by E. Lockhart
Reanne explained that she envisioned us immersing ourselves in the fairy spirit of Shakespeare’s comedy, and that instead of having trees or rocks or bowers or whatever, we’d be making these set elements with our bodies, wrapping ourselves in the canvas and becoming the forest before the eyes of the audience. “The concept of the actors forming the stage environment with their bodies is always part of the way I work,” she explained. “It’s organic. It’s inherently theatrical. And it communicates with the audience on a deep level.”
The first couple days, we held rehearsal in the Shakespeare garden (full of all the herbs and plants ever mentioned in any of Shakespeare’s plays), in the woods at the back of campus, or by the lakeshore— communing with the spirit of nature. We held hands in a circle and closed our eyes, creating an ensemble as we passed a hand-squeeze from one person to another. We stood in the woods and smelled the earthy fragrances and listened to the soft sounds of the leaves in the wind. Then we ourselves “became” trees, reaching our arms skyward, trying to inhabit the wooden yet flexible quality of the forest. We sat on the edge of the water, each of us searching within ourselves for a gesture we felt would capture the beauty of the scenery around us—a gesture we could then bring to the rehearsal room to convey the presence of capricious, wonderfully alive Mother Nature that was such a big part of Shakespeare’s vision.
I liked the exercises. Reanne was warm and generous and full of enthusiasm. I liked focusing my thoughts, listening to her husky voice guiding us. One day we played tag in the woods, pretending to be fairies.
Stage Combat was my favorite elective. We learned how to fake-punch someone, listened to lectures about different kinds of fake-blood delivery systems, and fought with swords. It was a popular class with the straight boy contingent, including Theo (who was playing Lysander, one of the lovers) and a few of the rude mechanicals from Midsummer.
I was the only girl, and the teacher didn’t cut me any slack because of it. “Harder, Sadye!” he’d yell from the sidelines as I thrust my sword into someone’s side. “Fight like your life depends on it!” We practiced falling, shot off guns loaded with caps, and fake-slapped each other, over and over.
On the second day of class (day four of rehearsals) I got to slap Theo, whom I’d been ignoring as hard as I could ever since he hadn’t danced with me. The teacher assigned us to be partners.
Whack! So you un-noticed me.
Whack! So you don’t think I’m pretty enough to dance with.
Whack! So you forgot I even asked you.
Whack! So you want someone Kristinish like Bec.
It felt good, I have to say. Even though I was hitting my own hand, I got to look in his handsome face, think about how bad he’d made me feel, haul my arm back to hit him, then watch him contort in simulated pain.
Whack! So you think it was all right for Morales to humiliate me.
Whack! So you’re mad I don’t care that you’re black.
Whack! So you’re running off with Blake.
Whack! So you’re more talented than I am.
By the time my turn ended my head was muddled—I almost didn’t know if it was Theo or Demi in front of me, and why was I thinking about Demi at all? I wasn’t even mad at him anymore, was I? The teacher told us to switch roles, but I barely listened. Just stood there feeling this mix of fury and confusion.
It was Theo’s turn to slap me. We went through the scenario three or four times without trouble, but then his hand slipped and he walloped me across the cheek, hard and loud.
I stumbled back, my face stinging and my breath ragged.
“I hit you for real!” Theo cried, putting his hand over his mouth in shock. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”
I stumbled to a chair and sat down.
“It’s turning red. Are you okay?”
I couldn’t speak.
“I’m so sorry. Can I get you an ice pack or something?”
“No, no,” I finally answered. “Just let me sit for a second. I’m not a delicate flower or anything.”
Theo looked at me. Hard. “I know you’re not a delicate flower,” he said. “That’s what I like about you.”
“You know, I think I will take an ice pack,” I told him.
Theo scurried off to get me one and tell the teacher, and I sat with my head between my knees.
I felt like I was melting.
