Look Both Ways (5 page)

“Every story that can be told has already been told!” he booms into the sudden silence. “That sounds discouraging, doesn’t it? To hear me tell you there’s nothing fresh, nothing original, nothing
new
in this whole crazy, goddamn world?”

He pauses and stares us down, waiting long enough for the silence to become intensely uncomfortable. Two seats away, Livvy fidgets in her chair, and it makes a tiny squeaking sound that echoes through the otherwise silent theater. She freezes in place, one leg half crossed.

“It is
not
discouraging,” Marcus finally says. “Why? Because we don’t need
new
stories to tell
spectacular
stories. This summer, we will say all the things that have already been said, but we will say them
better.
Each of us—each of
you
—has a unique perspective that has never been seen before. And because we are more evolved than previous generations, our perspectives are
better
than anything that has come before us. We are the pinnacle of human thought, and it is our responsibility to show everyone how we see the world. If you don’t strive to tell your story as carefully, as masterfully as you can, you are robbing the world of your voice, and
that is unacceptable.

“This summer will be difficult. You will work harder than you have ever worked in your entire miserable lives. You will work until your flesh hangs from your bones in gruesome, bloody strips. If you are not willing to work that hard, there is no point in you being here at all. If any of you feels that hard, unrelenting labor is beyond the scope of your ability, you should leave right now.
Leave!
If you aren’t one of us, no one will be sad to see you go!”

Marcus points to the door. We all surreptitiously glance around, but of course nobody gets up, because we all belong here. I sneak a look at Zoe, and her face is upturned and radiant, like Marcus’s words are snowflakes falling on her cheeks.

“Good,” Marcus says. “Everyone here is prepared to work. Luckily for you, it won’t feel like work. It will feel like
transcendence.
Some people say that true theater, true art, comes from the outside and fills us up. They credit their inspiration to the muses, or to God. That is
idiocy.
It’s not
God
who creates theater! God is
dead
! And that is why we must
transcend,
why we must lay the world bare with our voices and our gestures and our sheer, raw power! The world needs gods, so we must
become
gods! We must allow ourselves to be nothing short of spectacular, because to do so is to
spit in the face of the world
! We are Titans, and we
shall not be conquered
!”

And then, with no warning at all, Marcus turns and strides off the stage. There’s no
thank you,
no
goodbye,
no
I look forward to working with you.
The auditorium is dead silent for a full count of ten, like everyone is waiting for him to jump back out and keep going. But then Barb reappears, and we all exhale in unison. By the time people realize it’s okay to clap, Marcus is long gone. We give him a standing ovation anyway.

Zoe slumps against me like her strings have been cut. “He’s
unbelievable,
isn’t he?”

I’m not totally convinced everything Marcus said made sense, but I don’t really care, either. I feel like my brain is emitting sparks, and there’s a slight tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers.
This
is what true inspiration must feel like. “Totally unreal,” I say.

When Barb reaches the podium again, she bows dramatically, acknowledging our thunderous applause, and everyone laughs and sits down. “All right, kids,” she says. “Cast lists are up in the usual place. Try not to trample—”

I don’t even hear the rest of her sentence; the entire company leaps back up, shouting and pushing and bottlenecking as they try to get out the door. My instinct is to wait until the path is clearer, but Jessa grabs my wrist and pulls me forward. I reach back for Zoe’s hand as I stumble into the aisle, and her fingers close around mine.

Going through the auditorium doors is like being squeezed through a funnel, and then we’re outside in the cool evening air. People stream across the lawn and down the hill in the direction of the box office, so we sprint after them. Jessa lets go of me so she can run faster, but Zoe keeps a firm grip on my hand, and I time my steps to hers.

“Are you nervous?” I ask.

“A little, I guess. Are you?”

