I’m lucky, in a way. Though we keep practicing everything we’ve done so far, this week I’m mostly working on my last scene. I’m writing a letter to Walter, telling him about my life with the Talmadges and how much I miss him. It’s my biggest scene—and scary in some ways. I’m all alone on the stage, I have a ton of lines, and I have to convey the emotion in them while pretending to write them. The lucky part? I sit down in the shade through the whole thing and hardly have to move.
After one of my run-throughs Mel comes over and nudges me. “See? I told you it would work out.”
“What? Oh.” I’ve been so busy worrying about the scene, and surviving the weather, that I’ve forgotten about my voice. “Is it okay?”
“It’s fine. In this heat, everyone gets quieter—too much effort to project.” She laughs. “Except your friend Will, of course. That boy is a wonder. Only one I ever met who has to work not to be too loud out here!”
What about me? I want to say. But she’s getting there. “You haven’t lost any volume at all, which means your voice is already louder. So, no worries, all right?”
On our first day working in costume, it’s a little cooler—thank goodness, because those people wore a lot of clothes! Long sleeves and high necks and heavy stockings. It’s even worse for the guys with their jackets and vests layered over everything else. Everyone looks so different, and all of a sudden it feels like we really are in another century. The funny, formal way of talking some of the characters have seems more natural when it matches what they’re wearing, and the women move differently in their long skirts and tight collars.
Beth and Charlotte hover around, adjusting here and there and making notes, and we start organizing our costume changes. I’ve never had to do a costume change in a play before—I have one raggy outfit for my first scene, then a kind of uniform dress in the Barnardo home, and then I layer an apron overtop of that for the scenes at the Talmadges’. Some of the actors are playing multiple characters and will be madly stripping down and redressing all through the show. So there’s a lot to figure out about where exactly each outfit will be, who will need help to be ready on time and whether any of the costumes need to be altered so they are easier to get in and out of.
In the afternoon we do our first tech run, nailing scene changes into place and figuring out everyone’s entrances and exits. The stage manager makes notes about prop placement and who does what where.
Two hours in, Will groans into my ear. “This is sooo boring!” He’s right. It really is. We’re in the first row of bleachers, where we can be out of the way but ready for our scenes. The whole cast is either in the seats or standing around on the periphery of the stage. Ron is doing a crossword puzzle. Lots of people are bent over their phones.
Will gets called in for a scene he does with some of the younger kids. They’ve been fidgety and whiny, despite the child-minder's efforts to keep them happy. Now they are practicing a scene where they have to lie hidden out in the field for quite a while. Then, on cue, they start singing a hymn, get up and walk down the path through the high grass and onto the stage. They do it a few times, only to be stopped, sent back to a spot closer or farther away and then asked to do it again. I’m not part of that scene, so I can see what a cool effect it is, having first the music and then these kids appear out of nowhere, but both the waiting around and the fussy repetitions are getting to me too.
Kiefer flops into the chair beside us.
“What a waste of time,” he mutters. “Sitting around all day instead of practicing.”
I do a mental eye roll.
Kendra leans over from the row behind us. “Better not let the stagehands hear you saying that. You might find yourself stuck in the dress, with your regular costume mysteriously lost.”
I snigger, imagining it, and then reality hits. We have only one more week of rehearsals, and then we open. Will we be ready? Will I be ready?
Nine
“C’mon, Mom, it’s a cast party! Of course I’m supposed to be there!”
My family is back from their camping trip, and I’m (mostly) glad to be home too. Char’s mom is really nice, and it was fine staying there for a while, but I feel more myself at home, you know? For one thing, Char and her mom are both really quiet, orderly people, and their apartment is …well, very quiet and orderly. Compared to them, I am this big, loud, messy, sprawling person. I really tried not to strew my stuff all over Charlotte’s room, but it was hard, especially with our scramble to get ready and out the door every morning. Now I can leave my clothes lying around on the floor where they belong (haha) and help myself from the fridge whenever I want. It’s even kind of nice to be joking around and fighting with my bratty brother, Brandon.
