Victoria stood by the door, looking at the office. There wasn’t much to see—chairs, the unoccupied desk, a dispenser holding brightly colored pamphlets on which she could read the word City, a tired-looking plant in one corner. When she finished examining the room and arrived back at Jack, he was watching her. Victoria quickly dropped her eyes from his face and read the letters on his dark blue T-shirt. cbgb’s. She wondered what it meant.
“So,” he said seriously, “you’re in trouble.”
“I am?” Victoria asked anxiously, looking up.
Jack shook his head. “I don’t know. Are you?”
Victoria felt stupid for having taken his joke seriously. “You sounded so…sure.”
“Are you standing up because you’re afraid to sit next to me or something?” He gestured at the empty chair next to him.
“Am I…what? No!” Her cheeks felt hot. She wished she could lean her face against the cool, cool wall behind her.
“I don’t bite,” he assured her.
“I know,” she answered stupidly. Obviously he didn’t bite.
She made her way across the tiny space and sat in the chair next to him, then crossed her legs. “How was the concert?” As soon as she’d spoken the words, she regretted them. He probably wouldn’t even know which concert she was talking about.
If Jack thought it was weird that Victoria still remembered he’d been on his way to a concert when they ran into each other almost two weeks ago, he didn’t indicate it. “Good,” he said thoughtfully. “My dad was in it. He plays with the New York Philharmonic. Wait, did I tell you that already?”
The odds of Jack’s having told Victoria a major detail about his family, and her having forgotten it, were pretty much nil, but all she said was, “I don’t think so.”
“Oh. Well, he’s a cellist. Anyway, I think you would have liked it.” She glanced at him and saw that he was looking at her.
She immediately looked away again, but as she was staring at the floor, she thought she heard him say something.
Victoria lifted her head. “What?”
“I didn’t say anything,” he answered.
Their eyes locked, and Victoria found herself speaking without deciding to speak. “Are you in trouble?” she asked quietly.
He nodded.
“What for?” Her voice was a near-whisper.
Jack waited. Then, his voice low also, he asked, “Are you a music lover? Because if you’re a music lover you’re going to feel completely sympathetic, and if you’re not, you’re going to think I’m some kind of delinquent.”
Victoria couldn’t think of another time when she’d whispered with a boy. It was intimate somehow, private. Like they were exchanging not just information but secrets.
“I mean, I like music,” she told him.
Jack gave her a long stare. “Not a music lover.”
She hesitated, then finally shook her head, feeling like she’d failed a test of some kind. “I guess not,” she admitted, disappointed. Now he wasn’t going to tell her why he was in Dean Gordon’s office.
They sat without speaking for another minute before Jack turned to her, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee and leaning forward. “Okay. So if I tell you why I’m in trouble, you have to insert whatever it is you’re passionate about for music. Like, if I tell you, oh, I don’t know, that some friends and I used fake IDs to get into clubs and Dean Gordon found out about it and is trying to shake me down to find out who made the fake IDs, you replace music with something you’d break a law to see. Hypothetically,” he added quickly. “That’s, you know, a completely hypothetical scenario.”
Victoria giggled. “Um, I don’t think you have to break any laws to bake stuff.”
Jack opened his eyes wide. “No way, you’re a chef?”
“Not a chef,” she corrected him. “A baker.”
“Oh.” He wrinkled his forehead. “What’s the difference?”
No one had ever asked Victoria to explain the difference between cooking and baking before. Most guys her age probably wouldn’t care.
“Well,” she began slowly, “baking’s all about precision.” She realized for the first time just what it was she preferred about baking, and growing confident, she turned to him and tucked her foot under her leg. “You have to be very exact or cakes won’t rise, and your chocolate will burn instead of melting. But cooking’s more a little of this, a dash of that.” She mimed tossing some ingredients into an invisible bowl, then shook her head. “It’s too unpredictable.”
He nodded his understanding. “So you like things to be predictable.”
