Except my name isn’t on the list.
This can mean only one thing—my audition was good enough to land me a part in Bye Bye Birdie. My mom is going to flip out when I tell her. With a sense of delicious anticipation, I move toward the sixth side of the kiosk. A cheer starts building in my throat, ready to burst out as soon as I see my name. I feel like one of those aerosol cans that say, “Warning: contents under pressure.”
The first thing I see when I round the corner is Zoe, her hands clapped over her mouth as she stares up at the list. People keep bumping into her, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. “Hey,” I say as I squeeze in next to her. “I saw your name on the Midsummer list! Are you in Birdie, too?” My backstage fantasies come rushing back, only this time Zoe and I are in bright fifties-style clothes and pigtails. This is the right visualization, I think to the universe as loudly as I can. Scratch that other one, okay?
My roommate doesn’t say anything. Her face is filled to the brim with emotion, but I can’t tell which emotion. “Zoe?” I say. “Are you okay?”
“I got Kim,” she says in a small voice.
“What?” Kim is one of the lead roles; it must be unheard of for an apprentice to get something that big. “Seriously? Zoe, that’s amazing!” I throw my arms around her, and she hugs me back, her happy tears hot on my cheek. She’s totally breaking our no-crying pact. “Am I in Birdie, too?”
“I didn’t see, I was too distracted. Holy shit, I’m Kim. Kim. On the main stage.”
“I’m so happy for you,” I say, but I’m already pulling away and scanning the list for my own name. The first time through barely registers—I’m so nervous, I can’t even see straight—so I make myself start over and look again carefully. There’s Zoe’s name, third from the top. I laugh a little when I see that Livvy has been cast as Kim’s little brother. And then I’m at the bottom of the list again, and I still haven’t seen my name.
“Are you in it with me?” Zoe asks.
“No,” I say, and the word comes out oddly detached and calm.
“Aw, man, that sucks,” Zoe says. “What did you get?”
“I, um. I can’t actually find my name anywhere.”
A crinkle of confusion appears between Zoe’s eyebrows. “You must’ve missed it,” she says. “Come on. Let’s look again. I’ll go with you.”
We circle the kiosk in the other direction this time, but when we end up back at Dreamgirls and I see Zoe’s face, I know I wasn’t wrong. “Is it possible not to get cast at all?” I ask, and my voice shakes in a way that makes me sound very young.
“I don’t think so. They wouldn’t put you in the company if they didn’t have a part for you, right?”
Maybe they would if I’m here as a favor to my mom, but I obviously can’t say that to Zoe. “Do you think there’s been a mistake?” I ask. “Should I find Barb?”
“I don’t know. Did you check the list of side projects? Maybe you’re in a bunch of those.”
I completely forgot about the side projects, which are run by directing interns and performed in the smaller, experimental theaters after the main stage shows are over each night. I don’t even know which shows they’re doing. “Where are the lists?” I ask.
Zoe points to a freestanding notice board off to the side. “Come on.”
There are six sheets of paper on the board, and I start scouring them. I’ve gotten through three without finding my name, when Zoe calls, “Brooklyn, over here.”
I look where she’s pointing, my heart in my throat. Maybe it’s a really good show after all, even if it’s not on the main stage. Please, I ask the universe, without any specific instructions, and then I look at the list.
Señor Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders, it reads.
What the hell is that? It sounds like an animated television show for preschoolers. There are six other names on the list besides mine, but there’s no corresponding list of roles.
Zoe has a weird look on her face. “Your last name is Shepard?” she asks.
“Yeah,” I say, but I can’t deal with the implications of that right now. “Do you know what this show is?”
“No. It’s probably new—playwrights workshop stuff here all the time. That’s kind of exciting, right? You might be the very first one in this part.”
I don’t point out that there aren’t even any parts listed. Across the bottom of the page, it says, “Please report to the Slice for an introductory meeting at 9:00 PM on Friday.”
“What’s the Slice?” I ask.
