“But that’s the best part. I like to save it for last.” Zoe shrugs. “My boyfriend always makes fun of me for it, too.”
“Do you eat pie that way?” I ask at the same time that Livvy says, “What’s your boyfriend’s name?”
“His name’s Carlos. And of course I eat pie like this. Who wants to eat pie crust last?”
“That is messed up,” Jessa says, but she’s smiling.
“So, what shows are you guys hoping for?” asks Livvy, stabbing at her salad. She has so many croutons piled on top that I can barely see the lettuce.
Jessa rolls her eyes. “I think it’s pretty clear where my black ass is going to end up.”
“Allerdale’s actually pretty good about color-blind casting,” Zoe says. “When my sister was here, they did—”
“Are you seriously trying to tell me there’s gonna be color-blind casting for Dreamgirls? Because that is not gonna happen.”
“All right, fair enough,” Zoe says.
“I’ll take anything as long as I don’t have to play someone’s little brother,” Livvy says. “I’m so sick of getting cast as a ten-year-old boy. Maybe I should get a boob job. How do you guys think I would look with a D-cup?”
“You’d look like someone’s little brother in drag,” Jessa says.
“Oliver Twisted,” I offer. Zoe snort-laughs into her Diet Coke, and Livvy throws a crouton at me. I love that I barely know these girls and we’re already comfortable enough to tease each other. They don’t seem catty and competitive like the girls at home—maybe they’re confident enough about their talent that they don’t need to cut each other down all the time. I know I’m getting ahead of myself, but part of me can’t help wondering whether Zoe and Jessa and Livvy will be my old friends when I’m my parents’ age. In the charged atmosphere of this dining hall, it seems possible.
“How high can you guys belt?” Jessa asks, reminding me that this is still a competition.
“I can hit an E,” Livvy says.
“Damn. I can only hit a D on a really good day. What about you guys?”
“I’m not much of a belter,” Zoe says.
“She’s being modest,” I tell Jessa. “She’s going to Juilliard in the fall.”
Jessa’s eyes get big. “Holy shit, are you serious? And here I was thinking I was cool ’cause I got into Carnegie Mellon.”
“Oh, shut up. Carnegie Mellon’s got a fantastic program,” Zoe says, and Jessa puffs up with pride.
“I’m going to Syracuse,” Livvy offers. It reminds me of how cats stick their heads right under your hand to demand petting, and Zoe indulges her by making an impressed face. Livvy smiles and turns to me. “What about you, Brooklyn?”
“I’ve got one more year of high school,” I answer, and I wonder how many times I’m going to have to say that. Maybe I should write it in Sharpie on my shirt.
Livvy looks confused. “Wait, are you not eighteen?”
“Not till November.”
“Girl, you must be amazing,” Jessa says. “I tried to get in here last year, and all I got was a form letter telling me to apply again when I was old enough.”
I give her a modest shrug, but I hadn’t realized until this moment that there is an age restriction on the apprentice company. How did I miss that on the application? I’m only a few months under the limit, so it’s possible the administration decided to let it slide. But it’s also possible I’m here because my mom called in a favor with the artistic director. What if I didn’t earn my spot in the company at all? I start to feel a little dizzy.
Knock it off, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter why you’re here. You’ll get the same training either way. It’s not like anyone’s going to know. I take a few deep breaths and try to pull myself together before anyone notices I’m acting weird.
Zoe takes another bite from the wrong end of her pizza. “Have you guys heard any rumors about who’s teaching our master classes?” she asks.
“Marcus always teaches one,” Livvy says.
Jessa wiggles her fingers. “Oooh, the high-and-mighty festival director comes down off his pedestal.”
“I can’t wait,” I say. “I hear he’s the absolute best.” Everyone in the theater world knows how great Marcus Spooner is, but it still makes me feel like I’m on the inside to be able to say it with authority.
“I heard Susan Margolis might come do a voice class with us,” Jessa says.
“Isn’t she supposed to be a little weird?” Livvy asks. “I heard she carries around a bunch of plastic dinosaurs in her bag, like, all the time. She calls them her muses.”