But the parental oversight? Ugh.
The July play, Dancehall Darlings, is closing Saturday, and there’s a cast party afterward. The play is sold out, but we can watch it sitting on the grass beside the bleachers. Everyone over the age of twelve is invited to the party. Of course I really want to go, and I want to stay until the last shuttle at midnight. But I’m normally supposed to be home by ten. I try again to explain.
“The party is after the play, so it won’t even start till around ten. And we have the day off tomorrow, so I can sleep in!” All that’s happening on Sunday is some setup for our play. Then we rehearse solidly, in costume, Monday through Wednesday. Dress rehearsal’s Thursday morning, with a preview performance Thursday night.
Mom frowns. “It’s an adult party, Ava. There’s going to be drinking.”
I fight back an eye roll. “Trust me. Stephen and Amanda will not be giving the kids booze.” I am sure this is true. They treat us like adults when it comes to acting, but they also keep a close eye on us. I'm not so sure about the other adult cast members, but I keep that to myself.
And then…sweet victory. “Okay, we’ll meet you at the shuttle drop-off then.” Before I can go all giddy on her, Mom sighs and pins me with her most serious face. “But. You will call me at ten thirty, and you will answer all my questions, and if I want to talk to Stephen at that point, you will find him so I can.”
I’m nodding. Okayokayokay.
“I mean it, Ava. Set a reminder on your phone, because if you don’t call, we are getting in the car and coming down there to bring you home. I’m not thrilled to be staying up past midnight, so it won’t take much to change my mind.”
Dancehall Darlings is a musical. It’s clever and fun to watch, the lead actors are crazy good, and the audience loves it—there’s lots of laughter and a standing ovation at the end. I can’t help wondering if our slower, more serious play will get as good a response.
The audience shuffles out, and the set is replaced by tables loaded with food. The actors reappear in their own clothes, and after everyone gets a plate of food and a drink, Stephen stands up and gives a speech thanking everyone. Then the party starts.
The barnyard is crammed with people eating, talking and laughing. Kiefer has marched over and plopped himself down in the midst of the Dancehall leads. They are mostly from Toronto and all have impressive theater bios. I marvel at his nerve—and kind of admire it. I stick pretty close to my friends and the other kids.
Besides Will and Kendra and Char, there’s a small army of volunteers I’m just getting to know—Tiegan and Josh, who are stagehands, Melissa, who works at the concession stand, Finn, who helps with makeup and hair, and a few more. It’s fun to be hanging out all together for once.
There’s a fire pit behind the farmhouse, and before long some of the guys are dragging coolers over there and lighting the fire. We’re just heading over when Charlotte tugs at my elbow.
“I’m heading back now.”
“What?” I stare at her. “Why?” It’s barely ten o’clock.
“My mom and I head out to that cottage tomorrow morning. I have to pack. So I’ll see you in a week.” Charlotte’s mom has insisted that their family vacation time requires Charlotte’s presence. In fairness, I guess it’s not a “fami
ly” vacation if only one person goes.
“Yeah, see ya.” The costumes are all made, and the assistant from Dancehall is helping Beth with costume changes and adjustments, so there won’t be any problem with Charlotte being away. Still, it will be strange to be here without her.
At the campfire, I feel less like a little kid who snuck into an adult event and more like I belong. Guitars come out, and a mandolin—there are a lot of good musicians in the Dancehall cast, and we have some of our own. There are a lot of songs I don’t know, but a few that I do. Will seems to know tons of songs and bellows them out with his usual enthusiasm. It’s a good thing he can actually carry a tune. I’m not at all self-conscious about joining in, because I’m sitting beside Will and he’s totally drowning me out.
Between songs there are lots of stories of funny things that happened during the run. Will gets a star turn recounting the wasp attack. He manages to turn it into a hilarious slapstick comedy, with him climbing up on some old bucket to reach the top stool and then tumbling down, with the chair clutched as a shield, when the wasps started pouring out. He ends the story with Kiefer’s demanding, So why didn’t you get the stool?!
