I smile too, because she looks like the Mandy I know, the one who gets over things fast.
“Let me ask you this,” she says. “Did you even want that part? Because you didn’t act like you did.”
“I did,” I say. “I didn’t think I would get it, but yeah, I wanted it.”
She nods. “Good. I would be madder if you didn’t. Why didn’t you tell me, though? I was going on and on about it like an idiot. I wish I had known that you wanted it too.”
I can’t help smiling. “So you could talk me out of it?”
“What? No!”
“Like you told Livia she’d be good at Horatio when she said she might be interested in Ophelia?”
Mandy inhales and takes that in, smiles guiltily. “Did I do that?”
“A little bit.”
“Hm.”
“I think she’s pretty happy with Gertrude. King Hank kissed her at lunch.”
Mandy cackles, then shakes her head. “She’s barking up the wrong tree.”
“What do you mean?”
“That tree only likes cats.”
It’s nice talking with Mandy about her friends who are now our friends. Without Mandy, I wouldn’t even know them.
“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything about Ophelia. I didn’t want anybody to know that I cared.”
“Okay, but there’s a difference between telling everyone and telling your best friend.”
My reaction to that phrase, “best friend,” makes her smirk. She holds my eyes.
“We’re friends, Caddie. I want us to always be friends.”
“Okay.”
“You have to be open with your friends, though, or what’s the point?”
I should tell her. She might even understand, weird as it is. And maybe it would take some of its power away. . . .
“I need to talk to you about something,” I say.
“Yeah?”
My heart seems to tug at my vocal chords, stretching them tight. “It’s about rehearsal this afternoon. I hear Nadia likes to do trust falls? Okay, well, remember when I told you I had sun poisoning?”
She nods.
If I let her in, it won’t be just my problem anymore, and Mandy will want me to fix it. People change, feelings change—people hurt each other, hurt themselves, and whether or not I touch people has nothing to do with it.
“I . . . well . . . I still have it.”
Nadia’s kind of acting is hard, but a lie is so easy.
“Seriously? That was, like, three weeks ago.”
“I know. I’m stupid.” I make myself sheepish. “It was dumb, but I laid out again.”
“Can I see?”
“I’m not supposed to expose it to sunlight.”
“We’re in the shade.”
“I know, but it hurts to pull up my sleeves.”
“Ow! That sounds awful.”
“Yeah, well, I was hoping you could tell Nadia that I don’t want anyone to know . . . or to worry about me, because it’s not that big a deal, but I can’t do trust falls. It would hurt too bad.”
She nods. “Ouch! Yeah, okay, I’ll tell her. You’d better not go in the sun again, though. You’re going to have trouble being in a play and not touching anybody.”
My thoughts exactly.
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18.
Some kids wait in the audience for rehearsal. Some stretch on the stage, including Peter. I’m going to be acting with him; I’d better be able to sit beside him.
I want to sit by him.
“Hi, Ophelia,” he says with a big grin as I flop down next to him.
“Hi, Hamlet,” I say, stretching over one leg. “We’re so tragical.”
“I don’t know about you, but I don’t see the point in even doing the play. If we cut to the chase and do ourselves in at the top, we could be done in five minutes and go out for ice cream.”
“Right?”
“Wait,” he says. “Here’s the kind of thing Nadia’s going to want to know for your character journal: What’s Ophelia’s favorite ice cream flavor?”
“Character journal?”
“You’ll see.”
“Did they have ice cream in Denmark back then?”
“Doesn’t matter. Hamlet’s taking Ophelia to the ice cream social. What does she order?”
“Um. How about lemon sorbet?”
“Ooh, I like it. Simple, clean.”
“What about Hamlet?”
“I think Hamlet’s got to be a rocky road kind of guy.”
“So wait, is this supposed to be the kind of ice cream he would eat, or the kind of ice cream that he is?”
“It’s an essence thing,” he says. “Instinct.”
“All right. I’ll buy rocky road. What about Peter?”
He shakes his head. “To find that out you have to accompany me to the ice cream social.”
Did he just ask me out? To a nonexistent ice cream social, but still . . .
“Do some character research?” I say.
“Sure, or because it would be fun.”
Nadia’s voice makes me shake: “Three fifteen. Let’s begin.” Normally her presence in a room is enough to turn heads, but Peter’s distracting.
“Thank you for being on time,” she says. “If you’re late on a consistent basis, we’ll replace you. Easy.”
Mandy stands at Nadia’s side with a clipboard. She’s beaming, and if it’s an act, it’s a good one.
Nadia motions for us to gather on the stage and gives us the first day rundown. We’ll be taking this show to Bard if school-site judging goes well, and we can’t take anything for granted. If the judges heard about the mess at Thespians last year, they might be less inclined to take us seriously.
When Nadia introduces Mandy, she says, “I’m pleased that Mandy Bower has agreed to assist me in this process. Treat her with the same respect you give me.” Mandy widens her eyes at us in a goofy, fake threat.
Nadia assigns the character journals. We’re supposed to write down everything other characters in the play say about us, and lists of ways we’re the same and different from the characters we’re playing.
