by Robin Talley
—Printed list as of February 7, 2020. One copy tucked into Mel’s binder and the other given to Ms. Marcus, ready to post that afternoon alongside the cast listing.
Also stored on the BHS performing arts department’s shared drive.
Scene 3—Hallway, Beaconville High School Performing Arts Wing
DAYS UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 83
I pause the video and drag the cursor on my phone backward. I want to watch the last few seconds again.
We’re in the hall, waiting for Ms. Marcus to post the final cast and crew lists, and I’ve been watching an old video clip I found from when we did Steel Magnolias last year. It looks like it was shot from the house, and the quality isn’t great, but it’s zoomed in on Odile in the last scene, when she was sitting in the secondhand salon chair we’d reupholstered with iron-on vinyl. She’d sat in that chair and delivered a seven-minute monologue that had the entire audience, and most of the actors onstage behind her, in tears every night. Her character’s daughter had just died, and the monologue was about what it was like when they turned off the machines.
I remember watching her from backstage. It’s an incredibly moving scene, even when you’ve already seen it a dozen times in rehearsal. The whole crew was silent as we stood in the wings watching on closing night.
It’s different seeing it this way, though. On the video, you can hear people in the audience crying audibly. Plus, when you’re watching the scene straight-on instead of from the side, you can see how Odile’s face changes subtly as she goes from line to line. You can hear it in her voice, too.
How does she do that? I know how to do everything else in theater—I can light a scene to make the audience feel angry or off-balance or scared or create effects that replicate pretty much any sound using nothing but a peanut butter jar and a baseball, or scour thrift stores to find the perfect representation of any character on a costume budget that’s barely above zero. But I don’t know how someone like Odile can do something like this. Just sit in a chair, talking, while hundreds of other people feel what she wants them to feel simply because they’re in the same room.
“How much longer until they decide, do you think?” Dom blows on his fingers and rubs his knuckles. He’s nervous. But then, so are the forty or so other actors and techs waiting in the hall with us. “The teachers have been in there for a while.”
“They must’ve decided by now. They’re probably just fixing typos or something.” I switch off the video before he can see what I’m watching and double-check that I have my binder. My marked-up copy of the script is inside, just in case Ms. Marcus wants to talk to me about it. Gabby and I went through it at my house after school yesterday, looking for where the prop, sound, and light cues are going to be. I’d thought I’d have detention or something for being late to Spanish, but it turns out the rule is, you get one free tardy each semester. Who knew?
“The callback wasn’t as bad as I expected.” Dom reaches into his bag for a pair of fingerless gloves and struggles to pull them on. His hands are shaking. “Did I already tell you what song they had us do? It was ‘Who Am I?’”
“Yeah.” I spot Malik out of the corner of my eye. He’s checking his watch and laughing at something Christina’s saying. “Could you do me a favor and sign up for this bake sale shift with me on Thursday? I don’t want to get stuck on my own.”
He studies the form. “You’re not alone. Odile signed up for the same time.”
“You know what I mean. I don’t want to be there with just her. She’s all . . . you know. Intimidating.”
Dom raises his eyebrows. “Since when are you intimidated by anyone? Much less an actor?”
“I’m not. I’d just rather not be one-on-one with her. It’ll get all awkward.”
Dom still looks skeptical, but he puts his name down.
While he writes, I flick my gaze from side to side. Does it look like I’m showing favoritism by standing next to him? No one’s paying attention. Everyone’s way too anxious. Besides, they already know he’s my best friend, so does it matter?
Ugh, why did he have to go over to the dark side? It makes everything so . . . unclear. Messy, even.
We still haven’t tried to talk about that painful moment in the cafeteria on Wednesday. It’s easier to pretend things are normal. Dom’s kept on sitting at our usual table, too, which helped.
“Anyway, yeah, that song,” he says. “The hardest part was having to learn it then and there. I’ve seen the movie, but only once.”
“Ugh, that movie is crap.”
“I know you hate it, but I haven’t listened to the Broadway cast recording a million times like you have. It was a good thing Mr. Green sang it for us first or I wouldn’t have had a clue how it was supposed to go.”
