aware that my cheeks were burning. I was afraid to glance up and look in Eric’s eyes and see the inevitable glint of laughter. After all, he had to be kidding.

  But what if he wasn’t kidding?

  I had no idea how to respond, so I stalled for time thinking of a semi-decent Tweet to Tristan.

  Briana Beland @alleyesonbree

  Just keeping an eye on the locals. Be back soon, and be good.

  I shoved my phone away. Eric’s shoulders had relaxed and he was nodding his head to the music. He turned toward me, as though he’d sensed me staring, then smiled. He likes me. The thought flitted through my brain before my self-defense mechanisms had time to squash it. Could that be what his comment meant? Why he kept talking about his breakup with Skye? I glanced around the restaurant. The four walls were covered with faded posters advertising ancient music acts. Was this going to become our place? I tried to imagine a few weeks down the line, settling into the cracked-red-vinyl booth and joking about some ridiculous thing that happened in rehearsal. My stomach flipped in anticipation. Whatever the future held, I couldn’t wait.

  “Sorry I was so emo before,” Eric said with a sigh. “The audition was just a lot different than I thought it’d be.”

  “Yeah. I mean, I guess I don’t have anything to compare it to,” I said uncertainly.

  “You’re kind of lucky. You get used to things being done a certain way. I don’t deal well with change. You’re pretty brave to just come here, not knowing anyone.”

  “I don’t think I’m brave.” I laughed, to try to make it sound like a joke. I wanted to see what he saw, because whenever I saw myself in the mirror, all I saw was a girl desperately trying to figure out who she was: Was she the artsy roomie or the peppy scene partner? The been-there-done-that bored kid in the back of the auditorium or the one who channeled everything she had and blew herself away on stage?