“Oh my god,” Victoria sighed. She leaned her head against Jane’s knee. “Oh my god.”
“Totally,” agreed Natalya. “Jane, you were amazing! ‘Do you two know each other?’” At the memory, she cracked up again.
“He said he would have invited you if he had an extra ticket!” Natalya shrieked. “That is such a good sign!”
“You think so?” asked Victoria, though she knew it was.
“Totally,” said Natalya.
“Definitely,” said Jane. Then she leaned over to look down at Victoria. “Oh, and for the record?”
Victoria tilted her head back so she could meet Jane’s look. “Yeah?”
“That—” She pointed down the block in the direction Jack had disappeared.
“Yeah?” asked Victoria again.
“—is cute, darling,” Jane concluded.
And the three of them just lost it completely.
TUESDAY AFTER SCHOOL, Jane had planned to hang around the theater with the other kids who were auditioning. But seeing a crowd of people who wanted what she wanted just as badly as she wanted it made her feel utterly pathetic, a cliché of a little girl writing Santa to ask for a pony. She walked across the street to Starbucks and waited in an enormous line for what felt like hours, before realizing all a latte would do was make her jittery and need to pee.
Back at the Academy she slipped into a first floor bathroom. The light was bad and the mirror small, but her hair looked reasonably tame. She’d decided the Foxy Lady shirt was too much, but she thought her bright red T-shirt would be memorable to a casting committee. Slipping into a stall, she took out her phone and called Natalya. Without bothering to say hello, Jane announced, “I swear to god, Mark told every single freshman that I’m auditioning.” She described how two girls had come up to her in French that morning to ask if it was true that she was trying out for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. When she’d said that it was, they’d backed slowly away from her, as though whatever she had might be contagious.
“Stop,” said Natalya, laughing at Jane’s description. “They’re totally rooting for you.”
Jane shook her head. “No, they want me to fail.”
“Realistically, half of them might,” Natalya acknowledged. “But the other half are hoping you’ll get a part.”
Jane traced her fingers thoughtfully along a heart someone had carved into the old wooden door of the stall. “No, they all want me to fail. I know they do because it’s what I would want if I were them and they were me, darling.”
“Maybe you’re meaner than other people,” offered Natalya.
Jane considered the possibility. “I think I’m just more honest than other people.”
“Either way, it’s four forty,” Natalya said. “Do you know where your audition is?”
“Are you serious?” Almost half an hour had passed since she’d gone across the street to kill time by getting a latte. Was it possible that now she was actually going to be late? “Oh god, I gotta go!”
Before she slapped her phone shut, Jane heard Natalya shout, “Vicks and I will bring the roses!”
Jane smiled sadly to herself. Nana had always brought Jane a beautiful bouquet of long-stemmed roses on opening night. It was weird to think that even if Jane did get cast, Nana wouldn’t be there to hand her flowers.
Jane was panting when she arrived at the theater seconds before four forty-five. A boy she didn’t know was sitting nearby, leaning against the wall, and when he saw her frantic approach, he immediately said, “Don’t worry, they’re running late.”
Jane stood where she’d stopped and took a deep breath. “Thanks.” She slid down the wall to sit across the corridor from him. Less than a minute later, as if she’d been conjured by Jane’s arrival, the door to the theater opened and Fran Sherman came out. Her cheeks were flushed, and she had a look of triumph on her face that made Jane think of Lady Macbeth. She didn’t stop to look at Jane and the guy in the hallway, just swept past them and out of sight. Jane wondered if she’d even seen them sitting there.
A girl Jane didn’t recognize stepped out and said, “Come on in, Nate.”
After Nate said good-bye, Jane was still having trouble catching her breath. It had been a long time since she’d had to prove herself. Sure, she’d auditioned for parts at One Room. But had there ever been a doubt she’d land the lead?
“Jane?” The door opened as the girl said her name, and Jane sprang to her feet. Without speaking, she passed into the theater.