“Don’t tell me the obvious, ‘Rosencrantz lives in Denmark, and I live in America.’ I want essential differences. Peter might find that he and Hamlet both have a lust for vengeance.”
Peter laughs wickedly, and Nadia goes on, “Hypothetically. Caddie might find that while Ophelia is completely dependent on her father, she herself has trouble understanding that connection, or she understands it entirely. Either way. Think about what separates you from your character and what draws you together.”
We’re supposed to come up with metaphors, like the ice cream. “If Laertes were a type of weather, what type of weather would he be?” She tells us to start collecting images—real-life people who remind us of our characters, poses and gestures we might use on stage. And we’re to shoot a self-portrait.
“I want to see the character in you. You don’t have to put on a costume or makeup, but you should try to capture something essential.”
She lets Mandy lead warm-ups, and Mandy takes an extra-long time with it, just for kicks, I think. She’s a good leader. No one complains.
Then it’s time for trust falls.
“I do this with every new cast,” Nadia says, and a couple of people laugh in recognition. “Let’s all make a tight circle, shoulder to shoulder.”
I stand apart as the circle forms.
“Caddie,” Nadia says, “come and join us.”
Mandy widens her eyes at me and grimaces.
“Oh, but I can’t . . .”
“Are you afraid? We’ll catch you.”
“No. I mean, yes, I . . .”
Mandy rushes up beside us. “I’m sorry. I didn’t get a chance to tell her,” she says, low.
“What’s this?” Nadia says.
“I got . . . sun poisoning.” It’s harder to make it sound like a good reason with Nadia than with Mandy.
“It makes her uncomfortable,” says Mandy.
“Uncomfortable?” Nadia says.
“I mean, it hurts her.”
Nadia looks back and forth between us. She thinks Mandy’s lying for me, even though as far as Mandy knows, it’s the truth. “You won’t be falling far.”
“I know, but . . . even a little touch burns.”
Nadia freezes me with her tiger stare. “I’d like you to give it a try.”
She turns back to the circle, fully expecting me to follow behind. I don’t want to be difficult, but it’s a lot that she’s asking. Even if she doesn’t know it.
When she sees I haven’t followed, she turns back. The eyes of the circle turn with her, impatient. “We’re not going to make you do anything you don’t want to do,” she says in the reasonable voice of disappointed teachers everywhere. She means she can’t make me do it. But she can silently judge me for not participating.
I have the gloves. I have long sleeves. The risk of somebody touching my skin is small, but choosing to take the risk feels like a betrayal. I’m not even sure what I’d be betraying. Mom and Dad aren’t showing any signs of reconciliation.
I step into the circle between Peter and Drew. Their arms are longer than mine and should keep anybody from falling against me, even if I mess up.
Nadia beams. “Step in tight.”
Peter’s shoulder presses in on one side, Drew’s on the other. It’s clothes touching clothes, nothing more.
Oscar steps into the circle, and it’s all I can do to keep breathing at a normal pace as he starts falling first to one side, then the other, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes closed like a standing corpse with rigor mortis. As the circle gets into a rhythm, he rolls around the edges, passed from hand to hand. I hold back just enough, let Drew and Peter squeeze in so they don’t need my hands at all.
One time as Oscar passes, Peter looks to me—he’s noticed maybe that I hang back, but he doesn’t say anything. He starts anticipating, stepping forward a bit to take the weight from Drew, basically skipping me as Oscar comes around.
It goes like that for four more people, and I keep my breath steady enough to stay blank. If Nadia could step inside my head and see how far away it all seems—there’s a film between me and the rest of them, the wall of my bubble that keeps me from drowning—she’d take me out for safety.
“Caddie, step into the center,” Nadia commands.
Peter’s hand touches my back, a slight push forward. The circle closes in. It’s too late to sell that Peter caused me physical pain, but I cry out anyway. It’s easy to make a small noise out of a giant fear.
Nadia twitches; then her mask comes back. She’s already regretting casting me—such an odd, stressed out, untrusting girl.
“Are you all right?” she says.
“I can’t do this.”
“We’re here to catch you,” she says.
“No, I know. I’m just . . .”
“Have you ever been dipped? Like dancing?” someone says, popping the bubble, and they’re all too close, too fast. A tug at my shoulder, and I’m spinning; someone yanks my arm, and I wheel into a chest.
Oscar.
He tips me, stupid, since I’m already falling, head over head over . . . I push away, hike my knee into his stomach so he goes “oof” and drops me, spins away.
My head hits the stage, rattling my teeth, and I find the floor under me. Breathe.
They want to know if I’m all right. They’re standing back, giving me room.
Oscar’s repeating, “Oh God, I’m so sorry, Caddie, I’m sorry. Wow. I’m sorry.”
I pull myself up, even though it hurts my head. Peter reaches out a hand, but I wave. “I’m fine, really, I’m fine. I just freaked out. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
“She’s crying,” Mandy says, and crosses toward me. I wave her away, smile.
“I’m all right. Really, please, don’t worry about me. I’m fine.”
“Take her to the office,” Nadia says.
