Casting Lily

by Holly Bennett

  It’s funny, but it’s only striking me now how different an open-air play is to stage. For one, you can’t black out the stage for scene changes. It all happens out in the open. Now I understand why we spent so much time fine-tuning the entrances and exits—they have to be part of the story too.

  After we do our last bow, Will finds me backstage. “Ava, you were amazing. You blow me away in that scene with Barnardo.”

  I let out a long breath. It’s just Will, doing what friends do to boost each other, but it still feels really good to hear. “Thanks, Will. They are going to love your Billy—you’ve made him the best character in the play.” It’s true. Billy’s cheeky humor and good-natured friendship are the bright spot in what is, honestly, a pretty sad play.

  Will throws his arm around my shoulders and gives me a squeeze in thanks, and then he leaves it there. I tuck my arm around his waist and lean in a little. It occurs to me that maybe I don’t just like Will—maybe I like him—and that we’ll be at the same school in the fall. That thought brings a little rush of heat to my cheeks.

  Then our little moment, or whatever it is, is interrupted—the cast is being summoned.

  Stephen’s doing the usual pre-show pep talk—thanks for all your hard work, you’ve done a tremendous job, yadda yadda yadda—and I’m not really listening. I’m too full of my own thoughts about the night to come and honestly still amazed that I’m even in the show.

  Then he says something that snags my attention.

  “Now I want to address something very important before I let you go to rest up for tonight. I overheard someone referring to tonight as ‘just the preview.’ I appreciate that it was probably said to calm some opening-night jitters, but I want to stress that tonight is not a less-important show. In fact, it’s the opposite. We offer a Thursday-night preview because it’s hard to get reviewers to leave the big city on the weekend and also to give our members the chance for a special viewing. Tonight’s audience will include critics from major media, the members whose donations keep this theater alive, and, most important, relatives of the three Barnardo children whose stories are the core of this play. They deserve the very best show we can give them.” He pauses for a moment to let that sink in. “So let’s go out there tonight and nail it!”

  Thanks, Stephen. Now I’m really nervous.

  Fourteen

  I’ve never been this antsy before a play. I feel like I might jump out of my own skin.

  “Cheer up, ducks—it’s all good fun until someone loses an eye!” Will’s Artful Dodger Cockney accent is so terrible, I have to laugh. Still, my stomach won’t stop flip-flopping.

  I’m heading to the toilet for one last pee (“Mind the step!” Will shouts after me) when Kiefer rushes past me. The door bangs shut, and then I hear the unmistakable sound of retching. He comes out wiping his mouth and grimacing.

  “God, that’s even grosser in a portable toilet.”

  “Are you sick?” What will we do if Kiefer is sick? But he shakes his head.

  “No, it’s just the jitters. I do it pretty much every opening night. But don’t worry.” He brandishes a ziplock bag with a toothbrush and toothpaste in it by way of reassurance.

  I’m amazed. Kiefer always seems so confident. But this is not the time for needling each other. “I’m really nervous too,” I confide.

  He gestures at my cast. “Well, yeah. No wonder.”

  He really does not make it easy to like him. I escape into the toilet—mind the step.

  There is nothing like the feeling of stepping out onto the stage with the stands full of people. I tuck in the ends of my cast cover one last time. Cast? What cast? I say to myself, and with one last, deep breath, I think about being Lily, a poor London girl with a big voice and a meek manner. I check that my little brother and sisters are gathered around me, wait for the cue—and off we go.

  There are no lights on the stage, so the audience is right there in full view. I see my parents and Brandon in the third row. Thank goodness I told them not to sit right up front. It would be horribly distracting.

  I’m also glad my first scene is sitting around the table with the younger kids. With little Treena on my lap and “Annie” and “Jack” beside me, it’s easy to focus my attention on them rather than the audience. By the time our dad and Walter arrive on the scene, I’m feeling a lot more settled.

  Backstage it’s silent, controlled chaos. Actors shuck off clothes and wiggle into different ones, grabbing props on their way back onstage. Stagehands hover, waiting to move wheelbarrows, tables or farm tools. I do my best to stay out of everyone’s way.