It was dark, with just a few spots on so that the middle of the stage was well lit. There at a table sat four people, all of whom, from a distance, looked like students. Was the director even here?
“Jane, welcome,” said a male voice. The person speaking sat at the far end of the table, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee.
Jane made her way onto the stage. As she got closer, she saw that he was clearly an adult, though she could see why she’d mistaken him for a student—even close up, he looked pretty young, and the jeans and T-shirt he was wearing made him seem that much younger.
“Sorry we kept you waiting,” he said. “I’m Len Robbins.”
Jane couldn’t hide her surprise at how…well, handsome Len Robbins was.
“Hi, Len.” It felt right to call him Len.
“Hi, Jane. This is Sharon, Larnel, and Wendy. They’re producing the show.”
He indicated the students at the table with him, and Jane nodded at them as if she’d registered who they were, though she’d forgotten their names as soon as Mr. Robbins said them. She had a second to wonder what it meant to produce a show before Mr. Robbins asked, “So, what do you have for us today?” He leaned forward slightly in his seat, as if despite the fact that he’d been watching people audition for two afternoons in a row, he was thrilled at the prospect of yet another student reciting yet another monologue for him.
“I’m going to do one of Lady Macbeth’s speeches.” Jane was relieved her voice wasn’t quivering like her hands.
“A bold choice,” Mr. Robbins said. Then he leaned back in his chair. “Whenever you’re ready.”
Jane fluttered her fingers against her necklace, then took a deep breath and began, imagining, as she spoke, the dark power of Shakespeare’s witches running through her blood.
“‘The raven himself is hoarse that croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan.’” As the rhythm and magic of the lines pulsed through her body, she felt completely present in the words she was speaking. Halfway through, she was positive she’d nailed the speech—her voice was sure and booming, and she raised up her arms to the sky, letting the power of Shakespeare’s language carry her through the final line, which she nearly shouted.
She felt as triumphant as Fran Sherman had looked.
When the last syllable of instant had died out, the silence was deafening. She dropped her hands.
The three students made notes on the pads in front of them. Nobody said anything, and she realized she was probably supposed to leave.
“Well, thanks,” she said. It had been a good audition. She knew it had been a good audition. So why wasn’t anyone saying anything to her? Even a careless Nice job would have been appreciated.
“Just a second,” said Mr. Robbins. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, staring at her. One by one the students finished what they were writing and looked up at her.
“How old is Lady Macbeth?” he asked.
She’d never thought about it before, but she figured Lady Macbeth was probably pretty old. Did it ever say in the play? “Fifty?” she guessed.
Now Mr. Robbins had his elbows on his knees, and he was leaning toward her. His stare was intense, his sandy brown hair chicly cut, and his jawbone was stubbled like a model’s.
Okay, he was way cuter than any teacher she’d ever had.
“So you see her as a middle-aged woman?” he prompted.
“Actually, I see her as old,” Jane said before she could stop herself. Was it possible that Mr. Robbins was fifty? She hop
ed she hadn’t offended him.
Mr. Robbins laughed. “Right.” He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “What if she’s young? The text never actually gives her age.”
“Young?” she asked. This was starting to feel more like an English class than an audition.
“Young. Young and gorgeous and sexy and standing there in a revealing nightgown, raising her arms to the heavens and demanding of the spirits that they unsex her?”
Again, Jane spoke before she could think about what she was saying. “It’s more significant to unsex a sexy woman.”
His pleased smile told Jane that Mr. Robbins knew she’d gotten his point. He nodded at what she’d said before expanding on it. “If she’s older, if she’s, say, Judi Dench, it doesn’t mean much to de-gender her. But if she’s young and hot, it’s a powerful request. Why don’t you try it again, and this time, make her sexier. Make her a woman who’s used to getting what she wants because she’s hot.”
Jane nodded. She was a professional. No way would she allow her expression to belie any weirdness she felt talking about being sexy with Mr. Robbins.
“Got it,” said Jane.
