Noah McNichol and the Backstage Ghost

by Martha Freeman

  Madeline shook her head. “Ophelia. She wants to be Hamlet’s girlfriend, then Hamlet kills her father and she goes crazy and drowns herself.”

  Clive scratched his head, looked at me, looked at Madeline. “I don’t remember that from The Lion King.”

  “It sounds intense,” I said.

  Madeline nodded. “The story’s intense. In the end, there’s swords and blood and poison.”

  Clive and I looked at each other: “Cool!”

  Clive added, “Anyway, not to be insulting, but you don’t seem that crazy.”

  For a heartbeat, Madeline stared. Then she rolled her eyes back in her head, put her arms out in front of her, spun in circles, screamed like a police siren, and then—this was the worst part—began to burble in a singsong voice: “ ‘He is dead and gone, lady, he is dead and gone! At his head a grass-green turf, at his heels a stone.’ ”

  Then she stopped stock-still and stared up at Clive.

  Personally? I was too freaked out to react, but Fuli applauded and Madeline bowed, and I took a breath and applauded, too. I mean, that had been amazing.

  Clive was rattled. I could tell. But he acted cool as usual. “I take it back. You are that crazy. Uh… were those lines from the play?”

  “Act four.”

  Clive nodded. “I knew that.”

  Madeline half smiled, looked away, continued up the steps to the aud.

  “Freaky, right?” I said to Clive.

  He nodded. “Gillian—my sister—she says you gotta watch out for the quiet ones.”

  We descended the steps, crossed the courtyard. “So, Fuli, how come you want to play Hamlet, anyway?” I asked. “No offense—I mean, you look okay and everything—but you don’t exactly look like a prince.”

  Fuli stopped, straightened her shoulders, tugged her black hair back, and faced me. “What about this? Imagine a crown.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “A short prince.”

  “So I will be a short prince,” Fuli said.

  “Pretty confident,” Clive said.

  Fuli didn’t smile often, so when she did—like now—you noticed. “I want to play Hamlet because it is the biggest part, the lead. I want to see if I can do it, test myself. And if I can say something true? From my heart?”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to hear it. I didn’t know Fuli that well. But Clive said, “Please do.”

  “I don’t want to be only the girl with the dumplings.” She grinned when she said it, and I laughed, which seemed to be okay with her. But Clive didn’t laugh. He nodded, looked serious.

  “Tell me, Noah,” Fuli went on. “How will you prepare for the role?”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  “There are movies of Hamlet, you know? I am going to watch a couple and try to understand the character better. And of course I’ll study the script. Hamlet is called ‘the melancholy Dane.’ I want to understand exactly what makes him sad.”

  By this time we’d reached the curb at parent pickup, and I noticed the bench where yesterday I’d seen the mysterious Mike. Could he be the assistant Mrs. Winklebottom told us about? Probably not. Probably Fig had recruited some drama student from the college. Probably I would never see Mike again.

  Clive’s mom was on her way. She was giving Fuli a ride, too. I looked at Fuli and shrugged. “Sounds good, Fuli. Sounds like you gave yourself homework. But just to warn you, I’ve seen The Lion King a bunch of times. Both versions.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  It was four o’clock when I let myself into my house. Since it was Tuesday, Mom and Dad would walk home from the college together around five, and later—around six thirty—we would eat Family Dinner, which in our house is an everyday thing. My parents take turns cooking. We sit in the dining room. I set the table, clear the table, and load the dishwasher.

  As a little kid, I thought Family Dinner was normal. When later I realized no other family in the solar system operates like us, I wanted to know how I got so lucky (not!), and the parentals explained that they think it’s important to “have a ritual connection each day with those you love best.”

  If you’re wondering, yes, I have pointed out we could ritually connect at Mickey D’s or KFC or by eating pizza from Bazzano’s in front of the TV—same as other people.

  This argument gets me nowhere.

  And last year one time, probably in the car, my mom told me something that made me sad. She said when my dad was little, he was always being left with babysitters so his parents could go to parties and plays and whatever, and he didn’t want to do the same thing to his kid, to me.