  There’s a little glitch when the kids in the field appear. They come on cue, but the singing is ragged, like only a few kids are singing and not in time with each other. But Will soon sets them straight, singing out in his giant voice and pumping his arm in time like a parade master or something. By the time they get close to the stage, they are all singing out properly. A good thing, because one of the adults waiting has to say, “That’s the loveliest singing I’ve heard in many a year.”

  And the effect is fantastic. In the heat of the afternoon or the muck of a rainy day, you forget what it’s like for the audience. In the evening, with the light shafting through the high grass in the meadow and lighting up the far fields, the sky full of clouds and swallows, a distant farmhouse looking not so different than it did a hundred years ago, it’s as if those kids magically appear out of another time. It’s crazy cool.

  I feel like my scene with the doctor goes really well. I actually hear not a gasp, exactly, but some kind of little murmur from the audience when I come out with my cast in full view, supported in a narrow sling looped from my wrist around my neck. But I don’t let it distract me—I focus on my lines and on the reverend’s tight grip on my shoulder. I think I get it right.

  But I guess I relax too much, because I’m going along with my letter in my next scene when I suddenly realize I have skipped a line. I freeze for a second—my heart’s pounding and my head feels like it’s on fire. So I chew on the end of my pen, like I’m thinking what to write next, while furiously wondering what to do. I realize there’s another spot where the line I missed will work fine. I plow on.

  As I exit through the barn door, Stephen’s waiting on the other side. He bends down to me and whispers, “Nice save.”

  And then we’re taking our bows. When Will, Kiefer and I go out together, it’s just the most amazing feeling I have ever had. Everyone is on their feet and cheering, and my mom is, like, crying, and even Brandon is yelling my name.

  A four-week run is about three weeks longer than the longest I’ve ever done. I’ve been warned that it’s hard to keep up your enthusiasm for that long, but right now it’s impossible to believe. I feel so giddy and triumphant, I want to burst out laughing and hug everybody—but instead I bow again, smile and head offstage.

  When we all go back out together for our final call, I have Treena in my arms. She’s pretty freaked by the noise. She ducks her head into my shoulder, and I whisper, “It’s okay, Treena. They’re clapping because they thought we were good. You did great!” I joggle her back and forth and get a little smile from her.

  “But it’s scary,” she says.

  “You’ll get used to it,” I say. But that’s kind of a fib. I’m sure I’ll never get used to this—and I don’t want to!

  It feels weird to wake up the next morning to an empty house—my parents are at work, and Brandon is at day camp.

  I wander into the kitchen, glance at the table—and suddenly my heart starts to race. Mom has left the local paper, folded to a specific page, with a note: So proud of you! It must be a review of the play.

  I snatch it up. It’s positive, of course—I’ve often heard my parents comment on how the community paper says nice things about every local event—so that doesn’t mean much. But then I read:

  Special mention must be made of the three talented young performers who play the characters of Billy, Walter and Walter’
s sister, Lily, as children. Will Solomon’s high-spirited and energetic Billy is a perfect sidekick to Walter’s darker character, and his great comedic instincts bring some welcome laughs to an otherwise somber play. Ava Olejarzyk—

  Of course they spelled my name wrong.

  —gives a moving performance as the unfortunate Lily, who is trapped in an unhappy placement with unkind guardians. Though she has only a few scenes, she punches above her weight in emotional impact. Her finely tuned performance is at its best in a scene with her guardians, perhaps the most disturbing and memorable of the play. And all this with a cast on her arm—that is one spunky young actor!

  Okay, I’m flinching at that last part—what a way to ensure everyone who comes to the play after reading this will be watching for my cast!—but I’m grinning from ear to ear at the rest. So what if it’s just the local paper? I’ll take it! I read on to see what they say about Kiefer.

