4
“COME WITH ME.”
Casey wasn’t expecting to be pulled by the hand like a child. But she couldn’t do much but follow as Brianna yanked her up the sloping aisle, across the row that divided the front and back sections, not stopping until they’d nestled into the last row of the auditorium, hidden in the shadows.
“God, is he pissed at me,” Brianna said.
“Who?” Casey asked, nervously eyeing the door through which the other auditioners were obediently filing.
“Dark Eyes. Harrison. Okay, I was late. I am usually all about being on time, but I had a reason. A good one. Unfortunately, Harrison hates it when things aren’t just exactly right. He’s a control freak. And no one ever tells him off, because he’s not only Mr. Smart, Talented, Perfect, but also Most Likely to Win a Tony for Best Actor.”
The door to the lobby thumped shut. The auditioners had left except for Royce, who was pacing on the stage. Harrison, Ms. Gunderson, and Mr. Levin huddled around the piano. Dashiell, Reese, and Charles were sitting in the seats, chatting, waiting.
Only the Drama Club officers were supposed to be watching the auditions, Casey realized. “Shouldn’t I be outside . . .?” she began.
“Brianna?” Harrison called over his shoulder. “Are you joining us?”
“Just listening from the back to hear how the singers project!” Brianna called back, pulling from her backpack a clipboard with a stack of preprinted evaluation sheets. She lowered her voice. “I hope you don’t mind, Casey. I mean, you’re fine sitting here with me. I’m nervous. I have to talk to you. I had a religious experience last night. It was like Michelangelo seeing the soul in the human form. Or Einstein seeing . . . whatever . . . the relative in relativity.”
Mr. Levin called out from the stage: “Royce? Singing ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ from South Pacific? We’re ready for you. So sorry for the delay. Take it away, Royce!”
Brianna sighed. “ Introducing Royce of No Voice.”
“ ‘Some enCHANTed eeeeveniiiiiiing . . . ’” Royce’s singing sounded like a cross between a car horn and a blown nose.
“Please, Casey,” Brianna said, “do not judge Royce by his audition. In real life, we adore him. And he tries so hard . . . ”
On the evaluation sheet Brianna quickly wrote Royce’s name and then, in the space allotted for Musicianship, Presence, Dramatic Movement, etc., drew a quick sketch:
Casey swallowed hard. She wondered what Brianna did to people she didn’t adore.
“Okay, so the other night I went to a party at Scott Borland’s,” Brianna said, tucking her toilet into her stack of papers. “This is something I never do because Scott and his friends are proof of evolution, being clearly descended from baboons. But his house is awesome in a stupid-rich way, so worth the trip sociologically. Anyway, after about forty minutes Scott reveals this karaoke setup. He starts to sing, totally drunk, and before things can get uglier, I’m out of there. But as I run through the house, suddenly I hear the same song—only it’s amazing. Like Justin Timberlake sexy. Someone in the den, playing video games, singing along with Scott, thinking no one is listening. So I sneak closer, just outside the door, and I peek in . . . ”
“‘Then fly to her siiiide . . . and make her your oooOOORK!’” Royce’s voice cracked painfully.
“Thanks, Royce, that was great,” Mr. Levin said. “Callbacks will be posted tomorrow. On your way out, can you ask Kathy Marshall to come in?”
Brianna wrote Kathy’s name on the evaluation sheet. “Of course he stops when he sees me. He blushes and says he only sings in the shower—which, come to think of it, would be an interesting place to hold his audition—but then, just like that, he stands up, bows, takes my hand, and dances with me . . . while singing ‘On the Street Where You Live.’ From My Fair Lady? How does he even know that song? He says his mom listens to show tunes. Everyone in his house sings; they don’t make a big deal out of it. My heart is thumping. My brain is turning to ramen noodles. But I’m also thinking: Do we actually have a leading man for the show?”
“I thought you said Harrison was a future Tony winner,” Casey said.
Suddenly Kathy Marshall’s voice called out from the stage: “My song will be ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ from Les Misérables.”
“Harrison is an actor,” Brianna replied. “He can do anything—old men, little kids, bad guys, comic roles, accents. You want a guy like him for the most difficult role, the role no one else can do. For a leading man, you need charm, sex, great shoulders, hair. Eye candy. If you get a voice, too—well, hallelujah!”
“Who is this guy?” Casey asked.
“You’ll see.” Brianna looked longingly at the stage. “I can’t believe I’m not auditioning,” she said, almost under her breath. “You are so lucky. But hey, I made the choice. Sometimes you have to take new paths. Colleges like that.”
Kathy’s singing voice was every bit as sweet as Royce’s was terrible. It was the kind of voice that reached out and caressed you. Casey was disappointed when she was stopped in the middle of the song.
Next to her, Brianna was already busy writing:
Voice 6, Looks 5, Acting 4.
Not bad. Not great. Forgettable.
“I thought she was good,” Casey said.
“You haven’t been to a Ridgeport audition before,” Brianna replied.
