by Beth Hautala
“Jacob?” It didn’t make sense. I stared at her face. She was serious. “But Jacob can’t audition for a play!”
“Why not?” Her voice held the tiniest hint of warning.
I looked at Jacob. He was listening and confused. He started rocking in his chair—my words were making him upset.
“Why do you think Jacob can’t audition?” Mom asked again. “His therapist actually suggested that more social interaction might be good for him. This would give Jacob a chance to express himself, safely, somewhere unfamiliar. And if I need to be, I’ll be there, too, Olivia. You are not responsible for your brother.”
“Peter Pan, written by J. M. Barrie, a Scottish novelist and playwright. It is about a boy who never grows up,” Jacob said.
I took a few deep breaths and tried not to lose my temper. Mom just said I could audition. I didn’t want to lose that chance. But this was supposed to be my thing. I wanted this. For me. Jacob had never needed extra social interaction before. Why now? He would melt down. I knew he would. I wanted to be Wendy without worrying about Jacob messing everything up.
“I’m not saying he has to be in the play, Olivia.” Mom sounded like she was trying to reassure all of us. “I’m just suggesting he participate in the audition. For the experience.”
I nodded once and glanced again at the pile of string Jacob had cut up. Making big things small. Easier to process. What big things did my brother even need to process? Everything was taken care of for him. Everyone thought of him first. If anyone needed a piece of string to cut into pieces, it was me.
8
Auditions
ONE WEEK LATER, I sat in the front seat with Mom. Jacob sat in the back doing the hand motions to “The Itsy-Bitsy Spider,” with all of the seat belts strapped around himself, as we drove to the Tulsa Performing Arts Center.
It was just over a half-hour drive from Prue. Prue was too small to have its own theater company, but Tulsa had more than one, and this summer, the Tulsa Performing Arts Center had called in a traveling theater company to run their kids’ theater program.
By the time we found a parking spot, got out, and made our way into the building, my stomach was doing flips. My excitement had turned into something else. Because of Jacob. And because we were late.
Jacob’s socks had been too itchy. Before we left, he’d had to try on three different pairs until he found some that were okay. I’d begged him to hurry. But Jacob wouldn’t be hurried.
By the time we got inside the theater, every other kid and parent had already taken their places onstage or in the audience.
I wanted to run down the aisle and up onstage, but Mom’s voice stopped me.
“Take Jacob with you.” She was quiet but firm.
“Take Jacob with you,” he echoed. I closed my eyes. This wasn’t a good start. But up the stairs I went, with Jacob following behind me. He was talking to himself, and I felt my face heat up as all the kids watched us walk across the stage. It’s one thing to be the center of attention because you want to be. That’s part of the reason acting in a play is so awesome. But it’s another thing when people watch you with eyes full of questions.
We joined about forty other kids standing in a giant circle that was taped off on the stage floor. Some looked like kindergartners, and there were other kids who looked like they were older than me. The stage was full of voices and nervous laughter. Every kid there wanted a part.
Jacob stood next to me, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, but I didn’t look at him. Did he even want to be here? I snuck a tiny look at his face, and he grinned at me. What if he had a meltdown? Could that ruin my chances of getting a part?
“Are you okay?” I whispered.
“I am okay, Olivia,” he said loudly. I looked down into the sea of chairs and met Mom’s gaze. I was nervous. She smiled encouragingly. I tried to smile back, but it was hard.
Everything was hard with Jacob.
The girl on my left was slowly twisting her fingers in a fold of her shirt. And even though she was standing perfectly still and smiling, I realized she was nervous, too.
“Hi,” she said, her voice quiet. “I’m Amelia.” Her brown hair was tied neatly into a ponytail with a yellow ribbon. She looked just like the Wendy on the cover illustration of my copy of Peter Pan.
“Hi,” I said. I tucked a wild curl behind my ear. “I’m Olivia.”
