Under normal circumstances, I would never put myself out there without knowing what I was getting into. Just the thought of standing up in front of the whole apprentice company makes my stomach twist unpleasantly, much worse than it ever does at Family Night. But this is really, really important; half the company already knows I wasn’t cast in anything, and I need to prove to them that I belong here. Even if I fail completely, maybe they’ll respect the courage it took to get up first, especially after that story about the virtues of being injured. And if I do a really good job, it’s possible Marcus will even find a tiny role for me on the main stage.
I put my hand in the air.
Marcus zeroes in on me. His gaze makes me feel like I’m under the superbright light they shine into your mouth at the dentist. “Name?” he asks.
“Brooklyn.” My last name is on the tip of my tongue; maybe Marcus would go easier on me if he knew I was Lana’s kid. But it’s more critical now than ever that none of the other apprentices find out who my mom is.
“Stand over there,” Marcus says, gesturing to a stretch of grass in front of the trees.
I go where he’s pointing and face the group, chin up and shoulders back so nobody can tell how thoroughly freaked out I am. “A great actor never loses focus, no matter what is going on around him,” Marcus says. “Why is this?”
The redheaded girl who sneered at me earlier raises her hand. “Because you’re becoming another person, not playing a part,” she says. “Nothing can make you stop being you, no matter what happens.”
“Exactly,” Marcus thunders, and the girl flinches, even though he’s agreeing with her. “Name?”
“Pandora,” she says. I catch Zoe’s eye, and she raises her eyebrow like, Seriously?
“I’ve never heard it put better,” Marcus says, and the girl preens and blushes. “Nothing can make you stop being you—not a missing prop or a coughing audience member or a siren going off down the block. Do you understand?” We all nod. “It is time to see if Brooklyn has what it takes to be a real actor.” Marcus turns to me. “What was your audition monologue?”
“Ophelia. ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown.’ ”
“You will do your monologue now,” he tells me. “You will become Ophelia. Your surroundings, your colleagues, and I will cease to exist for you. You will not stop, no matter what happens. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
He moves to stand next to his bag. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”
I close my eyes and try to let the willows, the summer breeze, the rustling of the other apprentices fade away. I try to forget that all my new friends are watching me, ready to assess how much acting skill I really have, and that I’m so nervous, the tips of my fingers are starting to lose feeling. You are Ophelia, I tell myself. You don’t know any of these people, and you don’t care that they’re watching you. You’re not nervous at all. You’re miserable and wretched, and you’ve watched the person you love crumble to pieces right in front of you. It actually helps me feel more grounded, and I start to think maybe there’s something to this “becoming your character” thing after all. Maybe this is something I can incorporate into my performances forever.
When I feel sufficiently Ophelia-esque, I open my eyes and begin, focusing slightly above the tops of the other apprentices’ heads. “ ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ ” I say. “ ‘The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword…’ ” Shakespearean language has never felt natural to me, and the words don’t roll effortlessly off my tongue the way they did for Marcus, but I’ve practiced them enough times that I sound reasonably good.
Marcus leans over and starts rummaging through the bag at his feet. Whatever’s in there makes a squeaking sound like Styrofoam rubbing together, but I try to ignore it. Where Ophelia is, there’s no squeaking sound. “ ‘The expectancy and rose of the fair state,’ ” I continue. “ ‘The glass of fashion and the mould of form…’ ”
Something crunches against my collarbone, and I let out a little shriek as cold liquid starts dripping into my cleavage. My hand flies to my chest, and it comes away sticky and wet, sprinkled with bits of something hard and white. And just like that, I’m not Ophelia anymore. I’m Brooklyn Shepard, standing on a lawn in her favorite jeans and purple flats, gaping at the man who’s throwing eggs at her.
“What are you doing?” Marcus shouts. “Why is Ophelia touching her chest? There’s nothing on Ophelia’s chest!”