“Sort of,” I say, trying not to show that my heart is actually going about five times its normal speed. “I really hope I get something good, you know? Something with lines. I mean, obviously I’ll take anything, and I don’t expect much, but…”

I realize I’m babbling, and I break off as the box office comes into view. It’s a freestanding, hexagonal kiosk with glass walls, and there’s a cast list posted on each side. People swarm around it, shrieking with joy and dismay and hugging each other; it’s like the gravitational force of the kiosk has pulled all the emotions in the world into a ten-foot radius. A girl with a black ponytail dashes past us in the direction of the dorms, tears streaming down her face.

“Wow,” Zoe says. “This is intense. Are you ready?”

I don’t want to seem like a wimp, so I say, “Ready.”

“Let’s make a pact not to cry, okay?”

“We’re not going to cry,” I say. “We’re at
Allerdale.
”

I try to stay near Zoe when we get to the box office, but we’re immediately separated by the jostling crowd. I run my eyes down the first cast list I see, which is for
Dreamgirls.
Jessa’s name is listed under “Ensemble,” and I wonder if she’s excited or pissed. My name isn’t on this list, so I move to the right and scan the one for
Macbeth.
It’s not there, either, though I check the list of spear-carriers, guards, and servants several times to be sure.
Hedda Gabler
’s next—my dad took me to see it last year, and I thought it was kind of boring. Fortunately, my name’s nowhere to be found.

I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts as I scan the list for
Catch Me If You Can.
Nothing.
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
is next, and the number of names printed on the paper sends a wash of relief through me. There are at least twenty fairies, probably mostly apprentices, and I feel certain I’m going to be one of them. I find Livvy’s and Zoe’s names, and I send the universe an image of the three of us huddled together backstage, wearing gauzy costumes. It’s so close I can taste it.

Except my name isn’t on the list.

This can mean only one thing—my audition was good enough to land me a part in
Bye Bye Birdie.
My mom is going to
flip out
when I tell her. With a sense of delicious anticipation, I move toward the sixth side of the kiosk. A cheer starts building in my throat, ready to burst out as soon as I see my name. I feel like one of those aerosol cans that say, “Warning: contents under pressure.”

The first thing I see when I round the corner is Zoe, her hands clapped over her mouth as she stares up at the list. People keep bumping into her, but she doesn’t even seem to notice. “Hey,” I say as I squeeze in next to her. “I saw your name on the
Midsummer
list! Are you in
Birdie,
too?” My backstage fantasies come rushing back, only this time Zoe and I are in bright fifties-style clothes and pigtails.
This is the right visualization,
I think to the universe as loudly as I can.
Scratch that other one, okay?

My roommate doesn’t say anything. Her face is filled to the brim with emotion, but I can’t tell
which
emotion. “Zoe?” I say. “Are you okay?”

“I got Kim,” she says in a small voice.

“What?”
Kim is one of the lead roles; it must be unheard of for an apprentice to get something that big. “Seriously? Zoe, that’s
amazing
!” I throw my arms around her, and she hugs me back, her happy tears hot on my cheek. She’s totally breaking our no-crying pact. “Am I in
Birdie,
too?”

“I didn’t see, I was too distracted. Holy shit, I’m Kim.
Kim.
On the
main stage.
”

“I’m so happy for you,” I say, but I’m already pulling away and scanning the list for my own name. The first time through barely registers—I’m so nervous, I can’t even see straight—so I make myself start over and look again carefully. There’s Zoe’s name, third from the top. I laugh a little when I see that Livvy has been cast as Kim’s little brother. And then I’m at the bottom of the list again, and I still haven’t seen my name.

“Are you in it with me?” Zoe asks.

“No,” I say, and the word comes out oddly detached and calm.

“Aw, man, that sucks,” Zoe says. “What did you get?”

“I, um. I can’t actually find my name anywhere.”

A crinkle of confusion appears between Zoe’s eyebrows. “You must’ve missed it,” she says. “Come on. Let’s look again. I’ll go with you.”

We circle the kiosk in the other direction this time, but when we end up back at
Dreamgirls
and I see Zoe’s face, I know I wasn’t wrong. “Is it possible not to get cast at all?” I ask, and my voice shakes in a way that makes me sound very young.

“I don’t think so. They wouldn’t put you in the company if they didn’t have a part for you, right?”

