Casting Lily

by Holly Bennett

  Copyright © 2018 Holly Bennett

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Bennett, Holly, 1957-, author

  Casting Lily / Holly Bennett.

  (Orca limelights)

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-1450-9 (softcover).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1451-6 (PDF).—ISBN 978-1-4598-1452-3 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights

  PS8603.E5595C37 2018 jC813'.6 C2017-904542-3

  C2017-904543-1

  First published in the United States, 2018

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017949699

  Summary: In this high-interest novel for teen readers, Ava lands a part in a professional outdoor theater production.

  Orca Book Publishers is dedicated to preserving the environment and has printed this book on Forest Stewardship Council® certified paper.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Edited by Tanya Trafford

  Cover design by Rachel Page

  Cover photography by iStock.com/brown54486

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  21 20 19 18 • 4 3 2 1

  To all the players, young and old, who bring stories to life before our very eyes.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Finally the bell rings. Lunchtime. I make a dash for the door, determined to get ahead of the crush and stake out a corner seat in the noisy little lunchroom. By the time Char shows up, I have the page loaded up on my phone and have made it halfway through a bag of chips.

  “Char, check this out!” I thrust the phone under her nose.

  “Hi, Ava. Hang on,” she says. She sets down her lunch bag and pulls out its contents one by one. Then she arranges the various containers to her liking and settles into her chair. Slooooowly.

  “Charlotte. Just look, will ya?”

  She takes my phone, peers at the screen, pretends to adjust her glasses. “Your phone screen is so small—what am I looking at?”

  I fake-smack her, but halfheartedly. I’m too excited. “It’s a casting call for that summer theater. Mill Pond Farm? They’re doing a play about kids. They want kids to audition!”

  I’ve been taking drama classes and acting in school plays since I was little, but this is a chance to spend the summer with an actual professional theater company. Ever since I stumbled across the ad, I haven’t been able to think of anything else.

  “That’s cool,” says Charlotte coolly, handing back my phone. “Are you going to audition?”

  I stare at her. “No, I showed you because I’m not interested. YES, I’m going to audition! Of course. But Char, you should too.”

  “Haha.” She’s only giving me half her attention. “I’m your friend who doesn’t act, remember?”

  “No, look.” I scroll down and start reading aloud. “Mill Pond Farm depends on our volunteers! Would you enjoy helping with production, front of house or concession sales? If so, please attend the volunteer-information session following either audition time.” I pin her with my eyes. “The costumes you made for Bye Bye Birdie last year were brilliant! And admit it—you enjoyed it, even if I did have to talk you into it.”

  Char looks thoughtful. “Yeah, that might be cool. But it’s the whole summer.”

  “Yeah, but it’s the summer on a beautiful farm. It’ll be a blast. And”—I lean in, because this is the real reason I want her to sign up, the thing that might persuade my parents to let me do it—“if we’re both going, we can stay at each other’s places when our families are away.”

  She chews her food, saying nothing. I wait, trying not to look desperate. Finally she looks up at me.

  “I’ll think about it.”

  Typical Char. But it’s good enough for step two.

  I need a calmer, more Charlotte-like pitch for my parents. I want them to see this as a reasonable, logical thing to do, not some crazy teen impulse. Especially my father, the insurance accountant. PleasepleasepleaseDaddy? doesn’t work with him, as I’ve learned the hard way.

  Think, Ava.

  It’s a great opportunity…That sounds mature and logical, right?

  Almost like a summer job…Yeah, he’ll like the sound of that. No need to add only without the money.

  Keeping my skills up for school…Hmm, maybe not that one. That might lead to talk of my math and science marks from last term.

  I resist the urge to blurt it all out during dinner. I stick to my plan, which is to catch them at 8:40, twenty minutes before their favorite TV show comes on. For some reason, they never record it for later—they watch it on regular TV, every Tuesday night, with a bowl of popcorn. It’s like a lame date, I guess. Anyway, my cunning plan is to talk to them when there is just barely enough time available. They will be half distracted as we near the nine o’clock mark.

  It works, kind of. They have a ton of questions I can’t answer. Is there any transportation provided? What kind of supervision do they have for kids and teens on-site? How late would I get home every night?

  I do, at least, have an answer for one: “What about our camping trip?”

  “I would have to miss it. But I can stay with Charlotte,” I assure them. “And she’s going to volunteer for the theater, so maybe she can stay with us when her mom goes away?”

  “Let’s go back to our trip,” says my mom. “Summer goes by fast, and, as you say, this will be like a job. It’s a real commitment—you can’t just walk away mid-August if you decide you want a bit of vacation after all.”

  “I know that!” I’m irritated now and not hiding it very well. “I know what’s involved in putting on a play. This will be better for me than a camping trip.” Understatement. I loved our summer campouts when I was little, but spending two weeks crammed into a tent with my parents and little brother, playing endless rounds of rummy, has seriously lost its appeal.

