Mr. Ellis had her read another page, and then he chose a third girl to come up and try out for the same part. Every time a new girl auditioned, we tried to read Mr. Ellis’s expression. We watched Mrs. Cary’s face. Mrs. Cary smiled encouragingly at everyone, and Mr. Ellis looked pleasant enough. Now and then I detected a smile on his face. Sometimes he dropped his eyes to his lap. But he’d just say, “Good, thank you,” after someone read a part, and then he’d call on someone else.
“Alice?” he said at last. “You signed up for the part of Anne.”
I got up and took my place at the front of the room, my palms wet, mouth dry.
“Let’s try … um … start at the top of page twenty-five,” Mr. Ellis said. “Pamela, read Ernestine’s part for now, will you?”
We didn’t even exchange looks, afraid it would spook one of us. In this scene the sisters were arguing with their dad about silk stockings.
Holding the playbook in one hand, Pamela said, “But that’s the way everybody dresses today.”
And I read, “Boys don’t notice when everyone dresses that way.”
Ellis, reading the father’s part, said gruffly, “Don’t tell me about boys. I know all about what boys notice.” The rest of the girls laughed.
“You don’t want us to be wallflowers?” I read.
“I’d rather raise wallflowers than clinging vines,” Mr. Ellis retorted.
I studied the script. It said that I clutched my package with determination. The flimsy underwear package. “I’m going to wear these,” I said, hugging my script to my chest for moment. “I’ll not be a wallflower anymore!”
And Pamela read, “And I’m going to buy silk stockings too!”
“And me!” Mr. Ellis read in a high voice, imitating a younger sister, Martha. Everyone laughed but Pamela and me. We knew enough to stay in character.
“I won’t let you out of the house with them!” Mr. Ellis boomed.
He skipped a few lines after that, looking at me and pointing to the bottom of the page: “Listen to me, Anne. When a man picks a wife, he wants someone he can respect.”
This was so weird, acting out a scene with a teacher. I was supposed to brush past him then and start up the stairs. But I just read my lines with passion: “They certainly respect me,” I said, and my voice quavered a little. “I’m the most respected girl in the whole school. The boys respect me so much, they hardly look at me.”
“Come back down here!” Mr. Ellis shouted. “I don’t want you wasting your time with a lot of boys: Look at the fun we have right here at home with our projects.”
“You don’t understand!” I said. “You don’t understand at all. I wish your job was selling shoes and you only had one or two children”—voice rises to a wail, the script directed—“and neither of them was me!”
I wondered if I’d overdone it when I got to the end. Mr. Ellis just smiled and nodded and said, “Okay,” and read the next name on the list.
“Jill,” he said, “would you come up here and read Anne’s part? And, Alice, please read the mother’s lines. Page seventy-eight, where the mother enters.”
I felt stones in my stomach. No! I didn’t want to play the mother, especially Jill’s mother! I tried to close her out as Jill came up to the front of the room and took Pamela’s stool. Tried to ignore the scent of her haunting perfume. That would do Mr. Ellis in, if nothing else.
“Okay, begin,” Mr. Ellis said.
Should I play this flatly so he couldn’t possibly assign the part to me? I wondered. He had said to play all the parts as well as we could… .
I decided to do as he’d asked and took a maternal tone as I read my lines: “Aren’t you going to eat any ice cream, dear?”
Jill shook her head and looked petulant. (Choked, the script read.) “I don’t have much appetite,” she said, and there was a trace of anger in her voice.
“Are you worried about the test?” I read.
“The test—and everything.”
A little further on, when the character discovers that her father has heart trouble and no one told her, Jill put fire into the part. She was the teenager I wasn’t.
“Okay,” Mr. Ellis said. “Thank you both. Let’s move on to the next person.”
We waited while Liz read for the part of Martha. Mr. Ellis asked her to read for the mother, too, and Penny was asked to read for three parts—the mother, Lillian, and the housekeeper. Penny seemed to get in the spirit of all three, and everyone laughed, even Mr. Ellis, when the housekeeper, grumbling over the father’s motion study tips for her work in the kitchen, leaves the room muttering loudly, “Lincoln freed the slaves … all but one … all but one.”