After that, Theo and I went back to talking. The two of us became partners whenever we sparred in Stage Combat, and joked around together in Midsummer rehearsals. He liked my company—that was pretty certain. But I don’t think he had re-noticed me as a girl— because he didn’t pounce. And I didn’t either. Because, why wasn’t he pouncing? There were so many girls at Wildewood, lolling about in tights and leotards, asking him to play piano on lunch break while they practiced their songs, calling to him across the quad. Was Theo the guy who really preferred vanilla and only flirted with mint chocolate chip when there was no vanilla in sight?
SOMETHING BECAME clear to me during Midsummer rehearsals in the days that followed: the end result of Reanne’s ensemble process was that some of us were going to play trees.
It was also easy to see that the people playing Puck, Bottom, Titania, and the lovers were not going to have time. So the people with little parts were going to be treeing it up.
Meaning me.
Once we started working with the script, Reanne was so committed to her ensemble fairy spirit vision— the idea that we were all collectively creating the play at every moment, no matter who was speaking lines and who was being a tree—that she had us stand there with our arms held out while the actors playing the lovers rehearsed their speeches.
I don’t know if you’ve ever stood still with your arms out for half an hour, but it is fantastically uncomfortable.
To give her credit, Reanne was appreciative. She gave notes to the trees, and talked to us about the kinds of tree shapes we needed to make in order to create the ambiance for a particular scene. Sometimes I was a menacing tree, sometimes protective, sometimes jolly or wild.
But let’s face it. For a serious portion of my rehearsal time, I was a tree.
One day, while the lovers and royalty were working on the start of the play (which takes place in a palace, not the enchanted forest), the mechanicals had been assigned to stroll once again through the campus woods and improvise in character, “forging bonds and developing the nuances of the characters’ interpersonal relationships,” said Reanne.
So we walked. Me, Lyle, and four character-actor guys: one pale and femmy (Flute), one hatchet-faced (Starveling), one horse-faced (Snout), and one seriously short (Snug).
“You wanna know something?” asked Lyle as we stepped into the cool of the woods.
“You’re gonna tell us anyway,” I said.
“I wouldn’t care if I never saw another tree in my life.”
“Ha!”
“I am treed-out already, my friend. And it’s only six days in.”
“Seriously,” said the femmy fifteen-year-old playing Flute, the bellows-mender. “And you don’t even have to be a tree, do you, Bottom? I have to be a tree for like hours while Oberon and Titania quarrel.”
“Me too,” complained Starveling.
“Are they talking in character right now?” whispered Snout. “Because Reanne said to.”
“Not sure,” said Snug. “Are you?”
“Not sure,” answered Snout, and cracked up.
“I’m not a tree,” admitted Lyle, “but you know what I’m gonna be now, in the scenes before the mechanicals go on? Reanne just told me.”
“What?”
“A rock. I’m gonna ball myself up and be a rock. Hermia is gonna sit on me.”
“Poor Lyle.” I patted his arm.
“Not as poor as you, darling. I saw you treeing it up behind me yesterday. You looked like you were gonna faint.”
“I almost did faint,” moaned Starveling.
“Reanne does this every year,” said Lyle.
“There’s no stopping her. Last year she directed Oedipus Rex and had the members of the chorus be the furniture. It was laughable. People were totally being tables, and everyone was dressed in white bed sheets.”
“Oh, no.”
“Oh, YES.”
“Lyle is definitely not in character,” muttered Snout.
“I can’t tell anymore,” said Snug.
“Or maybe he is?” said Snout.
“But Reanne’s way too nice for anyone to say anything,” Lyle went on. “And she does all the organization stuff for Morales, keeps it off his back so he can be the star director.”
“Aha.”
“Her approach is founded on some interesting theories about drama, actually,” said Lyle. “They made us take theater history last year, and Andre Gregory, I think it was, did this famous Alice in Wonderland with the Manhattan Project in like 1970 that used people’s bodies to create the wonderland. It was really cool. We saw pictures.”
“You know what we should do?” I said. “I mean, complaining is one of my favorite things, I’m not knocking it. But shouldn’t we stop complaining and try to make it better? It’s early days for this show. It doesn’t have to be Bedsheet Oedipus.”
