“Are you sure you don’t want to go up to your room? It’s probably more comfortable,” my mom asked, almost tripping over a bowl of oatmeal on her way to the kitchen.
“No, I like it down here,” I said, glancing up from the same paragraph of The Outsiders I’d been rereading for half an hour. Suddenly, the phone rang, triggering a spike in my heart rate that could have been measured on the Richter scale.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound casual, my hand practically strangling the receiver.
“Hey, Jack!”
“Oh hey, Lou,” I said, exhaling. “How’s it going? You hear anything yet?”
Silence.
“I just did,” she said slowly. “And . . . I got the part!”
“Omigosh, omigosh! That’s awesome!” I cheered.
“Yeah, I’m so excited!” she said, giggling. “Please tell me we get to be scene partners!”
My excitement for Lou quickly turned to panic. What would it say about me if even the Shaker Heights Community Players thought I wasn’t good enough?
“I can’t say that yet,” I said, pacing across the hardwood floor.
“Oh well, I’m sure your call is coming soon,” she said quickly. “They’re probably going alphabetically. Benning is before Goodrich.”
“Yeah maybe.”
“No, it is. B comes before G.”
“No, I know. Yeah, maybe it’s just alphabetical.” I was trying to convince myself.
“I’m sure that’s it. They’d be crazy not to cast you. You were so good!”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’m guessing there was at least one guy there who didn’t crack on his high note.”
“It really wasn’t as bad as you think.”
That’s what she’d said to me last night in the lobby along with a lot of other really nice things. I remained unconvinced.
“Lou,” I said, dropping my voice. “I sounded like a sheep getting electrocuted.”
“C’mon,” she said. “At worst it sounded like a little tickle, but I’m sure you were still the best in the bunch.”
“Yeah, well, whatever,” I said glumly. “It’s okay either way. I mean, I didn’t even want to do it in the first place, remember?”
I could feel Lou go cold on the other end.
“But hey,” I added hastily. “I’m so excited for you, and no matter what, you’re going to be amazing,” I said, plopping myself back onto my pile of pillows.
“Thanks, Jack,” she replied. “Well, let me know if you hear anything. Even if you don’t get it, I’m glad you auditioned.” She paused. “That took guts.”
Just then call-waiting beeped in my ear.
I got it.
• • •
“Jack’s mom is going to pick you guys up at ten,” Louisa’s dad called through the window four days later. We hopped out onto the curb, scripts clasped firmly in our hands. “Text me if you get out early.”
I gave a little wave and followed Lou up the stairs of the cathedral. It seemed a little strange to be going to a church this late in the day, but Lou explained that their rec room doubled as a great rehearsal space. Lou reached for the big wooden door but before letting me pass blocked the entrance with her body. “Still feeling like you didn’t want to do the show in the first place?”
I laughed, pushing past her. “Yeah, that was just some garbage I made up to make myself feel better.”
The rec room smelled of doughnuts and incense, not the typical smells of a first rehearsal but inviting nonetheless. The walls were lined with finger paintings, and in the center of the room, a circle of folding chairs, a few people already seated in them, chatting and highlighting their lines. I wondered how different this would be from a first rehearsal on Broadway. Was there going to be a model presentation of our set? Fittings with our costume designer?
“Hey, Lou.” A young woman waved, approaching us. Lou’s eyes lit up as she dove in for a hug. If I had to guess, I’d say the woman was in her early twenties, pretty in a rocker sort of way, with dyed-black hair and those spacers in her earlobes that always kind of freaked me out. “And you must be Jack,” she said, turning her attention to me. I tried not to stare at her ears. “Wait, I just realized that’s your name and, like . . . your name.”
“Ha-ha, yes,” I said, extending my hand.
“Yeah, that’s not gonna get old,” she said, shaking it. “I’m Angela, your stage manager. Here’s your first-day folder with the schedule and contact numbers and stuff. If you want to join the circle, Renee should be here soon.”
