“Okay, that was a great start. I can see you’ve both already thought about your characters and what they’re like. So let’s talk about the scene itself, and then we’ll work on the blocking a bit.” He sits on the table and asks, “Do you have any questions about your characters, or about what they are saying here?”
Kiefer shakes his head and looks smug, like, I’ve got it all figured out.
I do have some questions, and even though I’m a bit afraid of sounding stupid, I decide to speak up.
“When Lily promises to write, and to find Walter, does she really think she’ll be able to? I mean, he has already lost track of his brothers, and he doesn’t know where in Canada he’s going. So…does she not realize how hard it will be to keep in touch, or is she just saying that to reassure him and to persuade him to go? Or have I got it wrong?”
“You don’t have it wrong, and that’s a great question,” Stephen says, and my mood pops back up. “What’s your best guess, just based on what you’ve already learned about Lily?”
Ugh. I hate when grown-ups throw a question back at you like that. But I take a stab. “Well …a bit of both? She’s only eleven, and maybe she can’t face that they are all going to get cut off from each other. But her main goal right now is to keep Walter from getting in trouble, and I think she’ll say whatever it takes to keep him from getting caught.”
Stephen nods again. “That’s very perceptive.” Kiefer looks sour, and I admit I find that very satisfying. Ha—take that, with your fancy head shot and résumé. But then Stephen adds, “So how does that insight affect how you deliver those lines?”
Awkward silence while I try, and fail, to think of a reply. “I’m not sure,” I admit.
“And that,” says Stephen, grinning, “is why we have directors! Okay, let’s work on a few things.”
He brings some humor into the beginning of the scene by pacing back and forth (as the house mother) and having Kiefer alternate between trying to get my attention and dodging out of sight every time the house mother turns to face the doorway. “And we’ll want you to be very awkward in your girls’ clothes,” he says to Kiefer, “but that will come much more easily once you’re actually wearing them.”
Geez, it sounds like Kiefer has the part nailed down already.
“Same thing when Lily excuses herself and you two duck out of sight to talk,” he says to me. “You’re trying to focus on each other and talk, but Lily, you’re also keeping an eye out for the house mother or other staff and trying to keep Walter quiet.”
When we get to the end of the scene, Stephen turns to me. “Try thinking of this. You have to push Walter away, but you don’t want to let him go. You’re afraid your promises can’t be filled, but you want fiercely to believe they will be, so you say them with all the conviction you can muster. You know you might be saying goodbye for good, but everything is so rushed, and he’s about to get caught. Think of all that, and then just say it how you feel it.”
Wow. All of a sudden this dumb little scene seems to have so much more going on. We work through it from the start again, and this time when we get to the end, those words don’t sound stupid—they sound brave and sad, and the little choky tremor that comes into my voice isn’t even faked.
“Well done, both of you,” Stephen says. “We have some other people to see, and we’ll be in touch within the week.” Amanda comes over and hands us our parent-information sheets, and we’re out the door.
Two kids, a guy and a girl, are sitting in the waiting room as we leave. You can’t have it, I think as I pass the girl. I’m Lily.
Four
June 30. I’m sitting in the back seat of the car with Charlotte, heading to Mill Pond Farm for our first day of rehearsals. There’s a shuttle that goes to the farm every day, but Mom insisted on driving us today. I guess she wants to check out the place, make sure everything’s okay.
Char is chattering away, wondering if she’ll get to do much actual sewing and what the workspace will be like, but I’m too excited to listen very well.
It has been three long months since I got the call telling me I’d won the part. Then a package was delivered to the door—a letter, revealing that as a main character I’d be paid a “small honorarium” of $300, and a full script of Doctor Barnardo’s Children, along with instructions. I had to learn my lines by the first day of rehearsal. Which I have, but that doesn’t mean I feel prepared. The next couple of months are one big question mark, and I admit I’m pretty nervous.
We pull into the “parking lot”—really just a big mowed field—and follow the signs to the barnyard.
