Cut the Lights

by Karen Krossing

  “I want to cast Sonata, Mica and Ashley.” I talk loudly enough to be heard over the bickering of the other directors, their voices thick with their own arguments.

  Across the table, Lorna comes back at me, full throttle. “You can’t have Sonata or Ashley.” She leans in. “I’m casting them.”

  I imagine Lorna lowering her visor and urging her horse into a gallop, her jousting lance aimed at my head.

  “Sonata wants to be in my play,” I say, my palms slick with sweat. “She told me so.”

  “She didn’t say that!” Lorna’s voice trembles. I picture her lance slipping out of her hands.

  “She found me after media studies and told me that she loves the script. It ‘speaks to her’, she said.”

  Lorna’s face goes scarlet. Her lance crashes to the ground. “It doesn’t matter what Sonata wants. Mr. Ty will settle this.” She spins on her heel and marches into the hall.

  I follow, breathless. What if Mr. Ty sides with Lorna?

  When someone grabs at my shoulder, I jump.

  “Whoa, Briar. Calm down.” Samuel raises his hands. “I just wanted to warn you—”

  “About what?” I snap. My stomach is a mess of knots.

  “I’m not sure you want Sarah in your cast.” He flips his long hair away from his face as if he expects me to admire it.

  I stare at him, confused. “You mean Sonata?”

  He rolls his eyes. “I mean Sarah—that’s what she was in middle school, before she changed her name and got so full of herself. I’m just saying…you may not be glad to get her.”

  “Thanks for the warning, Samuel.” I hurry to catch up with Lorna, my shoes squeaking. I don’t want her to get to Mr. Ty first.

  “I’m not kidding, Briar.” Samuel’s voice echoes down the empty hallway. “Why do you think most of the directors don’t want to cast her?”

  I pick up my pace.

  Because they can’t handle her, I think.

  Mr. Ty’s office. Minutes later. Several half-drunk mugs of coffee, piles of scripts, a papier-mâché rhinoceros head and some pirate hats clutter the room. Posters of Shakespeare and past school performances decorate the walls.

  Lorna is already yammering to Mr. Ty. “Not only have I had to endure two days of auditions and callbacks with a bunch of amateurs, Briar doesn’t even know how to negotiate for actors! She gave Sonata her script and begged her to take the lead! Like it’s up to Sonata?” Lorna stomps her foot. Her eyes blaze. “Is Sonata suddenly a director?”

  Mr. Ty swivels in his chair, his hands flat on the desk, his calm dark eyes flitting between us, his straight black hair gelled into spikes. “Lorna,” he begins, his tone soothing, “you know I’m more of a learning coach than a teacher. I prefer to nurture independent thought in my students rather than dictate solutions.”

  Lorna hardly takes a breath. “You have to settle this, Mr. Ty. Briar is trying to take two of my actors—Sonata and Ashley—and everyone knows that they always work with me. I wrote this play with them in mind. They’re perfect for the roles—”

  “Didn’t you ask me to settle a dispute between you and Sonata during last year’s Fringe?”

  Lorna gapes. “Yes—I mean, no. It wasn’t a dispute. It was a…misunderstanding.”

  “I recall that Sonata refused to follow your stage directions and you asked for help.” Mr. Ty turns to me. “I see nothing wrong with sharing a script with an actor.”

  Lorna gasps. I straighten my shoulders.

  Mr. Ty continues. “Why don’t you tell me about your casting plans, Briar?”

  I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans and explain how I like the physical differences between Sonata and Mica, and how blond, waif-like Ashley is a perfect fit as the Star.

  “Interesting ideas.” Mr. Ty nods. “Briar, did you try to work this out with Lorna?”

  “Of course,” I say. “We talked in the directors’ meeting. Lorna says I can’t have either actor.” I try to sound level-headed. What if I don’t get Sonata and Ashley?

  “Yes, and you’ve come to me for a ruling.” Mr. Ty strikes a regal pose and waves an imaginary scepter. “Well, if I must…” He pauses to study Lorna and then me, lingering on my red cat’s-eye frames. “Sonata will work with Briar this year.”

  A weight lifts off my chest.