“It’s one of the experimental spaces,” Zoe says. “It’s called that because it’s shaped like a triangle, like a slice of pizza. My sister did a show there when she was an apprentice.” It’s embarrassing how much more Zoe knows about Allerdale than me, considering I’m the one who’s been here before.
“What am I supposed to do until Friday? That’s three entire days from now.”
“You’re probably on one of the tech crews first rotation. The assignments are on the other side of this board. Maybe we’ll have a rotation together!” I can tell Zoe feels bad for me, even though she’s trying hard to sound positive. Her kindness nearly makes my eyes well up, but I forbid myself to cry. I have to learn to deal with rejection or I’m never going to be a real actor.
The crew call sheets are surrounded by people rolling their eyes and groaning, but I push my way through like I’m trying to get on the L train at rush hour. This time it’s not hard to find my name—it’s all over the board. I’m doing tech for all three rotations, never in the same department as Zoe. Tomorrow I’m supposed to report for lighting crew at Legrand at eight-thirty in the morning. I’m also on run crew for Midsummer, which means I’ll have to show up at every single performance and creep around in the dark like a cockroach while my new friends frolic around the stage in their fairy wings.
I have a sudden urge to sit down on the ground with my arms over my head and let the crowd swirl around me like a river around a rock. I’m so glad I didn’t tell anyone who my mom is, or I’d be even more embarrassed right now. What am I going to tell my family? And how is Allerdale supposed to teach me to love performing if I’m barely allowed to perform?
Zoe puts a hand on my back, and as I look at her, I think, Well, it was nice while it lasted. This is clearly where things end between us. Tomorrow, she’ll start learning her solos, and I’ll start learning…how to use a wrench or something, I guess. Honestly, I have no idea what the lighting crew even does.
“Hey,” Zoe says, and I’m sure she’s going to say, “I’m sorry for how things turned out,” or even “It was nice meeting you.” But instead she says, “I’m going to call my boyfriend for a second, but then do you want to walk into town and get ice cream?”
I stare at her. There are joyful groups of actors all over the lawn, singing snippets of songs from their new shows and passing flasks around. Those are her people, not me. “Don’t you want to celebrate?” I ask.
Zoe looks puzzled. “I am celebrating,” she says. “Do you want to come with me?”
I’m in no mood to act cheerful, but that’s not really the point. Zoe is telling me it doesn’t matter to her that I wasn’t cast; she’s offering me her friendship anyway. If I say I don’t want any ice cream and go back to our room to sulk, there’s no guarantee she’ll reach out again.
“Of course I want to come,” I say.
“Perfect,” Zoe says. And before I know it, her arm is linked through mine, and we’re walking away from the horrible, disappointing cast lists and toward the glorious sunset.
I’m headed over to Legrand Auditorium the next morning, clutching the biggest available cup of watery dining hall coffee, when my phone rings. My mom’s picture pops up on the screen, one I took of her wearing three pairs of sunglasses at a flea market, and I’m surprised that she’s up this early. I really don’t want to talk to her right now, but I ignored her texts last night, and I know she’ll keep calling until I answer.
I hit talk. “Hey, Mom.”
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“I got you!” She sounds genuinely delighted. “How are you, Brookie? Do you love it there? How did casting go last night? Tell me everything.”
“This place is pretty incredible,” I say. “I’ve only got a minute to talk, though. I’m headed to the theater.”
“Your very first rehearsal!” she squeals. “Which show is it for? I’m so excited for you.”
“This is just a crew call. My rehearsals aren’t starting for a while, so I’m doing lighting and run crew first rotation.”
“Well, everyone has to pay her dues,” my mom says. “Tell me what you’re in, sweetheart! I’m dying from the suspense!”
I steel myself for the sympathy in her voice when I tell her I’m not cast in anything. But when I open my mouth, what comes out is, “I’m in the ensemble of Bye Bye Birdie.”