“Oh my,” says my mom. “I’d forgotten how lovely it is here.” I turn a slow circle, taking in the whole space. The barn itself is L-shaped, closing off two sides of the space. They’ve built on a long second-floor balcony, with stairs down to the ground, and a sort of raised deck tucked into the corner of the L that can be used as a bandstand or set element. Across the barnyard, facing the long side of the barn, are the raised bleachers where the audience will sit. The fourth side is open, looking onto a little pond with a footbridge, rolling fields and hills, and neighboring farms. The sky seems so much bigger here than it does in the city.
Amanda comes over to meet us. She shakes hands with Mom and tells me there’s a cast meeting at nine thirty. Then she turns to Char. “Charlotte, Beth is the costume manager, and she is really looking forward to meeting you. Come with me and I’ll introduce you.” Just then the shuttle bus pulls up, and about a dozen people, mostly adults, pile out.
“Hey, Ava!” I track the waving hand down to a familiar face and suddenly feel happier and more settled. It’s Will. We met in drama camp last summer, and he was really fun to hang out with. If Will is here, I’ll have a least one buddy in the cast.
I turn to my mom, who is still hanging around. “Mom, you can go home. I’m fine here. Look—it’s my friend Will.” Will grins hello to my mom.
“Well…all right. You have your phone?”
“Mom! Yes, don’t worry!” By the time she turns the car down the laneway, I’ve discovered that Will has the other “young lead” role, playing Walter’s friend Billy.
“Do you know who’s playing Walter?” Will asks.
I’m about to tell him I’m not sure when a shiny SUV pulls up the lane. Somehow I’m not surprised to see Kiefer emerge. Oh well, win some, lose some.
The cast meeting is not exactly what I expected.
Everyone is introduced, of course. There’s one other girl about my age, Kendra, who is playing Emily, “Old Walter’s” granddaughter.
Stephen tells us more about the children known as “home children.” Some were sent to the homes that Dr. Barnardo started. Others went to live with families in Canada. Some of them were treated well, but a lot of them had very hard lives. Then he says, “People shared their parents’ or grandparents’ life experiences—in some cases, very difficult experiences—with us, and their stories are actually in the script.” He wants us to always treat their stories honestly and with sensitivity. “Remember,” he says, “this is real history. And relatives of the people it happened to could be in the audience.”
No pressure, eh? I want to joke, but it’s clear this is no joking matter for him.
Then Amanda gets up, and she’s all business. She hands out a rehearsal schedule and other papers and goes over a bunch of ground rules. It’s all pretty confusing, and then we’re told to take a break and reconvene at the “backstage lounge” at eleven.
I’m wondering how to pass the time when Will grabs my arm. “C’mon, let’s explore!” He’s practically bouncing out of his red Converses, grinning from ear to ear. “Man, this is going to be a great summer!”
I can’t help but laugh. “Could you show a little enthusiasm?”
The backstage lounge is a bunch of old couches and armchairs arranged in a rough square in one corner of the barn. It also has a little kitchen area, which Amanda says we can use to prepare the lunches we’ll have to
bring for ourselves every day. When Will and I get there, Kiefer and Kendra have already claimed the two newest-looking chairs.
Amanda spends a long, boring time going over our schedules. Then she says, “Okay, enough of that. WARM-UP! ” I jump at her sudden shout.
She gets us up and makes us run on the spot and do jumping jacks. She shouts out different animal names and makes us do animal calls (Kiefer looks really unhappy at this point). Then she moves us into a circle and pulls out a ball. We play this memory game where you recite a list of items and then throw the ball to someone else, who has to come up with a new item and then recite it all. It’s corny, but it works. By the end of it we’re all laughing and way more relaxed.
Kiefer, though. I know we have to be a team, and I’m trying. But there is something about him that just rubs me the wrong way. He thinks he’s better than us—I’m convinced of it—and that scorn keeps oozing out of him.
Lunch is a chance to relax and hang out together. All the kids sit on the grass—the four of us, plus Charlotte and some other teen volunteers—and we’re getting along great until Kiefer turns to Will and says, “It’s weird, eh, that they cast you for this role? You must have been surprised.”