  “What?” Lorna’s voice breaks. “Why?”

  Mr. Ty raises one finger. “Because you directed her last year.” He raises another. “Because you two have a history of conflict.”

  “But Mr. Ty, you said that casting is eighty percent of the play’s interpretation, so I need to choose actors who are right for my vision.” Lorna’s fingers are clenched. “Maybe Sonata could do both plays?”

  “Impossible. Performances start May eighth—that’s just over four weeks away. You and Briar will both be scheduling rehearsals before and after school. And Sonata will have her classwork to complete as well.”

  “What about Ashley?” Lorna pleads.

  “You will cast Ashley.” He gives Lorna a somber look. “Let’s hope she’s a better fit for you.”

  “But Mr. Ty,” I say, feeling the panic rise in my gut, “I planned for my Star character to be female, and I doubt there are any female actors left, since the other directors—”

  “Casting is a balance between the ideal and the real, Briar. Any director needs to make compromises.” Mr. Ty sips from one of his coffee mugs.

  “But how—” I begin.

  “Change your director’s vision. Play a male actor in a female role,” Mr. Ty says. “Either way, you need to make this work.”

  There’s no point in arguing. I nod. “Thanks, Mr. Ty,” I say before racing Lorna back to the directors’ meeting to find myself a Star.

  Four

  The main-floor girls’ bathroom at Whitlock. Wednesday after school. A tap drips.

  Ratna is planted in front of the row of mirrors, anxiously smoothing her hair for the tenth time.

  “Hurry. I can’t be late.” I bounce on my toes, my director’s binder under my arm. On the cover, I’ve painted a silver star. Inside are my dreams for Wish Upon a Star—songs that inspired me, character research, lighting and costume ideas and a copy of the play, of course. I can’t wait to get started.

  “What have you heard about Lorna as a director?” Ratna spins to face me. “What if she doesn’t like my acting? What if I’m not good enough?”

  “I’ve heard she’s tough but her performances are good. And you’ve taken two years of drama at Whitlock, so you can’t be bad.”

  “But so has everyone else.” Her voice rises. “Sonata even did four commercials this year. She’s already a professional!”

  “If Lorna cast you, then she must like your acting.” Ratna doesn’t know she was one of the last picks, and I’m not about to tell her.

  “Maybe Lorna had to take me. You had to cast Clayton as your Star when you didn’t want to.”

  “Don’t remind me.” I make a face, remembering how I tried to trade Clayton for any other actor, including Ratna, with no luck. “I’m making the best of it. Anyway, Clayton isn’t in the same category as you. You have an expressive face and voice.”

  In the directors’ meeting, I couldn’t remember who Clayton was until Samuel described him. Clayton had read flat in audition, as if he didn’t care. Also, he was short, maybe five foot five, with brown skin, scruffy facial hair and cropped black curls. Not quite the Tinkerbell vision I was going for.

  I take Ratna by the shoulders and make her look me in the eyes. “Listen to me. You’ll be great. The bank teller is a small role—you don’t need to talk much.” When Ratna gets stage fright, her voice comes out in a squeak. “I know you can do this.”

  Ratna’s dark eyes are watery. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  We walk down the hall—past a swarm of dancers in bodysuits and a guy carrying a tuba case—and turn toward the cafeteria. Mr. Ty has reserved it for all Fringe Festival directors every day after school, if we need it. I’m hoping to bo
ok one of the smaller drama rooms for some of my rehearsals, but for the read-through, the cafeteria will do.

  “The first reading is so important.” I grip my binder against my chest, feeling more jumpy with each step. “It’s the actors’ first impression of the play.”

  Ratna gives me a sympathetic look. “I know you can do this.” She’s repeating my words, even using the same tone of voice.

  I frown. “I just want them to feel inspired when they read Wish Upon a Star together for the first time. I want them to feel excited about my staging ideas.”

  “I could always help you with ideas, if you want.”

  “I’m fine,” I say, even though I’m tempted to tell her to back off. I’m the director and she’s the writer. Her ideas are already in the script. It’s my turn now. “Let’s just go do our read-throughs.”

