Ms. Harper’s mouth twitched. “Not quite, but I appreciate your enthusiasm. Anyone else?”
We sat there waiting for her to tell us.
“Presence is so many things. It’s your voice, your posture, the way you command the room. But I think if you really want to have presence, you have to tell the truth.” Ms. Harper smiled.
“And if you tell the truth as that character, if you become that character, you’ll convince the audience to believe the lie, to suspend their disbelief. You’re not really that character at all. They know that, but if you’re good enough, you’ll make them forget it. When they do, they won’t be able to take their eyes away from the stage. That is presence.”
I didn’t know what she meant then, and I’m still not entirely sure what it means. All I know for sure is that I can’t be afraid to speak if I want to command a room. Or a stage. I have to own my space, or at least make them think I do.
If I pretend to be brave long enough, will I become brave? Is that even possible? I wonder if that would work on the bus.
Ms. Harper gestures to a row of stacked pages. “These are the script audition pages for The Wizard of Oz. Take a few minutes to select the characters you’d like to read for so you can work on them this weekend. And don’t forget your sheet music for your audition song.”
That’s all we need to hear. The whole class swarms over the pages.
I grab for the tray marked glinda at the same time as Aubrey. She does a double take when she realizes it’s me, and stares like my hair is on fire. It’s all over her face—she doesn’t think I have what it takes. Aubrey can think whatever she wants, but since I have to audition anyway, I might as well go for Glinda.
“You’re going to read for Glinda?” Aubrey says.
“Yep.” I smile at her, trying to be friendly.
“Oh,” she says. “That’s…fun.” Fun? Fun! What does she mean by that? It can’t mean anything nice. “Just, you know, try not to be disappointed when you don’t get the part.”
My smile fades. Maybe it’s Ms. Harper’s speech about telling the truth, or maybe it’s my note to Ben that makes me do what I do next.
I stand up straighter. I don’t care if Aubrey is in a commercial. I’m in this class, too, and I can audition for what I want. I shrug and say, “We’ve all got a shot! That’s why we audition. But thanks for saying that. And I hope you won’t be upset if you don’t get the part.” And I say it without stuttering! Progress. No, wait. Presence.
Her jaw drops.
“G-good luck,” I say, and head back to my seat with a smile on my face. I don’t even care that I stuttered. Aubrey might be surprised next week. Maybe I’ll even shock myself and have an awesome audition.
* * *
I keep my eyes on Ben’s chunk of missing hair as I fight through the crowd on the way to the buses. When I go through the double doors of the bus, I catch up so I’m directly behind him. Three steps to go. It’s now or never. My fingers curl around the note in my pocket, and I slip it into the gap between zippers on his bag by the time we reach the top step. He throws his bag into the first seat and slides in next to it. He doesn’t even look at me.
Mission accomplished. Maybe I can still be the girl my mom wrote the note for this morning. A small smile crosses my face right as Maddie looks up at me. The disappointment in her eyes stops me in my tracks. Without a word, she turns and writes in her red notebook.
“Come ON! Keep moving,” one of the eighth graders yells from the stairs.
I hurry past to an empty seat in the back.
Then before I know it, Josh and Tristan are seated across the aisle from Maddie. Why don’t they just play with their phones or something? Maybe if she ignores them for long enough, they’ll leave her alone. But that’s not going to happen because Maddie will tell them off every time. It’s just who she is, and they’re having fun messing with her.
Tristan throws his hands up in the air and mimics Maddie telling him to stop.
A good person wouldn’t let this happen. A good person would say something.
But I think I used up all my courage with Aubrey today. I look away and sink down lower in my seat.
On Saturday, Mom calls upstairs. “Charlotte! Dinner!”
“Just a minute,” I yell. I replay the instrumental track for my audition song and sing the intro one more time. I’m getting better, but it has to be perfect if I’m going to prove I have the voice for Glinda in just sixteen bars. And then maybe, just maybe, everything else will be okay. Maybe I’ll find my truth—and my voice—onstage. Maybe I’ll figure out how to use that voice in school.