  Kiefer Monroe, already a familiar face in the local Theater Guild, delivers a solid Young Walter. Since Walter, unlike the other two children, has a positive placement experience, it is, perhaps, a weakness of the play that it’s not completely clear why Young Walter matures into the angry and seemingly traumatized Old Walter. However, Mr. Monroe does very well with his material. (He is also charmingly awkward in a dress and bonnet!)

  I stare at this last paragraph for a while, trying to puzzle it out. I guess maybe the reasons for Old Walter’s anger and shame about being a Barnardo boy are not 100 percent obvious—though being deliberately cut off from his whole family seems reason enough. But why put that there, where they’re talking about the acting? It looks like they’re criticizing Kiefer even though they say they aren’t. I picture Kiefer reading it and feel bad for him. Which is surprising, really, considering how snotty he’s been to me.

  On the shuttle bus, Will plops down beside me and drops an iPad into my hands. “We made the Globe.”

  The Globe? “Is that…?”

  “It’s big,” says Will. “And they liked it.” He grins and nudges me. “Specifically, they liked you. Read it!” And he points to the paragraph already loaded to the screen.

  Ava Olejarczyk’s affecting performance as Lily is surprisingly mature for such a young actor. It’s a pity Lily’s story does not feature more prominently in the play...

  Just one line, but it gives me such a boost of confidence. “I guess you’re not really supposed to care about reviews. But—” I’m scanning the article, looking for what else it says. Nice stuff about Will and Kiefer too, but—am I imagining it?—is the tone again less enthused about Kiefer? More vaguely positive?

  “But damn, it feels good when they like you!” Will finishes my thought. “So why the frown?”

  I glance around the bus. Kiefer’s mom always drives him to the farm, but I lower my voice anyway. “I’m worried Kiefer’s not going to be happy with this. In the local paper too, they said he was good but without anything really specific.”

  Will nods and does his best to match my quiet tone. “Honestly, I thought Kiefer was a little off last night. I mean, he didn’t do anything wrong. But he’s normally really good—kind of a jerk, but good—and he wasn’t at his best.”

  I remember Kiefer’s bolt for the toilet. “Maybe just opening-night jitters?” I say.

  Will nods. “Yeah, maybe. Maybe he’s not as confident as he lets on. Hopefully, he’ll find his stride again.”

  Fifteen

  Kiefer doesn’t arrive until after we’ve eaten. At our pre-show meeting he stands by himself at the back and doesn’t meet anyone’s eye. He is definitely not his usual look at me self. I have a bad feeling that tonight’s show might be in trouble.

  It comes out during warm-ups.

  “This is stupid!” Kiefer bursts out in the middle of our stretches. “What is even the point of all this stuff? It’s not like we’re doing gymnastics out there!” He walks away.

  Amanda stares after him, completely stumped. “What…?”

  “I’ll go,” says Will, jumping up. “It won’t kill me to miss the vocal warm-ups.” He runs after Kiefer.

  I kind of want to go too, but I guess we shouldn’t gang up on him.

  Amanda calls me over. “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “Not really,” I say. “But my guess is he’s not happy with the reviews.”

  Amanda looks dubious. “Really? But the reviews I’ve seen are really good!”

  “Yeah. But Kiefer is…complicated. Maybe they weren’t as good for him as he expected? But that’s just a hunch.”

  “All right. I’ll give Stephen a heads-up. You go get changed, and then maybe check on how they’re doing.”

  I dive into my dress, muss up my hair for the first scene and go in search of the guys.

  I find them—with Stephen—on the porch of the farmhouse.

  “I suck, that’s what the problem is!” Kiefer bursts out. “You should just give the part to someone else. Someone good!”

  Stephen scratches his beard like he does when he’s frustrated. “Kiefer, I picked you for Walter because you are good. Your work has been good right from the audition. So where is this coming from?”

  “Don’t you even read the reviews?” Kiefer looks like he’s about to cry. “Ava Olewhatshername is wonderful as Lily. Will Solomon’s Billy is a friggin’ joy to behold. Kiefer Monroe is all right, I guess.”

  “Oh good grief.” Another furious scratch. “Kiefer, look at me.” Stephen’s eyes scan the horizon briefly, like he’s looking for a place to start.