“No, please, I want to stay. Can I just—can I sit in the audience for a second? I’m going to be fine.”
Nadia stares at me hard. “Fill out an accident report. Then come back if you can.”
She motions for Mandy to accompany me, and I have to smile big to keep Mandy from scooping me up in a fireman’s carry. She looks that worried.
I make it back to practice, but Nadia doesn’t use me at all.
“You might as well go on home if you’re feeling bad,” she says, but I shake my head and watch from the audience.
She’s demonstrating how Shakespeare uses punctuation to tell his actors when to breathe, when to build to a climax. When there are three single-syllable words in a row, we’re supposed to slow down: Draaaaaaw. Theeeeem. Ouuuuuuut.
The rest of the cast sits on stage and practices lines when Nadia shows them a new rule.
I could sit on the stage without any problem, but no, I have to “rest.”
The distance between the audience and the stage is interstellar.
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19.
Mom and I agreed that I would stay after school for rehearsal whether I got cast or not and tell her in person what happened. I must look pretty grim because she says, “Oh, dear,” before I even make it all the way into the car.
“No, Mom, it’s good. I made it.”
“You were trying to trick me!” she says, and I nod, force a huge smile.
“Gotcha.”
Crying and laughing are so close, it’s a tiny switch to trick even myself. And I’m so close to happy—
“I have a special announcement of my own,” Mom says, but she won’t reveal it until we’re all together for dinner.
Please let it be something good about Dad. I can’t help myself from wishing it.
Before dinner, Jordan leans in my doorway, says, “Congratulations,” and plays with the corner of the Ophelia picture on my wall. “I knew you would get it.”
“Yeah?” I say. “I wish you’d told me that.”
Jordan’s actually smiling for once. “So, Mom’s in a crazy-good mood,” he says. “Do you think something changed?”
“I don’t know,” I say, but I hope, hope, hope.
At the table she says, “I want to make a toast,” and Jordan and I lift our glasses of sparkling grape juice.
“To Caddie,” she says, “for taking risks. You changed schools, put yourself out there; you worked hard, and it paid off. To Jordan—”
“What did I do?” he says.
“—for showing how responsible you can be, keeping up with sports practice and your schoolwork.”
Jordan makes a face—he doesn’t like being patronized—but he has been acting better since Mom gave him the chance to try football.
“What’s your news?” he asks.
“My news . . .” Jordan’s holding his breath, I think, and that makes me hope harder she’ll say something good about Dad. “Caddie’s not the only one who’s been challenging herself. I got a show! At the Goblet!”
She told me she submitted to them. I should have known.
“Mom . . . that’s . . .”
I’m looking for the right words . . . fancy, fantastic, impressive, a big deal, but Jordan says the glaring truth before I get a chance: “That’s bullshit!”
Mom’s face falls, and I say, “Jordan!” even though I was thinking the same thing.
Jordan sets his glass down so hard that it sloshes onto the tablecloth, and he storms out.
Mom stares after him, so I go for the seltzer water in Dad’s liquor cabinet—Mom doesn’t drink any of that stuff, but maybe he thought it would be tacky to take it with him.
I put a kitchen towel under the tablecloth and pou
r onto the spill. Mom must be rattled if she’s not taking over—cleaning is Mom’s happy place.
“He thought . . . ,” she says.
“Yeah. I did too, or I hoped.”
“I messed up.”
I meet her eyes, but I’m not going to rub it in by nodding.
“Are you okay?” she asks.
I shrug. “I’m happy for you. If we hoped something else, that’s our own stupid fault.”
And then Mom starts crying, harder than I’ve ever seen. I don’t know what to do.
“I’m such an idiot,” she says.
“No . . .”
I try to pat her shoulder, but any second she’s going to grab me, pull me into an octopus hug, wrap her hand around the back of my neck, press her cheek to my mine.
And I want that. I want to hold her and release this tight ball in my chest.
What if I hugged her right now? Said, screw it, and let it all go?
It would be selfish, taking comfort for myself but risking hurt for us all.
“I’m sorry, Mom,” I say, blotting the stain. “You should get to be happy. This is a happy thing.”
“I feel like I’ve had blinders on,” she says. “I mean, I’ve known this is affecting you, but I thought, what can I do about it? I’ve almost had my fingers in my ears going lalala. I’ve been trying to move forward.”
“That’s what you should be doing,” I say. “It’s okay.”
She shakes her head, mad at herself. I should find a way to comfort her, or go to Jordan, or bring Jordan back to talk to Mom, but instead, I go to my room with Ophelia.
It will be a relief to be her for a while instead of me.
Our first task for our character journals is to write down all the things said about us in the play—see what information we get from other points of view. Plus, I’m looking for clues.
I can’t touch anyone, so my Ophelia will have to be that way too. If I can justify it for the character, then Nadia will have to stage it that way.
Luckily, Shakespeare never shows Hamlet and Ophelia together and happy—their relationship’s all in the past. In Ophelia’s first scene, her brother Laertes tells her not to trust Hamlet’s affections, and her father spends a couple of pages saying the same thing and ordering her not to talk with Hamlet anymore.
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