by Robin Talley
My mouth drops open. Mesmerizing was exactly what I’d been going for. The panels I’d painted had hung onstage through the whole show, and I’d imagined audience members studying every angle of the patterns during scene changes, but I’d never pictured the actors looking so closely. Especially her.
“Um, well. Thanks. I had a ton of help executing it. I was inspired by a set for Aida from this one theater in Austria, actually, so, um, it wasn’t totally . . .”
I order myself to stop telling Odile all these details she didn’t ask for and probably couldn’t care less about.
Besides, why do I keep stumbling over my own voice? I’m clear and succinct when I talk. When you’re doing a show, there’s no time for unnecessary syllables.
“I love it when there are actual paintings onstage.” Odile doesn’t seem to have noticed how flummoxed I am, but a few of the others have turned around to watch us. I scratch my neck again. I can’t believe she’s still standing here, talking to me about set design. “I did a show once with this amazing painted backdrop of a cityscape, but after previews they switched it out for a projection. I don’t know why—maybe a critic complained? The projection was nice, but there’s something about paint. It’s just part of theater to me. Like the smell of sawdust, you know?”
I nod—I agree with her, vehemently—and try to place which show she’s talking about. We’ve never done a show with a cityscape behind it. Maybe . . .
Ohhh. Wait.
There’s a cityscape in the Broadway set of Annie.
“Projections can be really hard to work with,” I say, because I want her to think I know as much about theater as she does, even though I have a feeling that’s not true. “I saw a show once where this giant blinking message suddenly popped up on the scrim that said ‘Error—Restart.’ The whole audience started laughing right in the middle of this serious scene about cancer.”
Odile winces sympathetically, and she looks like she’s about to say something else when a voice comes in over her shoulder.
“Mel?” Alejandra’s gripping a piece of sheet music in her hand. Odile turns around and brushes her hair behind her ear, a move that looks precisely calculated to show off the pale pink manicure that perfectly matches her dress. Or maybe it’s not calculated at all, and she just naturally exudes glamour.
I need to stop wondering about stuff like that. I despise uncertainty of any kind. “What’s up, Alejandra?”
“Could I ask you a question? About my music for the audition? How do I know exactly when to start singing after the piano—”
Only then does Alejandra notice who I’m talking to. The new hair color must’ve thrown her off, too, but now she steps back, her eyes widening, as though Odile’s a tiger who just escaped her enclosure at the zoo. “Oh! I didn’t mean to interrupt.”
“Odile! There you are!” Christina’s voice comes out of nowhere. I turn around to see her charging toward us, Leah right on her heels. “We saw that you were auditioning later and we hoped we’d catch you. We’re so glad you’re going to be in town to do the musical with us! Aren’t we, Leah?”
“We are!” Leah chirps, smiling her most fawning smile.
Oh, God. I so don’t have time for sycophantic actors.
But Odile is beaming at the girls, showing precisely the right number of teeth. It’s clear she’s forgotten all about me, so I roll my eyes and turn back to Alejandra, trying to focus on the sheet music she’s holding out.
She’s singing “In My Own Little Corner” from Cinderella. It’s a good song choice. Alejandra was excellent in R&J, and rumor has it she’s been singing brilliantly with her church choir for years, but she’s always been too nervous to sing a solo so she’s never auditioned for a musical before.
“After I introduce you, just take your music up to Ms. Qiao and she’ll help you figure it out,” I tell her. “Don’t worry, she makes it really easy. She’ll probably play one note, and then she’ll let you start and follow your lead.”
“Melody?” Ms. Marcus sticks her head out the door.
Crap! I forgot to set my timer!
“Sorry! Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry!” I jog to the door.
Ms. Marcus laughs. “Relax, you’re not late. But we’re ready, so let’s get this show back on the road.”
I nod and turn to the sign-up sheet, all business. “Henry Qualls, you’re up.”