“Wait—Mr. Green?” I can’t have heard that right. “Will? Will sang?”
“Yeah.” Dom blows on his fingers again. “Then Ms. Qiao made the four of us sing it together, which was incredibly awkward since, you know, we’re competing against each other, but at least we got to read the words off the sheet music. And then we each sang it by ourselves. I don’t know how I did, since I was so nervous. But everyone else looked nervous too, so who knows.”
“It must’ve been so embarrassing to listen to Will sing.” I can’t get over that idea. I wonder if it was like when my dads sing around the house. They’re notoriously terrible. “Was he awful?”
“No, he sounded good. A lot better than we did.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. It was like when the guy in the movie sang it.”
The black box door opens. The buzz of conversation in the hallway grows into a roar.
“What do you mean, the guy in the movie?” I ask, but Dom’s eyes are locked on Ms. Marcus. She gives us all a carefully neutral smile as she steps up to the bulletin board. “What—Hugh Jackman? Are you seriously saying Will sang and he sounded like Hugh Jackman?”
But Dom’s already caught up in the throng surging toward the bulletin board, where Ms. Marcus is smoothing out the cast list. I swear, she’s as bad as any of us. She totally milks the drama out of moments like this. She tacks up the crew list next, then steps back to watch the chaos.
I hang back. As far as I’m concerned, it doesn’t actually matter who got cast, since I already know none of the people I chose as crew heads and assistants auditioned. But I am curious, so as the first squeals come in from the actors at the front of the crowd, I hold up my phone over my head, zoom in, and take a photo.
When I pull my phone down to take a look, I notice that someone else is hanging back, too. Odile. She gives me a tiny wave and a tiny smile to go with it.
“Hi.” She steps toward me as the other actors get louder.
There’s a moan of disappointment from the front of the group that I immediately recognize as Christina’s—she has a very distinctive disappointed moan. Malik’s up front next to her, grinning and glancing back at Dom, who hasn’t made it to the board yet.
“Are those the contact forms?” Odile asks. “Can I have one?”
She points at the stack of forms I’m holding on top of my binder. Why is this girl always asking me for forms? I usually have to force them on people. “Of course.”
She takes a pen and textbook out of her backpack, bending forward to lean on it.
I look away. When she gives me back that form, I’ll have her phone number. That feels kind of weird, even though it’s literally my job to have everyone in the cast’s phone numbers.
“Uh, so . . .” I glance down at the photo I just took. The crowd is getting louder, with more squeals and laments from the actors. Some of the crew members are starting to react too. I can hear excited chatter about production meetings and shopping trips. “You got Fantine. Congratulations.”
“Oh, that’s lovely. Thank you.” Odile smiles up at me, and for a brief moment I feel that warm buzzy sensation I felt in the bathroom all over again. Then she turns back to the contact form, and I take a closer look
at the cast list.
LES MISÉRABLES CAST
Thank you to everyone who auditioned. We were incredibly impressed with your talent, but there simply aren’t enough roles for us to cast everyone.
Students we were not able to cast, as well as students cast as members of the ensemble, are welcome to join the tech crew. Please see Melody McIntyre for more information.
PRINCIPAL ROLES
VALJEAN
Nicholas Underwood, class of 2021
JAVERT
David Patel, ’20
FANTINE
Odile Rose, ’20
ÉPONINE
Leah Zou, ’21
MARIUS
Malik Sexton, ’21
COSETTE
Alejandra Huston, ’22
THÉNARDIER
Julio Ramirez, ’20
MADAME THÉNARDIER
Elizabeth Meyers, ’20
ENJOLRAS
Dominic Connor, ’21
GAVROCHE
Lauren Breen, ’23
BISHOP OF DIGNE / GRANTAIRE
Andrew Hernandez, ’20
There’s a list of featured ensemble members under the principals and another list of regular ensemble members below that. I try to scan them quickly.
“Hey, Mel, need help with anything?” Gabby’s voice at my elbow catches me off guard.