Louisa broke off to hug some more people as I slowly found a seat in the circle. Not knowing anyone, I decided to read through my lines in the opening scene (as if I didn’t already know them by heart).
“Wow, you know a lot of people.” I smiled as Lou rejoined me, taking a seat.
“I know! I’m so excited. A lot of the Music Man cast is in this, too, including the Schwartzes,” Lou whispered in my ear, tilting her head toward a cute elderly couple wearing oversize show sweatshirts—Guys and Dolls and I Do! I Do!, respectively. “They helped found the Players and have been in, like, every show since it started.” She smirked. “Even if there aren’t really any roles for them.”
“Who are they playing in this?” I whispered. “Cinderella and Prince Charming?”
Lou snickered. “Oh look.” She perked up in her seat. “The guy walking in is Wayne Flanagan,” she said, nodding to a tall man in a vest who had big, wavy blond hair. As he entered the room, he slowly removed his sunglasses and looked up, doing a comedic double-take as if surprised to see people he knew.
“He’s kind of dreamy.” She sighed. “I’ve never done a show with him, but I’ve seen him as Bobby in Crazy for You and Sweeney in Sweeney Todd, so he can kind of do it all.” She grinned. “He also owns that cute candle shop downtown.”
“Cool.” I smiled knowingly.
“And of course,” Lou said, exhaling, “that’s Denise Zook.” She whispered it slowly, directing my attention to the woman entering the room. She was wearing a green blazer and knee-high leather boots, carrying the biggest iced coffee I’d ever seen. “She’s like the star of Cleveland. She was our Marion in Music Man, Reno in Anything Goes and has won like four CLEVYs.”
“Clee-vies?” I snorted.
“Yeah, like Tony Awards for Cleveland-area theater. If she’s not playing the Witch, I’ll be shocked. I’m kind of scared of her but so obsessed with her voice.”
All of a sudden, everyone in the circle turned their attention to the doorway where a woman was handing a sleeping little boy to her husband. I recognized her as Renee Florkowski, the director from my audition. “What’s her story?” I whispered to Lou.
“Well, she’s a teacher in the musical-theater department at Baldwin Wallace. She actually directed in New York for a while but moved here to have kids or something. Now she only does one show a year, and it’s always the best one.”
As the cast gathered in their seats, Renee kissed her husband good-bye and strutted coolly to the circle. The room fell silent.
“Opportunity is not a lengthy visitor,” Renee declared. I recognized it immediately as one of Cinderella’s lines. “Which is why I think we should dive right in.” As she spoke, she began slowly circling the ring of chairs. “I’m Renee Florkowski, and I have the distinct privilege of welcoming you to the first rehearsal of Into the Woods!”
The cast broke into applause. I felt a rush of warmth in my chest. This was really happening. I was going to get to perform in my favorite show.
“I have to say, I was blown away by all of your auditions,” she continued. “And I think we’ve assembled a group of actors who are going to be talked about for a long time. I’m happy to see a lot of familiar faces.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Denise nodding deliberately. Wayne clasped a hand to his
chest in fake shock as if saying, “Who me?”
“And some of you I just met last week,” she said, stopping by Lou’s and my chairs. “But your auditions inspired me, and I look forward to creating some first-rate theater together.”
She looked directly into my eyes and gave me a little wink. I couldn’t help but grin.
“Let’s get started by going around the circle,” she went on, walking into the center of the ring. “If you could say your name, what role you’ll be playing, and how about . . . your favorite fairy tale.”
As the cast introduced themselves, my excitement continued to build. Each person seemed friendlier than the next. Our Rapunzel’s name was Sarah. She was a high-school senior who also lifeguarded at the city pool (there was a pool here!) and wondered if True Blood counted as a fairy tale. Cinderella was a cantor at the church we were rehearsing in and admitted to having recurring nightmares about Rumpelstiltskin. Dr. Krasnow, our Baker, was an optometrist and allergic to wheat. He joked about needing gluten-free pastry options as props, much to the horror of our stage manager, Angela.