Zoe shrugs. “I mean, let’s be honest, who in this business isn’t a little weird?”
“I’d rather have someone like Lana Blake Shepard,” Livvy says. “She did a workshop at my high school once, and it was unreal.”
I’m in the middle of a sip of water, and I inhale it and start coughing like crazy. Zoe whacks me on the back, but she’s totally focused on Livvy. “You’ve met Lana Blake Shepard? That woman is my idol. Did you talk to her at all? Like, one-on-one?”
“A little. She’s a total genius. And she told me I had ‘serious potential.’ Can you believe that? I thought I was going to die.”
“Do you live in the city? I heard she visits high schools there all the time.”
Livvy sighs. “I wish. I’m from north Jersey. But it’s really close to the city.”
“I listen to Lana’s cast recording of Sunset Boulevard constantly,” Zoe says. “It’s perfect. She totally deserved that Tony.”
It would be so easy for me to say, Hey, guys, guess what? Lana’s actually my mom. Even though I can’t hit a high E, I’d become an instant celebrity at this table. I could tell them all kinds of insider information—how my mom sings “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair” every single time she takes a shower, or how she once kissed the UPS guy on the mouth when he delivered an exciting package. But if I do, it’s possible my new friends will put the pieces together and realize I might not have earned my spot in the company. It’s probably better to wait and tell them later, after the cast lists are up and I’ve proven I belong here.
Zoe turns to me. “I read an interview that said Lana lives on the Upper West Side. Has she ever done a workshop at your school?”
“No,” I say. It’s technically true. Of course, I started listening in on my mom’s workshops before I could read, but that’s not what Zoe asked.
“She probably lives right near you,” she says. “Oh my God, Brooklyn, what if she’s secretly been living in your building all this time? How amazing would that be?”
I think about my mom’s high, screaming laugh, the vocal warm-ups she does every morning, the way my whole family belts show tunes late into the night on Mondays. The idea of my mother living anywhere secretly is pretty ridiculous.
I laugh like this whole conversation is just a big joke. “Nah,” I say. “If Lana Blake Shepard were my neighbor, I’m pretty sure I would know.”
Legrand Auditorium is one of those gorgeous, old-fashioned theaters with dusty red-velvet seats and gold acanthus leaves climbing up the proscenium. There’s a giant crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by paintings of naked cherubs and muses in flowing robes. Even though the work lights are on and there’s nothing on the stage but a scuffed podium and a bunch of A-frame ladders, the space still feels as magical as it did when I was five and saw it for the first time.
I catch Zoe looking at me, and I realize I must have a goofy smile on my face. But instead of making fun of me, she slips her arm through mine and cranes her neck back to look at the ceiling. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she says.
“I love this theater so much,” I say. “My parents brought me here to see The Secret Garden when I was little, and my mom says I took one look at that chandelier and announced that I wanted to be an actor. I thought it meant I’d get to live here.”
“You must’ve been so cute,” Zoe says. “Come on. Let’s find somewh
ere to sit.”
The theater’s not as loud as the dining hall, but the anticipation is palpable. Everyone knows Marcus Spooner is coming, followed by cast lists in one short hour. Zoe, Jessa, Livvy, and I are settling into row F when a spotlight comes up on the empty podium, and Company Manager Barb starts making her way toward it. Everyone cheers, and I wonder if she’s actually a nicer person than she seemed at registration. Maybe she has a cult following at the festival. I clap for her, just in case.
“Hi, everyone,” she says with a totally genuine smile. “Welcome to the Allerdale Playhouse. I’d like to extend a very special welcome to our brand-new company members; we’re so pleased to have you with us. Are you ready to make our forty-seventh season our best yet?”
Everyone around us cheers. I hesitate for a second, not sure if my new friends are as caught up in the excitement as I am. But then Zoe and Jessa let out shrieks on either side of me, so I do it, too. I’m a company member. Nobody can take this away from me.
“Where’s my non-equity company?” calls Barb, and a few rows of people to our left raise their arms in the air and scream. Equity is the actors’ union; the non-equity people are all here working toward eligibility so they can take jobs in higher-profile shows.