Maybe they would if I’m here as a favor to my mom, but I obviously can’t say that to Zoe. “Do you think there’s been a mistake?” I ask. “Should I find Barb?”

“I don’t know. Did you check the list of side projects? Maybe you’re in a bunch of those.”

I completely forgot about the side projects, which are run by directing interns and performed in the smaller, experimental theaters after the main stage shows are over each night. I don’t even know which shows they’re doing. “Where are the lists?” I ask.

Zoe points to a freestanding notice board off to the side. “Come on.”

There are six sheets of paper on the board, and I start scouring them. I’ve gotten through three without finding my name, when Zoe calls, “Brooklyn, over here.”

I look where she’s pointing, my heart in my throat. Maybe it’s a really good show after all, even if it’s not on the main stage.
Please,
I ask the universe, without any specific instructions, and then I look at the list.

Señor Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders,
it reads.

What the hell is
that
? It sounds like an animated television show for preschoolers. There are six other names on the list besides mine, but there’s no corresponding list of roles.

Zoe has a weird look on her face. “Your last name is Shepard?” she asks.

“Yeah,” I say, but I can’t deal with the implications of that right now. “Do you know what this show is?”

“No. It’s probably new—playwrights workshop stuff here all the time. That’s kind of exciting, right? You might be the very first one in this part.”

I don’t point out that there aren’t even any parts listed. Across the bottom of the page, it says, “Please report to the Slice for an introductory meeting at 9:00
PM
on Friday.”

“What’s the Slice?” I ask.

“It’s one of the experimental spaces,” Zoe says. “It’s called that because it’s shaped like a triangle, like a slice of pizza. My sister did a show there when she was an apprentice.” It’s embarrassing how much more Zoe knows about Allerdale than me, considering I’m the one who’s been here before.

“What am I supposed to do until Friday? That’s three entire days from now.”

“You’re probably on one of the tech crews first rotation. The assignments are on the other side of this board. Maybe we’ll have a rotation together!” I can tell Zoe feels bad for me, even though she’s trying hard to sound positive. Her kindness nearly makes my eyes well up, but I forbid myself to cry. I have to learn to deal with rejection or I’m never going to be a real actor.

The crew call sheets are surrounded by people rolling their eyes and groaning, but I push my way through like I’m trying to get on the L train at rush hour. This time it’s not hard to find my name—it’s all over the board. I’m doing tech for
all three
rotations, never in the same department as Zoe. Tomorrow I’m supposed to report for lighting crew at Legrand at eight-thirty in the morning. I’m also on run crew for
Midsummer,
which means I’ll have to show up at every single performance and creep around in the dark like a cockroach while my new friends frolic around the stage in their fairy wings.

I have a sudden urge to sit down on the ground with my arms over my head and let the crowd swirl around me like a river around a rock. I’m
so
glad I didn’t tell anyone who my mom is, or I’d be even more embarrassed right now.
What
am I going to tell my family? And how is Allerdale supposed to teach me to love performing if I’m barely allowed to perform?

Zoe puts a hand on my back, and as I look at her, I think,
Well, it was nice while it lasted.
This is clearly where things end between us. Tomorrow, she’ll start learning her solos, and I’ll start learning…how to use a wrench or something, I guess. Honestly, I have no idea what the lighting crew even does.

“Hey,” Zoe says, and I’m sure she’s going to say, “I’m sorry for how things turned out,” or even “It was nice meeting you.” But instead she says, “I’m going to call my boyfriend for a second, but then do you want to walk into town and get ice cream?”

I stare at her. There are joyful groups of actors all over the lawn, singing snippets of songs from their new shows and passing flasks around.
Those
are her people, not me. “Don’t you want to celebrate?” I ask.

Zoe looks puzzled. “I
am
celebrating,” she says. “Do you want to come with me?”

I’m in no mood to act cheerful, but that’s not really the point. Zoe is telling me it doesn’t matter to her that I wasn’t cast; she’s offering me her friendship anyway. If I say I don’t want any ice cream and go back to our room to sulk, there’s no guarantee she’ll reach out again.