“Lord,” I say. “Does she really not mind if we drink?”
“As long as I use the sugar-free mix.” Mandy pauses and then confides, “She did this with my big sister, too. She says she wants our house to be cool.”
“Your mom’s stuck in high school,” I say.
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
It’s weird to think about our moms being besties back in the day. They both went to Mountain Brook High School, both did sorority lead-outs in tenth grade, where guys “present” the girls by walking them down an aisle, and both had coming-out balls a couple years later.
“Coming out” still has its old-fashioned meaning in Birmingham—debutantes in white dresses parade into ballrooms on young men’s arms to show that they’ve entered society. Mom says it’s an archaic, patriarchal ritual that I don’t have to submit myself to.
Mandy’s mom says it’s the best time of a girl’s life. And that’s the biggest difference between Mandy’s mom and mine.
After college, Mom and Dad stayed in Virginia. They only moved when her father was dying and Meemaw was losing it with stress. Mom jokes that she “tricked” Dad into the Deep South. “I missed it the whole time I was away,” she’d say. “He should have known that once I got him here, there was no going back.”
Meemaw always called Dad a “Yankee” even though he’s only from Maryland. She still teases him about the time he ordered a side of green beans and said, “I think they mixed some ham in here by mistake.”
I’m not sure Dad was ever truly comfortable here.
“I think this is good for Ophelia,” Mandy says as she primps in the vanity mirror, freeing a few tendrils of hair. “It’s romantic, right?”
When I don’t answer, she says, “Earth to Caddie. You ready?”
“Sure,” I say, and we head downstairs.
When we reach the kitchen, Hank and Livia are wrestling with Mandy’s giant Newfoundland over a puddle of spilled margarita.
“Sterling, front!” Mandy shouts, and the dog lopes to her, sits, and stares up into her eyes. She scratches his head and then sends him to lie down at the edge of the room.
“Sorry,” Livia says, “I didn’t get the blender screwed on right.”
“I’m good at screwing,” Oscar says, and Mandy punches him in the arm.
“Enough with the double entendres,” she says.
Oscar puts on a terrible French accent, “Ohn-hohn-hohn, Madame, but you French so well.” He waggles his tongue with his eyes closed, so he doesn’t see her finger coming up to flick his tongue, hard.
“Ow!” he cries. “Mean!”
“You’re lucky I don’t cut it off,” Mandy says, and goes to help Hank and Livia.
“Caddie, do you think this is enough room?” Peter calls.
I step through the breakfast nook and down a couple of steps to the humongous den. Drew and Peter have pushed the sofas and coffee tables back to create space in front of the fireplace. It’s as big as our classroom.
“I think this will be plenty,” I say.
“We want it as accurate as possible,” Drew says. He seems like he wouldn’t care, but clearly he does.
Peter smiles. “Showtime.”
I perch on an ottoman to signal I’m in no rush to go first. “So, how does this work? Do we do monologues or what?”
Oscar appears carrying a ginormous glass full of frozen margarita. I think he’s actually drinking from a vase.
“We audition with scenes,” he says, “more like a callback.” I know that a callback means a second round of auditions, but I’ve never been to one. Oscar says it like he has a callback every Tuesday.
“Scooch over,” he says, meaning to squeeze in beside me on the ottoman.
“There’s room for twenty people on these sofas,” I say, gesturing to all the empty seats.
“But I want to snuggle,” Oscar says.
“I’m taking out a restraining order,” I say, crawling backward into a chair with huge arms but only room for one butt.
“You’re no fun,” Oscar says, taking the ottoman.
“I’m a huge amount of fun,” I say. “I just haven’t figured out how to have it with you.”
Oscar narrows his eyes at me—I’ve won this round—and slurps from his vase.
“Can I go first and get it over with?” Livia says.
She and Hank each have a tray full of drinks. When Hank brings me one, I try a little sip. There’s a pungent flavor that reminds me of morning breath and the bitterness of fake sweetener.
“I can make you a virgin one if you want,” Mandy says as she takes a seat near me.