  Basically, I am a nice guy. Not as nice as Clive, not as convinced I have a right to take up space in the universe, either, but still… nice. And after Mom told me that, I stopped complaining (so much) about Family Dinner.

  My only homework that afternoon was geometry. For brainpower, I ate raspberry yogurt and Oreos, which must have worked because, leaning back against the pillows on my bed, notebook on my knees, I got the geometry done in twenty minutes.

  After that it was time to read Hamlet.

  The play is interesting, I guess. Once upon a time in Denmark, there’s a prince in a castle haunted by a ghost who claims to be his father, the king, who died not that long before the action begins. Only, according to the ghost, Hamlet’s father didn’t plain die; he was poisoned by the current king—Hamlet’s uncle Claudius, the villain.

  So anyway, the ghost tells Hamlet he has to get revenge by killing Claudius and taking the crown for himself.

  Meanwhile, there are all these other characters, like Hamlet’s mother, Gertrude, who is now married to Claudius (!), and this guy Polonius, who works for the government and makes long speeches and has a beautiful daughter, Ophelia, the one Madeline wanted to play, the one who’s all mushy-gushy over Hamlet.

  We learned in English that stories have to have conflict. In Hamlet the conflict is kind of between Hamlet and Hamlet. In other words, he can’t decide what to do.

  On the one hand, Hamlet wants to do what his father, the ghost, says because he wants to be a good son and, TBH, he’s not crazy about his uncle.

  On the other hand, how can Hamlet be sure the ghost really is his father? Besides which, is Hamlet really up for killing anybody? Even a villain? Supposedly Hamlet is brave, but in the end he seems to me like more of a thinker type, killing not exactly his style.

  I don’t want to give away the ending, except to say that Madeline must have misunderstood something. No poison. No blood. No swords. Ophelia doesn’t drown, either. She just goes for a moonlight swim.

  Of course, like I explained, the script we had was the No-Trauma Drama version. Maybe the way Shakespeare wrote it was a little different.

  (SCENE: Dining room, early evening. NOAH, DAD, and MOM are eating dinner.)

  DAD: Are we out of that breakfast cereal I like?

  MOM: I didn’t notice. Anyway, you can pick some up when you go to the grocery store.

  DAD (puts fork down, shakes head): It’s your turn to go to the store. I went last time.

  MOM (puts fork down, becoming irritated): That’s what you always say, dear. But the fact is I was at Sal’s—

  DAD (also becoming irritated): Sal’s does not count as going to the store. Sal’s is more like the trading post for gossip—

  NOAH: Now, now, parentals. (He raises a hand for silence.) “Beware of entrance to a quarrel!”

  (MOM and DAD, taken aback, look at each other.)

  MOM: Does Polonius say that?

  DAD (nods): Part of the advice he gives his son. I had to memorize it back in the day. “But being in, bear’t that the opposed may beware of thee.” That’s the next part, right?

  NOAH: I think. I’m not sure I get it, though. What’s a bear got to do with it?

  DAD: Not that kind of bear. The idea is if you’re going to argue, don’t do it halfway. Put some muscle in it.

  MOM (nodding): Impressive knowledge, dear. Especially for someone who thinks theater is a phase you g
row out of.

  DAD: I never said that.

  MOM: You did. About an hour ago. We were walking by Sal’s.

  DAD: We should have picked up cereal.

  MOM (ignores DAD, looks at NOAH): So I take it you got hold of the Hamlet script. What part are you going to try for?

  NOAH: Hamlet.

  MOM: Aim high.

  NOAH: That’s what Mrs. Winklebottom told Fuli. She’s trying out for Hamlet too.

  DAD: Fuli… she’s the one from Nepal?

  NOAH: That’s it—the country I always forget.

  DAD: That restaurant of theirs, they make the best dumplings.

  MOM: Are you worried about the competition?

  NOAH (shrugs): I think I can take her on. She doesn’t look very Danish.

  MOM (frowns): When it comes to that, Noah, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Hamlet with curly red hair, either.

  NOAH: Reddish.

  DAD: If the director’s doing his job, looks won’t have much to do with it. The best actor should get the part, the one who can dig in and inhabit the character, the one who makes the audience care about Hamlet’s dilemma.