“What part do you want?” Amelia asked. “I want to be Wendy, but I think every girl here wants to be Wendy. Do you want to be Wendy?” She talked fast and didn’t wait for my answer. But my stomach sank. I did a quick count. Easily half of the kids in the circle were girls. Maybe more. And Amelia was probably right. I bet every girl there wanted to be Wendy. That was a lot of competition. I cleared my throat.
“It would be fun to be Wendy,” I said. “I hope the best girl for the part gets picked.”
She smiled a kind of half smile, like she couldn’t decide if I was saying something nice or not. I was trying to be nice. But I wished I had thought to wear a ribbon in my hair.
* * *
• • •
All the kids quieted down as a man and a woman walked onstage and made their way to the center of the circle. Except for an occasional cough, the whole place was silent. Jacob swayed beside me, rocking from foot to foot.
“Ladies and gentlemen!” The woman threw up her hands and pivoted slowly, making eye contact with every person in the circle. “Welcome to the Tulsa Performing Arts Center! I am Dorothy—”
“And I am Stephen!” the man chimed in. “And together we are the Ramshackle Traveling Children’s Theater Company!” They clasped hands and bowed, deeply. Everyone clapped.
“Okay!” Stephen’s voice echoed across the stage. He was very enthusiastic. “If you are here to audition for Peter Pan, then you’re in the right place. If not, you can stay anyway. We are going to have a ton of fun.”
Dorothy stepped forward. “Now, before we get started, does anyone here know how to sing ‘Happy Birthday’?”
Everyone on the stage politely raised their hands or nodded. “You are such a quiet bunch! Let’s try that again. Does anyone here know how to sing ‘Happy Birthday’?” Dorothy held her hand to her ear, and this time we all shouted “YES!”
“Ahh—much better!” She raised her hands like a conductor and began to lead us in the song. “Happy birthday to you—happy birthday to you—” We all sang along while Stephen walked around the circle in front of us, his hand cupped to his ear, encouraging us to “Sing out—sing out!”
Jacob smiled happily beside me because he loved music. But Jacob never sang anymore. I looked for Mom in the audience. Did she know there would be singing? The flyer hadn’t mentioned this was a musical.
We sang a couple more songs as a group, loudly and enthusiastically. Then Dorothy asked us to sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” one at a time. The room got very quiet again as one by one, around the circle, we each sang the song. Every voice was different, some loud and confident, some quiet and nervous, some in key, some not. Each person took a turn, and all the while Stephen took notes on his clipboard.
He and Dorothy were looking for something. For someone. For lots of someones, really. Stephen had a list of names on that clipboard, the names of every character in the play, and he was looking for kids to match with those names. I wondered if he and Dorothy ever got nervous. Were they worried they wouldn’t find the right kids for each part? Would there be room to cast us all?
Suddenly it was my turn to sing. I tried to forget about being nervous and let all my excitement rush back in. I could sing this song in my sleep because I used to sing it to Jacob all the time; it used to calm him down whenever he got upset. And he would sing it to me, too—before.
I took a deep breath and I sang.
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star—” I imagined a quiet night, full of star
s, and my brother leaning in to listen. It felt strange singing this song in front of all these people. But I liked it. My voice echoed in the large, quiet auditorium and rang out around me as I continued the song. It sounded clear. And in tune.
When I finished, Stephen nodded at me, making notes on his clipboard. Then he gestured for Jacob to go ahead and sing.
And just like that, all the fun drained out of everything. Jacob didn’t sing “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star” anymore, or “Happy Birthday,” or “Pop Goes the Weasel,” or even the ABCs. But Stephen and Dorothy didn’t know that. No one here knew that except Mom and me.
I glanced at my brother. He was staring across the stage toward the back of the auditorium. Physically, Jacob looked like every other thirteen-year-old boy in the room. But inside, Jacob was definitely not like every other thirteen-year-old boy there, and I was mad that Mom had let him come. Mad that he was there. Mad that every kid in the room was going to see what Jacob was and what he wasn’t. I could feel my face getting hot. Because I knew if I didn’t explain, and Stephen tried to make him sing, something bad would happen. I didn’t know what, exactly, because you could never be sure. But something.