My mom gasps. “Oh, Brookie, that’s wonderful! Birdie means you’ll get coaching in singing and dancing and acting! The full Allerdale experience. Are you thrilled?”
I can’t believe I just flat-out lied to my mother. What am I going to do when she comes up to see the show and I’m not in it? I guess I could fake an injury or the flu at the last minute. Birdie is the last show of the season, so I have some time to figure it out.
“Yeah, totally,” I say. “It’s exactly what I wanted.”
“When is it running?”
“The last two weeks. I’m in a side project, too, but I don’t know anything about that yet.”
“Ugh, I remember those side projects.” I can hear my mom’s eye-roll even over the phone. “They’re so silly. I was in one that was a series of monologues about going to the post office. Don’t spend too much of your energy on that; you have bigger things to worry about.”
I definitely do, but not the way she means. “Hey, Mom?” I say.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
I’m about to ask her if she pulled any strings with Marcus to get me into the festival; maybe it would be easier to know so I can make peace with it and move on. But I can’t make myself ask the question. If I don’t hear her say it, I can keep believing there’s a chance it’s not true.
“I miss you guys,” I say instead. “How’s everything at home?”
“Oh, everything’s fine. We all miss you like crazy, though.”
Talking to her is making me really homesick, so I say, “I’ve gotta go, Mom. I’m at the theater. I’ll call you soon, okay?”
“I love you, sweetie,” she says. “Dad and Uncle Harrison send love, too.”
“Love you back,” I say. I swallow down all my I wish I hadn’t comes and I don’t belong heres and I want to go homes, and I hang up the phone.
When I arrive at Legrand, about ten other people are grouped around the loading dock. Nobody’s really talking to each other, and at first I think it’s because it’s too early in the morning for getting-to-know-you chatter. But then a girl extends her cigarette pack to the guy next to her, and when he takes one without even thanking her, like it’s a routine, it occurs to me that the crew probably arrived at the festival before we did. The silence between them feels like the kind that can exist only between people who already know each other. I take a fortifying sip of my coffee and approach them.
The actor moves into enemy territory, I hear in a nature-documentary voice inside my head. Note the way her eyes dart from side to side. Her fight-or-flight response is working overtime.
There are only two other girls, and I approach the one with the cigarettes, whose stick-straight ponytail is so light blond, it looks almost white. I give her a big, friendly smile and say, “Hi!”
The girl’s almost invisible eyebrows scrunch together as she takes in my lip gloss and white tank top and shorts printed with stars. Everyone else is dressed in jeans, dark T-shirts, and sneakers, and they all have tons of stuff hanging from their belts—wrenches, rolls of black tape, paint pens, heavy-duty gloves, tiny flashlights. Where did they get all that stuff? Am I supposed to have that stuff? The actor and the techie have markedly different plumage, says the nature-documentary voice.
“The rehearsal rooms are over in Haydu Hall,” the girl says between drags.
“I…um, I know,” I say. “I think I’m supposed to be here, though. Is this the lighting crew?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
The guy next to her flicks his cigarette onto the asphalt and grinds it out with the toe of his boot. “We get actors today, remember?” he says.
“Oh, right.” The girl stubs out her cigarette, too. “You guys are only supposed to be here in the afternoons, though. Don’t you have rehearsal or something?”
“My show’s not rehearsing yet,” I say, hoping they won’t ask which one I’m in. Fortunately, nobody seems interested. “I’m Brooklyn, by the way.”
“Courtney,” the girl says. She doesn’t extend her hand.
Nobody else introduces themselves, so I say, “Did you guys get here yesterday, too?”
“About a week ago. We had to load everything in.”
A tall, lanky guy arrives at the loading dock and slides a box of doughnuts onto the concrete next to Courtney. “Morning, all,” he says. He’s wearing those thick leather wristbands with a bunch of studs, the kind Marisol and Christa refer to as “douchebands.”
“Dude, doughnuts already?” one of the other guys says.
“You don’t waste time, do you?” says Courtney as she flips the box open.