“Where’s my equity company?” Scattered grown-ups around the auditorium whoop and shout; the equity actors are the only ones who already know what roles they’re playing, and they stay only long enough to rehearse and perform in their own shows. The equity actors who are in Hedda Gabler, Dreamgirls, Bye Bye Birdie, and Macbeth don’t even get here for a few more weeks. It’s nice to see that the adults are as enthusiastic as we are, though.
“Where’s my apprentice company?” Barb asks, and my new friends and I cheer for all we’re worth. About twenty other people do the same, and I look around the theater and try to see who I’ll be spending my time with.
“Where are my tech and design interns?” calls Barb.
Someone whoops so loudly right behind me that I nearly jump out of my chair. I spin around to see a guy with dark curly hair and such long legs that they’re folded up against the back of my seat, his knees almost level with his chin. When he’s done screaming, he smiles self-consciously at me and mouths, Sorry. He looks friendly, and I kind of want to introduce myself, but I don’t want to miss a thing that’s happening onstage, so I smile back and turn around.
Barb speeds through a bunch of logistical stuff—emergency phone numbers, where the nurse’s office is, how to check the electronic call board to see where we’re supposed to meet for rehearsals each day. When she’s done, she says, “Now I’d like to turn the podium over to our managing director, Mr. Bob Sussman. Let’s give him a hand.”
Everyone claps as Bob bounds onto the stage, waving to us with both hands. He’s a wiry little man with a trim beard, and he’s wearing a gray suit with navy sneakers. When he reaches Barb, he gives her a hug, which she clearly doesn’t expect or want, and then he takes his place at the microphone.
“Good evening, warriors for art!” he shouts, and the microphone squeals with feedback. “I’m so thrilled to welcome you to another summer of creativity and collaboration. Working at Allerdale is such a unique experience. No matter what your role is, I promise that you will never forget your time here.” A warm, exquisite feeling of being part of something blooms in my chest like a big orange flower. Coming here was the right decision. There’s no way Allerdale could fail to make me fall head over heels in love with performing.
“I’m so looking forward to getting to know you and soaking up your creative genius,” Bob says, “but for now, I’m sure everyone’s eager to move on to the main event. So without further ado, let me introduce our incomparable festival director and my dear friend, Mr. Marcus Spooner!”
The auditorium erupts in screams so loud and frenetic, it reminds me of the videos I’ve seen of middle school girls at One Direction concerts. As Marcus enters from stage left and crosses to the podium, I half expect someone to whip off her bra and throw it at his feet. He keeps his eyes straight forward and his face blank, like there’s a one-way mirror between him and us. He’s wearing a blue button-down over a T-shirt that appears to bear the image of his own face. I turn to Zoe, eager to share this observation, but then Marcus opens his mouth, and everyone shuts up all at once.
“Every story that can be told has already been told!” he booms into the sudden silence. “That sounds discouraging, doesn’t it? To hear me tell you there’s nothing fresh, nothing original, nothing new in this whole crazy, goddamn world?”
He pauses and stares us down, waiting long enough for the silence to become intensely uncomfortable. Two seats away, Livvy fidgets in her chair, and it makes a tiny squeaking sound that echoes through the otherwise silent theater. She freezes in place, one leg half crossed.
“It is not discouraging,” Marcus finally says. “Why? Because we don’t need new stories to tell spectacular stories. This summer, we will say all the things that have already been said, but we will say them better. Each of us—each of you—has a unique perspective that has never been seen before. And because we are more evolved than previous generations, our perspectives are better than anything that has come before us. We are the pinnacle of human thought, and it is our responsibility to show everyone how we see the world. If you don’t strive to tell your story as carefully, as masterfully as you can, you are robbing the world of your voice, and that is unacceptable.
“This summer will be difficult. You will work harder than you have ever worked in your entire miserable lives. You will work until your flesh hangs from your bones in gruesome, bloody strips. If you are not willing to work that hard, there is no point in you being here at all. If any of you feels that hard, unrelenting labor is beyond the scope of your ability, you should leave right now. Leave! If you aren’t one of us, no one will be sad to see you go!”