  In the end we make a deal. I will audition, and if I’m offered a part, I can only accept it on the condition that all my parents’ questions are answered to their satisfaction.

  I escape to my room and do a little happy dance on the bed. Then I text Charlotte.

  They said YESSSSS!!!

  I lie awake for a long time, thinking about the audition. What should I wear? What will they ask me to do? What should I prepare? I try not to think about how awful I’ll feel if I don’t get in.

  Two

  The auditions are at the downtown library. I arrive a bit early, but there are already a few kids, some with their parents, sitting in the library “lounge.” Some lounge—it’s basically a big bare room. I stake out a spot against the wall.

  A few minutes later a boy settles in beside me. He’s blond and slim and looks a little older than I am. He slips off his coat and hat and then fishes in his b
ackpack and pulls out a big envelope. He glances over at me.

  “Trying for a lead?”

  I nod. “But I’ll take anything.”

  “Hmm.” He frowns slightly, just enough to make me feel I’ve said something wrong. There’s an awkward silence while we pretend to watch the little kids running around.

  “I got a new headshot for this,” Blond Boy announces out of the blue. “I thought my old one was too babyish. What do you think?” He reaches into his envelope and pulls out some papers and an eight-by-ten glossy, which he hands to me. I have to admit, it’s pretty impressive. He looks both older and better-looking than in real life.

  “Nice.” I hand it back. “I don’t have a headshot,” I admit. Was I supposed to? The ad didn’t say anything about photos.

  “No? It’s pretty standard.” He gives me a once-over. “Don’t you have a résumé either?”

  I shake my head. I’m feeling nervous now, wondering if I’m in over my head. All I have with me is a scribbled list of plays I’ve been in, in case I forget if they ask me. “Can I see yours?” I say.

  “Sure.” He passes it over, and I scan the page. Kiefer Monroe. He’s done quite a lot of acting, mostly school and kid-oriented plays, same as me, but a couple look more serious. And then I see he has listed a play that came out two years before I was born.

  A New World Voyage: Babe in arms

  Babe in arms? He put down an acting credit from when he was a baby? Wow. I’m not feeling so intimidated anymore. In fact, I have to work hard not to burst out laughing.

  “You’ve had a lot of experience,” I say, proud of my serious tone. Call it acting practice.

  A young woman with a clipboard appears, and parents quickly round up the younger kids. She hands out a form for each of us to fill out. I pull out my list and get started.

  “I brought a résumé,” Kiefer says, holding out his envelope.

  “That’s great, but we’d still like you to fill out the form,” she says. “It helps if everyone’s information is in the same format.”

  Soon the younger kids are ushered in ones and twos to the audition room. I finish the form. I wait.

  “Ava…Oljark?” The woman shrugs and scans her eyes across the room. She has spectacularly long cornrows that swish across her lower back as she turns.

  I so need a stage name. “Olejarczyk,” I say, for about the thousandth time in my life, and follow her down the hall. In the audition room, three people sit in a row of chairs, facing an open space with a single chair at the front. I am instantly nervous.

  Every audition I’ve ever done has been held in some school or church gym, in front of everyone. I guess that should be more nerve-racking, but somehow it isn’t, not for me. Here, in this quiet room with only me and the…I want to say judges, it feels like a lot more pressure.

  The woman who escorted me in takes a seat beside the rest of them and introduces herself as Amanda, the assistant director. Then she names everyone else. Stephen, the director, is a skinny guy with no hair on top, but a full dark beard. The last two are Terry, the stage manager, and Mel, the music director. I sit in the empty chair and will myself not to fidget while they look over my info sheet.

  Finally the director looks up. “You have a lot of acting experience for a”—he glances down—“fourteen-year-old.”

  Is it conceited to nod? I decide to just smile. “I love acting,” I say, then cringe. Stupid, obvious thing to say. But the director nods politely.

  “What’s your favorite role so far?” he asks.

  I’m torn, so I decide to name two. “Playing the princess in The Paper Bag Princess was the most fun,” I say, “but I was proudest of playing Rosie Alvarez in Bye Bye Birdie.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “It was the first musical I’d been in where I had to sing solo, and I don’t really consider myself a singer.” Too late I see that this, too, is a dumb thing to say—why offer my weakness on a plate to them? There’s nothing to be done but plow on. “So it was a bit scary, and I had to work hard both on my singing and my confidence.”

  They seem to like that answer, and after a few more questions they give me an outline of the play—it’s about poor kids from England who were sent to Canada in the 1800s to help farm families. Then they invite me to perform my monologue. Everyone interested in a lead or supporting role was asked to come prepared to perform a solo scene. It had been so hard to decide what to do. Charlotte thought I was crazy to try Shakespeare, but Ms. Lovell, my drama teacher, encouraged me to aim high. And I had gotten good laughs from it when we did our “Scenes from the Bard” unit.

