by Leisa Rayven
Erika nods. “You don’t think you’re a collaborator in that work? That your character choices add something to the original vision?”
“Well, yes. But only if my choices don’t suck.”
People laugh.
Holt scoffs.
“Mr. Holt? Your thoughts?”
He leans back in his chair. “We’re actors because we want attention. We’re standing around saying someone else’s words and trying not to screw up.”
Erika smiles. “So, you don’t think there’s anything artistic in what you do?”
He shrugs. “Not particularly.”
“What about a musician, interpreting someone else’s music? Do you consider them artistic?”
“Well, yeah …”
“And a visual artist? A painter who interprets images through their brushes? Artistic?”
“Of course.”
“But not actors.”
“Not really. We’re parrots, aren’t we? We learn lines and repeat them.”
“So then,” she says, “if you don’t think acting is a creative endeavor, why do it, Mr. Holt? Why act? If you’re merely a puppet and have no personal investment in what you’re performing, why dedicate yourself to it for three years of your life? Surely you can find something you’re more passionate about.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t passionate. I just think we’re fooling ourselves if we think it’s difficult.”
“Perhaps it’s not difficult to you. But to most people, getting on stage in front of hundreds or thousands of people would be impossible.”
He laughs.
“Mr. Holt,” Erika says patiently, “did you know that in a recent survey, almost ninety percent of participants said they would rather run into a burning building than get up and speak in front of a large group of people?”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“Not when you look at people’s top ten fears, with ‘fear of public speaking’ at number two. Other items on the list relevant to acting are ‘fear of failure,’ ‘fear of rejection,’ ‘fear of commitment,’ and ‘fear of intimacy.’”
“Coincidentally,” Jack says, “they are all the exact reasons Holt doesn’t have a girlfriend.”
Holt shoots him a glare. “Running into a burning building takes a hell of a lot more courage than getting rejected or being intimate.”
Erika looks at him like a spider studying a fly. “More courage, you say?”
He nods, not realizing he’s about to get eaten.
“I think it’s more accurate to say that it’s a different type of courage, and that the choices you make decide the depth of that courage.”
Holt doesn’t look convinced. Erika studies him again. “Hmmmm.”
He rolls his eyes. He hates that contemplative sound.
Erika walks to the front of the room and writes words on the whiteboard.
“Mr. Holt?” she says and gestures for him to stand next to her. He unfolds himself from his seat and does as she asks.
“Could you kindly read the two words on the board?”
“‘I’m sorry.’”
“Okay,” says Erika. “I’m the playwright. Those are my words. What’s my intention?”
Holt shrugs. “You tell me.”
“No, Mr. Holt, that’s not my job. As a playwright, it’s my job to give you words. As an actor, it’s your job to interpret them. So …”
She gestures at him to repeat his line reading.
He puts his hand to his ear and pretends he didn’t hear her. “‘I’m sorry?’”
She nods. “See? You made a choice. A very safe, boring choice, but a choice nonetheless.”
“But it’s not always up to the actor to make the choice,” he argues.
“True,” Erika says. “Directors often push actors to make bolder, riskier choices, so let’s explore that.” She walks to the other side of him and crosses her arms. “This time I want you to say it like you’re speaking to someone important to you. A family member or lover.”
A dark shadow passes over Holt’s face. “What am I supposed to be apologizing for?”
“You tell me,” Erika says with a smile.
He exhales and rubs his hand over his face. “Just tell me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
“No, that’s not how it works. Your job is to create something—an idea, an emotion—within the parameters I give you. The parameters are those two words being said to someone who means something to you. You have your instructions. What are you going to do with them?”
He looks around the room, restless and uncomfortable.
“Mr. Holt?”
“I’m thinking,” he snaps.
“About what?”
“Who I’m apologizing to.”
“Who’s it going to be?”
He glances at me briefly before saying, “A friend.”
“And what are you apologizing for?”
He stops fidgeting. “Why do you have to know that? Does it matter?”
She shakes her head and gestures for him to begin. “Not at all. Whenever you’re ready.”
He closes his eyes and draws in a huge lungful of air before releasing it in a long, steady exhale. There’s a sense of expectation in the room.
When he opens his eyes, he picks a point at the back of the room and focuses on it. His face changes. It’s softer. Contrite.
“I’m sorry,” he says, but it’s still not sincere.
“Not good enough,” Erika says. “Try again.”
He stays focused on the same point as his face twitches.
“I’m sorry,” he says again, but he’s resisting the emotion.
“Dig deeper, Mr. Holt,” Erika urges. “You’re capable of more. Give it to me.”
He blinks and shakes his head, and his eyes are getting glassier by the second. “I’m sorry!”
His voice is getting louder, but he’s still protecting himself. Spark without flame.
“That’s not enough, Ethan!” Erika says, her voice rising with his. “Stop fighting the emotion. Let us see it. All of it. No matter how messy it is.”
He swallows and clenches his jaw. His hands curl into fists as he moves from one foot to the other.
He stays silent.
“Mr. Holt?”
He blinks a few more times then drops his gaze to the floor.