I close my eyes and struggle to regain my composure, even though I can feel the egg soaking into the cup of my bra. “ ‘The observed—’ Um, ‘the observed of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched—’ ”
Another egg explodes against my bare shoulder, and I pause to watch as the yolk slides all the way down my arm and drips off my fingers. Pandora giggles, and I begin to hate her with the fire of ten thousand suns.
“Be Ophelia, or what’s the use of saying the words?” Marcus roars. “Act, dammit!” He throws another egg at me, and this one splatters across my thigh.
“And…‘and I, of ladies most deject and—’ Um, and—wretched—” But the monologue is gone. “I’m sorry. Can I start over from—”
Marcus throws a fourth egg, and this one hits me on the side of the head. At least half the apprentice company is laughing now, and white-hot fury flares up in me. I came here to learn how to act, not to be humiliated. I know I’m supposed to trust the process, trust the man who made this festival great. Everyone thinks he’s a genius. But honestly, this is ridiculous.
I look over at Marcus—it’s no use trying to pretend he’s not there now—and try to judge the trajectory of his next egg so I can dodge it. But he’s shaking his head sadly, like I’ve failed him. “Sit down, Brooklyn,” he says. “You’re done.”
I sit back down with the other apprentices and try to pull myself together, but I’m so angry, my entire body is shaking. Zoe reaches out and squeezes my hand, and it makes me feel a tiny bit better, but not much. I send the universe visions of me smashing an entire carton of eggs over Marcus Spooner’s smug head and watching the yolk drip off his stupid beard.
He doesn’t throw eggs at everyone. While Todd does his monologue from Twelfth Night, Marcus lobs water balloons at him. He shoots rubber bands at a tiny girl named Natasha, and she shrieks like she’s having her nails ripped out. During Jessa’s performance, he sets off an air horn. He stands about two inches from Kenji’s face, blocking him from the audience. He holds Pandora’s ponytail like reins and turns her head back and forth at random intervals. During Zoe’s monologue, he blasts the “I love you, you love me” song from Barney on an eighties-style boom box while performing interpretive dance moves. I half hope she’ll crack up so it’ll feel like we’re even, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t even raise her voice over the music; she just performs quietly for the people who are close enough to hear.
Maybe I could’ve done that, too, if I’d had more time to prepare. Probably not, though.
Only four people make it all the way through their monologues. When Marcus is done torturing everyone, he heaves a world-weary sigh and slowly packs up his canvas bag. Then he says, “You all know which of your colleagues are real actors now. Watch them and learn to be better.” I expect him to explain the next exercise, maybe one that’ll teach us about focus, but instead he picks up his bag and walks away.
For a second we all sit there in silence. Then Jessa says, “That’s it?” and a few people laugh nervously, which breaks the tension. Nobody seems sure if we’re allowed to leave or not, but we all scoot toward our friends and start talking in low voices.
Zoe puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, c’mere. You’ve got shells in your hair.”
When I was eight, I got Silly Putty in my ponytail while Marisol was babysitting me. It took her nearly half an hour to pick it all out, but I sat there happily the whole time, pleased to have her undivided attenti
on. That’s exactly how I feel now as Zoe combs her fingers through my sticky hair, careful not to pull as she picks out the fragments of shell. She’s so focused on me that I become hyperaware of how I’m sitting, how loudly I’m breathing, whether I smell like egg. I’m suddenly not positive I put on deodorant this morning. When Zoe finally says, “There, you’re done,” it’s kind of a relief, but I also feel weirdly let down.
It’s been more than five minutes now, and since Marcus still isn’t back, we decide it’s probably safe to leave. As I head toward the dining hall with Zoe, Livvy, Jessa, Kenji, and Todd, I say what I’m sure everyone’s thinking: “So…that was complete bullshit, right?”
I wait for everyone to laugh and say, Oh my God, seriously! But they’re all quiet, and then Zoe says, “Well, yes and no.”
“What do you mean?”