“When you’re ready,” Mr. Robbins said again.
Jane began again, but halfway through the first sentence, she realized she was saying the line exactly the way she’d said it before.
“Sorry,” she interrupted herself. “Can I try that again?”
“As many times as you want,” said Mr. Robbins.
Jane wasn’t sure she really had an infinite number of times to screw this up. She took a deep breath and thought to herself, Sexy. I’m sexy. I’m totally hot and sexy. Jane pictured Fran’s flushed, triumphant face as she’d exited the theater. Fran wasn’t hot, exactly, but she looked like she thought she was.
“‘Unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty,’” Jane said again, and she tried to visualize herself in a sexy nightgown, the silk swishing against her bare feet as she paced the floor. Now when she got to the line about “come to my women’s breasts,” she felt self-conscious, and she stumbled her way through the sentence. Her cheeks were burning. As fast as she could, she raced to the end of the speech. When it was over, she looked down, unable to meet anyone’s eyes.
Into the silence, Mr. Robbins said, “That’s a lot to ask someone to do at an audition. You were a sport.”
“No problem,” Jane lied.
“Thanks so much,” said one of the girls at the table, either Wendy or Sharon.
“Thanks for humoring me,” said Mr. Robbins. “It was a great attempt.”
Your attempt to be sexy was hilarious.
Your attempt to play Lady Macbeth was amusing.
Your attempt to be cast in this play was admirable.
“The cast list will be posted on the door to the main theater on Monday morning.”
But your name so clearly will not be on it.
WITH ITS INTRICATE inlaid floor, thick Persian rugs, glass-topped display cases of yellowing manuscripts, and enormous old wooden tables, the library at Gainsford should have been lit by flickering candles, not lightbulbs, as if it existed in a time and place where electricity hadn’t yet been invented. But when the librarian gave Natalya the book she’d asked for, he added, “You can’t check this out since it’s on reserve, but you can copy the chapter over there,” and pointed at a very twenty-first-century-looking Xerox machine.
“Thanks,” said Natalya. She took the heavy book over to the corner and flipped it open to “The Spread of the Cool.” In Bio last period, they’d talked about how bacteria and viruses spread, and Dr. Clover had said cryptically that illnesses weren’t the only things that could be contagious. She’d told the class that anyone who wanted to learn more about the subject could check out an article she’d put on reserve in the library.
“Will we get extra credit if we read the article?” asked a girl sitting at the front lab table.
Dr. Clover shoved her hands in the pockets of her lab coat and pivoted in the direction of the questioner. “You will get extra knowledge, Louisa. I would hope that would be of more interest to you than extra credit.”
As they were walking out of class, Natalya asked Jordan if she was going to read the article.
Jordan held her hands out in front of her, as if they were a scale. “Let’s see: read incredibly boring article for terrifying science teacher, or enjoy fabulous lunch with friends.” She dropped her right hand almost to her knee, as if something heavy had suddenly been dumped on it. “And we have a winner!”
Natalya laughed. “I think…I’ll meet you in a minute. I just have to do something.”
“’Kay,” said Jordan. “I’ll save you a seat.”
Now, as she stood in the library copying the article no one but she would know she’d read, Natalya couldn’t help wondering if she was stupid for adding this reading to her already massive quantity of homework. She had a bio lab due Friday and a history essay that she’d just been assigned this morning due Monday, not to mention Greek verbs to conjugate by tomorrow and Othello scenes to read and answer questions on by the end of the day.
Still, she found herself standing by the Xerox machine glancing through the article she’d just copied. The book was called You Know You Want It: Modern Advertising and the Myth of Need. Natalya skimmed the first page. The challenge for marketers is how to take advantage of the moment before a trend becomes passé, to ride the wave of the new and exciting all the way to the bank.…
Natalya felt someone hip-check her, and without looking up, she knew it had to be Jordan.
“Give me one sec—” She snapped the book shut, slipped the copy of the article out of the tray, turned around, and found herself staring directly at Morgan Prewitt’s face.