“Why? Will’s a great actor.” I shouldn’t butt in, but I can’t help it. I guess I’m kind of mouthy that way.
“Yeah, but…” Kiefer eyes Will again. “You don’t exactly look like you’re from Jolly Old England.”
My hackles rise. As I learned in drama camp last year, Will’s mom is Ojibwe. Kiefer is obviously making a reference to Will’s darker coloring.
“But you do.” Will’s voice is calm, even amused. I sit back, realizing he’s more than able to take on Kiefer’s nonsense. “You’re going to look like a lobster by opening night, after a month of rehearsing in the sun.”
Kiefer scowls but says nothing. Good.
I thought we would do the first read-through sitting around a table, but instead Stephen has us do it out in the barnyard. “For those of you new to outdoor theater,” he says, “it’s best to get a taste of it right from the start. That way you understand why we push volume so much during rehearsal. But don’t worry—Mel will work with you if you’re having trouble projecting your voice.”
I’m already nervous, reading with all these adult actors, and it feels like the air is swallowing up my voice. Will, on the other hand, has a huge voice. It seems to carry for miles, even when he’s talking normally. “My grade-two teacher was always telling me to use my ‘indoor voice,’” he jokes. “She didn’t seem to believe me when I told her I was!”
But I do know my lines, and as we work our way through the script I start to feel more confident. I get a better a sense of the other actors and characters. Gary, playing Dr. Barnardo, seems really nice. He’s funny and takes the time to make us feel part of things.
Will has to check his script a few times, but it’s clear he’s a great choice for the cheerful, optimistic Billy, who is always joking around and looking on the bright side.
Kiefer tries to show off with an English accent. To my delight (I know—I’m a bad person!), Stephen immediately asks him not to. He is kind about it though. “It’s a good idea, but there are too many issues with region and class, and it’s too difficult to get a whole cast consistently doing decent accents.”
After the read-through, Stephen gives us some general notes about the different characters. I’m getting bored and starting to zone out when he turns to me.
“Lily. I think the early Lily will come along quite easily to you, Ava—you’ve already made a great start on your own. Lily is dutiful but spirited, trying bravely to hold the family together, but too young for the job. We have to keep that idea that she’s really just a child, no matter what she says.” I nod.
“The big challenge in this role,” says Stephen, “is later on, in the scene with her foster family and Dr. Barnardo. The audience has to really feel her suffering, and how she’s been silenced by the reverend and Mrs. Talmadge. She is silently begging Dr. Barnardo to notice and rescue her, because apart from him she is completely alone. But when she realizes he won’t be helping her…” He nods. “Yes. It’s a key scene.”
He moves on to Young Walter and Old Walter, and discusses how they can make the bridge from the boy Kiefer plays to the rough-edged, cranky old man played by his adult counterpart. I’m not listening though. I’m thinking about Lily’s key scene and feeling a bit overwhelmed. The truth is, I don’t get why Lily is so timid. But that’s what rehearsal’s for…I hope.
Five
It’s amazing how fast we settle into a routine. We do warm-ups, we work scenes with Stephen or Amanda, we have lunch, we work some more. There’s also a lot of waiting. On our downtime we hang out backstage or go on little hikes around the property or spread a blanket out in the field and relax. Poor Kendra is in completely different scenes from the rest of us, so she spends a lot of her time off on her own. I have a fair bit of time alone too—I’m trying not to be disappointed that the “kid” part of the play is mostly about Walter and Billy, and not so much about Lily. Sometimes I watch the other actors work. I figure I can learn a lot, and understand the play better, from watching the more experienced actors in action, but honestly a lot of the time it’s pretty boring. I make a mental note to start bringing a book with me or, better yet, see if I can lay claim to the family iPad.
On Thursday I’m sent to see Beth about my costume.
When I arrive, Charlotte greets me with, “Welcome to my domain.” The farmhouse living room and dining room have been converted into a sewing/fitting room and a giant closet holding all the costumes from past plays.