“His execution’s definitely over-the-top, but I think Marcus’s theories are actually pretty sound,” Zoe says. “I really liked what he said about how acting is creating, not recreating.”
“He’s one crazy-ass dude, but he’s kind of brilliant,” Jessa says.
“Really? You guys thought that was a good class?” I try to sound confident, but now I kind of wish I hadn’t said anything. From now on, I’m going to wait for someone else to express an opinion first.
“I mean, I don’t think he taught us enough,” Zoe says. “It doesn’t really seem fair to point out our flaws without giving us any tools for how to correct them, you know?” It’s big of her to say “us”; according to Marcus, she doesn’t have any flaws.
“The whole thing was pretty gimmicky,” Kenji says. “The guy’s obviously supersmart, but I wish he’d show us the substance underneath the flashy stuff. I felt like he didn’t bother because we’re so low on the totem pole.”
I still don’t see why everyone thinks Marcus is so brilliant; all he did was distract us. Sutton and Twyla could do that. “What about that whole stabbing-yourself-in-the-leg thing? That was nuts, right?” I say. I want so badly to hear everyone confirm that I have the right opinion about something.
“I bet that’s not even a true story,” Kenji says. “Who even has a letter opener except, like, people from Downton Abbey? I think he was making a point about how there should be no limits on what you’re willing to do for art, you know? And obviously there are limits, but maybe he was trying to tell us to push ourselves. The whole thing was probably supposed to be a metaphor about boundaries?”
“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” Zoe says, and everyone else nods.
This never even occurred to me, and I feel really stupid. “Well, I wish he’d work on his nonmetaphorical boundaries,” I say. “I still have egg in my hair.”
Zoe shoots me a sympathetic smile. “You got the worst of it for sure. Barney is nothing compared to being egged.”
“I know he was trying to start things off with a bang, but I wish it hadn’t been you up there,” Livvy says. She probably means she’s sorry I had to suffer, but what I hear is I wish it had been someone who could’ve handled it better.
“It was really brave of you to get up first, not knowing what to expect,” Zoe says. “Marcus is going to remember that.”
The rest of my friends agree, and I try to be gracious and thank them, but now I wish I’d never started this conversation in the first place. When someone takes a blind leap into the unknown, it doesn’t necessarily mean she’s brave. Sometimes it means she doesn’t understand what she’s up against.
My first rehearsal for Señor Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders is the next evening, and just walking into the Slice is a little disorienting. It’s a regular black-box theater, except that if it were an actual box, it would be the kind two-dollar-pizza places give out to hold a single greasy slice. I can’t even tell where the audience is supposed to sit. Pandora and Natasha are chatting with a couple of other apprentices in the corner, but I have no desire to talk to them, so I head over to the circle of folding chairs at the other end of the room. There’s an upright piano pushed against one of the walls, and part of me wants to go over and play something to calm me down, but I don’t want to be that girl who starts showing off before rehearsal even starts. I’m trying to stay positive—maybe this will finally be the Allerdale experience that clicks for me and makes me love performing. But after what my mom said about the quality of the side projects here, it’s hard to be too optimistic.
“Hey,” says a voice behind me, and when I turn around, there’s Russell. “Brooklyn, right?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Wait, you’re not in this, are you?”
“Oh God, no,” he says. “Nobody wants to see me perform, trust me. I’m doing the set.”
I’m about to tell him I’m pretty sure nobody wants to see me perform, either, but I swallow the words down. “Cool,” I say. “Do you know anything about the show?”
Russell sits next to me and stretches out his legs. “Nope. I haven’t even met the director or anything. I hope he doesn’t want anything crazy, ’cause my budget’s only fifty dollars.”
“Hey, thanks for helping me with the lighting stuff the other day,” I say. “I would’ve been totally lost without you.”
“No problem. You feeling more comfortable now?”