Suddenly she fell silent, feeling exposed. Was he making fun of her? “I…”
“Sorry,” he said quickly. He touched her gently on the knee, then pulled his hand away. “Sorry,” he said again, and Victoria didn’t know if it was because of what he’d said or because he’d touched her. “I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. I think it’s cool that you like to bake.” He fiddled with his camera briefly, nervously.
“Thanks,” she said, but she was still thinking about his calling her predictable. Predictable. Was that like uptight? Or was it something good, like reliable?
Jack pressed a button and looked down at the viewfinder of his camera. “Hey, want to see something?” he asked. Victoria watched as he scrolled through the pictures too fast for her to see what they were. Finally he slowed down and then stopped. “Look.”
She did. The picture in the viewfinder was of Ms. Kalman, their bio teacher, from the back. She was pulling a wedgie out of her butt. Jack paused, then switched to the next image. It was another teacher, a man, also from behind, and he had a piece of toilet paper sticking out of the waist of his pants.
“What…what are these?” asked Victoria. She had a crazy fear that the next photo would be of herself, maybe picking her nose or smiling with food in her teeth. But it was another teacher, a woman. She was standing on the street corner, frantically trying to lower her skirt, which was being lifted by the wind.
Jack chuckled. “We’re thinking about doing a most-embarrassing-moments spread in the paper. What do you think?” He raised his eyes and looked at her.
Victoria hated the pictures so much it made her dizzy. “I…” She meant to say, “I don’t think it’s such a good idea”; to tell him how humiliated her mom felt when Us Weekly ran a photo of her in a baggy, unflattering suit on its Worst Dressed page; to confess that she’d had dreams in which Satan came up to her with proof that she’d done or said something awful, something guaranteed to lose her father the election. But instead, she just blurted out, “I think they’re awful.”
The smile disappeared from Jack’s face as quickly as if she’d slapped him. “What?”
She wanted to explain, but just then the door to the inner office opened, and Dean Gordon stuck his head out, looking even more rumpled and pudgy than he usually did. He frowned at Jack and smiled at Victoria. “Jack, I’m going to ask you to wait a minute. Victoria, come on in and let’s talk about that baking club you’re interested in starting.”
Victoria felt angry and uncomfortable. Why had Jack showed her those pictures? Why had he taken those pictures? How could she like someone who thought it was funny to embarrass people like that? Then again, maybe it was funny. In which case, maybe there was something wrong with her. She managed to stand up in a vaguely dignified manner. “I guess I’ll…see you around,” she said lamely. “Yeah,” he said. “See ya.” How often had Victoria fantasized about this moment—she and Jack alone somewhere, talking privately. Whispering privately. If only we could get to know each other better. Well, they’d gotten to know each other, all right. And now she wished they hadn’t.
THERE WERE FEW things in the world that Jane loved more than an empty theater. After school she entered the main auditorium at the Academy and took a deep breath, inhaling the smell of leather seats, velvet curtains, and the heat of the lights. Onstage, twenty or so students were lounging, many in clumps of two or thr
ee. There was no sign of Mr. Robbins or his producers, despite its being only seconds before two forty-five. As she walked down the dark aisle toward the front of the house, it seemed to Jane that every eye swiveled her way.
The theater door flew open, and Mr. Robbins entered, Wendy and Sharon in his wake. Jane took advantage of their distracting arrival to sit down by the edge of the stage floor. A few feet away from her, Fran Sherman was lying with her head in the lap of a guy who was rubbing her temples.
“My sincere apologies for my late arrival.” Mr. Robbins’s leather briefcase swung away from him as he turned to greet the group, then smacked him lightly in the side of his leg.
“We forgive you, Len. And don’t worry—we still love you.” Fran spoke from her prone position.
“I’m planning on taking that to the bank.” Mr. Robbins’s voice was teasing, as Fran’s had been, and he was smiling. Sitting down alone by the edge of the stage, Jane watched their banter, noticing again how handsome Mr. Robbins was. He dropped his bag on the floor, pulled his sweater over his head, then dropped it on top of the bag.
