“Well, he’d better be,” Grady grumbled. “That’s all I’m sayin’. Since ya turned down yer own townspeople to let him play the part.”
“Enough of that. Time to get busy.” Woody eased his way out of the chair and faced the crowd. “Before we dive into the round-table reading, we’re going to teach you some stage directions, so everyone out of your chairs. Come on up to the front of the room and join Amy for this fun exercise.”
Amy watched as Pete and Lucy made their way forward. Some of the others—like Grady, Gwen, and Chuck—didn’t seem as enthused.
“Never used the words ‘fun’ and ‘exercise’ in the same sentence before,” Chuck muttered.
“Me neither,” Grady added.
“There’s a first time for everything,” Pete said. “C’mon, fellas.”
Amy gave him a smile, grateful for his encouraging words.
“Stage directions are a critical part of the equation,” Woody explained, once everyone got into place. “So it’s important that everyone pay attention. Amy’s going to lead you through the process by playing a little game.”
Deep breath, Amy. Here we go.
“Okay, everyone. Before we begin, I want to find out how much you already know about stage directions.” Amy gestured to the makeshift stage area. “If I say upstage right, where do you go?”
Pete scratched his head. “I don’t even see a stage.”
“We’re pretending.” She gestured to the open space behind her. “I’m going to show you where upstage right would be, but let me start by telling you that stage directions are always from the actor’s perspective as he faces the audience. So if I say stage right, it’s the actor’s right, not the audience’s right. Got it?”
Grady shrugged. “Shore. Nuthin’ hard about that.”
“Now, back in the earliest days of theater, the stages were built on an incline but the part nearest the audience was a bit lower than the back of the stage. So if I say upstage, you move toward the back of the stage. Make sense?”
Everyone nodded.
She walked them through the various positions, feeling more confident as she went along. At the end of the demonstration, she landed at center stage and clapped her hands. “Okay. So now we’ll begin our game. When I give the direction, you move.” She paused long enough to move out of the way and then hollered out, “Upstage left!”
About half of the people ran to the correct spot while the others rebounded off each other as they tried to figure out where to go. After a few seconds, they figured it out and joined the others.
“Center stage!” she called out.
Thankfully everyone got that one right. Well, everyone but Chuck, who stood off to the side scratching his head with one hand and tugging at his dirty apron with the other.
“Downstage right!” Amy called out.
This time Lucy Cramden got a running start and almost took a swan dive into the front row of chairs. Thankfully, Pete caught her just before she toppled.
Poor Lucy. She looked terrified. Fortunately, nothing appeared to be broken…other than her pride, anyway. As she lingered a moment in Pete’s arms, she mumbled something about her equilibrium being off. Probably due to the overload of eye shadow, Amy reasoned.
Just as she got control of the room once more, an unfamiliar voice rang out. “Hello, everyone. Am I in the right place?”
Amy looked up as the sultry male voice resonated across the room. Her heart flew into her throat as she clamped eyes on a man whose features would just as likely be seen on a magazine cover as in the Camelot Civic Center. From behind her, Lucy Cramden began to stutter, and Annabelle let out a gasp, followed by a little giggle.
“Wowza,” Lucy whispered, her eyes riveted on the handsome stranger as she stepped out in front of Amy to take him in. “Praise the Lord and pass the knight-in-shining-armor. It would appear that Sir Lancelot has just arrived on the scene.”
Steve watched as every woman in the place turned in slow motion—their eyes wide and mouths agape as they took in the handsome stranger. The whole thing felt a bit like a scene from a silent movie. Annabelle took a step back, as if the heavenly glow surrounding him was just too much to take. Lucy fanned herself with both hands, looking as if she might faint. Even Eula Mae appeared smitten, her mouth widening into a perfect O as she stared at him.
Not that the fellow appeared to be asking for attention. No, he seemed happy enough just to be accepted, if the shy smile was any indication. Maybe the overload of female gaping had him on his guard. It would appear so, anyway.
As happy as Steve was to see the role of Lancelot filled, he couldn’t help but feel a little confused by the over-the-top reception. Jackson Brenner seemed like a nice guy, but the women in the room responded to him like some sort of movie star. What was up with that? And what was the deal with Amy? She couldn’t seem to string two sentences together with Brenner standing in front of her. Strange.