The guy smirks. “Fresh meat,” he says. “Why wait?”
This makes absolutely no sense, but the guy sitting next to Courtney laughs and says, “Respect.” I make a mental note to pick up some doughnuts for everyone later this week. I could use some respect.
“Speaking of fresh meat…” Douchebands turns to me. “Who’s this?”
“Brooklyn,” I say.
“Pretty.” I can’t tell whether he means my name or me, but either way, I’m creeped out.
“Yo,” the guy next to Courtney says. “Gimme another cigarette?”
Before she can dig out her pack, a woman with dark curly hair and a clipboard comes around the corner. I assume she’s the boss, from the way everyone starts gathering their stuff. “Listen up,” she says when she gets close. “We’re going to start hanging the rep plot today. Grab a piece of the plot, check in when you’re done, and I’ll give you another. Remember to pull out your shutters and label your circuits, okay?” She looks up. “Who brought doughnuts?”
Douchebands smiles and gives her a little salute.
“Of course,” she says. She plunks a folder down onto the concrete and takes a doughnut with pink frosting. “Get to work.”
Everyone descends on the folder and extracts little slips of paper while I stand off to the side. Finally, the boss notices me and asks, “Can I help you?”
“Um, I’m one of the acting apprentices?” I say. “I guess I’m assigned to lighting this rotation. I’m Brooklyn.”
“I’m Dana Solomon. You can call me Solomon. Grab a piece of the plot from the folder, and let me know if you have questions, okay?”
I don’t know what a plot is, but I pull out a slip of paper, hoping there’ll be instructions on it or something. But all I see is a bunch of symbols, boxes and circles and slashes and shapes that look like little milk bottles. I can only tell which is the top because of the heading, which says “MID-GAL R” in block letters.
“Um,” I say. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t know what any of this means.”
“You ever seen a light plot before?”
“Not really, no.”
“No tech requirement for actors at your school, huh?”
“I’m still in high school,” I say. I can practically see Solomon suppressing an eye-roll, but it’s not my fault I don’t know how to do this. I didn’t come to Allerdale to do lighting.
“Do you have tools?”
“No,” I say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know I was going to be—”
“Zach!” Solomon yells, and the guy who was bumming ciga
rettes turns around. “Brooklyn’s with you today. Get her a wrench, okay?”
Zach doesn’t even try to hide his exasperation. “Fine,” he says. “Come on.”
He leads me into a small, cluttered room he calls the “LX office,” tells me to leave my bag on the ratty couch, and hands me a wrench. “Tie that off,” he says. “There are tie line spools all over the place.” I have no idea what any of those words mean, but I don’t want to look like an idiot, so I nod. Zach seems to be carrying his wrench in his back pocket, so that’s where I stick mine. I’m not wearing a belt, and my shorts immediately start to fall down on one side.
“Which piece of the plot do you have?” he asks.
“Um…” I look at the piece of paper clutched in my hand, now slightly damp from my nervous sweat. “Mid-gal R?”
“Mid-gallery, stage right. Okay, we’ll do that first.” Zach leads me onto the stage and points to a metal balcony about twenty-five feet in the air. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you?”
“No,” I say. Finally, a question I have the right answer to.
“Good.” He looks at the paper for a minute. “Okay, we need three Source Four thirty-sixes, three twenty-sixes, and a nineteen. Let’s go.” I trot along behind him, hoping this is going to start making sense soon.
Source Fours turn out to be big black lights with clamps attached to the tops. We cart them up a narrow, winding, metal staircase; Zach carries four at a time, but I’m barely able to manage two. The floor of the mid-gallery is a metal grid, and I can see what’s happening on the stage below my feet. It’s a little disconcerting, and I feel a tiny wave of vertigo, but I don’t say anything.
I watch Zach hang one of the lights, and it looks pretty easy—slip the clamp over the bar, attach this thin piece of metal he calls a safety cable, tighten the bolt with the wrench. “That doesn’t look too hard,” I tell him cheerfully.
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