The next auditioner, Lori, sang a religious song that bounced off the walls, filling the auditorium. Then, while everyone just stared in awe, she sang a few bars of some Italian opera song.
Voice 9, Looks 1, Acting 5.
Fabulous legit singing. (Too bad Godspell is not an opera.)
Call back.
Next was Corbin Smythe, who cracked everybody up with Gaston’s song from Beauty and the Beast and went on to sing an incredibly sweet “Loch Lomond” in a Scottish accent.
Decent comedic skills.
Okay voice.
Possible keep.
Casey swallowed hard. She had always thought of herself as picky, but not like this.
“Casey? . . . Casey Chang?”
It took a moment for Casey to realize that Harrison was calling her name.
“That’s you, girl,” Brianna reminded her.
“Can’t be,” Casey said. “I signed up way at the bottom.”
“Damn, forgot to tell you.” Brianna slapped her forehead. “I saw your name all the way down there when Harrison gave me the sheet. There was a cross-out near the top, so I moved you up. I just figured you’d get it over earlier. That was okay, no?”
“No!” Casey cried out.
“Casey?” Harrison called out. “Is that you?”
“Yes,” Casey squeaked. She rose from her seat on shaky legs. She felt like she wanted to throw up.
“Hey, want me to ask Harrison to change the slot?” Brianna offered.
Casey almost said yes, until she realized it would mean experiencing this awful feeling twice. Best to get it over with now. “It’s . . . okay,” she said.
Brianna smiled and hugged her. “You go, girl. ‘You’ll be swell . . . you’ll be great.’ Quick, what musical is that from?”
“I . . . don’t have a photographic memory like you,” Casey replied numbly, staggering into the aisle.
As she slumped toward the stage, clutching her sheet music, Ms. Gunderson chirped, “What will you be singing for us?”
Casey had to read the song title to remind herself. “‘The Colors of the Wind’? From Pocohantas?”
Ms. Gunderson immediately began playing it . . . without the music. By heart. She knew it already. As Casey wobbled past the piano toward the stage, Ms. Gunderson was getting to the part in the music where Casey was supposed to start singing.
Right . . . now.
Crap. The song had begun, and Casey hadn’t even reached the stairs to the stage. What was she supposed to do—sing as she was climbing them? Get up there—move, any way you can! her brain screamed.
She lurched to the left and ran for the stairs. Her right foot caught on the bottom step, causing her left foot to thump down loudly on the second step.
“Are you okay?” asked Mr. Levin, rushing toward her. The way he was looking at her was easy to read: This girl is an accident waiting to happen.
“No rush, I’ll vamp until you’re ready,” Ms. Gunderson said cheerfully, playing the introduction over again.
Casey walked out to the center of the stage. She took a deep breath. She had practiced her song at least a hundred times. She had planned every facial expression, every gesture. She remembered what her drama teacher in Westfield had told her: Don’t move your eyebrows so much. Think of your eyes as spotlights, and stand still unless you have a reason to move.
She glanced into the darkened audience and saw Brianna’s shadow in the back, poised with a pencil. Suddenly Ms. Gunderson’s notes sounded totally unfamiliar, like some ancient Icelandic folk chant. Casey took a breath, prayed for the right key . . . and squeaked. Loud. She felt as if someone had crawled inside her and sandpapered her throat. “C-can I start again?” she croaked.
“No problem, sweetie,” Ms. Gunderson said, vamping some more.
But at the moment she opened her mouth again, a scream rang out from backstage, followed by a loud CRRRRRASHHH!
Charles leaped from his seat in the auditorium. “Charle-e-ettes!” he shouted. “Oh, good Lord, time out.” As he jogged onstage, he said to Casey, “Sorry, doll—at Ridgeport, half the drama is backstage. Go ahead. I’ll listen from there.”
Vamp . . . vamp.
Casey started again. She sang the right words. She moved her eyes and her arms to the music. Sort of. The sound from her mouth seemed tiny and raw. It didn’t help to hear the hiss of arguing voices coming from backstage. She couldn’t bear to look at anyone, so she stared into the empty seats on the left side of the auditorium. This was torture. Nothing like yearbook. Answering questions, assigning tasks—that she could handle. Not this!
About halfway through, Ms. Gunderson started playing really softly, then not at all. Harrison was standing up, looking at her.
Casey’s voice tailed off like a dying bird.
“Thank you,” Harrison said pointedly, as if he’d said it several times before. “That was great. Callbacks will be posted tomorrow.”
“You’re welcome. I mean, thanks.”
That was it. The audition was over. One song. A quarter of a song.
Casey wanted to take it back. She wanted to rewind time, to before the backstage argument. To before Brianna had changed her sign-up. To before the collision with Dashiell. It wasn’t fair. The cards had been stacked against her.
Harrison had called her “great.” But that’s what he’d said to Royce, too. This must be another Ridgeport tradition. Lying to the Tone-Deaf and Talentless.
Brianna was writing something on her sheet. What was it?
Another toilet? A cesspool? An atomic bomb? There was no way Casey could face her on the way out.
Instead she ran backstage, hoping no one could see her burst into tears.