Henry, a sophomore, sings a song from Hamilton—not very well—and then it’s Alejandra’s turn. The teachers both beam at her while she smiles nervously. And just as I suspected, she sounds fantastic.
I call more names after that, and Ms. Marcus and Ms. Qiao keep smiling as we sit through the same songs over and over again. It’s starting to feel like a never-ending parade of “On My Own,” Disney, and Phantom. Plus, two different girls who try, and fail, to sing “Defying Gravity,” which . . . no. No one should ever try to sing that song without about fifteen years of vocal lessons behind them.
Then there’s a long string of auditions where no one seems to be trying at all. People who sway on their feet so much it’s impossible to focus on their voices, or who sing so quietly we can barely hear them over the piano, or who forget the words (how can anyone forget the words to just sixteen bars of music? Seriously, how?). I’m starting to see why Ms. Qiao and Ms. Marcus weren’t as excited going into auditions as I was.
After the afternoon’s third rendition of “Let It Go,” I’m yawning in my seat when Ms. Marcus taps my elbow with her pencil. I jump up to escort the latest girl out and look down at the sign-up sheet.
“Nicholas Underwood,” I call.
No one answers. A few people start giggling. I try again. “Nicholas Underwood?”
A white guy I vaguely recognize—he’s a fellow junior, and I think we once had English together—lifts his head and slowly climbs to his feet, his phone in his hand. He’s really tall, with a broad chest, and his arms are all muscly. Maybe he plays a fall sport.
He tries to walk past me without looking up from his phone. When I hold out my hand, he finally glances up. “You need something?”
I blink. His tone’s astonishingly rude for a guy who, as far as I know, has never been in a show here. “I need your audition form, Nicholas.”
He passes me the paper and turns down to study his sheet music. “It’s Nick, actually.”
“Okay. I’m Mel. I’m the stage manager.”
He shrugs without looking up, like the fact that I have a name couldn’t possibly be less relevant to his life. How very actorly of him.
“Good luck, Nick!” a senior girl calls from across the hall.
I sigh. “You mean ‘Break a leg.’”
Nick winks at the girl, then turns to me with a smirk. The girl looks contrite, though, and I realize I know her. Her name is Selah, and she’s been in the ensemble for all the shows I’ve worked on. She knows the rules. “Whoops, sorry, Mel. Should I do the countercurse?”
“No, it’s okay since rehearsals haven’t started. Always better to be in the habit, though.”
Selah nods, and I nod back to show her we’re all good. It’s never smart to be casual with theater superstitions, though. It’s like how you shouldn’t drive through a red light even if there aren’t any cars coming. Rules exist for a reason.
I take Nick’s form and lead him into the choir room. From the way Ms. Marcus and Ms. Qiao nod, it’s clear they both recognize him. “This is Nick Underwood, junior, singing ‘How Glory Goes.’”
Nick looks a little confused when I sit down, like it hadn’t occurred to him I’d stay in the room, but I meet his gaze, impassive. He breaks eye contact first, which is pleasantly satisfying, and goes over to Ms. Qiao with his sheet music. I settle into my seat and prepare to tune him out.
But when he starts singing, I sit back up again.
Nick Underwood is good. Really good.
I glance at Ms. Marcus. She’s staring right at Nick, her face blank as usual, but she’s got to be registering this. His singing is up there
with the best we’ve heard all day.
Plus, he isn’t swaying around or making weird faces, like most of the other guys have. He’s standing with his feet planted, and his hand gestures and facial expressions actually seem to go with the song—as though he’s really playing the character who’s singing. And since that character is trapped in a cave and about to die, it’s doubly impressive.
When his sixteen bars are done, Ms. Marcus writes something on his audition form and Ms. Qiao looks up from the piano.
“Thank you, Nick,” Ms. Qiao says. “That was a very interesting song choice.”
Nick grins at her. There’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Thank you, ma’am.”
Ms. Qiao looks like she wants to say something else, but instead she turns my way and nods. I stand up to show Nick out.