Marcus points to the door. We all surreptitiously glance around, but of course nobody gets up, because we all belong here. I sneak a look at Zoe, and her face is upturned and radiant, like Marcus’s words are snowflakes falling on her cheeks.
“Good,” Marcus says. “Everyone here is prepared to work. Luckily for you, it won’t feel like work. It will feel like transcendence. Some people say that true theater, true art, comes from the outside and fills us up. They credit their inspiration to the muses, or to God. That is idiocy. It’s not God who creates theater! God is dead! And that is why we must transcend, why we must lay the world bare with our voices and our gestures and our sheer, raw power! The world needs gods, so we must become gods! We must allow ourselves to be nothing short of spectacular, because to do so is to spit in the face of the world! We are Titans, and we shall not be conquered!”
And then, with no warning at all, Marcus turns and strides off the stage. There’s no thank you, no goodbye, no I look forward to working with you. The auditorium is dead silent for a full count of ten, like everyone is waiting for him to jump back out and keep going. But then Barb reappears, and we all exhale in unison. By the time people realize it’s okay to clap, Marcus is long gone. We give him a standing ovation anyway.
Zoe slumps against me like her strings have been cut. “He’s unbelievable, isn’t he?”
I’m not totally convinced everything Marcus said made sense, but I don’t really care, either. I feel like my brain is emitting sparks, and there’s a slight tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers. This is what true inspiration must feel like. “Totally unreal,” I say.
When Barb reaches the podium again, she bows dramatically, acknowledging our thunderous applause, and everyone laughs and sits down. “All right, kids,” she says. “Cast lists are up in the usual place. Try not to trample—”
I don’t even hear the rest of her sentence; the entire company leaps back up, shouting and pushing and bottlenecking as they try to get out the door. My instinct is to wait until the path is clearer, but Jessa grabs my wrist and pulls me forward. I reach back for Zoe’s hand as I stumble into
the aisle, and her fingers close around mine.
Going through the auditorium doors is like being squeezed through a funnel, and then we’re outside in the cool evening air. People stream across the lawn and down the hill in the direction of the box office, so we sprint after them. Jessa lets go of me so she can run faster, but Zoe keeps a firm grip on my hand, and I time my steps to hers.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
“A little, I guess. Are you?”
“Sort of,” I say, trying not to show that my heart is actually going about five times its normal speed. “I really hope I get something good, you know? Something with lines. I mean, obviously I’ll take anything, and I don’t expect much, but…”
I realize I’m babbling, and I break off as the box office comes into view. It’s a freestanding, hexagonal kiosk with glass walls, and there’s a cast list posted on each side. People swarm around it, shrieking with joy and dismay and hugging each other; it’s like the gravitational force of the kiosk has pulled all the emotions in the world into a ten-foot radius. A girl with a black ponytail dashes past us in the direction of the dorms, tears streaming down her face.
“Wow,” Zoe says. “This is intense. Are you ready?”
I don’t want to seem like a wimp, so I say, “Ready.”
“Let’s make a pact not to cry, okay?”
“We’re not going to cry,” I say. “We’re at Allerdale.”
I try to stay near Zoe when we get to the box office, but we’re immediately separated by the jostling crowd. I run my eyes down the first cast list I see, which is for Dreamgirls. Jessa’s name is listed under “Ensemble,” and I wonder if she’s excited or pissed. My name isn’t on this list, so I move to the right and scan the one for Macbeth. It’s not there, either, though I check the list of spear-carriers, guards, and servants several times to be sure. Hedda Gabler’s next—my dad took me to see it last year, and I thought it was kind of boring. Fortunately, my name’s nowhere to be found.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts as I scan the list for Catch Me If You Can. Nothing. A Midsummer Night’s Dream is next, and the number of names printed on the paper sends a wash of relief through me. There are at least twenty fairies, probably mostly apprentices, and I feel certain I’m going to be one of them. I find Livvy’s and Zoe’s names, and I send the universe an image of the three of us huddled together backstage, wearing gauzy costumes. It’s so close I can taste it.
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