  “First of all, you got good reviews, for crying out loud. Walter is the main character, yes, but Billy and Lily are easier characters to like. Billy is funny and smart-mouthed. Lily is sweet and vulnerable. Walter is a darker, more complex character. So the fact that someone who has seen the play once finds it easier to comment on Lily and Billy has nothing to do with the quality of your performance.” Kiefer’s shoulders hunch, like he’s fending off Stephen’s words. Stephen sighs.

  “Second. A review is of one night, by one person, with one kind of taste. Every single working actor in this play has had actual bad reviews, and has had to find faith in their own talent and go back onstage. It’s part of the gig. You have talent, but that’s not enough—you need a thick skin too. So here’s your first challenge. To read reviews that are not quite as super good as you’d like, feel the disappointment, and then get back on your horse and prove them wrong. Tonight.”

  “I don’t know if I can.” Kiefer’s voice is barely audible.

  “We’ll help you.” It’s Will, and he motions me over. “Won’t we, Ava?”

  I don’t know how, but I know we have to try. “Yeah, of course. Kiefer, I’ve known since the audition we did together that you’re a better actor than I am. I’ve learned a lot working with you.” Yeah, like how to work with people I dislike. “I know you can get your mojo back.”

  Stephen looks at us. “Okay, then. I think maybe your friends will do a better job of convincing you than I can, so I’ll leave you to it. Just keep an eye on the time. I don’t want you running on set half dressed! And call if you need me.”

  He leaves us alone. None of us know what to say. Then Will ventures, “So, buddy. Stephen has spoken. We all think you’re a great Walter, and we need you tonight. What can we do to help?”

  Kiefer glances at each of us. “Why would you even want to bother?”

  Will launches into his bad Cockney. “Number one, if we ain’t got no Young Walter tonight, we’re all scuppered, Squire!” Then he drops the act, his face serious. “And number two, come on, man! We’re all in this together. We don’t want to see you hurting over this thing. It should be fun.”

  “Fun. It’s fun for you?” Kiefer asks.

  “Well, yeah,” says Will, like it’s obvious.

  “You, Ava?” Kiefer turns to me.

  I nod. “I mean, it’s hard work, and scary a lot of the time. But I really like it too.”

  He thinks a while, then blurts out, “L
et me ask you something. Did you think I was as good as usual last night? Because I felt, all night, like it wasn’t going that well.”

  Will and I exchange glances, not sure of what to say. But he asked, so I answer honestly.

  “I guess…I felt like you were a little, um…” I’m not sure what the right word is. “Restrained? Compared to during rehearsal, I mean.”

  “What about you?” He trains his eyes on Will.

  “Yeah, I guess. Like maybe you just needed to loosen up a little, have more fun with it.”

  “Fun again.” He shakes his head.

  I have an idea. “Kiefer, I think maybe Will keeps using the word fun because his character is fun—fun to play, fun to watch. You and I, we don’t really have fun characters. But…” I’m reaching here. “Maybe you were playing it a little safe?” What does that even mean? “Maybe,” I offer slowly, “maybe because it was opening night, and Stephen put all that extra pressure on us to be awesome, it was harder to get into being Walter.” I am remembering that scene I had so much trouble with until I was able to really feel what Lily would have felt. “Does that make any sense?”

  Kiefer nods just slightly, like he’s thinking it over. “Yeah…maybe. Maybe I was trying too hard not to screw up, instead of…”

  Will catches my eye and taps his wrist—there’s no watch there, but I get the meaning.

  “Kiefer, it’s time to go get ready.”

  His head jerks up. “Oh god. How am I gonna—”

  “We’re with you, man.” It’s Will, and his voice is firm and confident. “We’ll do it together. Billy and Walter—we’re best buddies, remember?”

  Kiefer barks out a strangled laugh. “Okay. Let’s go then.”

  The audience is lining up outside the box-office gate when we rush into the barn. Terry looks like he’s ready to kill us. “Where were you?” he hisses. “Get your little late butts ready, now!”