Hmph. So much for playing the hero. Looked like he’d had been pushed to the back of the stage. What was it called, again? Upstaged. Yep. Looked like he’d been upstaged by Lancelot, and rehearsals hadn’t even started yet. He could only pray this wasn’t a sign of things to come.
Chapter Ten
One of my chief regrets during my years in theater
is that I could not sit in the audience and watch me.
John Barrymore
“Ooh-la-la!” Gwen whispered, finally shattering the silence in the room. “Is that really our Lancelot? If so, I definitely want a recount on the vote to play Guinevere.” A giggle escaped before she clamped her hand over her mouth.
Amy rose, though her knees felt wobbly for some inexplicable reason. She made her way across the room, trying to keep her cool. So Jackson Brenner was handsome. So what? She’d been around handsome men before.
Okay, maybe not this handsome. As she drew near, his green eyes sparkled merrily. Surely he wore contacts. No one had eyes that brilliant shade of jade. She found herself a little lost in them for a second. Or two. Or three. And what kind of guy had such perfectly placed white teeth? They became all the more evident when Jackson smiled, which he seemed to do nonstop. Not that Amy was complaining—or any of the other women in the room. No, they’d all been rendered mute.
Well, all but Lucy Cramden. Her eyes widened and she mumbled something that sounded like, “I’ve died and gone to hunka-heaven. Someone pinch me. Oh, wait. Don’t pinch me. Then I might wake up!”
Jackson cleared his throat and extended his hand Amy’s direction. “I’d know you anywhere. You’ve got to be Amy. Gramps has told me so much about you.”
“You mean, S–s–sarge?” she whispered.
“Yeah, Sarge.” He chuckled, and the crinkles around his gorgeous green eyes deepened. “I still think it’s funny that people call him that. He’s always just been Gramps to me.”
“Any grandpa of yours is a grandpa of mine.” Lucy pushed her way between Amy and Jackson, her eyelashes fluttering so fast they nearly reached liftoff.
He gazed at her, clearly intrigued, and then directed his attention to Amy once again. She tried to keep her heart in check, but man! Something about standing in the presence of Adonis made her a little giddy. Apparently it left her speechless, as well. She couldn’t seem to eek out a word, so Steve—Oh, yeah! Steve!—interrupted by extending his hand.
“Great to meet you. We’ve heard so much about you from Sarge. And we’re grateful you’ve decided to step in and help us out. Trust me when I say we need all the help we can get.”
“Isn’t that what the real Lancelot did too?” Gwen asked, drawing near. “He appeared in Camelot much like a mythological hero and came up with the idea for the Knights of the Round Table. Every woman swooned….”
“Except Guinevere.” Steve shook his head. “She wasn’t won over in the beginning, remember? In fact, she couldn’t stand him.” His gaze inexplicably shifted to Amy, who felt beads of sweat pop up on the back of her neck.
Oops.
&nb
sp; “No, it took awhile for Lancelot to sway fair Guinevere. But he won her heart in the end.” Jackson smiled, and two glorious dimples appeared. If Amy hadn’t known better, she would’ve thought a shimmering glow surrounded his head, like in that picture of Moses hanging in the church fellowship hall that showed the patriarch coming down off the mountain.
Annabelle grew near, as did Blossom. Gwen pressed in even closer. Jackson looked back and forth between the women in front of him. “So, which one of you lovely ladies is the Guinevere to my Lancelot?”
Amy coughed. “I, well, I am.” She offered a shy smile, unable to piece together a sentence of explanation.
The look of contentment in his eyes couldn’t have been a coincidence. Neither was the fact that Steve slipped an arm around her waist and pulled her close. He sounded a bit gruff as he spoke. “My girl is going to be the best Guinevere in the land. Wait till you hear her sing.”
“Hmph.” Gwen rolled her eyes then returned her gaze to the newcomer, who continued to smile.
Maybe his teeth look so white because he’s got a tan. That’s got to be it. Amy did her best not to stare. Until those eyes—Would emerald be a better description than jade?—began to twinkle again.