“Caddie is a virgin after all,” Oscar says. “She just told us so. I mean, if she’s never seen a naked man—”
“Shut up,” Mandy says.
“It’s kind of sweet,” says Oscar. “Of course, I’d be more than happy to help you change that, Caddie.”
“No, that’s okay,” I say in answer to Mandy, though it works for Oscar as well, and take another sip.
“It takes some getting used to,” Mandy says.
“So do I,” Oscar says.
“Do you never stop talking?” says Mandy.
“People,” Peter says, flourishing his glass, “let us begin.”
Drew’s leaning in the doorway to the kitchen with a glass of straight tequila on ice. Since I’ve hardly had more than a sip of sherry my whole life, it’s probably not the best idea to join him, but I can’t blame him for making the trade.
“Me first! Me first!” Livia says.
“What’s it going to be?” Peter asks. He waves a folder full of photocopied scenes.
“Let me try Ophelia,” Livia says, and Oscar volunteers to go with her.
As they look over their scene, Peter sits cross-legged on the floor between Oscar’s ottoman and Mandy’s legs, just a few feet away from me.
“How do we know which scene we’ll have to read?” I ask him.
“For Ophelia, it’s a pretty good bet you’ll do the one in the hall of mirrors.”
“You saw the Branagh version.” That’s the one with the mirrors.
“Yeah,” Peter says, like that goes without saying.
It’s my favorite scene in the play. King Claudius and Ophelia’s father, Polonius, think maybe Hamlet’s crazy with love, so they get Ophelia to break up with Hamlet to see how he reacts. Ophelia goes along with it, but then Hamlet turns mean. He might be acting because he knows the king’s watching, or he might really be crazy, but whatever it is, it’s awful. He denies they were ever a thing, says he never loved her, but there’s one part where he lets his guard down. He says, “I did love you once,” and Ophelia says, “Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.”
That line, “I did love you once,” that’s the part that kills me.
Livia and Oscar do well. Oscar’s goofiness drops away, and unlike the real Oscar, he seems like he’s actually interested in what another person has to say. I think Livia’s too strong for Ophelia. I guess I could imagine her being played strong until the minute she breaks. It depends what Nadia wants.
Mandy and Hank are pretty great too. By the time Hank’s ranting at her, Mandy’s breathing has changed, and she’s contracting her whole body with his words. It’s physical, and it makes me feel for her—with her. Maybe I shouldn’t have quit dance.
Peter and Drew try Hamlet and his friend Horatio, switching off parts. Peter’s better at both in my opinion, but I might be biased. Drew has a huge presence on stage, but the language keeps tripping him up. Shakespeare’s hard even for professional actors, and it’s clearly not Drew’s forte.
I peek at Mandy, and her lips are a tense line. She catches me looking and whispers, “I offered to practice with him, but he’s too proud to let me help.”
I give her a grimace of sympathy. Each time Drew messes up, his next words come out sounding frustrated, whether or not that’s how his character should be. On their second time through the scene, Drew ends it early. “That’s enough for me,”
he says, and heads back to his tequila, eyes on the floor.
We’ve been at it for more than an hour when Peter says, “Caddie, you’re up.”
I twist a pillow in my fist and try to send all my nerves into that squeeze.
Mandy’s eyes are on me, and she still looks tense from watching Drew.
“I don’t think I’m going to go,” I say.
“Ohhh!” Peter sounds like a sports announcer reacting to a boffed play. “Don’t be shy,” he says. “If you’re nervous to do it here, think how nervous you’ll be at the audition.”
“I’m not nervous,” I say. “I’m just . . . I don’t know what I am.”
“You’re nervous,” Peter says, and he holds the scripts out to me. “Nervous is good. You’re nervous because you care.”
I don’t want them to know how much I care, but of course he’s right.
“Okay,” I say, “but I don’t know what to read.”
“Don’t be that way,” Peter says. “You’ll read Ophelia.”
“She can pick whatever she wants,” Mandy says.