  I take a deep breath and stand up, and as I push my chair back out of the way, I get an idea. I tip it over onto the floor, so it can stand in for a body. My scene is from The Tempest, where Trinculo discovers Caliban lying on the beach. “A man or a fish? Dead or alive? A fish: he smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell…”

  When I’m done, they thank me and Amanda says, “You have a very clear voice,” which sounds to me a bit like, I have to find something nice to say, and that’s all I can come up with. But she smiles like she’s given me a great compliment. Just as I’m about to exit, tail between my legs, the music director finally pipes up.

  “Just one more thing. Would you sing ‘Happy Birthday’ for us, please?”

  I can’t have heard that right. “Pardon?”

  “‘Happy Birthday.’ You know, the song. Could you sing it for us.”

  “Um, sure. Sorry, I didn’t realize this was a musical. I could have prepared something.”

  They chuckle a bit and wave their hands reassuringly.

  “No, no, it’s not a musical,” Amanda explains. “But there will still be some singing, mostly in groups. We just want to know who can carry a tune.”

  I feel like an idiot, but I sing for them anyway, thank them and then do my best not to bolt out of the room.

  I have a strong urge to run to the washroom and cry. But I don’t. I march back through the “lounge,” pretending all is well. I even smile and wave at a girl I remember from last year’s Christmas pantomime. Then I text my mom that I’m ready to go home.

  I already know I won’t sleep tonight. Instead I will replay every dumb thing I said and did in the audition and just pray that, despite it all, they will call me.

  Three

  I got a callback to read for the part of Lily! When Amanda phoned with the news, I wanted to shriek with excitement. Instead I forced myself to be serious and write down all the instructions. Then Amanda asked to speak with one of my parents.

  I think they feel a lot better about my doing this now. Amanda said she’d send home an information sheet after my second audition. If I’m chosen, there will be a meeting with the parents before rehearsals start to answer any last questions.

  I have a scene to learn before I go. It’s a bit funny and also sad. From what I understand, Lily and her sisters have been sent to one children’s home, and her brothers to another. They don’t get to see each other at all. In this scene, Lily’s brother Walter has somehow gotten some girls’ clothes and put them on so he can sneak over to talk to Lily. He’s being sent to Canada, and he wants her to come too. But she has her little sisters to look out for and doesn’t want to leave them behind. They’re trying to work it all out in a big, whispered hurry, knowing Walter could get caught any minute.

  So I guess they will be auditioning for Walter at the same time as for Lily.

  It’s hard to tell what kind of person Lily is from just one scene. I know she’s only eleven years old. And I don’t think she’s scared to go to Canada with Walter. It’s more that she thinks she should protect her sisters. So she’s not being sucky. Or maybe she just feels she’s in an okay place, so why take a risk? Either way, Walter is the one who’s impulsive and angry, so Lily has to be more steady. I feel a twinge of disappointment—it would be more fun to play someone spunky and rebellious—but whatever. I set myself to work. Amanda said I didn’t have to f
ully memorize my lines, but I intend to.

  “Really. They called you back?”

  It’s Blond Boy, and while he doesn’t exactly stress the you, his tone is pretty insulting all the same. So great, I’m auditioning with a full-of-himself dude who has already decided I’m not good enough. I feel a flare of anger, but I remember the lecture Ms. Lovell gave us: In real life, you can like a person or not—I don’t care. But when you’re onstage, the only thing you feel for that person is what your character feels. I swallow my anger and offer a smile I hope looks real.

  Stephen, the director, brings us in together. I notice Amanda sitting at the back of the room and say hi. She smiles but stays where she is—observing, I guess. They’ve set up some props at the front of the room. A table and chairs and, to mark the doorway, one of those poles with hooks on it for hanging up coats. “Oh, and this,” Stephen says gleefully, pulling out an old-fashioned bonnet with a flourish and plopping it on Kiefer’s head. I see Kiefer’s mouth tighten, and suddenly I feel much more relaxed.

  “So we’ll do a quick run-through,” says Stephen, “just to get familiar with the scene. I’ll play the house mother. Ava, you are sitting at the table. Questions? Then let’s dive in and see how it goes.”

  I bend my head and start pretending to sew. Kiefer stands in the doorway, waving and coughing to try to get my attention. My start of surprise feels really fake, and our hug is even worse, but once we get to the dialogue, things smooth out a bit. Kiefer is good, and the way he plays Walter, angry and kind of rough, with just one desperate idea in his head, makes it easier to find Lily’s response. She cares for him, but he’s not really making sense. I can see how she’s torn, tempted to just run off with him and take the chance. After just one very rough run-through, I can already tell that Kiefer would make a good Walter. But it doesn’t make me like him any better.

  We come to the end, with me promising, “I’ll find you wherever you go!” Then we just stand there awkwardly, waiting for Stephen to say something. He’s nodding, scratching his beard, and my self-confidence crashes. Maybe Kiefer was good, but I was so bad he can’t even think what to say. Then he smiles.