“Maybe a little.” I haven’t done anything too stupid during a crew call in the last couple of days, but I’m pretty sure that’s because Solomon has stopped giving me jobs that require actual thought. Mostly I’ve been steadying other people’s ladders like a human sandbag. At least the other actors who are on lighting crew first rotation show up every afternoon after their rehearsals, so I’m not the only one who’s completely clueless.
“It takes a while, but you’ll get it,” Russell says.
I’m about to tell him I’ll probably be assigned to another department by the time I feel comfortable, but before I can say anything, the door bangs open, and a guy in his twenties strides in. His square glasses are askew, and his dark hair is sticking up in a giant poof like he’s been running his hands through it over and over. He looks so stressed out that if I saw him on the street, I’d assume he’d been in court all day, trying to get innocent people off death row. He plunks down in one of the folding chairs in a showily exhausted way.
“Gather round,” he calls, his hands making weary sweeps through the air, and everyone sits. “My name is Clark, and I’ll be your director for”—he pulls out a piece of paper and reads off it—“Señor Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders.”
Russell shoots me an incredulous look, and I raise an eyebrow back. If the director doesn’t even know what’s supposed to be happening in this room, that doesn’t bode well for the rest of us.
“This play is a work in progress,” Clark continues. “We’re lucky enough to have our playwright, Alberto Muñoz, here to work with us and develop the play to suit this particular cast. Alberto, raise your hand.” A skinny guy in blindingly white sneakers and slightly too-short jeans raises his hand across the circle, but he keeps his face tipped toward the floor. “Alberto will be here observing as we work together as an ensemble, and then he’ll start developing some pages for the next time we meet.”
“So…there’s no script?” asks a guy with chin-length hair.
“We’re going to develop the script together,” Clark tells him, obviously frustrated.
“But, is there, like, anything? What’s the play about?”
“It’s about a circus of wonders,” Clark snaps. He sounds bizarrely angry about it.
“But what are we working on, exactly, if there’s nothing—”
Clark cuts him off. “I need everyone to go around and say your names and your special skills.”
Nobody seems clear on what a “special skill” entails, but nobody seems to want to ask, either. Natasha says she can sing opera, tap-dance, or do both at the same time. One of the guys can do a back handspring, and another guy can bench-press a hundred and fifty pounds. The guy with the long hair says he can burp the alphabet. Pandora announces that sh
e took a pole-dancing class last year, and I file that information away to tell Zoe later. I have a feeling she’ll appreciate it.
When my turn comes, I say, “I’m Brooklyn, and I can play the piano.”
Clark nods and makes a note on his pad. “Anything else?”
If the last couple of days have proven anything, it’s that I’m not very special or skilled. I shake my head.
“Fine.” Clark looks at Russell.
“Oh, I’m not in the show,” he says. “I’m Russell. I’m your set designer.”
“But there’s not going to be a set.”
“Well, there could be one, if you want. I could make you one.”
Clark sighs heavily. “Using set pieces is insulting to the audience. If they can’t use their imaginations, they don’t deserve to be in the room. We’ll do it all with lighting.”
The girl sitting on Russell’s other side says, “We really don’t have that much lighting equipment to work with. I can try to—”
“I’m not asking you; I’m telling you,” Clark snaps, and she goes silent. He turns back to Russell. “What are your special skills? I’m sure we can use you for something.”
“Um. I also play the piano? And I’m pretty good at AutoCAD and basketball. I don’t know if those are special skills. It seems like maybe they’re regular skills?”
“Everyone, on your feet,” Clark says. “Let’s see what you guys can do.”
We scoot our chairs back against the wall and stand in a circle. Russell and the lighting designer stay against the part of the pizza slice where the crust would be and talk quietly to each other, and I kind of wish I could join them. Alberto settles himself in the point of the slice, the bite Zoe would save for last, and starts scribbling madly in his notebook even though we’re not doing anything yet.
“Let’s take some time to explore the space,” Clark says. “Touch it, notice it, pay attention to how your body feels moving through it. There’s no wrong reaction. Go.”
Look Both Ways Page 6