At the table, Dad says, “It’s sounding good up there.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“Is anyone else reading for Glinda?” Mom asks.
“Yeah. Aubrey is. Maybe others. I don’t know.”
“Oh! Some of the elementary teachers were talking about her today. Isn’t she the kid from the music video?” Dad asks.
My fork hovers halfway to my mouth. “No!” I hope she isn’t. That just wouldn’t be fair. How can I compete with a girl who has been in a commercial and a music video?
Mom leans in just a bit and gives me an encouraging smile. “You’re going to do fine. You have a beautiful voice.”
I half grimace/half smile in silence. “Unless I choke.” What if I get so nervous that I can’t sing at all? I prod at my meat loaf. Suddenly I’m not hungry anymore.
Mom pats my shoulder. “You’re not going to choke! You just get up there and sing your heart out.”
I nod. My stomach gurgles. If only I could stop thinking about auditions. I push away my plate. “Hey, Dad?”
“Hey, you.”
“Do you really think I’m good enough to get cast?”
He looks at me over the rims of his dark glasses. “You put your pants on the same way they do, don’t you?”
“Yeah, but do I sing like they do?”
“Better.”
I frown. “Dad. Come on. I’m not a little kid.”
“What? I gave you my opinion! Believe me, or don’t. My answer isn’t going to change.”
And he looks so honest digging his fork into his mashed potatoes that I start to believe him.
* * *
I prep for the audition all day on Sunday. After breakfast, I grab my hairbrush and hold it like a magic wand, waving it around as I practice saying the lines to myself in my bedroom mirror. Over and over, I slowly say the words that begin with hard sounds. That’s the part I’m most worried about. I don’t stutter when I sing, but saying lines will be a whole different story. I know I’m going to be super nervous tomorrow, and whenever that happens, I get stuck more than usual. A line like “Did you forget the slippers?” becomes “D-d-d-did you forget the slippers?” Or Ms. Harper could ask me a question, and my brain might race too fast for my mouth to keep up. I’ll get louder and faster, and then out of nowhere, my throat will tense and betray me. So, I practice sentences using easy onset like my old speech teacher taught me. I breathe in, I breathe out, and I slowly say the beginning of the word. It takes all morning, but I say the lines again and again until I can do it without stuttering. Sometimes if I know exactly what I’ll be saying and I practice enough, I can get through it without stuttering as much. Sometimes I can’t.
Mom makes me take a lunch break, and then we watch The Wizard of Oz while she runs lines with me. After the tenth run-through, Mom high-fives me and says, “I think you’re ready.”
I drop my script pages onto the coffee table. “I hope I can get through this tomorrow.”
“You can do it, Charlotte. Just remember to breathe.”
“I know, I know.” I try not to roll my eyes. Mom is always reminding me to breathe, but at least she’s not giving me silent hand signals anymore to remind me to slow down. After the elementary school sugge
sted it, she did it all the time, no matter where we were. It just made me feel like…so much less. I know when I’m stuttering. I don’t need anyone to draw more attention to it. This summer I told her how it made me feel, and she hasn’t done it since. My mom is good like that.
When the movie ends, I go upstairs and practice my audition song with and without music, just in case something goes wrong. If I can just make the song perfect, maybe the rest won’t matter.
But when I finally crawl into bed and all that stands between me and the stage is a few hours, the rest of my audition is all I can think about.
* * *
Monday passes in a blur, until finally the auditions are here. The house lights are on in the auditorium, lighting up the stage and the seating area. The piano is onstage, and right in front of the stage, there’s a table with a few chairs.
“Let’s get started!” Ms. Harper says. “But first, some ground rules. You will hand your music to Ms. Bishop, and she’ll play your selection for you. When you’re finished, tell me the role or roles you’re reading for, and I’ll read opposite you. Everyone clear?”