I wasn’t sure the last time I’d laughed this much. Probably months. It was fun being in a room of adults again. Even though I was twelve, I already felt more at home with these guys than I did with the kids in my class. It didn’t matter that some of my cast worked as lawyers and real estate agents; we were all here for the same reason—we loved doing theater. My mind began to race, trying to remember everyone’s names all the while planning what I’d say when it was my turn to speak. I was having such a great time that I’d almost forgotten about another cast, a thousand miles away, rehearsing for a different show. The Big Apple cast was probably already doing runs in costume, having woken up early that morning to perform on a talk show or concert in Bryant Park. I wondered what they’d think if they found out I was in a community theater production, but before I knew it, it was my turn to talk.
“I’m Jack,” I said. “And I’ll be playing . . . Jack.” A wave of laughter rang from the circle. I guess Angela was right. “I know it’s totally unoriginal, but my favorite fairy tale is Jack and the Beanstalk.” I looked around the circle. Everyone was beaming, all seeming genuinely interested in what I had to say. Lou reached over and gave my arm a friendly little squeeze. “This is my first show with the Players,” I continued, “and I’d just like to say I’m really happy to be here.”
–LOUISA–
In an instant my life had gone from fine to awesome. Getting the phone call telling me I had won the part of Little Red was as good, if not better, than when my parents told me they would pay for a week at Camp Curtain Up. And then when Jack found out that he got cast, too . . . I don’t think I stopped smiling until I fell asleep that night. I might have actually kept smiling in my sleep.
Once rehearsals for Into the Woods began, it was funny to think that the only thing I’d wanted to do a few weeks earlier was avoid Jack Goodrich at all costs, because now we were together all the time. Even so, I felt like there were two versions of the same person: School Jack and Rehearsal Jack. School Jack was like an alter ego: an unassuming and neutral kid intent on averting the attention of his classmates, while Rehearsal Jack was like a superhero: a talented and extroverted actor whose superpower was making friends instantly. Meanwhile, I felt like his super sidekick, sworn to protecting his secret. We both knew everyone at school would eventually find out that he was doing Into the Woods—half the town came out to see the Players’ productions, especially the musicals. But Jack wanted to fly under the radar as long as possible, and I wasn’t about to break the promise I’d made to help him do just that. Still, I liked Rehearsal Jack much better than School Jack. Rehearsal Jack was a lot of fun.
Every night, as soon as our kitchen clock read 6:45 p.m., I would scarf down the last bites of dinner, grab my rehearsal bag, and run out of the house to find Jack waiting by our car, having shed his shy alter ego in favor of his outgoing superhero identity. We’d spend the ten-minute ride to St. Joseph’s reviewing what we’d worked on the night before, warming up our voices in the backseat. Dad would tease us from the driver’s seat, saying we sounded like a flock of geese. When we got there, we’d sprint through the double doors and up the stairs to the rec room, where Jack and I would high-five and air-kiss our fellow cast members like we were guests at a cocktail party.
Wayne Flanagan, handsome as a movie star with his wavy blond hair, always stood by the water cooler filling up his Klean Kanteen bottle, so we’d say hello to him first. One of us would ask him to name the weirdest scented candles he’d sold at Wax & Wayne that day, and he’d respond by making up the worst smells imaginable. “Wet Dog,” he’d joke. “Car Exhaust. Tennis Shoe.”
From Wayne we’d move on to demand hugs from Mr. and Mrs. Schwartz, even when their matching show sweatshirts were covered in crumbs from the tray of brownies or crumb cake they’d be cutting up to serve during our mid-rehearsal break. Sarah, our Rapunzel, liked to pretend we were celebrities and asked us for our autographs, while Simon, Rapunzel’s Prince, would pretend to restrain Sarah like she was a crazy fan. (It was totally obvious that Simon had a crush on Sarah.) It was usually around the time that Simon had his arm around Sarah’s waist that Angela (who totally had a crush on Simon), would announce that we were starting, and Renee would lay out the evening’s agenda.