  Whitlock cafeteria. A few minutes later. A row of windows overlooks a city street. The tables and benches have been pushed to one side. The doors to the kitchen are closed and locked.

  Mr. Ty is at a table, handing out copies of scripts. Directors, actors and stage managers gather in clumps, chatting excitedly.

  Ratna joins Lorna, Ashley and the rest of her cast, who are already reading from Please, Mr. Bank Manager, Save My Mother. Near the windows, Samuel’s actors laugh loudly at something he said.

  Meanwhile, Clayton slouches against a table, busy with his phone, his back to Mica. Sonata rushes in, still wearing her dance tights and bodysuit—she’s in the Whitlock Spring Dance Show next week. Mica gazes at Sonata like she’s a goddess. My assigned stage manager, George Kostas, is nowhere in sight.

  I should have guessed this would happen. George, whom I’ve known since grade six, has good intentions, but he’s easily distracted.

  I rush to collect copies of my script from Mr. Ty, which is supposed to be George’s job.

  When I tell Mr. Ty about George, he says, “You’ll need to keep a close eye on your stage manager.”

  I’m flustered and off-balance. This is not how I imagined my read-through.

  I gather my actors in a circle of chairs near the only unoccupied corner—beside the recycling and garbage bins. Voices echo off the tile floor. Sonata turns up her nose at the smell of rotting food.

  I straighten my glasses and then start with the welcome speech I practiced last night in my bedroom.

  “Acting is a kind of magic,” I say. “It can make the audience laugh and cry. It can reveal the truth about the world.”

  Clayton yawns and examines his black high-tops. Sonata’s back is perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze intense. Mica edges his chair closer to her, his pudgy stomach pushing against his T-shirt.

  My speech sounded more inspiring last night. “I’m thrilled to be directing you in Wish Upon a Star. I know we can bring the audience to its feet.”

  I pass out the copies of the script. They thumb through them.

  “Before we read, I want to share with you my vision for the play. Wish Upon a Star is a comedy that takes place in Martin and Sylvia Wright’s kitchen.” I nod toward Mica and Sonata.

  Mica’s eyes slide off Sonata and onto me. Sonata smiles steadily.

  “A kitchen is the heart of a home—it can reveal a lot about the people who live there. Martin and Sylvia’s kitchen will be staged in gaudy, mismatched colors that symbolize their divided marriage. I want to contrast this with the glitter and natural beauty of a Star.” I point to Clayton, who raises his thick eyebrows. “Our Star symbolizes the hope that wishes bring—the hope that Sylvia has for her future.”

  “Yeah, I don’t know about glitter.” Clayton lifts his stubbly chin, his eyes cold.

  “Don’t you think a mismatched kitchen is too obvious?” Sonata flips her hair over one shoulder. “Maybe it should be shades of pink? I think it’s Sylvia’s favorite color.”

  I bite my tongue. I remember the dozens of times I’ve read the play, analyzing the plot, characters, dialogue, setting and theme. It took me days to come up with my vision. “That’s an interesting idea, Sonata, but I’ll handle the—”

  “What if we—” Sonata begins.

  “Let’s just read through the play.” I paste on a smile. “Don’t worry about the details now.” I flip to the first page of the script in my binder and read the opening stage directions out loud—another of George’s jobs. “‘SETTING. The kitchen of Martin and Sylvia Wright. AT RISE, Sylvia stands before a sink full of dirty dishes, staring out the window. It’s late evening. Martin sits alone at the kitchen table, eating.’”

  “‘The stars are out tonight,’” Sonata begins.

  Her voice has a tremor in it—she has good instincts. When Mica speaks, his every word oozes infatuation—not exactly in character for a neglectful husband. Clayton drones his lines.

  I stare hard through my glasses at my script, fighting the urge to correct my actors, telling myself to wait for rehearsals, when I can give each performer detailed director notes about how to play the character. We have a long way to go in only four weeks.

  Fifteen minutes later, we’re only halfway through, but two other groups are already finishing up.

  Mr. Ty stands on a table to get our attention.

  “Before the room empties,” he says, “I have an announcement that will interest many of you.” He pauses dramatically.

  The room goes quiet.