“Welcome, all of you, to the magical world of A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” He spread his arms wide to include, it seemed to Jane, not just the cast but the play, Shakespeare, and, perhaps, theater in general. “We are all very privileged indeed to have the opportunity to work on this incredible play.
“I’m going to walk you through some of the nuts and bolts of our rehearsal schedule briefly, then I want to do some exercises, and then I’ll let you go. Before you leave, you’ll make sure to get a copy of the script from Wendy or Sharon.”
Both girls looked up from their seats in the front row. Wendy waved first, then Sharon, and Jane was glad to finally be able to tell which was which.
“Our calendar is much tighter than I’d like it to be, which has to do with all kinds of irrelevant things like the fact that Christmas vacation comes early this year and we’re staging Chicago in this theater immediately after Midsummer. I decided not to move Midsummer to the black box. It belongs on the main stage because it is going to be an outrageous, enormous, over-the-top production, and I want lots of razzle-dazzle that we can only have if we stage it here. But it means our rehearsal schedule is going to be brutal, so tell your friends and your boyfriends and your girlfriends and your parents that you’ll see them in November.
“That said, being in one of my shows is no excuse for not doing your homework, so if you can’t rehearse until six every day and again on Saturday mornings and get all of your work done, now’s the time to say ‘Thanks, Len, but no thanks.’” He paused for a moment, but no one expected anyone to leave, and no one left. Still, when the cast stayed put, Mr. Robbins looked around like he was surprised and genuinely thrilled they’d all decided to stay. “Okay, let’s get up and walk around.” He raised his hands, and instantly, as if they were the puppets and he the puppeteer, everyone was on their feet.
“Take up the whole stage. Don’t clump together.” Groups formed and separated as Mr. Robbins had them walk double-time, in slow motion, taking huge steps, baby steps, acting as if they were at a circus, then at a funeral, then a national park.
Jane didn’t know people’s names, but it didn’t take her long to figure out who the stars were (offstage, anyway). As Mr. Robbins barked out settings, the cast broke into supposedly spontaneous groups and pairs to admire the sights or comfort imaginary mourners or buy last-minute Christmas gifts at a crowded store; Jane watched the same people find each other again and again. Fran was always walking along either with the boy who had been giving her a head rub earlier, with a short, slightly pudgy girl with equally short hair, or with an insanely hot African American guy who wasn’t the underwear model.
Every once in a while, right at the moment Mr. Robbins instructed the cast to do something, Fran and her friends would be standing with or near another actor—“You’re at a sweet sixteen and the music is loud!”—then they would seem to absorb the outsider, but soon the foursome would somehow drift away, and the person would be left alone. Jane wasn’t sure if it was her imagination, but she got the sense that for the few seconds or minutes people were acting alongside the elite group, they were trying…harder somehow. Like this wasn’t just a rehearsal, it was also an audition.
“Okay, everyone, find a partner!”
Jane and a tall Asian girl made eye contact; the girl nodded slightly when Jane raised her eyebrows, and they made their way toward each other.
“I’m Dahlia,” the girl said. Jane remembered that Dahlia was playing Peaseblossom, one of the fairies.
“Jane,” said Jane.
Dahlia nodded as if she already knew who Jane was, and Jane felt her chest swell with pride.
“Okay, let’s get this started. One of you is A, one is B. When I say go, A starts moving and B starts mirroring A’s movements. When I say switch, you switch.”
“Want to be A?” asked Jane.
“Sure.”
“And go!” announced Mr. Robbins.
Dahlia raised her right arm slowly. Jane raised her left arm at the same pace. Dahlia opened her mouth to form a wide O, and Jane did the same.
“Nice work, Willis.” Mr. Robbins strolled through the pairs, pausing at each couple and observing them briefly before moving on. “Now, switch!”
Jane continued Dahlia’s movement seamlessly; she was sure even someone watching closely wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint the exact moment when Dahlia began following and Jane leading.
“Slow down a little, Josh,” Mr. Robbins advised. “You’re not letting Hugh follow you. Okay, switch.”