We nod.
“These auditions are open, which means the rest of you will sit in the first two rows of the audience and observe. While your classmates are performing, there will be no talking. Please give them the same courtesy you would like to have while you’re auditioning.”
My stomach plummets. I was pretty sure it would be open, but deep in my heart I was still hoping I wouldn’t have to audition in front of everyone.
“If you’re uncomfortable with everyone watching, remember that the world will watch you sing onstage soon enough! This is good practice!”
Get out of my head, Ms. Harper.
“We’ll go in order of the audition sign-up sheet. When someone is auditioning, I want the next person waiting to perform to stand offstage and be ready to go on. Questions?”
No one speaks. I think we’re all terrified.
“Great. Break a leg! First up is Evie; second is Aubrey. Then we’ll have Grace and Charlotte. Let’s go, ladies.” Ms. Harper sits at the table in front of the stage, clicks the end of her pen, and reaches for a clipboard. “Announce the song you’re singing and the musical it’s from, please.”
Evie steps onto the stage and says, “I’m singing ‘My New Philosophy’ from You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown.”
I lean forward. That’s a really hard song.
Evie throws back her auburn hair and sounds great until she messes up on the high note. She reads for the Wicked Witch, and her cackle is spot-on.
Two more auditions to go, and then it’s my turn. I squirm in my seat.
“Grace! You’re on deck. Aubrey, when you’re ready.”
Aubrey goes up onstage and says, “I’m going to sing ‘That Would Be Enough’ from Hamilton.”
Seriously? She can’t sing that. That’s an awesome song! Why didn’t I think of it?
My heart starts to pound faster. It’s almost my turn. I take a deep breath. I’ve got this. I practiced so hard. All I have to do is go up there and sing like I did in my room.
Ms. Bishop plays a few bars, and then Aubrey sings. Her voice is so pretty. I glance at my classmates. Everyone looks impressed. Jack is smiling toward the stage like he’s just seen his first beach sunset.
I rest my chin in my hand. Breathe, Charlotte. They haven’t heard me yet. I’m ready.
Then Aubrey pulls a pencil out of her back pocket and says she’ll be reading for Glinda. Please don’t be perfect, please don’t be perfect, please don’t be perfect. But of course she’s perfect. Aubrey holds her pencil like it’s a gorgeous wand and makes elegant sweeps of her arms while welcoming Dorothy to Munchkinland. She’s not just auditioning—she’s loving it. Before she even leaves the stage, I know she’s going to get the part. I sigh. But in the back of my mind, I can still see myself as Glinda in my bedroom mirror.
“Thanks, Aubrey. Okay, Grace, you’re up, and next on deck is Charlotte!”
I gulp. One more audition to go, and it’s showtime. My stomach makes a sloshing sound. I grab my sheet music and walk toward the stage at the same time that Aubrey makes her way down the stairs. As we cross paths, she says, “Good luck beating that, sixth grader. Hamilton is Ms. Harper’s favorite.”
My jaw drops. It’s fine. Shake it off, Charlotte. She’s just trying to mess with your head.
Grace belts out “This Is Me” from The Greatest Showman, and by the time she’s done, I’m blown away. That was awesome. She reads for Dorothy, and if I had a vote, it would be for her.
“Thanks, Grace! Okay, Charlotte, you’re up!”
My mouth goes dry as I take quick steps toward Ms. Bishop to hand her the music. My heart is hammering so hard, everyone else must be able to hear it, too. Sweat starts to trickle down the back of my neck. Why is this happening? I’ve rehearsed this song so many times. I learned it backward and forward, and not once did I ever host a tropical rain forest in my armpits. I take a breath and look into the audience. “I’ll be singing ‘Something There’ from Beauty and the Beast.” I shouldn’t have looked into the audience. They’re all staring at me, especially Aubrey, and now there’s so much adrenaline flowing that I can’t think straight. But I have to sing, or they’ll all see me for the chicken that I am. I take a deep breath.