“Um—he doesn’t sing,” I said softly. And I took a deep breath. “He’s—”
“He doesn’t sing!” Jacob interrupted loudly, echoing my words. Stephen kind of jumped, a little startled, and I jumped, too. My palms felt clammy, and I looked at Stephen, trying to make him understand with my eyes. I was afraid to say anything else because I knew Jacob would repeat it.
“What’s your name?” Stephen asked.
“His name is Jacob,” I said quickly.
“His name is Jacob,” said Jacob, copying me again.
“And you are . . . ?” Stephen turned to me.
“Olivia. I’m his sister.”
“I’m his sister,” Jacob echoed.
Somewhere onstage someone laughed, and I looked across the room for the kid who thought it was funny. I tried to catch Mom’s eye, too, but she was focused on Jacob.
Stephen ignored the laughter.
“Thank you, Jacob,” he said. “Olivia.” He smiled at me, and his eyes told me he understood. And then he moved on to the next kid, who quickly burst into a rousing rendition of “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
After the singing was finished, Stephen and Dorothy asked us to pretend to be different parts. Pirates, Indians, mermaids, crocodiles, birds, and other kinds of wild animals. All the characters that were in the play. It was fun saying “Arrrrrrggg” and squawking. Even Jacob was enjoying himself, but the whole time I was distracted.
Then we were divided into different age groups. I watched Jacob and a bunch of older kids follow Stephen across the stage and down the stairs. Mom caught Stephen as he was heading down the aisle with the group, and I knew she was telling him something about my brother. Stephen nodded at whatever Mom was saying, glanced at Jacob before saying something to Mom, and then he left to catch up with his group. Mom saw me watching and gave me a little “It’s all right” wave.
But it was never truly all right. It was always right on the edge of something else. Not something terrible—not necessarily—just something awkward and uncomfortable and embarrassing.
I turned away from Mom and followed Dorothy and the rest of my group.
9
Brave
BACKSTAGE, DOROTHY PASSED out a few different scenes.
“These are a few lines from the play that feature parts we’re considering you all for,” she explained. “Stephen is reading some lines with the older kids for other parts. Like the pirates, and Captain Hook, and Mr. and Mrs. Darling.”
My group read parts for Peter’s Lost Boys, and for the Indian princess and her tribe of warriors, and for John, Michael, Wendy, and even Peter. Peter’s lines were fun. We each got to crow like a rooster.
When it was my turn to read for Wendy, I tried extra hard to say her lines as I imagined she might say them. But they were kind of boring, and I kept thinking about Jacob. Wondering if he was doing okay, and what the other kids must have thought.
After we finished in our different groups, we joined back up with Stephen and the older kids onstage, and Dorothy made sure she had everyone’s names and telephone numbers listed correctly on her clipboard.
“Now, if I can have your attention for just one more minute, please,” Dorothy said.
I stood next to Jacob. I wanted to ask him how his audition went, but he wasn’t very good at whispering, so I didn’t say anything. I didn’t want anyone to laugh again.
“Thank you all for this afternoon. We truly wish we could cast all of you. But Stephen and I want you to know that even if you don’t get a part today, that doesn’t necessarily mean you’re not cut out for the stage.”
Dorothy’s voice was kind, but I didn’t like what she was saying. Though it was a relief to know that they weren’t going to cast someone if they weren’t totally right for the show. Like Jacob.
“It just means that in this particular play, your talents would not be showcased as well as they might be in a different production. So, if you don’t hear from either myself or Stephen by the end of next week, don’t be discouraged. Instead, watch for the next production we do here at the theater and try again. Okay? Thank you all so much.”
We all nodded and said thank you back, and just like that, the audition was over.