“But how?” piped up Flute.
“Talk to her. We should make suggestions.”
“That’s not an actor’s job,” said Lyle.
“But isn’t she talking about the ensemble all the time? Don’t you think she knows Bedsheet Oedipus was bad?”
Lyle shook his head. “Maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t. But it’s not our position to talk to her about it. The actor’s job is to realize the director’s vision. If her vision is bedsheets, her vision is bedsheets. It’s not a situation where challenging authority does any good.”
“But if it’s an ensemble, we should have a voice. Each of us should have a say.”
Lyle pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I don’t think so, Sadye. The only thing we can do is talk about it behind her back.”
CONTRARY TO being in Midsummer, being in the ten-day wonder—even in a small part like mine—was like being a member of royalty. I got pulled out of Singing for a costume fitting on only the second day, and felt a glow of specialness as I ducked out the door and headed for wardrobe. Once there, I stood along with the other Hot Box Girls being pinned into evening gowns with Velcro closures for “Take Back Your Mink,” and tried on yellow-feathered dresses for “Bushel and a Peck.” The costume mistress and her assistants fitted us for gold high heels, checked our stocking sizes, brought out piles of fake furs for us to slink around in—brown for us, and white for Nanette.
We were all due at rehearsal by 7:30 p.m.—an hour before anyone not in the ten-day wonder had to be at evening recreation, so we rushed through dinner, ran back to change clothes, bandaged our feet, and grabbed our scripts—and hurried out of the dorms on the way to the studios as everyone else trickled back from the cafeteria.
Then we worked. Sweated. Usually the Hot Box Girls danced nonstop for two hours. For “Bushel and a Peck” we all carried rakes. We tapped them on the floor in rhythm, swung them around, jumped over them, used them like canes, leaned on them as we jumped. For “Take Back Your Mink,” we did a synchronized semi-striptease, followed by a complicated tap routine. It wasn’t easy for me—though I’d had years of tap lessons—and Nanette, who wasn’t much of a tapper to start with, wolfed down her food every night and ran off to the dance studio to get in an extra half hour on the routine.
But here’s the thing about Nanette Watson: by the fifth day of rehearsal, when Morales was coming to see the dance routines, she had it nailed and was doing it better than I was.
The director, who had been spending his afternoons and evenings rehearsing the principals and gangsters, waddled into the dance studio, waved hello without saying a word, and sat down on a bench to watch the dances.
You could tell Tamar was nervous. Even though she was his girlfriend. She put us through both numbers, calling out during “Mink” to explain what we were doing with our imaginary clothes. The music director, sitting behind the piano playing accompaniment, didn’t say a word.
When we finished, Morales was silent for a moment. Then he said: “If you think you’ll get a rise in anyone’s pants doing it that way, you’re mistaken. Do you want the audience to fall asleep, here? Do you? Do you?”
We shook our heads, no.
“Then take ‘Mink’ again from the top and give it some old-fashioned sex appeal,” he said. “And what I mean by that is when Tamar has told you to stick your bottoms out, stick them out. When she’s choreographed a jiggle, don’t give me this tiny, afraid little shimmy— ‘Ooh, I’m only sixteen, I don’t know if I should be doing this’—don’t give me that, because you’re dancers, no one cares about your inhibitions, it’s your job to make the thing sparkle. Dance it big!” he yelled. “Or there’s no reason for you to be here.”
We did the number again. Doing everything he said. And it was much better. We could all tell.
But did he have to be so mean? And kind of gross?
Morales wasn’t done. “Another thing. The altos sound off. Girls, tell me. Who’s off?”
Iz and the other girl singing alto both shook their heads.
Was it me?
Was it?
I didn’t think it was me.
“Altos, sing your part,” said the music director in an even voice. “Sopranos, stay quiet.”
We sang. It sounded odd without the sopranos singing the melody. I concentrated on the exact notes I was supposed to hit.