Most of us stayed to the end of the audition just to see what the competition was like. As Mrs. Cary stood up to stretch and Mr. Ellis stuck the clipboard in his briefcase, he said, “Check the list tomorrow, girls. Some of you may be called back to read again.”
Out in the hall, Charlene said knowingly, “It’s a good sign if you get a callback. If you don’t, just forget it; you didn’t get a part.” And then she added, “I’ve got to decide between Cheaper by the Dozen and a part with the Montgomery Players. They held auditions for The Wizard of Oz last week, and I tried out for Glinda. I guess it depends on what part I get here.”
It must be great to be so sure of yourself, I thought.
“Well, I only want the part of Anne,” said Jill. “I think I could add a lot to the role. She’s too passive in the script.”
Charlene nodded. “Directors are looking for someone who can take a role and put herself in it. I mean, anyone can read words on paper.”
Karen had been waiting for Jill in the hall, and as they headed off, I heard Karen ask her, “Do you really think you should go out for this?”
“Why not?” Jill replied. “By afternoon, I’m feeling fine.”
I had Sylvia’s car—she gets a ride to work when I need it—but I’d promised to get home so she could go to a meeting. Liz was riding with Pam. You shouldn’t drive when you’re distracted, I know, and when I pulled in our driveway, I was scarcely aware of getting there. Thoughts were ricocheting around in my head like Ping-Pong balls, and I had the feeling I was going to do something impulsive.
Why not go in early tomorrow and tell Mr. Ellis that there was something he might want to know, that I didn’t mean to be a gossip, but I was sure he wanted the play to be the best it possibly could be… .
My hands dropped from the steering wheel into my lap. If I were the drama coach, wouldn’t I want to know? Wouldn’t any director want to know whether one of the actors might be sick on opening night? If one of the actors was pregnant?
Then I thought of the impulsive way I had written up a Student Jury session last semester. Of all the spur-of-the-moment things I’d regretted later.
You don’t have to decide this right now, I told myself. You sure don’t have to call him tonight.
But I knew that tomorrow I would feel the same as I did right now: that Jill might get the part of Anne unless Mr. Ellis knew she was pregnant, and who else was going to tell him?
10
THE LIST
Things look different in the clear light of morning. It wasn’t all that bright, actually, but as I lay there, imagining myself going to school early, tracking down Mr. Ellis and telling him Jill was pregnant, I knew I couldn’t do it. Shouldn’t.
If he was going to give Jill the part of Anne—and I would get it only because she was out of the picture—did I really want it by default? And how did I know I was even in the running? Six girls had tried out for Anne’s part the first day, and there would be more coming that afternoon.
I didn’t have any appetite for breakfast and ate only part of an orange. Was I more disgusted with my impulse to squeal on Jill or with my lack of confidence?
I felt alternately hot and cold as Dad drove me to school and let me off at the north entrance.
“Hope the rest of your day’s a little better,” he commented as I turned
to open my door.
“It shows, huh?” I said.
“A little.”
I went to the newspaper room to help Phil decide which photos from the sock hop we should print in The Edge.
“Definitely one with Daniel playing his drum,” I said. “Ditto for one of the waitresses on roller skates.”
When we’d marked the photos for Sam, Phil said, “Saw you got a callback.”
I’d just gathered my books and had started to stand up. “What?” I said, dropping back onto my chair again.
“The list for the play. You’re on callback. Didn’t you check?”
“No! Who else was on it?”
“Uh … Penny. Jill, I think. I just walked over to see what everyone else was looking at and saw your name.”
“It doesn’t mean I’ll get a part,” I told him, trying to hide my excitement.
“No, but it means you’ve made an impression,” he said. And then, “You know, if you’re in the play, you’ve got to give up yearbook. You can’t do the yearbook, the newspaper, and the play, too. That’s too much. If you can’t read proofs by deadline, you can’t be listed on the yearbook staff.”
