by Emma Scott
“What happened to Tessa?” I said.
“Mass humiliation,” Jocelyn said.
“What did Isaac say in the text? Was he a dick to her?”
“Worse,” she said. “He wrote, No, thanks.”
I blinked, my chest loosening. “That’s it?”
Angie nodded. “That’s it. And when Tessa asked if he might want to expand on that, he never replied.”
“Tessa’s been talking shit about Isaac ever since, to recover,” Caroline said.
“She’s relentless,” Nash said. “Always the first one to whisper ‘murder’ whenever Pearce senior isn’t seen around town.”
I wrinkled my nose. Apparently country high school bullshit wasn’t all that different from city high school bullshit. In a lot of ways, it was worse. My high school in Manhattan was big enough to hide secrets in. Here, you coughed and half the student body heard it.
“Well, whatever,” I said, relieved Isaac hadn’t been a complete asshole in this scenario. “I’m not in the play to follow Isaac unless he’s giving advice. I don’t know what I’m doing. And I have no idea how I’m going to get to and from rehearsal every night.”
“Your parents can’t help?”
“It was like twisting my dad’s arm to get him to sign off on the paperwork since I’m a minor. He works late most nights anyway and my mother was never the ‘carpool and cupcakes’ kind of mom. She’s not about to start now.”
“I’ll help when I can,” Angie said, “but you need to learn to drive, girl.”
“Or get a ride home with Isaac,” Nash said, and caught Angie’s pointed stare. “What? I’m being practical.”
“What about Justin Baker?” Angie said, jerking her chin to where Justin sat with Doug Keely, Ted Bowers, and couple of other jocks. “Your Laertes.”
“He’s super-hot,” Jocelyn stared and caught Caroline’s pointed look. “If you’re in to that sort of thing. Which I’m not.”
I smiled at the cuteness of the couples in front of me with a wistful kind of ache. I glanced over at Justin Baker and found him watching me. He smiled that friendly, curious smile and I quickly looked away.
“Who is Laertes again?” I asked Angie.
“Ophelia’s brother,” she said and rolled her eyes. “Girl, you need to get to work on that play. Maybe start by reading it.”
That afternoon, Angie gave me a ride to downtown Harmony after school. “What’s the rehearsal schedule again?”
“Monday, Wednesday, Friday nights and Saturday afternoon,” I said. “It’ll be every weeknight and all weekend as we get closer to opening night.”
“I got you covered on rides down here, and we can hang out at The Scoop sometimes, but you still got a lot of ground to cover between now and seven o’clock.” She leaned an arm on the steering wheel. “Why don’t you want to go home?”
“Because I can’t get back here,” I said. “I’m fine, I promise. My parents are self-absorbed assholes but it’s not worse than that.”
“Okay,” Angie said. “You know, when you first walked into class with your Disney princess hair and Manhattan clothes I thought you’d be a self-absorbed asshole, too. But you’re okay in my book, Holloway.”
“Thanks, McKenzie.” I gathered my stuff. “I’m going to kick it in the library for about four hours.”
“A suggestion about how you can spend that time…?”
“I’m going to read the damn play.”
She laughed. “Text me if you get stranded.”
“Thanks,” I said, climbing out of the car. I bent between the door and the interior. “Thanks a lot, Angie. For a lot of things.”
She smiled. “Don’t get soft on me now, girl. And I want a full report of what it’s like watching Isaac Pearce in action.”
I rolled my eyes. “I might even do some acting too.”
She made a fist. “Power to the women people.”
I shut the door and stepped out into bright, icy sunlight. Winter felt like it was releasing its hold and the air was clean and biting. I hopped over an exhaust-tinged pile of snow at the curb and headed toward the public library, about a block and a half from the HCT. I found a table under a window and settled in with a copy of Hamlet and my laptop open to Sparks Notes for when I got stuck. Which was frequently.
The old Willow was a straight-A student who considered going to college for something to do with English Lit. But Hamlet hadn’t been a part of school curriculum and I’d never seen one of the film adaptations.
