Duet Rubato

by Claerie Kavanaugh

  I vouch for Catie, of course. How can I not? She didn’t mark down Glinda. Odd. I’d always thought she’d be perfect for the role. But this is business. Here, she is a cast member—correction, possible cast member. Nothing more.

  Hours pass, but soon enough we have a lead and understudy picked out to call back for most of the principal roles, as well as some promising ensemble and a few select swing members. Only one part left.

  Hellsworth pulls the thickest stack of resumes closer. “This actress will carry the entire show. If she fails, we all fail. Choose your candidates wisely.” Then she splits the piles among us for sorting.

  I’m five resumes deep when someone’s phone vibrates, the sound ricocheting through the theater. All of us scramble for our bags. A jolt of excitement warms my body.

  What if it’s Catie?

  Don’t be ridiculous! I clench my teeth and curl my fists. A third ring echoes around the proscenium and my enthusiasm is replaced with a bolt of fear.

  “Dammit,” I mumble, wading through the overstuffed contents of my bag. If there’s one thing Hellsworth hates, it’s cell phones ringing in the theater. I’ve already been scolded once today. I am not going to get kicked out before rehearsals begin.

  Ring, ring. Ring, ring.

  Maddy holds up her phone, screen black, vibration-less.

  Yep, I’m dead.

  Finally, I dig out my cell and turn it over. It, too, is dark. I shake my head and glance at Maddy. All eyes settle on Frank. Mine flick between his flushed face and Hellsworth glares at the back of his head as he reveals his phone, looks at the screen and then—Is he seriously?

  Maddy comes to lean against my chair and nudges my shoulder. Frank answers, his expression hard.

  “Hello?”

  Hellsworth vaults to her feet, eyes bugging behind her thick, magenta-rimmed glasses. She steps forward, inches away from ripping the device from Frank’s hand. I brace myself, half expecting her to take a few fingers with it. He whips around, nodding.

  “One moment,” he says into the speaker. He holds the phone toward Hellsworth. It’s the company phone given to him for his stage manager position. I have no idea why I didn’t get one too, since I’m higher on the theatrical food chain, but after seeing how duct taped it is to his hand, I’m grateful all I have to deal with are a never-ending stack of paperwork and everyone else’s problems.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s”—he clears his throat and drops his voice to a whisper—“the bank.”

  Hellsworth’s furious expression dissipates, replaced with a mixture of irritation and dread. “Thank you, Mister Johnson.” She takes the phone and barks, “Gina Helmsworth speaking.” Before any of us can ask how to proceed, she’s down the aisle and out the doors. They slam closed behind her.

  Silence settles over us.

  “UNDER CONSTRUCTION” signs flash across my mind’s eye. For the last five years, Bright Light’s seasons have been, well, a shit-fest. They haven’t pulled in the revenue needed to keep this place afloat and the building itself has fallen into such crappy shape, the city has threatened to tear it down. When Hellsworth jumped on board, they gave us one more chance to save this place. If we fuck this up. . .

  A jab to the ribs jerks me out of my worry.

  Maddy twists a piece of long, light blond hair around her fingers, eyes flitting from me, to the doors, to Frank, and back again. “You don’t think they’re pulling the plug early. Do you?”

  God, I hope not. I’ve been here almost since I dropped out. I wouldn’t know where to look for more work, especially with my agent out of the game. Not that I want one, anyway. Goosebumps prickle my arms, but I paste on a smile and shake my head. “Nah, Hellsworth would never let them.”

  Maddy toys with the cord of her lime headphones. “Yeah, but what if—” A sharp clap makes both of our heads snap in Neal’s direction.

  “All right, gossip time is over! Back to work! Adaline?”

  I sit up straight. “Yes?”

  “Who do we have for Elphaba?”

  Fifteen minutes later, the four of us have gone through thirty applications, Hellsworth is still gone, and we’re no closer to finding our lead.

  “What about her?” Frank holds up a photo of a young girl with dark skin and thick black hair. She’s about 27, with bright gray eyes and a sweet smile. “Sauna Reed? She was pretty good.”