I winced. “It would mean extra work for everyone else if I dropped it, right?”
“Yeah, but I think one of the reporters could fill in. In any case, if you get a part, go for it. You’re only a senior once.”
“Thanks, Phil,” I said, but it unnerved me a little. If I wanted to work on a college paper, being on a high school newspaper and the yearbook staff would be a huge plus. But these were safe places for me; I’d already proved I could research, interview, write, edit. Acting was something new. Something entirely different. And scary. Decisions, decisions …
I hurried over to the dramatic arts room, where a little crowd had gathered, checking the list. All three of us—Pamela, Liz, and I—were on the callback list, but so were Jill and Charlene and Penny and a few others. And there were still girls waiting to try out.
Pamela came up behind me and gave my arm a squeeze. “Getting closer!” she said. “Fingers crossed!”
There was a smaller crowd at auditions that afternoon, but the atmosphere was even more tense. Jill and Charlene were sitting together this time by the windows, chattering like pros. Eight other girls were trying out, and Mr. Ellis and Mrs. Cary listened to each of them read before any of those on callback were asked to read again. Ellis had Jill read for the parts of both Anne and Miss Brill, and I read for both the mother and Anne.
It wasn’t one of Anne’s best scenes, and I was disappointed I couldn’t do one with more emotion. It was a rather dull scene, actually, which made me feel Ellis didn’t much care how I did it. He asked still another girl to read Anne’s part twice, and I reluctantly gave her my place. Then he asked me to read again, but not for long.
When he called it a day and said he’d post the list on Friday after the boys’ auditions, I hung back. Could he let me read just a little bit more? I wanted to ask. Couldn’t I read some of the lines Anne had with Joe Scales, the cheerleader? A few with Larry, the boy she really likes?
But Charlene got to him first, and she and Mr. Ellis were having a serious conversation at the back of the room. I dawdled just a little to see if I should stick around.
“I haven’t cast anyone yet,” I heard him tell her, “but the school frowns on any one person getting major roles in two productions, so I want you to know that. You had a great part in Fiddler.”
“But I was only a freshman when I played the part of Tzeitel!” she said. “If I’d known then that I couldn’t have a major role in my senior year, I might have refused it.”
“Come on, Char,” he said. “I don’t think so. That was a great part and you were the only one who fit the role that perfectly.” He reached for his jacket and slipped one arm in the sleeve. “I haven’t made up my mind about anyone yet.”
I could tell he was eager to leave, and I figured I could only hurt my chances by begging to read more, so I left the room ahead of them, but my heart was down in my shoes.
Gwen met us after school, and we stopped at a chocolate shop for some Mexican hot chocolate, thick and spicy. The small table had barely enough room for eight elbows and four cups, but we managed. Ordinarily, I love Mexican chocolate, but it tasted bitter today.
I told them what I’d overheard from Ellis, that those who’d had major roles in another performance couldn’t expect a big role in this one.
Liz looked at Pamela. “Would that apply to you? Because you were an understudy in Guys and Dolls?”
“Understudies don’t count,” Pamela said. “I already checked.”
“Which guys are trying out? Does anyone know?” Gwen asked.
“I heard that Sam was interested,” said Liz.
“Sam? Really? He didn’t say anything about it to me,” I said, but Sam does sort of go in for drama. I used to date him. I should know.
“How many guys’ parts are there?” Gwen asked.
“Well, there are nine male roles, so this is a good way to meet guys,” said Pamela.
“That’s what Mom always tells me,” Liz said. “If you want to meet a guy who shares your interests, get involved in things you love.”
“Chocolate,” I said, looking around the shop. “Don’t see any chocolate-loving guys in here.”
“Yeah, I hang out at libraries, but I can’t say anyone looks at me with lustful eyes in the nonfiction section,” said Gwen.