Peter’s clearly going for Hamlet. Maybe he wants me to play Ophelia opposite him, but no, because then he says, “Every girl wants Ophelia.”
“Gertrude’s a bigger part,” Livia says. “I might rather do that.”
“Caddie looks like an Ophelia,” says Peter.
As much as I want to play Ophelia, I don’t love the idea of “looking like” her—because what does that mean? Crazy? Breakable?
“I’ll read with you,” Hank says.
Peter hands me the scene.
“Okay, but I’ve got to run to the bathroom real quick,” I say, and I scurry to the guest bath in the hall.
Behind me, Mandy asks, “Who needs a second round?” and I bless her for keeping them occupied. I’d hate to picture them all sitting silently, waiting on me to perform.
At the bathroom mirror, I smooth my brow. Even though I haven’t made any blunders, I’m tempted to wash. Oscar was sitting close to me. What if my pants leg rode up, and his hand brushed the skin at my ankle but I didn’t notice?
Stop it, I think. Don’t freak out.
There’s no touching required in this scene. Performing in front of them has nothing to do with my game. If I start scrubbing myself every time I feel anxious, I’m going to get caught. Lady Macbeth is Shakespeare’s obsessive-compulsive hand-washer, not Ophelia.
I take a deep breath, blow it out, and run my gloved hands down my sides as if I might press myself back together. I picture myself walking into the den and showing what I can do, being one of them.
Be brave. Be brave.
When I get back to the room, Mandy’s sitting in Drew’s lap, and he’s playing with her hair. Livia’s arguing with Oscar about whether or not a magazine ad featuring an impossibly skinny girl is sexist.
“Just because it’s sexist doesn’t make it less hot,” he says.
“But it should!” she says.
Hank’s laughing at them.
Only Peter looks bored, like I’ve kept him waiting.
“Ready?” he asks. He’s smiling, but it feels like he’s my director. I’m late for my audition and I’ve got something major to prove.
“Yeah, let’s get it over with.”
“I’ll be gentle,” Hank says, and reaches toward my arm as if for a reassuring squeeze.
I jerk back and he laughs breathily in surprise.
“Sorry,” I say. “I think I’ve got stage fright.”
“Happens to the best of us,” Oscar says, “which would be me!” He raises his glass.
“Take it from Hamlet’s last line before her entrance,” Peter suggests.
And Hank starts, “Soft you now! The fair Ophelia!”
Ophelia’s being watched, like me. She would be nervous too. “Good my lord, how does your honor for this many a day?”
“I humbly thank you,” he says, “well, well, well.”
She wants to seem strong. I make my voice hard: “My lord, I have remembrances of yours, that I have longed long to re-deliver.” I hold out my script like it’s a gift.
“No, not I,” Hank says. “I never gave you aught.”
Now some of the emotion should seep through. I let my voice quaver, plead with him:
“My honored lord, you know right well you did; and, with them, words of so sweet breath composed as made the things more rich—”
“You’re acting,” says Peter.
“What?” He didn’t stop anyone else like this.
“Sorry, I just—you were in the scene at first, but now you’re overthinking it.”
“Let her get through it,” Mandy says.
“No, he’s right. Can we go back?”
We do the first part of the scene over again. I still can’t think about anything but them looking at me, about how bad a job I’m doing. At the same spot, I stop and say, “I’m sorry, Hank.”
“That was better!” Peter says. “Why did you stop?”
“I was just saying the lines. I wasn’t feeling anything.”
“That’s better than fake feeling. You sounded honest.” Peter hops up to talk only to me. “You’ve got to let go of some of that control,” he says, “that tension, like Nadia says. It isn’t helping you.” Peter takes me by the shoulders and shakes me, not hard, but I’m so stiff it jars me. His face is so close. His eyes are so green.
I say the first thing that comes to mind, “My phone,” and slip out of his grip, pretend I’m checking a message. “Sorry,” I say, avoiding Peter’s eyes by looking at Hank. “I got a text from my mom. She has to come get me earlier than she thought.”