  NOAH: Right? And that settles it. Because you know what, Grrrrrr!

  (MOM and DAD look at each other, look at NOAH.)

  NOAH: Lions, get it? Simba? I guess the stories are the same, right? (sings) “And I just can’t wait to be king!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Wednesday, Rehearsal Week One, 44 Days till Performance

  It’s easier to act all confident with your parents at Family Dinner than it is to feel all confident moments before you’re going to stand on the stage of a massive, grand, old-fashioned auditorium, with your knees shaking while you recite long words from an old play, which is another way to say that by Wednesday afternoon I felt nervous.

  Not that I thought Fuli would beat me out for the part exactly. How could serious, quiet, precise Fuli be a better actor than me, Noah McNichol?

  And anyway, like I said, she just doesn’t look like Hamlet.

  I am skinny with freckles and wavy reddish hair. Not red. Reddish. My mom says I’m entering the underfed years and I’ll fill out, unless, like my skinny-as-spaghetti uncle Andy, I don’t, but that’s okay because Uncle Andy has always been catnip with the ladies, and when Mom says that, I shake my head and cover my ears and say “Lalalalala!”

  Anyway, I, underfed or not, look much more like a Danish prince than Fuli does.

  Still, as I waited to audition, my heart felt jumpy and my throat felt tight, and I tried to figure out why, and I decided it was fear of my own stupid body. What if I was standing there onstage and it rebelled and I went mute or belched or fainted or farted right in the middle of “To be, or not to be?”

  Other people must’ve been nervous too, because instead of talking, they had their scripts open, and they were reading silently or mumble-mouthing the words. For a bunch of sixth graders, so much quiet was unnatural.

  Meanwhile, Coach Fig was perched on the edge of the stage, headset in place, talking to someone in the great faraway. “White canvas? What about grass stains?”

  Clive and I were sitting in row C, a row behind everybody else. Clive’s legs are so long, he pretty much has to be on the aisle. He elbowed me. “Noah.” He sounded serious, which was weird.

  “What?”

  “Let’s make a pact. There’s not enough boys, right? So we’re both gonna get parts.”

  I nodded.

  “But maybe not good parts.”

  “Speak for yourself,” I said, more because it was the kind of thing I always say than because I meant it.

  “But no matter what,” Clive went on, “we’re both gonna do this. Even if we’re sentries and all we get to say is ‘What ho!’ and wave a sword, we’ll do it together.”

  “Is this one of your sister’s ideas?” I asked.

  “Kind of,” he admitted. “Gillian is smart sometimes, and she was a Sixth-Grade Player.”

  “Sure. Okay. It’s a deal,” I said, and we clasped hands. “Good part, bad part, big part, little part—Clive and Noah are players together.”

  By this time Fig had shaken off the faraway look, risen to his feet, begun to pace the way he did on the sidelines at a game. “All right, team, let’s get these tryouts going!” he hollered, turning to face us. “Are you with me, team?”

  Diego said, “Heck yeah!”

  Mia said, “We’re behind schedule.”

  Brianna said, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “Now, here’s the dealio,” Coach Fig continued. “Five-minute time slots. Read whatever bit suits you from the show.” He looked around, pointed at Clive. “Mr. Desmond? How ya doin’, buddy? Missed you at baseball tryouts. You’re up first. Everybody else, head out to the lobby for now and—”

  A loud noise interrupted—bang! Had a door slammed? And then came—whoosh—a shivery, cold gust of air.

  Before we had time to react, someone behind us cleared his throat. “Coach? Had you planned to introduce me?”

  The stage lights were up, and Fig squinted into the darkness at the back of the house. “There y’are, Mike.”

  All of us looked around.

  “Team,” Fig went on, “this is Mike. He’ll be helpin’ us out, running these auditions on my behalf, in fact. He’s got the theatrical experience I lack and time on his hands. We are lucky to have him.

  “Mike? Meet the Plattsfield-Winklebottom Memorial Sixth-Grade Players.”