Strangely, I was missing my own mother right then. What wise thing might Mom have said to me about the play? What comforting words would she have for me if Mr. Ellis chose someone else and I lost the one big thing I wanted in my senior year? Would burying myself in Sylvia’s arms be the same?
* * *
Patrick phoned me that night.
“How’d it go?” he asked.
“I got a callback, but Ellis had other girls reading too.”
“Still, it means he’s interested in you. When do the guys try out?”
“Tomorrow and Thursday. Why? Are you sorry you were never in the school play?”
“I would have had to give up eating and sleeping,” he said, which was probably true, because Patrick went through four years of high school in three.
I started to ask if he was coming home for spring break, then remembered, with a pang, that “home” for him now was Wisconsin. So I reworded it: “Are you going home for spring break?”
“Yeah. I have to. Mom and Dad want some time with me before I leave for Spain.”
“They’re not the only ones,” I said, then realized how whiny that must sound. So I added quickly, “But I’ll have you for the prom.”
“Right,” he said. And then, “Don’t plan for anything after. I’ll take care of that.”
“Okay,” I told him, and liked the sound of it. Liked it very much.
Waiting. That was the worst. There were all sorts of rumors going around—one was that Ellis was choosing the cast based on height. The tallest ones would be the oldest children, and so on. Jill was taller than me. I even heard that Mrs. Cary suggested choosing the cast based on hair color.
I was restless and miserable Thursday evening. The cast list was going up the next day. What would I say, what would I do, if Jill got the part of Anne and I was given the part of her mother? I’d almost rather not be in the play at all.
The four of us—Gwen, Pamela, Liz, and I—went to school early on Friday. There was already a small crowd gathered around the doorway to the dramatic arts room. But the list wasn’t posted yet.
I didn’t think I could stand it. Jill was there in the crowd, leaning back against Justin, who was nuzzling the side of her face, arms wrapped around her midsection, hands on her belly. Charlene stood with her back to the door as though she was going to read off the names when they came through. Several people were looking out a window at the end of the hall, trying to determine if Mr. Ellis drove a Prius or a Honda and if his car was there yet.
“Remember,” Cha
rlene was saying in a voice loud enough for everyone to hear, “at least half of us could be understudies.”
That was something I hadn’t taken into account. What if I had to learn all the lines for a part, be dressed and everything—two nights a week for two different weekends—and never got to be onstage? Did understudies secretly hope that their leads broke a leg? Is that where the saying came from?
At 7:17, Mrs. Free from the office came down the hall smiling, holding two sheets of paper and a roll of tape.
“Excuse me,” she said to the crowd. “If you’ll just let me through, I’ve got some information for you.”
We all made room and watched her red-painted nails press down on the first sheet of paper.
“Male roles,” someone called out. “Hey, Broderick, you’re the dad.”
Cheers and backslapping among the guys.
The second sheet of paper went up, and Mrs. Free quickly moved back as students edged forward. I could see between the heads of the two girls in front of me.
Female roles, it read.
Mother: Elizabeth Price.
“Liz!” Gwen shouted.
Anne: Alice McKinley.
I stared, absolutely stunned.
“Omigod! Alice!” Pamela gasped.
Ernestine: Pamela Jones.
We screamed. The parts of Martha and Lillian were given to a junior in my gym class named Chassie and a sophomore, Angela, I didn’t know. The part of Miss Brill went to Charlene, and the housekeeper was to be played by Penny.
Below the cast roster was the list of understudies. Jill was the understudy for me.
11
CARRYING ON
I was almost afraid to turn around. The right thing to do, probably, was to hug Jill and say, Looks like we’re a team! but in all the excitement, I heard a girl’s voice saying, “Well … shit!” And when I did turn around, Jill was gone.
I was too delighted and shocked to worry about it for long, and when Pamela grabbed Liz and cried, “Mo-ther!” we all broke into laughter.
“We’ll be going to rehearsals together and everything!” Pamela said. “Did you ever … ?”
“No! I never dreamed it! I can’t believe it!” I said.
Incredibly Alice Page 8