Jane sensed Mr. Robbins coming closer. Matching Dahlia perfectly, she made her movements even slower and more fluid. Was it her imagination or did he linger by them for longer than he had the other pairs?
“Very nice, Dahlia. Good work, Jane.” He watched them for another long minute before clapping his hands once.
“Okay, that’s enough for today. Read through your scripts, start learning your lines, see you tomorrow, two forty-five.”
“‘Hooray for Hollywood,’” Fran sang, and Jane felt a tingle of envy when Mr. Robbins joined her and they sang the next line together, “‘That screwy ballyhooey Hollywood.’”
The cast gathered up their things. As they made their way down the steps from the stage, Dahlia said, “So you’re the freshman.”
“Yup,” said Jane. “That’s me.” Dahlia’s reminding her that she was the freshman in the play made her feel better about not being the person who sang show tunes and joked around with Mr. Robbins. After all, when she was a freshman, had Fran done those things?
“See you.” Dahlia gave a little wave as she went over to get her stuff off a seat, and Jane headed to where Wendy and Sharon were sitting.
“Here you go,” said Wendy, handing her a script as she approached.
“Thanks.” The pale yellow book with its crisp pages would, she knew, soon be dog-eared and ratty. She loved the feel of a new script in her hand, but she loved a used one better.
The cast moved out of the theater in clusters of two’s and three’s, laughing and joking.
Jane made her way up the aisle, passing a boy telling a girl, “I totally thought I bombed. When I saw my name up there, I was like, No way! ”
The girl nodded but didn’t say anything. Jane smiled at the boy. “Me too,” she said.
He winked at her in a way that made Jane think he knew who she was. “And here we are,” he congratulated her.
“Here we are,” she echoed.
Mr. Robbins was standing by the exit, just outside the auditorium, talking to a guy wearing a tool belt and carrying a stage light under one arm. As Jane walked by, Mr. Robbins called out to her.
“Jane?”
She spun around, feeling her hair fan out around her head and then settle gently on her shoulders, like she was in a shampoo commercial. “You called?”
His smile was wide, his white teeth sparkling in the lobby, so bright after t
he dimly lit theater.
“Nice work today,” he said.
It wasn’t as good as singing a duet together, but it was the next best thing. She gave a slight bow, then walked (or, rather, floated) to the front door.
Standing on the front steps of the Academy, she felt so giddy she couldn’t help laughing. She was the only freshman in the cast. She was the only freshman in the cast, and Mr. Robbins thought she’d done a good job. She’d been at The Academy for the Performing Arts for less than a month, and already people were talking about her.
She wished she could call Nana and tell her all about the rehearsal she’d just had. Thinking of how proud Nana would be, Jane’s eyes fill with tears. I did it, Nana, she thought to herself. I did it.
“NATALYA, I’D LIKE to speak with you after class.”
“Sure, Dr. Clover,” answered Natalya. She stopped packing her bag and settled back down on her lab stool.
“Good luck,” Jordan whispered, shoving her textbook into her overstuffed bag. “Do you need a cross or some garlic or anything?”
“I think I’ll be okay.” Natalya laughed. “See you at lunch.”
Since their one lunch together, Morgan hadn’t invited Natalya to eat with her again, and most days she ate with Jordan and her friends. She liked them and they were easy to be with, but she often found her mind wandering to what Morgan, Sloane, and Katrina were saying in their secret room. Every night when she checked her e-mail, she clicked on the message Morgan had sent with the details of the party. If she hadn’t received it, she might have thought she’d imagined ever talking to her.
Leaving the bio lab, Jordan gave Natalya a supportive smile that Natalya appreciated but—perhaps foolishly—didn’t feel that she needed. Natalya genuinely liked Dr. Clover. It wasn’t as if Ms. MacFadden had asked her to stay after class in order to learn which theater companies her parents were on the board of.
Now that would have been scary.
“I won’t keep you long,” Dr. Clover informed her, doing her strange walk/march over to Natalya’s table. “I was just wondering if you’ve been enjoying the reserve reading you’ve done.”
The Darlings Are Forever Page 11