  “Next month, Whitlock will have two new extracurricular workshops—one in acting and one in directing. We’ve asked a top acting coach and a professional director to lead these workshops, which will be by invitation only for students who show exceptional promise.”

  The room fills with noise. My heart thuds. How can I get into that directing workshop?

  “Will we get extra performance opportunities?” Sonata takes a step toward Mr. Ty.

  “What do we have to do to get in?” Samuel says.

  “Is it for senior students only?” Lorna pushes in front of him.

  “Any student may be invited to attend, and a stunning Fringe performance won’t hurt your chances.” Mr. Ty jumps off the table and is instantly surrounded.

  My actors bolt toward the mob.

  “Wait!” I call. How am I going to create a stunning performance with this cast? “All lines need to be memorized in two weeks. We’ll have rehearsals three times a week, after school for two hours, starting tomorrow. If we want to do this right, we need to—”

  Before I can finish, they’ve disappeared into the crowd.

  Five

  Briar’s bedroom. Later that day. A single bed with a purple IKEA duvet. Over the bed, playbills from theater performances cover one wall and part of the next—The Tempest, War Horse, photocopied playbills from local community theaters, last year’s Whitlock Fringe Festival poster.

  Ratna flops down on my bed. “I still can’t believe you’ve seen all these shows!” We’ve been friends for over a year, but she’s only been to my house once. We’re both too busy with school events.

  I drop my backpack on the floor, still thinking about the directing workshop Mr. Ty just announced. “My aunt Darla took me to most of them. My first one was when I was six.” I point to a playbill from King Lear. “Not a play for kids, considering Gloucester gets his eyes gouged out and Lear goes crazy before he dies. But I loved it.”

  “Wow! At six, I was watching Disney’s Cinderella.”

  Darla glides into the room, wearing a multicolored peasant dress and a jean jacket. “Disney perpetuates the myth that marriage is all life has to offer a girl.”

  Ratna giggles. “You mean there’s more?”

  “How’s the new job, Darla?” I say, to distract her from her usual anti-Disney rant. If she keeps this job for more than a few weeks, she’ll likely move out again, which will cut down on the number of arguments at mealtimes.

  “They don’t understand that time is flexible.” She sighs. “Nine AM is such an arbitrary hour to start work.”

  “We have to be at school by nine,” I point ou
t. Sometimes I wonder if Darla and Mom are really sisters—they’re so different. Maybe it’s because Mom is ten years older.

  “Exactly,” Darla says, like I’ve agreed with her. “What’s wrong with arriving at noon? Or working at midnight? As long as I put in the time—” She stops suddenly and examines my glasses. “Cool frames. No lenses?” She nods. “Very symbolic.”

  “Yup.” I take off my glasses and toss them on my desk. I love how free-spirited my aunt is, but I don’t want to bond with her over my glasses. Maybe because it took her a week to even notice them. Maybe because, unlike her, I’m going to have a successful career in the theater—starting with Wish Upon a Star and a spot in Mr. Ty’s directing workshop.

  “We have work to do.” I interrupt Darla, who’s starting in on Disney again. “Come on, Ratna. I’ll help you memorize your lines.”

  A main-floor drama room at Whitlock. Two days later, after school. Black wooden boxes arranged strategically on the raised staging area. The curtains pulled back. Dim lights where the audience will sit.

  “This is our stage for Fringe Festival.” I step into a cascade of stage lighting and smile down at Sonata, Mica, Clayton and George, who’d promised to attend after I yelled at him in English class. “We won’t always be able to rehearse in here, but I managed to book it for our first rehearsal.”

  Sonata eyes my set structure critically, while Mica gazes at her and Clayton picks at his nails. George has the prompt book open on his lap. I think he may be doodling in the script, which I try to ignore.

  “Here”—I point stage left to a large box with four smaller ones around it—“is where we’ll place the kitchen table and chairs. And here”—I motion stage right to an even row of waist-high boxes— “will be the counter and sink. The window will be above the sink, and our Star can enter stage right.” I walk downstage toward them. “I hope to dig up a fifties-style table and chairs from the props room and maybe even some sort of sink and window. But this gives you a rough idea of the set structure.”