Everything about Morgan radiated light—her white teeth shone, her silky hair shimmered, her small pearl earrings gleamed. Natalya stood staring at her, tongue-tied, like Morgan was some guy she had a crush on.
“Hey!” Morgan smiled at Natalya as if Natalya were the person she most wanted to talk to in the entire universe. “You’re Natalya. And we have never hung out, which is completely insane.”
A warm glow spread through Natalya’s entire body. Morgan’s smile was so genuine, her enthusiasm for having found Natalya standing at the Xerox machine so palpable. It made Natalya feel special, as if, like viruses and trends, Morgan’s sparkliness was also contagious.
“Are you busy?” asked Morgan, nodding at the book Natalya was holding.
“No, I just…I have to give this back to the librarian.” She made her way over to the librarian’s desk, handed him the book, then took the article and folded it into her backpack. Incredibly enough, when she was done, Morgan was still waiting for her.
“Come.” Morgan gestured for Natalya to follow, and despite being completely bewildered about what was happening, Natalya did. Together they walked through the central part of the library, a grand arched room with enormous reading tables; dictionaries on intricately carved iron stands; and ancient-looking, brightly colored maps of the world hanging on the walls. When they were halfway across the room, Morgan made an abrupt right along a narrow passage between two high bookcases, then entered a small alcove Natalya hadn’t noticed before. Morgan crossed the alcove and pushed through a door that looked like part of the paneled wall. Following her, Natalya found herself standing in a small room with a love seat and two armchairs. On the floor was a worn Persian carpet with a light floral design. Despite how tiny the room was, on one wall was a stone fireplace so tall, Natalya could have stood in it without bumping her head.
“Oh my god.” She looked around her. High up on the outer wall, a series of stained-glass windows let in ruby and lemon light.
Morgan flopped onto the love seat and surveyed her surroundings as if seeing them through Natalya’s eyes. “I know,” she agreed, “isn’t it awesome? There are a whole bunch of these little rooms, but this is the best one—none of the others have a firepl
ace. It’s too bad there’s no fire.”
Natalya nodded.
“I just can’t deal with the lunchroom anymore.” Stretching out on the love seat, Morgan sighed contentedly. “Katrina and Sloane should be here soon. We’ve been having lunch here all week. Isn’t this a million times better than those crappy chairs?”
“Oh definitely,” Natalya agreed. And even though she thought the lunchroom was beautiful, it wasn’t a lie. Sitting in the cafeteria wasn’t nearly as thrilling as sitting in this tiny room having a private conversation with the most popular girl in her grade. After all, anyone could eat in the cafeteria.
Only she had been invited here.
But why? What could she possibly have that Morgan Prewitt wanted?
At the impossibility of anything of hers being even remotely interesting to Morgan, her heart sank. Maybe Morgan wanted to copy her English homework. But why would Morgan want Natalya’s homework? The girl had gotten a ten out of ten on her vocab quiz (Natalya had seen the sheet when Ms. MacFadden returned it).
Natalya forced herself to stop thinking that Morgan wanted something from her. It really was paranoid. She reached up to her necklace and slid the pearl back and forth on its chain. The gentle ziiiip, ziip of metal on metal was soothing, and she felt her excitement about being singled out by Morgan return as Sloane Gainsford poked her head through the doorway.
“Hey,” said the girl, “I’m Sloane.” Her thick reddish-blond hair swirled around her face.
Natalya knew it would be uncool to say I know, so she just said, “Hi.”
Sloane smiled at Natalya, then said to Morgan, “You found her.”
“Totally,” said Morgan as Sloane dropped into the free armchair.
Natalya couldn’t believe it. Sloane and Morgan had talked about her. Morgan had been trying to find her. These amazing, sophisticated girls whose families had owned New York City for centuries wanted to be friends with her.
The door banged open, and Katrina flew into the room, her black hair streaming behind her. “Thanks a lot for coming with me,” she complained to her friends.
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