I scanned Ophelia’s scenes and was relieved to see nothing overtly romantic on the pages. Hamlet and Ophelia’s happy relationship existed prior to the start of the play. Their first scene together was essentially her—under pressure from her father—breaking up with him.
Hamlet torments Ophelia, kills her father.
She goes nuts, kills herself.
The End.
No romance. No declarations of love. No touching.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
File this under: things I should’ve investigated before auditioning.
I might’ve been the greenest of actors on that stage, but at least I wouldn’t embarrass myself by having a panic attack in front of the cast from having to kiss or touch anyone. The black X across my body would stay invisible while I used Ophelia’s scenes where she descends into madness to exorcise some more demons and find a little peace.
It was an innocent, naïve hope, and one that would eventually shatter into a million fucking pieces.
Willow
After a well-balanced dinner of fries, salad, and a chocolate milkshake at The Scoop, I walked the half block to the Harmony Community Theater. The front entry was eerily quiet, but a woman manning the front office directed me to a staircase that led to a second level above the stage.
The rickety steps smelled of dust and time. I passed closed offices and reached a large, dark room with one mirrored wall, like a dimly lit dance studio. A circle of chairs was set up in the center and the cast of Hamlet milled around them, talking and laughing.
“There she is.” The woman who played Jocasta in Oedipus waved at me. “Our ingénue. Welcome. I’m Lorraine Embry, but you can call me Queen Gertrude.” She wore bulky jewelry and flowing, silky clothes. I got the impression she enjoyed being dramatic on and off the stage.
“Hi, I’m Willow Holloway,” I said. “Or…Ophelia? I guess?”
The man who’d played Creon strode forward—tall with freckles, rust-colored hair and a wide smile. Dressed in an athletic suit, I pegged him for a university basketball coach, or the owner of a sporting goods store.
“Len Hostetler.” He engulfed my hand in his and gave it a shake. “My dear, your audition was really something. Really something.”
“Agreed,” Lorraine said. “Marvelous performance. So much heart and pure, organic talent.”
“Thanks.”
They stood beaming over me like proud parents. Since my own parents neither saw my audition, nor had any reason to be proud of me lately, their pride was like a shaft of sunlight on a cold day. But the silence stretched to breaking while they waited for me to say something.
“Um…do we sit anywhere?”
“Sure, sure,” Len said. “Herr Direktor will be in shortly.” He rubbed his enormous hands together. “Isn’t this exciting? Nothing like the first rehearsal for a new show, is there? Or is this the first of your first?”
“No, but it’s been a while,” I said.
“How long’s a while?” Len asked.
I’m so fucked. “Kindergarten.”
“Well…” Lorraine laughed. “If your audition was any indicator, you’re a natural. I’m looking forward to seeing what you can do with poor, sweet Ophelia.”
You and me both, I thought.
As I shed my jacket and took a seat in the circle, I tried to keep the warm welcome and the unexpected praise around me. The energy in the room revved my stomach with a little thrum of anticipation. Despite a dire case of Imposter-itis, I felt g
ood here. At least, it was better than being huddled alone on my bedroom floor wrapped in blankets, with only a book, a Sharpie, and the dark for company.
Isaac Pearce stood in the corner where the mirror met the wall, staring through and beyond the room to some private place. The angle duplicated him—two handsome, contemplative profiles and four arms crossed over a red, three-ring binder.
He looked at me then, blinking as if he were waking up. I gave a small wave and a smile. The corners of his lips started to turn up in return, then his gaze cut away again and his aloof mask dropped down.
Well, nice to see you, too.
“Hey.” Justin Baker now stood over me, slicing Isaac off from view. He indicated the empty chair next to mine. “You mind?”
“Uh…sure. Go for it.”
As Justin sat, a tiny whiff of cologne wafted from his clothes. He wore jeans, Timberlands, and a blue T-shirt under a blue North Face jacket. He looked sleek, expensive and relaxed. Like he owned whatever room he stepped in, or would, eventually.
Old Me would’ve been thrilled to sit beside Justin. New Me felt more drawn to worn out jeans, black leather, and stormy gray-green eyes.