I felt comfortable around everyone except for two people: Renee and Denise. As easy as it was for me to make jokes with Wayne Flanagan or hug Mrs. Schwartz, the thought of cracking a joke to Renee—or worse, making physical contact with Denise—made me shiver. It’s not that either one of them was mean; they spoke to me just like they spoke to the adults. Maybe that’s what freaked me out—they treated me like such a grown-up that I wasn’t used to it. Plus they were both so smart. Renee knew exactly how to get what she wanted from you—like, she’d always pay you a compliment before giving you an acting note, or she’d suggest an idea in a way that made you feel like you came up with it yourself. And Denise was always asking super smart questions, wondering about her character’s “intention,” “sense of urgency,” or “arc.”
On the fourth night of rehearsal, as Denise was about to sing “Stay with Me”—a beautiful, sad song that the Witch sings to Rapunzel to keep her from leaving—I confided in Jack.
“They’re both so intimidating, don’t you think?” I whispered, watching Denise and Renee discuss the scene as they used phrases like remain active, raise the stakes, and fight self-indulgence.
Jack looked at the two of them, then back at me.
“Why?” he asked. “Because they use fancy actor words?”
“Because they just seem so . . . professional.”
As soon as the word came out of my mouth, I realized why Jack didn’t share my feelings of insecurity. He had just left a world full of professionals—he himself had been a professional—so people like Renee and Denise were completely familiar to him. I’m sure people in New York were even more intimidating.
Jack furrowed his brow like he was thinking hard about what I’d just said.
“They’re taking the work seriously, sure,” he conceded, “but there’s no reason for you to be intimidated by them.”
“I dunno,” I said, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen either of them laugh. They seem to take everything so seriously.”
“C’mon, they have to laugh,” Jack assured me. “They do musical theater. You can’t do musical theater and not laugh.”
“So says you,” I muttered as Denise began to sing.
Jack gave me a quick glance and what I thought was a little smirk, then settled back in his chair to listen to the Witch’s mournful appeal to Rapunzel.
A hush fell over the room as Denise’s final note faded into silence, curling like a wisp of smoke around our ears. Chills ran up and down my spine; her performance of the song had been perfect, and I was more in awe of her than ever. I looked over to see tears in R
enee’s eyes. She opened her mouth to speak, but before any sound could come out, Jack’s voice cut through the silence. Bold as a seagull swooping in on a dropped french fry at the beach, he said: “Wow, that was so great, Denise. I think as soon as you learn to sing on pitch and change all of your acting choices you’ll really have something.”
I could have fainted. Denise had probably never heard a comment like that in her lifetime. She stared blankly at Jack, her mouth opening and closing like a fish. The rest of the room followed suit in its speechlessness. Had Jack lost his mind? If I hadn’t been so dumbstruck, I would have asked him. What seemed like an endless awkward moment was finally interrupted by Jack’s big grin—one I had begun to know and adore. In the split second that everyone realized he was kidding, the energy of the room exploded. Tears welled up in Renee’s eyes and now ran in steady streams down her cheeks as she howled with laughter, and Denise, continuing the joke, responded with, “Thank you so much, Jack. I really value your feedback.” She then pretended to write a note in her music: “Learn. To. Sing. On. Pitch.”
As Angela tried to regain control of the room—“Okay, everybody, we should probably get back to work . . .”—Jack turned to me, an expectant look on his face.
“I can’t believe you just did that,” I said, giggling.
“I know, that could’ve totally backfired,” he said, his eyes flashing. “But it didn’t, and now you know that Renee and Denise can laugh. So you don’t need to be intimidated by them anymore.”
My giggles subsided as Jack’s words sunk in.
“Wait—you did that for me?”
“Well, yeah,” he said, shifting in his seat. “You’re my friend, so . . .”
So? No friend, not even the ones I made at camp, had ever found such a bold way to make me feel better about something.
• • •
If I thought Jack and I had been getting along before that night, it was nothing compared to the days and weeks that followed. Our newly solidified friendship became a full-time commitment.
Jack & Louisa: Act 1 Page 8