I didn’t know she was coming today, but I’m happy to see her. “Not right now, but I’ll let you know.”
“Hey, you’re Gabby, right?” Odile leans around me and waves. “Congrats on being the only freshman on the senior crew team. That’s going to look awesome to colleges later.”
“Um . . . thanks.” Gabby glances back and forth from Odile to me, like she suspects this might be a trick.
“Are you interested in sticking with tech theater?” Odile asks her. “Because if you’re thinking about doing it as a career, like Mel, I’m still friends with the ASM at Boston Rep. I bet she’d be happy to talk with you about her job.”
Now I raise my eyebrows. I would also like to talk with the ASM at Boston Repertory Theater, which happens to be one of the best nonprofit theaters on the entire East Coast. But Gabby’s eyes are already saucer-wide.
Also—how does Odile know I want to do this as a career? I’ve never told her that.
Has she been asking around about me?
“Mel? Who’s In Joel Rass?”
I turn around. Dom’s hovering behind us. “You mean Enjolras?”
I can’t help correcting his pronunciation—it’s Ahn-Juhl-Rahs, which Dom should know since he’s taken four years of French—and it’s only then that I notice how stricken he looks.
God, I’m the worst best friend ever.
“It’s a really good part,” I tell him. It’s the truth, but I know he won’t believe me, because it isn’t Valjean. “The teachers wouldn’t have given it to you if they didn’t think you were awesome.”
“It’s almost at the bottom of the list, though.” Dom shoves his hands into his pockets.
Come to think of it, I barely paid attention to who actually got which part. I glance at my photo one more time and see that Nick Underwood, who acted like a total tool in auditions, is our Valjean. Great. Well, maybe he’ll rise to the occasion. The lead actors usually try to set a positive example for the others, especially the freshmen and sophomores who are brand-new to theater and petrified of everything.
“There you are, Mel.” Ms. Marcus appears at my side. “Oh, hello, Dom. Congratulations! I can’t wait to hear your version of ‘Red and Black.’”
“Thanks,” Dom mutters, looking at his feet.
“Mel, I was hoping you could take advantage of this crowd to encourage everyone to fill out their contact forms.” Ms. Marcus gestures toward the group still alternately shrieking and groaning at the bulletin board. I see the back of Odile’s head—she’s finally making her way through to study the list herself. Having her out of earshot is both relaxing and, weirdly, disappointing. “We need them all back by the first rehearsal. Parent permissions too.”
“On it.” I pat my trusty binder. “I just want to talk to the crew really quick first if that’s okay.”
“Of course. We’re going to have an all-star lineup—onstage and off.” She steps back with another smile.
I’m making my way toward the front when I run into David Patel, smiling into his phone as he types a text. “Hey, Inspector!” I reach into my binder. “Contact form. Fill it out before you leave and earn my never-ending gratitude.”
“Well, that seems like a good deal.” He takes the form and turns his smile, which is really quite dazzling now that I’m paying attention, toward me. It’s too bad he’ll never be allowed to smile onstage in this show. His character is a major downer.
“David! Congratulations!” a familiar voice screams into my ear as someone jumps in from the side to crush him in a hug. “I knew you’d get Javert!”
I’m about to turn away and yell for the crew to assemble when I realize the girl with her arms wrapped around David is Odile.
Hmm. Major body contact. I wonder if they’re back together. Though it’s not as if I care, obviously.
“Hey, crew?” I wave my arm over my head and move to the far end of the hall, putting plenty of distance between Odile and me. “Over here.”
The crowd starts to split, as it always does sooner or later, with the actors still hugging and crying in front of the cast list and the crew forming a circle around me. Three of the set guys are trying to get a group rendition of “Do You Hear the People Sing?” going, and I resist the urge to join in.
Some of the crew are still looking over their shoulders, eavesdropping on the actors. I hear snatches of the gossip, like “Christina’s featured ensemble. I bet she’ll get Factory Girl, but you know she wanted Fantine” and “I knew they couldn’t find a guy who could pull off Gavroche” and “Who’s that random junior who got Valjean? He’ll look pathetic next to Odile.”