  “True,” Neal muses. “But pretty good isn’t going to save the theater.” He flips through a few more packets until he produces a glossy headshot of a girl with long red hair, medium skin, and amber eyes wearing an Elphaba-esque smirk. “Arielle Gifford? Her vocals were impressive.”

  Maddy rolls her eyes. “Adaline is better.”

  Sweat tickles the back of my neck. Please don’t let us start that old argument again. “You’re crazy.”

  “Yeah right. Logan said it too. You could sing circles around every girl here.”

  “You sing?” Frank perks up and I cringe, glaring at Maddy. “Since when?”

  “I used to,” I grumble, dropping my gaze to my lap. “Not anymore.”

  “Why?” Neal this time.

  Fuck. I gather the fabric of my blouse in my palm. Maddy, why did you have to go and open this can of worms? I shoot her another scowl and she slinks back in her seat.

  Sorry, she mouths. I scoff and turn back to Neal.

  “I—” My purse vibrates. I pull out my phone and make my way toward the lobby, motioning, five minutes, to my crew mates. Once outside, I slump against the cool brick and accept the call. “Hello?”

  “Addie?”

  “Danny?” My eyebrows shoot up. “Um, hi.” I’ve landed in some sort of TV drama. There’s no other explanation for my former agent calling me when I was thinking about how I would find work if this place goes under. “What’s up?”

  He laughs. “Well, don’t sound so happy to hear me.”

  I grin and rest the receiver against my shoulder. “Sorry. I was, surprised, is all. It’s been what, five years?”

  “Almost. Listen, I’m sorry I fell off the map.”

  “No worries.” I cross my arms. “How’s Angel?”

  “She’s in remission now, thank God.”

  My smile grows. I always liked his wife. “Congrats.”

  “Thanks, kiddo. Anyway, I’m easing my way back into the saddle and I think I have a perfect role for you.”

  My blood runs cold. I push away from the wall. “You do?” This is all way too ironic. “What kind of job?” Seconds later, tapping of keys is followed by a ping.

  “I linked you.”

  An exasperated sigh escapes my lips. “Danny, look, I’m thrilled Angel is doing better, but—”

  “I know you said you weren’t interested, but take a look at this one. I think you’ll like it.”

  “But—”

  “Let me know.” And then a dial tone buzzes in my ear.

  I stare at my email app, the single red notification blinking up at me as if to say, Open me. I dare you.

  Gritting my teeth, I stab the app with the pad of my finger. Sure enough, the topmost email, in thick bold font, reads:

  Daniel McCabe

  FWD: CASTING CALL: HARTFORD THEATER

  My hand tremors as a jolt of unexpected adrenaline rushes through me. I’ve been trying to find an in with Hartford since I first moved here. Their productions are some of the most prestigious in the area. Countless big names got their start there.

  Dammit, Danny. Of course he would dangle this in front of me now. He knows Bright Light is inches away from being fed to the sharks and he’s been begging me to perform. But I can’t. I won’t.

  And yet . . .

  One peek won’t hurt. After all, as the assistant director, I have to scout out the competition. Hellsworth would have my head if I let us be blindsided by our biggest rival. Though, our show will wipe the floor with them in its popularity alone. Still, the least I can do is see what they’ve got lined up, right?

  “Right.” I
inhale, then tap the message.

  Third one down. It’s “practically perfect” ;)

  Daniel McCabe

  Agent, Spotlight Talent

  Before my brain catches up with my body, the pads of my thumbs swipe rapid-fire down the screen, eyes flicking across the titles. This has to be a joke. The timings are too coincidental.

  Nope. I read it twice to make sure it’s real.

  MARY POPPINS

  Description: Seeking talented actors/actresses of all ages for a supercalifragilisticexpialidocious rendition of this beloved story about a family brought together again by a magical nanny.

  All roles open. Adult Equity Actors only. Open Call for children.

  “Oh my God.” Mary Poppins has been a favorite of mine since I was little. When they turned it into a musical, Catie used to joke the titular role was made for me.