But both guys were inaccessible. Walled off by the ice coffin Xavier had left me in. I clicked my ballpoint and drew an X under the heel of my hand.
“You’re Willow, right?” Justin said. “I’m Justin. We’re in Paulson’s class.”
“I’m aware.” It came out bitchier than I intended.
Justin chuckled. “Of course. Dumb opener, right? You ever acted before?”
“Once. Long time ago. You?”
“I’ve done a few shows. I blew out my knee a couple of years back, so instead of playing second base, I ended up in Death of a Salesman.”
“Cool.” I managed a smile.
“Your audition was really good.”
“Thanks. I…didn’t see yours.”
He shrugged. “I did okay. I think I got the part because of my hair.”
“What?”
He grinned and tugged a bit of his blond hair. “Same color as yours, so boom—I get to be your brother.”
I laughed a little. “I’m sure that’s not why you got it.”
He held up his hands and wore an easy smile. “I’ll take it.”
I smiled too while I drew a line of X’s down the side of my notebook. His friendliness almost scared me more than if he were a dick.
My gaze flickered to Isaac.
He hadn’t moved from the corner to take a seat, and the chair on the other side of me was unoccupied. I wished it were filled with Isaac’s faint scent of cigarette smoke and soap, rather than Justin’s expensive cologne. But Isaac was X’d out in other ways: my father signed HCT’s release form, only under the condition I had nothing to do with Isaac beyond the stage. Dad would yank me out of the show if he found out I was socializing with “that troubled dropout who lives in a junkyard.”
That had hurt, as if it were directed right at me. Isaac helped me at the auditions when I was ready to puke from nerves. He’d been kind of a jerk, but it was on the surface. Like a suit of armor with a million cracks in it that you couldn’t see from afar, but up close …
You have a flame too, don’t you? I silently asked him. You guard it with your life. Mine gets blown around in the slightest breeze. You don’t let anything near you. You’re not a criminal, you’re on duty. All the time. Why?
My X’s on the page had turned to question marks. Why did I care? I didn’t. Couldn’t. I snapped my notebook shut.
Martin Ford strode in with the assistant director, Rebecca Mills, their arms laden with red notebooks identical to Isaac’s.
“Official scripts,” Martin said as the cast took their seats. “We all need to be on the same page. Literally.”
I put my library copy away and took the heavy binder on my lap. Once we were all seated, Martin stood in the center of the circle, turning to address us all as he spoke.
“My first command as your director—”
Veteran cast members finished in unison: “Get. Off. Book.”
“That’s right,” Martin said. “Get memorized. You cannot act with a script in your hand. You can emote, but not act. Two different things.” He spread his arms, as if the room were as wide as an African savannah. “We want to look outward and explore the vast, rich landscape of Shakespeare’s words instead of being trapped—” he bent over, hands framing his face, “—our eyes cast down, noses stuck to the map.”
I shifted in my seat. This shit was real. Martin Ford was a legit director and this was a serious show, and…Oh my God, I’m going to fuck this all up.
“Make sense?” Martin asked. “I give you three weeks and then I start elevating understudies. So, let’s get started.”
Martin gave a little bit of his background and a short speech about why he chose Hamlet—not merely just to play Polonius, he joked—then he had us go around and introduce ourselves, and state the role we were playing.
When the circle came to Lorraine, she sat up straighter.
“I’m Lorraine Embry, and I’m portraying Gertrude, Queen of Denmark, mother of Hamlet.”
I bit my lip and out the corner of my eye, I saw Justin doing the same. We exchanged short, amused looks. I felt Isaac’s icy stare before I saw it—his glare wiped my smile off quick, replaced by hot embarrassment. The kid who got caught passing notes.
“Isaac Pearce. Hamlet,” he said.
I stared at my feet until it was my turn. “Willow Holloway. I’m playing Ophelia.” I said, certain that at any second they’d see this was a mistake and tell me I was in the wrong room.
Martin smiled. “Willow is new to Harmony and I’m so pleased to have her fresh energy here in our theater.”