I get laughing so hard I’m suddenly in danger of peeing my pants. Three cans of pop and a laugh attack add up to trouble.
“I’m going for a pee,” I say to Kendra as I get up.
“Do you want a flashlight?” She’s rummaging in her purse.
“No, I’m fine. I know the way.” There are solar lights along the path to the house, and a couple of spotlights out front. It’s not until I round the corner, where the row of portable toilets is screened by a tall lilac hedge, that the dark descends.
I grope my way to the first door and step up into it. The door bangs shut behind me, sealing me in a pitch-black, evil-smelling cell. Ugh—the toilets are at their worst at the end of the night, after pretty much the entire audience has used them. I have to feel my way to the seat, praying no one has peed on it. I do my business quickly, trying not to breathe and keeping the door open a crack with my foot. Then I burst out into the fresh air.
There’s a little step from the floor to the ground, and I just have time to remember this as I half fall out the door. My arms pinwheel as I lurch across the grass, trying to regain my balance. Then my toe catches on something, and I pitch headlong through the air. My hands fly up by themselves to catch me before I land on the gravel path. As my left hand hits, it twists into one of the little gullies the rain has carved into the path. Searing pain shoots up my arm, from the heel of my hand to my elbow. I roll heavily onto my back, cradling my arm. Tears are running down my face, and it’s like I’m only just hearing the shriek I made when I hit the ground.
“Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod…” I’m afraid I’m really hurt, and I’m alone in the dark, and the pain is so bad it’s making me want to throw up. I try to sit up, but just letting go of my hurt arm sends a wave of pain right into my guts, and I do retch.
“Ava?” I see a flashlight beam waving in the darkness, and then I hear Will’s voice again.
“Ava! Are you okay?” He rushes up to me. I’m crying, and I want to choke back my tears and put on my big-girl face, but I can’t. “Geez, what happened?”
“I hurt my arm…Will, it really hurts. Can you help me sit up?”
He takes hold of my good arm under the elbow—because I can’t make myself let go of my wrist—gets another arm around my ribs and somehow gets me upright. He peers at me. “Amanda was worried that you didn’t have a flashlight and sent me after you. Did you trip in the dark?”
I shake my head. “I fell out of the toilet.” I hear how that sounds and start giggling despite myself, and Will laughs too, but then I get jostled, and a new wave of pain puts an end to that.
“Are you okay for a few more minutes?” Will asks. “I’ll go get Stephen—that looks like it might be serious.” He puts the flashlight in my lap—“So nobody runs over you, haha”—and disappears into the dark.
I sit there in the grass, which is turning wet, in the night, which is turning cool, shivering and trying not to think the only thought in my head.
What if my arm is broken?
Ten
Stephen brings his car around, and Will helps him load me into the car. He surprises me by jumping in the back seat.
“It’s okay, Will, you can go back to the party,” says Stephen.
“No way. I’m going. Ava should have a friend with her.” I feel this gush of gratitude—I wouldn’t have asked him, but I am so glad to have him with me.
“Thanks, Will.” My voice sounds weird—small and scared. It makes me feel more scared to hear it. I clamp my lips together.
“Do you have a phone with you?” asks Stephen. “You can call Ava’s parents while I drive. Let her know we’re taking her to Emerg.” He flashes me a smile. “Hopefully, it’s just a sprain. They can hurt like the devil, but get a proper bandage on it and it feels a lot better. A young sprout like you will heal up in no time.” I know he must be thinking furiously about what to do if I can’t be in the play—no, I’m not going to think about that! I stare straight ahead, cradling my arm and concentrating on not crying.
Will snakes his hand over my backrest and squeezes my shoulder. “Almost there.” I nod. His hand is warm on my bare shoulder, and I realize I’m chilled and shivering.