There’s more, a lot more, but I cut them off. This isn’t the place to be having these conversations. Besides, what with Dom switching sides and Odile being nice all of a sudden, the way my friends and I talk about the cast is starting to make me squirm.
“Everybody needs to fill out a contact form before you leave here,” I announce, writing quick mental bullet points for the rest of what I’m about to say. “And bring your parent permission forms home and have them sign everything tonight. We’re the organized ones, so we should get our stuff turned in before the cast does.”
There are a few chuckles. Gabby wordlessly takes half the forms off my stack and moves through the group, passing them out. She’s the best ASM in ASM history.
“If you’re interested in joining crew but your name isn’t on the list we posted, start thinking about what department you want to help with,” I go on. “We need every pair of hands we can get if we’re going to stage this show in three months. And we need to pool our design ideas, too, so a week from today, there’ll be a brainstorming lock-in at my house. My dads are ordering pizza, and I might even be able to convince Mr. Green to make brownies.”
Someone laughs, and there are more excited whispers as the crew breaks into groups. Estaban asks me about the props budget, and I’m about to tell him we won’t know the specifics until the first production meeting when I notice Dom off to one side of the hall, talking to Malik.
I have a distinct feeling that I need to intervene. I apologize to Estaban and jog toward them.
“Hey, you and me both, man,” Malik is saying when I get there. “I didn’t even know who this Nick guy was before the callback.”
Dom doesn’t look particularly comforted, and I don’t blame him. I’m sure Malik means well, but he’s in no position to commiserate with Dom. They both got good roles, but Malik’s playing Marius, so he’ll be spending twice as much time onstage as Dom. And since Malik’s always been the lead singer of their band—the band Dom started—this whole dynamic probably feels uncomfortably famil
iar.
The thing is, though, I can see why the teachers did this. As much as he annoyed me, Nick was the best of the guys we heard at auditions. He had a wider range than Dom or Malik, and he chose a better audition song. Plus he looks older and stronger, which is important since he has to age twenty years over the course of the show, and lift a bunch of heavy stuff.
And between Dom and Malik, Malik has more of a romantic-hero vibe, and Dom’s a little more . . . unusual. I can totally see Dom leading a troop of misfits to their doom, just as easily as I can see Malik flirting with a cute girl through a gate.
I quickly file all that away under Thoughts I Won’t Be Sharing with Anyone, Ever, and clear my throat.
“Contact forms,” I announce, thrusting a sheet at each of them. “Fill them out right now and earn my unending gratitude.”
“Your wish is my command, boss,” Malik says just as Leah comes over to throw her arms around him and yelp in delight. Not far away, Fatima and Jasmin are bent over a tablet, eyeing Malik and Leah and quietly adjusting the odds on the hookup pool. I take the opportunity to steer Dom down the hall.
“I was the worst at callbacks,” he starts lamenting as soon as we’re a safe distance from everyone else. “The others got the good parts. I’ve never even heard of this Angel-whatever.”
“Enjolras. And seriously, it’s a great part.” I struggle to think of how to explain the fabulousness that is Enjolras to someone with only vague knowledge of Les Mis. “He’s Gabby’s favorite character in the whole show, and mine, too, after Éponine. He’s this fiery revolutionary, and he gets a really dramatic death scene. Plus, you get to wear an awesome vest. Look up a video of literally any performance of ‘One Day More’ and you’ll get what I’m saying.”
“Okay . . .” But Dom doesn’t look particularly encouraged, so I take out my phone.
“Also, there are a bunch of smaller roles that didn’t get listed on the cast sheet,” I tell him while I look for a good video. “The Foreman, for one, and the chain gang soloists. And Young Cosette, but you wouldn’t be Young Cosette, obviously.” I laugh at that, but Dom is clearly not going to laugh at anything, so I plow ahead. “Anyway, you might get to do some of those other parts, especially in the first half of act one, since Enjolras doesn’t actually show up for a while.”