CHAPTER 29

 

There’s a saying in the theater: There are no small parts, only small actors.

So when it comes time for us to read our fairy scenes with the full cast, I give my five Mustardseed lines everything I have. No way do I want to let my cast down. Even if I had only one line instead of five, I would say it as if the whole show depended on me and that one sentence.

I think it was that first rehearsal of my first Shakespeare show down in that musty church basement that made me decide, once and for all, that I wanted to be a professional performer for the rest of my life—no matter what. As the late, great Ethel Merman once sang, “There’s no business like show business like no business I know.”

The song is correct. And I just had to be a part of that big, crazy showbiz world.

But Travis Wormowitz? I think he wants to be a star. The kind that throws hissy fits and ends up in gossip magazines, usually after punching a photographer.

“Excuse me,” he huffs during our first read-through of the whole play. “But what is a Tartar’s bow? Is that like something fairies wear in their hair?”

I raise my hand.

“What?” snaps Travis.

“Um, according to what I found at the library, a Tartar’s bow was a recurve bow that was shorter than most archery bows.”

“It was also made out of horn and other seriously stiff material,” I continue, “so a Tartar’s bow had more power than a regular bow. More power meant faster arrows. So Puck is basically saying he’ll be really, really, really speedy.”

Everybody laughs. Except Travis Wormowitz, of course.

“Thank you, Jacky Ha-Ha,” he snarls through a fake smile. “That is what they call you at school, isn’t it?”

“Because she’s funny,” says Bill, defending me.

“Hysterical,” sneers Travis. “Tell you what, Jacky: Since your part is so teensy tiny in this show, you can do all my homework for me.”

“Jacky is just doing her job like a pro,” says Scott, the director. “After all, she is understudying the role of Puck.”

“What? Why?”

“For the same reason I’m understudying Latoya’s part,” says Ms. O’Mara. “The show must go on, even if one of our leads can’t.”

“Well, if you play her part, who plays yours?” Travis asks Ms. O’Mara.

“My understudy.”

He rolls his eyes. The guy is extremely babyish. “It seems sort of stupid. All these people learning all these different parts. Everybody just don’t get sick, okay?” He turns to me. “I know I won’t. I’m healthy as a horse. A thoroughbred. The kind that wins races and becomes super-famous, like Seattle Slew!”

“Who’s Seattle Stu?” cracks Jeff. “Never heard of the guy.”

The room laughs.

“Okay, everybody,” says Scott. “Let’s circle back to Shakespeare. Travis, pick it up with your line again, please.”

Travis recites the Puck speech without stopping to ask any more questions about what words mean. He sounds very singsongy, like he did at his audition. But he also sounds like he doesn’t really know what he’s saying. It’s all just words, words, words to him.

And I might not be the only one thinking that way.

Maybe it’s just my overactive imagination, but Scott, Ms. O’Mara, Ms. Sherron—even the Reinhardt twins—are kind of giving Travis a skeptical stink eye!