I guess he notices too. He pulls his hand away and I want to grab it back, but of course I can’t. I hear his seat belt unclip and squirmy movements, and then he’s leaning forward and carefully draping his plaid shirt over me. And the pleasantly distracting thought comes to me. Will really is a sweet guy.
It’s one thirty in the morning, and I am finally going home—in a cast. My arm feels tight and hot under the plaster, and my wrist throbs steadily. I’m exhausted, but there is no way I’ll be able to sleep. My whole summer has been ruined, and there’s no understudy for Lily, so someone will have to stand in for me, reading from the script, and it will suck, and it’s my fault.
Mom arrived at the hospital about thirty seconds after we did and shooed Stephen and Will away. I was glad, because by then I really needed to cry and didn’t want to be a baby in front of them. Now she bundles me into bed with a cushion under my arm and gives me one of the pain pills the doctor prescribed. “What you need now is sleep,” she says firmly. “In the morning we can take stock.”
The doctor who set my arm couldn’t understand why I was so upset. “It’s just a greenstick fracture,” she said, trying to reassure me. “Not even broken all the way through. You’ll heal up beautifully. A few weeks in a cast, and you’ll be right as rain.” A few weeks. It might just as well be a few years.
I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the throb of my wrist. It just says one thing, over and over.
Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.
I wake up with a start in the morning. First I feel the unfamiliar drag of the cast as I try to turn over. Then all the sore places in my body wake up and yell at me. I groan and take stock. The palms of my hands are scraped and stinging, my shoulder aches, a spot on my hip feels rubbed raw. My broken arm, though, feels surprisingly good. I lift it experimentally and it gives a little throb of protest, but nothing like last night.
It’s not much consolation. Better or not, I’m still out of the play.
“Breakfast or lunch?” Mom asks when I finally get up and show myself in the kitchen. I’m surprised to see it’s almost noon—it didn’t seem like I slept much at all.
“Breakfast.” I’m starving, but I also have a jumpy, upset stomach. Breakfast food will go down easier.
Mom gives me another painkiller with my juice, and I spend most of the afternoon sleeping or just sitting around, feeling sorry for myself and guilty for screwing up the play. The phone rings at about three, and I hear my dad say, “Oh hi, Stephen…yes, a minor break.” He snakes his head around the door, gestures at the phone and raises his eyebrows in a question. I shake my head frantically. NO! I can’t face talki
ng to Stephen right now.
“Asleep now, I’m afraid, but she’s doing fine… yes, yes, I’ll tell her. Of course…and thanks for calling.”
Dad comes into the family room, where I’m staring at but not actually reading Brandon’s comics. “Stephen wants to talk to you when you’re able. He said he’ll call this evening.”
I nod miserably.
Dinner brings more fun. Brandon has been at a friend’s all day. Now he can hardly eat his dinner for laughing at the fact that I hurt myself coming out of a toilet. “Can I sign your cast?” he begs. “I’ll draw a toilet bowl with my name shooting out of it!” He chews, kind of, swallows and launches in again. “No, better, I’ll draw teeth around the toilet seat, like the sarlaac in the Great Pit of Carkoon!”
“Haha.” It’s hard to eat with just one hand, and I hate needing to have my food cut up for me. Dad says I’ll be able to use my left hand a bit once the swelling goes down, but right now I basically have a big heavy club hanging off my elbow, so it’s hard to picture.
Mom intervenes—finally. “That’s enough, Brandon. If you’re done your dinner, clear your plate and go hang out your swimsuit and towel on the line. You just dumped them on the deck.”
A phone rings—mine this time, from inside my purse. “It’s likely Stephen,” Dad says. “I gave him your number. You need to talk to him this time, Ava.”
I get to the phone just in time and am heading to my room as I answer. Don’t cry, I order myself. Just. Don’t. Cry.
Eleven
Monday morning, four days until opening night. I’m at the farm, but I wish I wasn’t. It just makes me feel worse to be here. But Stephen asked me to come in for a meeting if I felt well enough. I guess he wants to organize passing my part on to someone else.
Casting Lily Page 4