“No,” he whispers. “I … can’t.”
“Too personal?”
He nods.
“Too vulnerable?”
He nods again.
“Too … frightening?”
He glares at her. He doesn’t need to answer.
“Sit down, Mr. Holt.”
He strides over to his chair and sits heavily.
“So, would you like to change your opinion that acting is easy and doesn’t require courage?” Erika asks softly.
He swallows hard. “Obviously.”
Erika looks around at the rest of us. “Acting deals with delicate emotions. Finding them within ourselves and letting them out for others to see. But in order to do that, the actor has to be willing to show parts of himself he’s ashamed of. He has to have the courage to give light to every terrifying insecurity and shameful regret. Nothing can be hidden. Contrary to popular belief, it’s not about eliciting a response from the audience. It’s about manifesting something from within yourself and letting the audience witness it.”
She gestures to Holt, who’s looking at the floor and chewing his fingernail.
“What happened to Mr. Holt today will happen to all of you at some point. There’ll be times when you think you can’t portray a character or emotion because it’s too frightening or personal. But it’s your job to find the courage to let others see your vulnerability. That’s what makes a good actor. In Kafka’s wonderful words, you have the power of ‘melting the ice within, of awakening dormant cells, of making us more fully alive, more fully human, at once more individual and more connected to each other.’ That’s why we do what we do.”
Her words resonate with me. I look at Holt. He’s staring at the floor, shoulders slumped. He knows she’s right, and it scares the hell out of him.
“Now,” Erika says as she walks to her desk and picks up a piece of paper, “you all auditioned for our first-year theater production, a little-known play called Romeo and Juliet …” Everyone laughs. “And I’m happy to say that casting has been completed.”
We all sit up straighter as excitement ripples around the room.
I thought my audition went well, and despite my lack of experience, I want this role. So much.
Erika starts by reading out the minor characters. There are murmurs and curses and some squeals of delight, but as we get to the leading roles, the whole room falls silent.
“The role of Tybalt goes to … Lucas.”
Lucas woots loudly and pumps his fist in the air. I can see him playing Tybalt, high as a kite and slightly unhinged.
“Benvolio will be played by … Mr. Avery.”
Jack nods and smugly says, “That’s right. Badass Benvolio in da house.”
There are laughs and cheers.
“The nurse will be played by Miss Sediki.”
There’s a round of applause, and Aiyah looks like she’s going to cry.
She announces Miranda, Troy, Mariska, and Tyler will play the parental Capulets and Montagues. Then it’s time to reveal the lead roles.
My mouth goes dry and my stomach acid churns. I close my eyes as I chant silent entreaties.
Erika clears her throat.
“Our Juliet”—God, please, please, please, please—“is Miss Taylor.”
Yes!
My stomach soars as my heart pounds. I don’t think I’ve ever been so happy.
Everyone applauds and my chest feels like it’s going to explode with pride.
I’m Juliet.
Me.
The no one from nowhere with no experience.
Hell, yes!
I glance at Holt. He’s not looking at me, but he’s smiling. Probably thinking “I told you so” and giving himself credit for making me audition.
“Finally,” Erika says, looking around the room, “casting the two male roles caused a heated discussion among the audition panel, but I think we’ve made the right decision. It’s not an obvious casting choice, but then, sometimes they’re the most interesting.”
Holt sits up in his chair. I know he wants Mercutio. He’s done the role before, and from what I hear, he nailed it.
Connor would be perfect for Romeo, and I think he and I would work well together. He looks over at me and holds up his crossed fingers.
“In this year’s production, Mercutio will be played by Mr. Baine. The role of Romeo goes to Mr. Holt.”
The class applauds, but I don’t join them.
I feel like a lead weight has dropped into my stomach.
By the looks on their faces, Holt and Connor feel the same way.
All three of us stare at one another, not sure what the hell just happened.
Erika claps to signal the end of the lesson.
“That’s it, everyone. If you didn’t receive a role, then you’ll be in the chorus. Don’t worry, you’ll still have plenty to do. Please pick up a script and a rehearsal schedule before you leave.”
People congratulate me on their way out, but I barely hear them.
Connor comes over and gives me a hug.
“Congrats,” he says warmly. “You’ll be an amazing Juliet, I have no doubt.”
“I wanted you to be Romeo,” I say, aware that Holt hasn’t moved from his chair.
“That would have been nice,” he says, “but I’m not gonna lie, Mercutio is a kick-ass role. I mean, ‘a plague on both your houses'? Doesn’t get much better than that.”
When he leaves, I walk in a daze to Erika’s desk to pick up a script.
It has my name on it next to the character name—Juliet. I see the only other script left there. Romeo—Ethan Holt.
No.
No.
No.
“Miss Taylor? Are you all right?”
I try not to show how sick I feel. “Uh … yeah. Fine.”
She smiles. “I would have thought you’d be happier about getting your first leading role. It’s one of the classics. Very few actresses will ever get to play Juliet.”
“Oh, I know,” I say. “God, I’m thrilled. Really. I just …”
Erika looks at me expectantly.