  Mike stood up. Except for the coat and the hat, he seemed to be wearing the same clothes as when I’d seen him Monday. “The pleasure is mine,” he said. “And now let’s get to it. ‘That we would do, we should do when we would.’ ”

  I didn’t know for sure whether that was a line from the play or not until Madeline spoke up: “Act four.”

  * * *

  So Fig’s assistant was the mysterious Mike after all. Maybe Mrs. Winklebottom had helped with the permissions. I hadn’t told anybody but my parents about seeing Mike then not seeing him. Now I wondered, since he was going to be around awhile, if anything else weird would happen. Out in the lobby, the serious kids, Fuli, Madeline, and Emma, were studying their scripts while most people were making guesses about who Mike was.

  Somebody’s grandpa?

  Somebody who just moved here?

  “I don’t care who he is, as long as he knows more about theater than Fig,” Mia said.

  “He does,” Madeline said, and everybody wanted to know what she was talking about, but she looked down at her script and wouldn’t answer.

  The door from the house opened, and it was Clive, who locked eyes with me and frowned. Uh-oh.

  “Not good?” I said.

  He shrugged, his face more puzzled than worried. “I did all right, I guess, but that Mike guy seems to have a different script.”

  “Noah, my man!” Fig appeared in the doorway. “You’re up, buddy. Let’s see what ya got.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I have wanted to be an actor ever since I figured out the people in TV and movies were not just living their real lives on camera; they were doing a job, and the job was to act out stories.

  If I were somebody else’s kid, by now I would’ve been to drama camp in the summer and I would have tried out for local theaters around Plattsfield, and—maybe—I would have gone to New York City and auditioned for Broadway and gotten a big part and won awards and moved to Hollywood and met big stars… and… and…

  But, like he’s always saying, my dad thinks theater is okay for entertainment, not for falling in love with, only a phase. So I don’t bring it up much at Family Dinners or at any other time, either. I believe it was Polonius who said “Beware of entrance to a quarrel.”

  Which is why my drama experience equals watching YouTube and movies and musicals at the college, listening to Hamilton and Hadestown on repeat, and (of course) faithfully attending the annual Plattsfield-Winklebottom Memorial Sixth-Grade Play.

  That’s a long way
of saying I don’t know anything about acting except it seems to me you have to put some oomph into it, stand out, go boffo or go home.

  I got laughs for my recitation, right?

  So for my audition, I tried the same schtick as before—the somersault—but this time I spun around quick to face the house, waggled my thumbs at my face, and said: “ ‘This is I, Hamlet the Dane!’ ” which is a line I happen to remember from act five.

  Mike was sitting in the middle of the house, and Fig was pacing and gesturing in the glow of an exit sign in the back.

  Mike nodded. “Unusual interpretation. And what will you be reading for me, Noah?”

  “ ‘To be or not to be,’ ” I said. “The famous soliloquy.”

  Mike nodded. “Carry on.”

  “Do you need to find the page?” I asked.

  “Not necessary. Whenever you’re ready.”

  I stood up straight, put my right hand on my heart, raised my chin, and let ’er rip:

  “ ‘To be or not to be…

  “ ‘What kind of question is that? Rather, I say, do be, do be, do…

  “ ‘And yet: Eschew the nap!

  “ ‘For what doth napping yield but arrows, bad luck, and nightmares?

  “ ‘’Tis true, ’tis pity, ’tis pity ’tis true that life can be a bummer and dreams reveal no more the undiscovered country—’ ”

  “Stop, Noah! PLEASE! It’s painful!”

  Looking back, I think Mike had been trying to interrupt for a while, but I had been very busy acting. “Did I do something wrong?”

  Mike was on his feet. “Where on God’s green earth did you get that drivel?”

  Drivel? It was Shakespeare! I pointed to my script.

  Mike looked ready to hyperventilate. “I thought perhaps Mr. Desmond was improvising, but now…” He flipped through the pages, then stared. “Who would dare to bowdlerize the Bard?”

  “Bowdlerize the Bard”—ha! My dad had used the exact same words.

  Meanwhile, Fig was striding down the aisle. “Now, now, Coach Mike. Let’s all just take a mo to chillax, whaddaya say?”