“It’s that one!” Morales pointed at me. “Tall Hot Box. Get her on her notes,” he said to the music director, “or have her lip-synch if she’s never gonna get it. We can get someone in to do vocal filler from backstage if we have to. We’ve only got five days left.”
The music director nodded.
“Oh, and Nanette?” Morales added. “You look great, sweetheart. You sound perfect. But I want you to see if you can give the whole thing another level by showing us that Miss Adelaide’s bored and miserable with her job in the nightclub. She’s sick of hoofing around in front of a lot of slimy guys at the age of forty, okay? She wants to get married and quit the business. Can you be bored out of your mind and make it funny?”
Nanette nodded.
“Okay,” Morales said. “I gotta go look at ‘Luck Be a Lady’ in the next room.” He nodded at Tamar. “When I get back, I wanna see ‘Bushel’ again. ‘Mink’ is okay, leave it till the clothes get here. Then we’re gonna dismiss the girls, and Nanette will show me how ‘Lament’ is coming along.”
“Check.”
With Morales gone, the music director played the alto part on the piano for me three times, until it looked like I had it. But I never felt sure. Singing notes that weren’t the melody wasn’t easy for me—though everyone else seemed to do it just fine.
(click, shuffle)
Sadye: It’s July second, after curfew. Iz and I are in bed. Nanette and Candie just came in.
Iz: Hot Box Girls get out earlier than principals.
Sadye: Nanette is naked.
Nanette: I’m getting in the shower! I smell, people!
Sadye: Candie is lying on the floor.
Candie: Don’t mind me. I’ll just die of exhaustion right here.
Sadye: How was it?
Candie: Good. But hard. It’s like, he doesn’t just want me to sing the notes, he wants me to sing the feelings at the same time. Only, the things she’s feeling she doesn’t know she’s feeling, which makes it impossible to do right. It’s like this character never says what she’s truly thinking--except when she gets drunk.
Iz: You sound good. Did you see us listening in the door? Before they kicked us out.
Candie: I had to kiss Demi, also. Because we did the Havana scene. And like, I didn’t have any mints. I haven’t taken a shower since dance class this morning, and I ate the pepperoni pizza at dinner. I was scared he’d like, barf on me.
Iz: There should be a rule that they have to tell you when you’re gonna be kissing. It sucks so bad if you’re not prepared.
Candie: I haven’t kissed anyone since my boyfriend from Jekyll, either. My ex-boyfriend. Anyway. And only one other guy before that. So it was bizarre.
Iz: Is he a good kisser?
Candie: (giggles)
Iz: What? Does that mean he’s good?
Nanette: (coming out of the shower wrapped in a towel) Or did he barf?
Sadye: Nanette, he did not barf. That was an expression. Be nice.
Nanette: Okay, then what did he do? She’s not telling us anything!
Iz: Weren’t you there?
Nanette: No, I was doing “Sue Me” down the hall.
Candie: (giggling again as she strips off her clothes and heads into the shower) He stuck his tongue down my throat, actually.
Nanette: He did not, he did not! Candie: He did! Nanette: In the middle of the rehearsal room? With Morales and everyone looking on?
Candie: (yelling from shower stall) Yeah! Like he didn’t know you were supposed to, you know, stage kiss!
Sadye: He did the jumbo pounce.
(laughter, all round)
Iz: (to Sadye) Do you think he’s ever kissed a girl before?
Sadye: I don’t know.
Iz: Did he ever kiss you?
Sadye: Ugh! No. We’re like brother and sister.
Candie: He sings great, though. He truly does. I sound like a sheep next to him.
Sadye: You don’t sound like a sheep. You sound like cherries jubilee.
Nanette: (getting into bed) Speaking of pouncing. I have had zero pouncing opportunities since this thing went into rehearsal. And my Rent shirt boy turned out to have a girlfriend.
Candie: (drying herself) We don’t even have Sunday off. Everyone gets Sunday off except for ten-day wonder. We don’t even get Fourth of July. So how can we pounce?