“Oh no!” Mandy says. “Here, let me text her. One of us can give you a ride.”
“No, she’s already almost here,” I say, “and we’ve all been drinking. . . .”
“I’m sober,” Drew says, but I remember how fast he took those curves when he wasn’t under the influence.
“You’re going to miss all the fun,” Mandy says. “After we practice, we play games.”
“Next time,” I say. “Okay?” I go for my bag.
“You’re leaving now? Don’t you want to at least wait till she’s actually here?”
“I have to meet her at the bottom of the driveway.”
“That’s crazy,” Mandy says. “It’s a super-steep walk and it’s dark out.”
“She gets scared of backing down it.”
“Fine.” Mandy untangles herself from Drew and stands. “I mean, if you have to go, you have to go.”
“I’m sorry,” I say.
She’s not looking at me, but she leads me toward the front hall.
“Bye, everybody. I’ll see you Monday.”
They all mutter good-byes, but nobody other than Mandy seems particularly concerned that I’m leaving. I’m afraid Peter sees through my lies. He waves the stack of scripts at me and smiles as if to say it’s too bad I’m such a scaredy-cat.
Or maybe that’s all in my head.
“Wait here,” Mandy says in the entrance hall and ducks into the kitchen, coming back with a pack of gum. “We don’t want your mom to freak out.”
“Right,” I say. I didn’t drink much, but I’m sure Mom would smell it.
Mandy opens the door and looks glum as she says, “Do you want me to wait with you?”
“No, I don’t want to take you away from things,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”
She looks toward the ceiling, almost an eye roll. “I thought this would be a good chance for you to bond with everyone.”
“And I got to,” I say, “a little bit.”
“But Caddie,” Mandy says, “it’s not cool to watch everybody else put themselves out there and then leave.”
“I know, but my mom—”
“I know, I know,” Mandy says, sounding exasperated. “Look, it’s not you. I’m just worked up about auditions.”
“You were great,” I say. “You’re going to do great.”
“Thanks,” she says, but
she’s looking at the floor. “Hey, do you remember the last time you spent the night over here?”
“Um, I don’t know.” That’s another lie. I remember it too well.
“You had to go home early then, too.”
“I did?”
Mandy leans on the door, pausing a second before opening it. She looks out into the dark. “This is old, stupid stuff. I’m sorry I’m being weird.” She turns back to me and there’s the smallest reassuring smile. “You can’t help if your mom says you have to go.”
“Thanks for understanding,” I say. I should squeeze her arm or give her a hug.
But I don’t.
As I make my way down the hill, I turn to wave and see Mandy shutting the door.
At the base of the drive, the trees mostly block the light from the houses, which are set far back from the road. Stone columns with lamps mark the end of Mandy’s driveway, but that light blinds me to what’s farther off in the woods.
The creepiness isn’t enough to send me back to the house, though. Being scared of the dark is so normal. Why couldn’t that be my thing?
I should have texted Mom when I first pulled out my phone. It will take her at least twenty minutes to get here. I’ll have to hope Mandy’s not watching to see when she actually comes.
That last night at Mandy’s was her birthday, seventh grade. She’d invited a bunch of girls from dance for a sleepover. There was Lena, a wiry girl who was daring and smart about guys, but who could be mean. There was Britt, whose mom didn’t let her go anywhere until she’d curled her hair with a hot iron. And Bailey.
Bailey had the clean-scrubbed look of a girl who preferred apples to candy. She always seemed to be going along for the ride, and it could be easy to forget she was there. Mothers loved that about her.
Mom and Dad had been fighting all week, and don’t touch kept ricocheting around in my head. By the time we climbed in our sleeping bags, I just wanted to sleep.
But Lena had made up a game called Truth or Spoons. There’d be a bunch of spoons in a circle, one less than the number of players. We had to lay down cards in a certain sequence, and whenever someone got rid of all her cards, everybody had to grab a spoon.
Whoever failed had to answer a question from the girl who was out of cards. “And it has to be the truth,” Lena had said. “Cross you heart and hope to die.”
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