  “Think of it, Lyn,” she would say, “you could use your sharp tongue for something other than landing yourself in detention.”

  Or, I could’ve. If I wasn’t such a coward. Shaking away the memory, I exit out of the email and return to the theater. As I slip back into my seat, Maddy gives me a quizzical look.

  “What took so long?”

  My warm phone burns into my palm as I drop it in my bag and mumble, “Nothing.”

  Maddy snorts. “Yeah, right.”

  “It was!” I insist. “A spammer with the wrong number.”

  One eyebrow quirks and she sets down the application in her hand. “Then why do you look like you’ve seen a ghost?”

  The side door slams open and Hellsworth stalks inside.

  “I trust the cast is complete?”

  Frank stutters an answer (Thank God) and I sink into my cushion.

  My purse buzzes against my hip. I hide my cell between my legs, peeking at the message as Hellsworth rants about the inefficiency of her pathetic crew.

  Maddy: You’re not off the hook, missy. When this is over, I want details.

  Fuck. Maddy’s like a dog with a bone when she wants something. But this gossip is too panic-inducing to share.

  I sneak out early under Hellsworth’s instructions to check on our fabric order for the costume department. the store has made so many mistakes that I force my way into the storeroom to find the correct bolts. By the time I leave, it’s pitch-black out and the rest of the cast and crew have already gone home, including Maddy. I have five missed calls from her. After dropping the bolts in the wardrobe room, I head home.

  I spend the next hour and a half staring at the email. Rationally, I know I should delete the damn thing. I won’t make it through the audition. I haven’t been able to croak my way through a song in front of my friends, let alone a room of casting officials. For the umpteenth time, I let the mouse hover over the trash icon, but I can’t make myself click it. What if this is my chance? What if I don’t get another? I haven’t gone looking for a role since I was twenty-two and then this one falls into my lap? I mean, what the fuck?

  Get a grip. I’m never gonna land it. Remember the last time I tried to fuck my way through something?

  Hell, do I ever. It was three months before graduation, our second to last showcase. The house was filled to the brim with casting directors and agents. I already had one, but I hadn’t stepped foot on a stage in three months. In this case though, I had no choice. If I wanted to graduate, I had to make it through this showcase in one piece.

  It didn’t end well.

  Nodding to myself, I place my finger on the left mouse button.

  The doorbell rings. At first, I ignore it, but the sound is so persistent it’s next to impossible. Eventually, I exit out of my inbox and head for the door. When it swings open, Logan stands on the other side, his arms bulging with binders. He begs for my help on some lighting diagrams Hellsworth wants first thing in the morning. After some prodding, I let him in. We work into the wee hours, and I fall into bed with visions of chimney sweeps dancing behind my eyelids.

  My footsteps tap against the polished wood floor as I stride along the hall of the Boston Institute of Dance. My eyes roam over the carved designs in the stone columns lining the walls, which are covered in either stained glass windows or murals depicting scenes from Swan Lake, Sleeping Beauty, and other ballets. As I pass under the archway leading toward the elementary-aged studios, my gaze lingers on the school’s Latin motto carved in the molding: Ad saltare est ut vivat, et ut creare est pascere in animo passion. To dance is to live, and to create is to feed the passion in your soul. I smile. No matter what other opinions I have of this school, that quote has always struck a chord with me.

  Lyssa’s attended BID for less than a year, but she’s wanted to follow in my footsteps since she was three. My initial reaction was pride she’d consider dancing as a career. Of course, since my accident, that swell of elation had been overwhelmed by an unrelenting wave of fear. The last thing I wanted for my little girl was to suffer an injury. But my daughter inherited her father’s stubbornness, and six months later, I had enrolled her in her first class.

  When Grayson’s parents volunteered to pick her up after we re-established contact and he convinced me to let them foster a real relationship with her, they had been appalled to discover I had only been able to afford classes at a small local studio, and insisted on moving her to BID. Grayson and I tried to explain he’d offered to pay for a more “exclusive” opportunity, but I had politely refused. I’d wanted Lyssa to earn her spot at a place like this. I thought it would teach her the value of hard work and perseverance. The Thomases, though, refused to take no for an answer, and had enrolled her in BID the following week.