“She doesn’t want me as her Romeo,” Holt says as he comes and stands beside me. “And quite frankly, that makes two of us. You knew I wanted Mercutio. And you knew how much I fucking hated Romeo. What is this bullshit?”
“In the immortal words of the Rolling Stones, Mr. Holt, you can’t always get what you want. You wanted Mercutio because you’ve done the role before, and you’d be comfortable doing it again. Being an actor isn’t about being comfortable. It’s about challenging yourself. I know you hate Romeo, and that’s one of the reasons you were cast. You’re not the typical romantic hero. You’re brash and cynical and sometimes, downright rude. You have an edge I think Romeo needs. Likewise, Mr. Baine has a sensitivity that will make him a sympathetic Mercutio. Believe me, I didn’t make this decision lightly. I knew you’d be resistant, and considering I have to direct you, I just made my job a whole lot harder. I happen to think if I can draw the performance out of you I believe you’re capable of, it’ll be worth it.”
Holt glares at her and crosses his arms over his chest.
“What if I refuse to do it?” he asks. “Because even if it was possible for me to comprehend playing such a pussified dipshit, which I can’t, I highly doubt Taylor here would be thrilled about me doing it.”
Erika looks at me questioningly.
“It’s true,” I say. “He’s an asshole.”
Erika places her hands on the desk and hangs her head.
“And what do you suggest? That you play Mercutio and Mr. Baine plays Romeo?”
“Yes!” Holt says. “He’d be great at the lame-ass lovey-dovey stuff. I could just die loudly and call it a night. Everyone wins.”
“No, they don’t, Mr. Holt, because you’ll have achieved nothing in your development as an actor, and I’ll miss out on exploiting the remarkable chemistry I witnessed between you and Miss Taylor at the auditions.”
Holt stops dead. “Is that why you cast me in this role? Because of that stupid fucking mirror exercise? Jesus, Erika!”
“That’s not the only reason, but it’s a part of it. Do you think that sort of chemistry comes along every day? Because I’m here to tell you, it doesn’t.”
“But that’s … It wasn’t something that I … I can’t just—”
“Ethan,” Erika says, “I understand dealing with that kind of connection is scary, but it’s exactly what you need to do to grow. You’re so talented in so many ways, but anything that requires you to be open and vulnerable with another person is your Achilles’ heel, and believe me when I say you won’t get very far in this industry, or this course, or life, if it continues to be a problem.”
She looks from Ethan to me. “Now, you two have been cast as the leads in one of the greatest romantic tragedies in the history of the world, so stop your bitching and be grateful. You’ll play the roles as they’re assigned, or you’ll both get an F for the semester. I don’t care how you do it, but you need to find a way to work together. Show up on Monday with your lines learned and your game faces on, because I’m going to make you look like you’re in love if it’s the last thing I ever do. Bullshit will not be tolerated on any level. Are we clear?”
Holt and I both mumble, “Yes, Erika,” and look at the floor.
Erika sighs and gathers up her things before saying, “Don’t forget your scripts,” and leaves.
Holt and I just stand there, not looking at each other and not speaking.
I should be happy about being cast, but I’m not.
Holt grabs his script and rehearsal schedule and shoves them into his bag.
<
br /> “This is so fucked,” he mumbles under his breath. “This whole goddamn year is going to shit, and it’s all your fault.”
“My fault?! How the hell is it my fault that you were cast as Romeo? You can’t always play the brooding, untouchable rebel, you know. At some point you’re going to have to play the romantic lead.”
“That’s crap. Not every actor has to be the leading man. Samuel L. Jackson, Steve Buscemi, John Turturro, John Goodman. They all have amazing careers and don’t do the romantic bullshit.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, Holt, because I really don’t want to give you a compliment right now, but you don’t look like any of those guys. You’re tall and handsome and have freakishly cool hair. People are going to cast you as the leading man, whether you want them to or not.”
“So you want me to be your Romeo? Is that what you’re saying? Because last time I checked, you couldn’t stand to even look at me.”
“No,” I say, “you wouldn’t be my first choice to be Romeo, mainly because you’re an almighty jackass who goes around reading people’s diaries!”
“Fuck this.” He grabs his bag and strides toward the door, but I grab his arm.
“Holt, what the hell is wrong with you? It’s been two weeks, and you haven’t even tried to make things better between us. Apologize already, you diary-invading douche!”
He spins around to face me and his eyes are full of fire. I take a few steps back, but he follows. It’s not until my back hits the wall that we both stop.
“It was a fucking mistake to read your diary, I admit. I wish I could unread it, because it would make my life so much easier not to know all that shit about how you feel about me. But what the fuck were you thinking writing it all down in the first place? Of course the person you’re writing about is somehow going to read it, mortifying you both and screwing up everything!”
“Oh, no,” I say as a flash-fire of blood rushes to my face. “You did not just blame me for you reading my diary!”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did.”
“You’re unbelievable!” I throw my hands up in exasperation. “That’s it. I’m done trying with you. I don’t even want your apology anymore. Just stay the hell away from me.”