“Our domain,” Beth corrects from behind her. Charlotte flushes, but I can see from Beth’s grin that she is joking.
“You better watch out. Char’s pushy that way,” I warn. “Always trying to take over.”
“She will one day,” says Beth cheerfully. The word jolly jumps into my head. I’ve never met anyone who looks as jolly as Beth. “This girl has talent—I can already tell.” She raises her hands to frame an imaginary sign. “Charlotte Lee, costumer to the stars.”
Char looks even more embarrassed, but pleased.
Beth asks for my sizes, top, pants and shoes, and then gets out a tape measure. She starts calling out numbers to Charlotte, who writes them down on a sheet. There’s a running commentary too, punctuated with Beth’s cackling laughter. It bubbles out of her as easily as breath, it seems.
“Where’s the rest of you?” she jokes as she measures my waist. Cascades of laughter. “Of course, you’re still growing.” She put her hands on her ample hips. “Still, I don’t believe I was ever that slim, even as a child. But what the heck?” More laughter. “I’m a whole lotta woman, that’s what!”
Beth is larger than life and loves color. She sports a long, flowing purple top over caprilength red leggings. Long loops of mauve beads hang around her neck and clatter as she works. On her feet are bright-pink Crocs. I kid you not.
Beth is as opposite to Charlotte as it’s possible to get, and it’s clear to me that Charlotte—quiet, neat, efficient Charlotte—adores her.
“Right, off you go.” Beth shoos me out the door. “Charlotte and I will cook up something for Miss Lily to wear and call you back for a fitting when we’re ready.”
It’s Tuesday of week two, and I’m staying with Charlotte and her mom. My family has gone camping.
It’s fun being at Char’s apartment, but whenever I’m at the farm, a knot of panic keeps growing inside me. I keep trying to push it down, but it pushes back up. Kiefer and Will are doing so well, and I…well, for one thing, I’m having trouble with my voice.
I must not be hiding it as well as I thought, because after our vocal warm-up Mel asks me to hang back.
“You seem frustrated, Ava. Is something wrong?” Mel is intense, and when she trains her eyes on me, there is no evading them. I squirm a bit. Sigh. Mumble.
“It’s just…I feel like I’m yelli
ng. To be loud enough, I have to yell. And that’s not going to work in my last two scenes.”
She shakes her head. “You’re doing fine. Remember, we’re training muscles here—your vocal muscles. It takes time. By opening night, you’ll be ready.”
“But Will—”
She cuts me off. “You cannot compare yourself to Will. Or to the professional actors, for that matter. Will is a special case—hardly anyone is born with a set of pipes like that. Everyone else has to go through what you are doing now. Trust me.”
I’m not convinced, and Mel knows it.
“I tell you what. Let it go for a week. Do your warm-ups, remember what we’ve talked about—full breaths, loose throat, sending your voice beyond the back of the bleachers—but stop worrying about it. We’ll get together on Monday or Tuesday, and if you aren’t feeling more confident by then, I’ll schedule some private coaching sessions.” She elbows me gently in the ribs. “But you won’t need them.”
“Okay.” Forgetting about it seems like dumb advice to me. But her promise of help if I need it does make me feel better. “Thanks.”
I run off to the mini stage where we often do the early work on scenes. Today will be the first try at Lily’s visit from Dr. Barnardo. My stomach is full of butterflies. This, I realize, is what I’m really worried about.
Six
It’s crazy how much trouble I’m having with a scene where I hardly even have any lines. The whole thing goes by so fast, yet somehow I’m supposed to burst into tears partway through.
So here’s the gist. Lily is now thirteen or fourteen. Dr. Barnardo is visiting Canada, and he comes to check on Lily. She’s been placed with a reverend and his wife in some tiny village out in the country. The reverend seems nice enough, but it’s pretty obvious that the wife is mean, complaining about how much Lily eats and not wanting to let her take music lessons. Then Dr. Barnardo asks to speak to Lily. They seem a bit reluctant, but they call her down.
Casting Lily Page 2