“Well, I’ve been studying up on Lancelot,” Jackson said as he lifted the script. “Gramps sent me that extra copy you gave him. Not sure I’ll be able to pull it off, but I’ll give it my best shot.”
“Oh, I think you’ll do just fine.” Gwen’s eyebrows elevated.
“Oh, more than fine,” Annabelle threw in.
“Way more,” Blossom added, her eyes fixed on his wavy hair.
“Well, thanks.” Jackson chuckled. “And here I was worried I might get a poor reception.”
“Why would you think that?” Steve asked.
“I’m not really a resident of Camelot like the rest of you,” Jackson explained. “I didn’t know how you’d feel about an outsider showing up and taking part in your play.”
Grady grunted and turned away, muttering something indistinguishable.
“That’s how it was in the story of Camelot too,” Amy said, in an attempt to make Jackson feel welcome. “Lancelot came from France to join Arthur at the Round Table. He was an outsider.”
“I didn’t come quite that far,” Jackson said. “Just from Pigeon Forge.” He grinned, his Southern drawl more apparent. “No Frenchmen there that I know of. Sure hope I can get Lancelot’s accent down.”
“From what I’ve heard, you’ve played several lead roles,” Amy said, “so I’m sure the accent won’t be a problem.”
“As I said, I’ll give it my best shot.” He paused. “Speaking of great shots, where’s my grandfather, anyway?” he asked. “Running late as always?”
“I heard that.” Sarge’s voice boomed across the crowd. “And just so you know, I was never late to battle.” He lit into a story about his drill sergeant’s insistence upon punctuality and then switched gears and started talking about having the cast line up in battle formation.
“Good to see you too, Gramps,” Jackson wrapped his grandfather in a tight hug. “I’ve missed you.”
Sarge’s eyes filled with tears, which he quickly brushed away. “Drop to the ground soldier,” he instructed. “Give me twenty.”
Jackson dropped to the floor and did twenty of the fastest push-ups Amy had ever seen. The rest of the females gathered around him, their eyes widening in disbelief.
“Goodness, gracious,” Blossom said. “I would’ve paid money to see this, and to think, I can watch it for free!” A giggle followed.
Off in the distance Grady continued to grumble, this time aloud. “Well, shore, he can do push-ups. Anyone his age could. But how’da we really know he can act ’er sing? We ain’t even heard him try. I don’t think it’s fair to let him just waltz in here and take one of the main parts when he ain’t auditioned like the rest’a us.”
Chuck chimed in, voicing similar concerns.
Jackson rose and straightened his shirt, a look of embarrassment on his face. “I, um, well, I’m happy to audition. No problem at all. What scene would you like me to do?”
Woody piped up. “How about the one where Lancelot has to bare his soul to the fair Guinevere? That’s the most intense scene and will give me an idea of your capabilities.”
“Oh, the scene where Lancelot confesses his undying love?” Jackson reached into his briefcase and pulled out a script. “That one?”
Woody nodded and took a seat. “Sure.” He looked at Amy. “You mind joining him? It will be good to hear the two of you together, to make sure the balance of voices is right.”
Off in the distance Steve looked on, the concern in his eyes more than evident.
“I—I guess so.” Amy took her script and entered the makeshift stage area standing next to Jackson. Maybe she’d better not look directly at him. She’d never make it through if those eyes—those mesmerizing eyes—caught her in their trap once again.
“Page forty-three,” Woody hollered out. “Start with Lancelot’s line at the top.”
Jackson opened his script and glanced at the page, not saying anything for a moment. Or two. Or three. After a bit of awkward silence, Amy began to panic. Did he have stage fright? Maybe he couldn’t act. Maybe Sarge’s bragging had been exaggerated just like his war stories.
Jackson tossed the script onto a chair and flashed a confident smile. He spoke his first line and a holy hush fell over the room. His lyrical voice had the perfect cadence for the scene, and all traces of a Southern accent disappeared as he took on the role of Lancelot. Amy found herself captivated—not just by his good looks, but his posture, his expression, his tone of voice. The words he spoke to her—er, Guinevere—sounded so genuine that for a moment she forgot she was supposed to be Guinevere listening to Lancelot. No, in this moment, she was just Amy Hart, junior high–wanna-be, completely and utterly swept away by Jackson Brenner, the most handsome boy in the class. The one every girl wanted to date. And marry. And grow old with.