He doesn’t look at me as I hold the door for him. He’s already taken out his phone. I sigh and check my list for the next name.
Gulp.
“Odile Rose,” I say, trying to sound as neutral as possible, even though every head in the hallway has already snapped up to watch her walk by.
I can kind of see why. Odile walks with her chin lifted, as if she’s expecting you to watch her make her way down the hall. As if that’s just what happens when you’re her.
The words stick in my throat when I introduce her to the teachers. It feels ridiculous—they already know exactly who she is. “This is Odile Rose, senior, singing ‘I’m Not Afraid of Anything.’”
The teachers smile warmly as Odile takes her music to Ms. Qiao. And when she starts singing a moment later, the whole room changes. As though we’ve all been transported to another space altogether.
Odile’s voice is stunning. That’s all there is to it. The last time I heard her sing was on closing night of Joseph last year, and I remember her being fantastic then, but either she’s gotten better or I’d forgotten what she really sounded like. As though she was born to sing.
Her voice is beyond powerful, and her performance is somehow straightforward and dazzling at the same time. She’s playing her character, but she isn’t showy and dramatic about it the way Nick was. It doesn’t feel like she’s acting at all. She simply is the character, reflecting on her life with this deceptively plain, pretty song.
I feel unbelievably lucky to be getting this private performance. It’s as if the teachers aren’t even here—as though she’s singing just for me. The whole world is the two of us, and the rest of humanity’s tucked off into the wings.
When she finishes, she has that same glow on her face she had years ago, the night I first saw her. The same pure, shining delight.
And I get why she looks so happy. That’s how theater makes me feel, too. When everything goes right—when the sets are stunning, when a perfectly executed sound mix elevates the voices to sparkling, when we haven’t flubbed a single cue—this is what it feels like.
I didn’t know how that felt three years ago when I first saw Odile perform. But she did.
Today she isn’t standing in a pool of perfectly calibrated light, or gazing out from an elaborate set. She isn’t wearing a costume or stage makeup, or singing into a microphone that carries her voice to every corner of the room. Yet somehow, everything about her radiates drama. The best kind of drama.
It’s obvious why she keeps getting bigger and bigger roles. When Odile’s in front of people, her very essence shimmers.
And as her song ends and the last notes of the piano fade, she looks right at me, still smiling. The emotion is so strong, so overwhelming, I have to look away.
I can’t afford to be dumbfounded by the Odile phenomenon. I have work to do.
Besides, she’s probably straight.
“Thank you, Odile.” Ms. Marcus smiles and studies her audition form. “Based on your song choice, I’d guess you’re most interested in playing Fantine. Is that right?”
“That’s right.” Odile beams at Ms. Marcus. I keep my eyes focused carefully over her left shoulder.
Huh. I was sure Odile would want Éponine. It’s the most ingenue-y role in the show.
“And you wrote on here that you don’t have any conflicts in April or May, is that right?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Odile bobs her head. It’s interesting to see how different she is with the teachers than with the rest of us. When Christina and Leah came up to her in the hall, she gave them that carefully calculated smile, but here she’s surprisingly relaxed and cheerful.
“It must be a nice break for you to be in town long enough to do the musical.” Ms. Marcus smiles back. “I know you’ve been on the road a lot this year.”
“I can’t wait.” On the last word, Odile’s voice shifts into a high-pitched squeak, and I almost want to laugh. She sounds like anyone else who’s excited about being in the play.
But why would she be excited about this? Odile’s performed on Broadway. Who cares about the Beaconville High spring musical?
But Ms. Marcus is still smiling at her, and as Odile smiles back, a silent understanding seems to pass between them. And I think I sort of get it.
Auditioning for our teachers is probably a lot more fun than auditioning for Martin Scorsese.
I do my best to act nonchalant as I show her out of the room, but my hands falter when I reach down to flip to the next page on the sign-up sheet. I grimace when I hear myself stumble over my words again. “Ah. Um. Tasha Barnett?”