The music starts, and I sing the best part of the whole song, when Belle belts out her feelings. My voice rings out, perfectly clear and filling the entire auditorium. It’s just like I thought it would be. I’m doing it! I steal another glance at my class as I reach for the higher note, and I think, What if I mess up? A surge of panic hits me, and my voice cracks. It might as well be my heart. I gasp, which throws my carefully rehearsed breathing into all the wrong places. I can’t keep up. I shut my eyes. The perfect song I planned is a mess. My heart thuds so hard, the beat moves to my head and I can’t hear the music. Is that my voice? It’s so far away, it doesn’t even sound like it’s coming from me. What am I even doing here? Who told me I could sing? Besides my parents. And let’s face it, they don’t count.
The blood rushes into my face, and I don’t need a mirror to know that my cheeks and ears match the crimson stage curtains. This is not at all the way I pictured my audition. Finally the music ends, and I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself. Maybe the song wasn’t too terrible. I’m supposed to say something right now, but I can’t remember what it is.
Ms. Harper looks up from her clipboard. “And who are you reading for today?”
“G-G-G—” Calm down and say it, Charlotte! I look away so I don’t see their faces, take another breath, and say, “Uh, Glinda.” I smile through my panic. My throat tightens.
“Great! Ready when you are.”
I try to picture myself in the role I’ve been thinking about all week, but it’s no use. I’m wearing a shirt with wet armpit stains, the part of my audition that was supposed to be the best was a disaster, and there’s nothing in all of Oz that can turn me into who I want to be. I focus super hard and try to get through my lines without messing up or getting hung up on a word, but I stutter again. And again.
I return to my seat, which is unfortunately way too close to Aubrey, and try to hold myself together while Ms. Harper calls the next kids to the stage. If only I hadn’t had to audition in front of everyone and gotten so nervous, maybe it would have turned out differently. Who’s going to cast me as anything after that?
I never realized how many girls are in this class compared to guys. I watch as girl after girl knocks it out of the park, and I feel worse by the second. When Sophie sings “Journey to the Past” from Anastasia, her voice squeaks on the second line, and her fair complexion turns scarlet. Everyone else sounds like they’ve had voice lessons compared to us.
I sit up straighter when Jack sings. I could listen to his voice all day. When he finishes reading
for the Tin Man, he jogs down the steps and moves toward me. He grins, steps closer to my aisle, and just when I think he’s going to say hi, passes right by me and approaches Aubrey. “You were great up there,” he says to her.
I could’ve been great.
“Time for the dance portion,” Ms. Harper announces. “Everyone onstage, please. Form three rows behind me.” She stands in the center. Everyone rushes to be right behind her, and of course, I get stuck in the back. “Watch carefully and follow along.” Ms. Bishop hits play from the sound booth, and “We’re Off to See the Wizard” echoes across the empty auditorium.
Then Ms. Harper is moving, and the kids in front of me close in so much, I can’t see her. I follow as best I can, but I have no clue how they’re moving their feet.
“Okay, go again with me!” she says, nodding to Ms. Bishop to replay the music. And they’re off. I move left, I move right. I throw my arms up when they do. Maybe I can fake it.
“Do you have it down?”
“Yes!” they say.
“Are you ready to make it count?”
“Yes!”
No. I need another month.
“Row one, stay where you are. Everyone else, sit out this round.” She finishes scribbling something on her clipboard. “Okay, take it away!”
The music begins, and row one does a series of slides and hops, and even throws in a skip and a clap. I try to memorize it, but it’s impossible, since I can’t move with them. “Excellent job! Row one, please exit the stage. Row two, you’re up!” They’re not as good as row one, but they’re way better than I am. Finally Ms. Harper says, “Row three, show me what you’ve got!” Not much. I shuffle across the stage, trying to keep up with everyone, and failing miserably. At least no one laughs.
Say It Out Loud Page 5