A round of spontaneous applause startled me, and I cringed farther back in my seat. I glanced at Isaac but he was picking at the hole in his jeans.
Justin was next.
“Justin Baker, and I’m playing Laertes.”
“My stage children,” Martin said, beaming like a proud father. He glanced around the room. “Done? Great. Unt now,” he said in a German accent, “we read.”
A flutter of pages as people opened their scripts. I glanced over at Isaac again. My damn eyes wouldn’t or couldn’t stay off him. This time, his gaze met mine then jumped away.
The read-through began. A lot of people took notes, Isaac scribbling the most. I wondered if I should be doing that, watching as the dialogue brought us closer and closer to Act 1, Scene 3. Ophelia’s first lines.
Rebecca, the assistant director with the boxy glasses, read all of the stage direction. “Enter Laertes and Ophelia,” she said.
Justin, as my brother Laertes, began a long diatribe against Hamlet. I mentally noted he was telling Ophelia not to sleep with the prince—to be afraid of sex and wary of giving away her ‘treasures’ to a guy who wouldn’t marry her anyway.
Then Martin, as Polonius, started in. Treating his daughter as if she were a clueless idiot. Completely helpless and naïve about the ways of men.
“You do not understand yourself so clearly,” Martin said. “As it behooves my daughter and your honor. What is between you? Give me up the truth.”
I knew Isaac’s eyes were on me as I read my lines. “He hath, my lord, of late made many tenders of his affection to me.”
He helped me at the audition, I thought. He brought me my jacket when it was so cold…
“Affection?” Martin scoffed. “Pooh! You speak like a green girl, unsifted in such perilous circumstance. Do you believe his tenders, as you call them?”
I raised my eyes to Isaac. “I do not know, my lord, what I should think.”
Isaac held my gaze as Polonius went on to rant that Ophelia must obey him, as her father, and stay away from Hamlet.
I swallowed and kept my eyes on the script that was throwing my own life back up to me in black and white.
“I shall obey, my lord.”
Four hours later, the play ended with nea
rly every character dead. A dozen red binders shut with a resigned thump. We all stretched and gathered our things. Justin leaned over as I pulled up an Uber app on my phone. Leaned far enough into my space to make me cringe. I took a step away, pretending to readjust my bag.
“You need a ride?” Justin asked. “Where do you live? I got you covered.”
“Oh, uh…”
My gaze sought Isaac for some stupid reason, but he was talking to Martin. Justin was waiting for an answer. The weight of his expectations hanging over me. I heard myself blurt my address in that fucking ridiculous way girls have been taught since time immemorial—saying or doing things they’re not comfortable with for the sake of accommodating a man’s feelings.
“Awesome,” Justin said. “I live in Emerson Hills, too. About three blocks down from you.”
“Great,” I said. “Thanks.”
I walked up to where Martin and Isaac were talking. “Sorry to interrupt, but I wanted to say thanks again for having me. Justin is going to give me a ride home.”
Now you know where I am and whose car I’m getting in.
Isaac slung his hands in his pockets and gave me a blank look as Justin joined us.
“Wonderful,” Martin said. “Brotherly love in action. Have a great night and good work, you two. I’ll see you Wednesday.”
“Thanks.” I started to go, then turned to Isaac. “Bye.”
His chin moved imperceptibly up and down, but he said nothing.
Like a text that says No, thanks and nothing else.
Justin and I headed downstairs.
“Brotherly love,” Justin said. “Martin takes this stuff so literally.”
I smiled faintly through my pressed lips. My entire body was stiff and when we stepped into the bracing cold night, my muscles bunched together tighter, drawing my shoulders up to my ears.
Justin led me to his shiny black, Ford F150 in the parking lot across from the theater, and held the door for me on the passenger side. Stiffly, I climbed in and was a bombarded with Justin’s scent—cologne, leather and the air freshener tree hanging from his rearview. He kept his truck immaculate. There was nothing in it to fear, but when he slid his large form into the driver seat, my heart took off at a gallop.