Somehow, we make it through the rest of the afternoon. Some of the singers are good, some are terrible, and a lot are in between. But not a single person is remotely on the same level as Odile.
I call more names, I walk people in and out, and I give everyone exactly the same smile—the one that isn’t supposed to let on what I’m thinking.
But as I show the last actor of the day out the door and Ms. Qiao cracks her knuckles and climbs to her feet behind me, that smile Odile—the real Odile—was wearing when she finished singing for us here in the choir room still lingers in my mind.
And I can’t stop thinking about how much I want to see her smile that way again.
Spring Musical Callbacks
Please note, we’re holding callbacks for the role of Jean Valjean only. The full cast list will be posted Friday, and many students have already been selected for other roles. So don’t worry if you tried out but you don’t see your name on this list!
Students listed below should report to the choir room at
3:00 p.m. Thursday:
Dominic Connor
David Patel
Malik Sexton
Nicholas Underwood
No advance preparation for the callback is necessary. See you Thursday!
Scene 2—Beaconville High School Cafeteria
DAYS UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 85
Malik studies my clipboard. “How many shifts do we have to take?”
“Just one, but Will’s making a special batch of brownies for anyone who signs up for extras.”
“Count me in.” Malik scrawls his name down next to two time slots and passes the clipboard to Adam, who signs up for another two shifts.
Bake sale recruitment is one of the easiest jobs on any show. Everyone in the cast and crew is supposed to bring in food on different days and we set up tables to sell it during lunch periods, with three people working at a time. We’ve all got our favorite recipes down by now. Gabby already asked me to sign her up for two shifts with her grandmother’s special frosted Rice Krispies treats.
I’m about to head over to one of the sophomore actor tables to get more sign-ups when I hear, “Mel! We need you!”
Hearing I’m needed provokes a Pavlovian response, so I’m already all the way across the room before I realize it’s just my friends at our usual table. “Wait, do you actually need me, or are you trying to distract me from getting sign-ups?”
“Here, we’ll all sign up right now, and you can stay and talk to us while we pass this around.” Jasmin takes the clipboard and scribbles down her name before passin
g it on to Shannon.
“We wanted to make sure you got in on the hookup pool before the freshmen and sophomores see it.” Fatima holds out her tablet to me. She runs the betting on every show, and the competition can get fierce. It’s open to the whole crew, and the winner—whoever correctly guesses the most verifiable actor hookups between the first rehearsal and the cast party—gets a gaudy trophy at the beginning of strike, courtesy of the props team. Dom won it for R&J, having accurately predicted that Liam and Christina would have at least four known hookups and two public blow-out fights before opening, and the trophy’s been sitting on the top shelf of his locker ever since. It has seventeen layers of iridescent paint, a disturbing row of googly eyes, a half-dozen glittery unicorn stickers, and a pair of giant plastic red lips glued on top.
“I don’t know if I should enter this time. It seems kind of unprofessional.” But I study the list on Fatima’s screen anyway. Julio Ramirez and Aaron Crane currently have the top odds for the most dramatic relationship of the Les Mis run. “Also, I’m pretty sure Julio and Aaron already hooked up during R&J so I’m not sure they count.”
“It counts as long as they’re not in an actual relationship.” Tyler slurps a hefty spoonful of strawberry yogurt and points at the screen. “Besides, the R&J hookup was just a rebound. I saw Julio fighting with Tom in the locker room one day and the next, he and Aaron were sucking face backstage.”
“It’s too bad about Tom,” Jasmin says. “He was really into Julio. They were picking out matching tuxes for prom.”
“Well, I hope Julio isn’t too depressed to be funny,” Shannon says. “He’s going to get Thénardier, right, Mel?”
“I have no idea.” I shift in my seat, even though I’m positive the answer is yes.
“Of course he will.” Jasmin waves her hand dismissively. “He and Beth always get the funny parts.”
“I heard he’s way over Tom anyway,” Shannon says. “Besides, Tom wasn’t that into him. He never got over Sebastian graduating.”