From the back of the room, someone cleared his throat. Sounded familiar.
“Um, Amy?” Steve drew near with a concerned look on his face.
“Y–yes?”
“It’s your line.”
“O–oh?” She stared at the script, completely lost. Where were they again? Was it really time for Guinevere to speak?
“You’re supposed to respond with the line about how torn you are between Arthur and Lancelot,” Jackson said. “It’s about a third of the way down the page.”
How did he know that? Had he memorized the whole scene? This guy wasn’t kidding when he said he’d been practicing.
She managed to speak Guinevere’s lines, feeling more like a giddy schoolgirl than an accomplished actress. Still, if Jackson was disappointed in her performance, it did not show. No, as she spoke, he stayed in character. Completely and totally in character.
They finished the scene and most everyone in the room erupted in applause.
Grady’s voice broke through. “Okay, so he can act. Big deal. But can he sing?”
“Let’s see.” Eula Mae entered the stage area and grabbed Jackson by the hand. “Come with me, if you please.” She led the way to the piano, where she flipped open the music score to Lancelot’s solo, “C’est Moi.” “Give it all you’ve got, kid,” Eula Mae said as her fingers hit the keys. “These folks are merciless. You’ll never live it down if you stink.”
Jackson gave it his all, all right. And what he had—much to everyone’s astonishment—was probably the best voice any of them had ever heard. Sort of an Andrea Bocelli–meets–Pavarotti kind of talent. Completely unassuming, though. In fact, he didn’t come off as a showboat at all, only as one who truly loved to sing.
Amy did her best not to let her excitement show too much. Still, she could hardly believe her good fortune. Surely the Lord had sent Jackson to Camelot for such a time as this…to save the day, no less.
“I think he’ll do fine,” she said after the crescendo o
f his last note came to an end. “And having him here completes our cast. Yes, I think he’ll do just fine.”
Steve stood off to the edge of the room, watching the exchange between Jackson and Amy. He fought the temptation to interrupt them, though it took every ounce of willpower within him. What was it about that guy—that practically perfect guy—that got him so rankled? Deep breath. Don’t overreact. Jackson leaned in close and Amy giggled. Steve felt his blood pressure rising. He glanced at his watch and was startled by how much time had passed.
“Amy.” He called her name but she didn’t turn around, so he tried again, this time a little louder. “Amy?”
“Oh.” She turned to face him her cheeks blazing pink. “I’m sorry. W–what?”
“It’s five thirty,” he said. “We’ve only got an hour and a half to read through the script. Don’t you think we’d better get busy?”
“Right.” She nodded, and the glazed look in her eyes appeared to pass. She sprang into action, clapping her hands. “Okay, everyone. Let’s pull the chairs into a circle. We’re going to begin with Act One, Scene One, where King Arthur is alone in the forest, hiding out because he’s afraid to meet Guinevere.”
Steve sighed. They would have to start with something that made him look like a wimp. Well, better to get this over with. Before long they’d move on to another scene—hopefully one where he could come out looking and smelling like a champ, not a chump.
Not that anyone would notice. No, the eyes of every person in the room remained fixed on Jackson, even as a few of the cast members pulled their chairs into place. And from the way things were going, it would probably be quite some time before life in Camelot shifted back to normal.
Chapter Eleven
There’s nothing more boring than actors talking about acting.
James Caan
In spite of her attempts to the contrary, Amy’s heart gravitated to her throat every time she gazed Jackson Brenner’s way. For one thing, the man was downright beautiful to look at. Er, handsome. For another, he knew more about theater than all the other people in the room combined. And what a talent! She’d never met anyone firsthand who could sing like that. Talk about a godsend. And yet, she got the distinct feeling he wouldn’t rub his experience in anyone’s face. No, the guy would likely prove to be helpful. And even if he didn’t, he’d already lifted the morale of the group.
Love at Center Stage: Three Theatrical Love Stories Page 42