  As much as I wanted to pull her out and stand my ground, Lyssa flourished in the intense, perfectionistic environment, making friends quickly. I couldn’t squelch her progress for my own pride. Like father, like daughter.

  Still, knowing how much she loved it didn’t stop the bile from churning in my stomach every time I stepped through those heavy oak double doors. A world-class dance education was one more thing the Thomases could give her I couldn’t.

  Once I find her studio, I slip in through the back and settle in a chair as the choreographer calls out the last combination for the day.

  “And a one, two, pas de bourrée. Relevé to your left, and soutenu. Rond de jambe to the right, double pirouette, and finish with an arabesque.”

  Pride swells in my chest as Lyssa glides through each of the commands. Her cheeks are flushed, her auburn bangs stick to her forehead, and her chest heaves with every move, but the beaming grin stretching across her lips in the mirror is impossible to miss.

  “Good,” the instructor muses, weaving between the rows of students.

  “Nice form, Lyssa,” she says, resting a hand on her shoulder. “I really felt your passion.”

  Lyssa’s grin turns shy as she relaxes her stance and tightens her bun, a nervous habit. “Thanks, Miss Cohen.”

  The teacher opens her mouth, but the bell rings.

  All the parents stand and scramble for their things. I wait by the seats as Miss Cohen claps her hands.

  “Okay, great work today, everyone. On your way out, don’t forget to grab a permission slip and information packet about our Christmas trip to the New York City Ballet.”

  I wince. My heart drums . Great. Yet another expense I can’t afford.

  I linger in the hall as all the girls file out from the changing room, every one of them abuzz about the upcoming adventure.

  “Mom!” Lyssa is last out, dance bag smacking against her hip as she takes a running leap into my arms. I catch her, but the force makes me stumble backward against the wall.

  “Oops.” She giggles and grabs my hand as I steady myself. “Sorry.”

  I chuckle and brush her bangs from her face, planting a kiss on her forehead. “That’s okay, sweetheart. Did you have a good class?” I wrap my arm around her shoulder as we make our way toward the door.

  She nods and bounces on her tiptoes. “Uh-huh. The best. Miss Cohen ta
ught us the fall recital combination today. I got all the steps on the first try!”

  I grin and pull her in for a side hug as my fingers glide through her thick auburn hair. “That’s great, honey!”

  “Thanks.” She glances at her flats before brightening up again. “Oh, and look at this!” As we walk, she unzips her bag to produce the packet about the trip. My stomach flips as her eyes light up when she hands it to me. “The whole school has been invited to see

  the National Ballet perform The Nutcracker in New York City this winter!” She skips and my heart clenches. “Isn’t that awesome?”

  “Mm-hmm,” I squeak out. “Awesome.” And expensive. In the foyer, I flip through the packet, skimming over the content until I find the section titled “PRICING”.

  As many of you know, a trip like this comes with a hefty price tag, and though BID has an array of generous sponsors who have agreed to donate to the educational experiences on this excursion, the school is expected to pay for flights, hotels, food, and any additional recreational activities the students may wish to partake in. Therefore, we ask each student’s family to donate—

  “Whoa.” My feet skid to a stop and my eyes go wide. Calculations work themselves out in six different ways in my mind, but no matter how I spin it, there is no way I can afford to throw money at a trip like this. Not without forgoing gas, electricity, water, and maybe rent, anyway.

  “Mom?”

  I take a deep breath. When I glance at Lyssa, her eyes are wide and her lips purse in a small “o”. “What’s wrong?”

  She places a hand on my arm and I keep my features as neutral as possible as I lower the packet and turn to face her. “Nothing, honey.” I try for a reassuring smile as I guide her to a small burgundy sofa dotted with navy throw pillows near the back of the foyer. Her brows furrow as we sit down.

  “You sure?” she asks again. “Because your face is all white. Did you see the ghost?” She nudges my shoulder and some of the tension rolls off my body. Every theater and dance studio has a few good ghost stories floating around, and BID is no different.