As we began filing offstage, I wondered how many others were afraid of not being right for the parts they wanted to play. Jacob walked off the stage like nothing had happened. Measured. Careful. Steady steps. But mine were heavy. I wanted to stay. I was supposed to be a part of this. I knew it. But I knew something else, too: I had been distracted. Because of Jacob. I wasn’t able to focus as well after he repeated what I’d said. After someone had laughed. Maybe Dorothy and Stephen had noticed. What if I’d messed this up?
* * *
• • •
The phone rang just as we got home, and my heart leapt into my throat. It could have been anyone, but I wanted it to be Dorothy or Stephen calling to offer me a part in the play.
It wasn’t.
“Hello, Mrs. Mackenelli.” Mom had on her nice neighbor voice. “Yes. Yes, we did just get home.” She looked through the living room window across the street to where Mrs. Mackenelli was standing at her window, waving at us. Mom waved back. And then she was quiet for a minute while Mrs. Mackenelli talked on the other end of the line. I could hear her voice, tiny and far away through the phone. “Oh, I see,” Mom said. “Yes. Hmm.” She met my eyes, and I knew Mrs. Mackenelli had lost her glasses again. “Yes,” Mom said sympathetically. “Yes, I’ll send her right over.”
I opened the front door. “Come get me if Stephen or Dorothy calls, okay?”
“I think it will take them a little while to make some decisions, but yes,” Mom said, smiling, “I’ll definitely come get you if they call.”
“Okay, thanks!” I said.
“Okay, thanks!” echoed Jacob.
* * *
• • •
Mrs. Mackenelli’s glasses were so familiar to me now, they could have been mine. Wide, round tortoiseshell frames with thick glass.
She set down my usual cup of coffee. Orion leapt onto his chair to join us at the table. He was just that kind of cat. I’d learned the hard way that Orion didn’t like to be touched. Or if he did, it had to be on his terms—only how and when he wanted. Orion and my brother were alike in that way.
It didn’t take me long to find Mrs. Mackenelli’s glasses. I’d been finding them so often for so long now, it was almost like a game. They didn’t even bother trying to hide very hard. They’d fallen behind the couch, or maybe they’d been dragged there. I think Orion was responsible for half the times those glasses went missing.
“Thank you, dear!” Mrs. Mackenelli smiled and set her glasses on her nose,
looking around the room like she was seeing everything in a new light.
“So, what have you been doing today, Olivia?”
“Well, I auditioned for a play today—that’s where we were coming back from when you called.”
“A play! Oh! I always wanted to be on the stage.” Mrs. Mackenelli twirled her hand in the air and struck a pose from her chair. I laughed, and Orion just stared at us like we were obnoxious and disruptive. “What play?” she asked.
“Peter Pan,” I said. “Do you know it?”
“Yes, of course, dear. The story about a boy who never grows up.”
I nodded.
“I saw it on Broadway back in 1950, a very long time ago. It was glorious.”
“Jacob auditioned, too,” I said.
“Oh!” Mrs. Mackenelli set down her coffee. “And how do you feel about that?”
I shrugged. “It’s not like anyone will actually give him a part.”
“Really?” She sat across the table, watching me.
“No way! Because, you know. What if he melts down onstage?”
Mrs. Mackenelli nodded. “Yes. I suppose that could happen.”
“It would ruin everything.” I sighed. “Mom just wanted him to have the experience.”
“That was very brave of her,” Mrs. Mackenelli said.
Brave? That seemed like a strange thing to say. Like she had picked the wrong word by accident.
“So, who are you hoping to be?”
I grinned and drained my coffee cup. “Guess.”
“Wendy!”
“Yes!” I laughed. “How did you know?”
“Well, Wendy is the girl who loves Peter Pan and his band of Lost Boys. And you are a girl who has the most uncanny ability to recover lost things. It seems fitting that you would want to be that girl onstage, too.”
I let her words sink in for a minute. She didn’t know I still couldn’t find Jacob’s ostrich. But even so. “I never thought about it like that.”