Once again, I do the only thing that’s made my school mornings bearable for the last week. Still in bed, I haul my laptop off the floor, go to the bookmarked site, click Play and settle in. There I am, center stage, belting out “Popular” from the Rossmere Heights School production of Wicked. The spotlight follows me as I sing about all of the ways I’ll make over Elphaba, played by my best friend, Cassidy. It was last June, only three months ago. Forever ago. I start to sing along. My cell phone buzzes on the bedside table.
“Yes, Dad, I’m getting ready for school,” I say before he can get a word in. I mute the video but keep watching. “Shouldn’t you be chatting up some local hotshot right now?”
“That’s why I’m calling, Ellie.” Dad’s voice is way too chipper for eight in the morning. “Watch the next guest. I think you’ll be interested.”
Dad’s the new host on the local TV show This City This Morning. It’s been a month now. A month since he dragged me away from Rossmere Heights to come to Toronto. Where my new high school doesn’t even have a drama club. Band, debating, coding and even archery, yes. Drama, no.
“It’s not another social media’s eating your teen’s brain story, is it?”
Dad sighs. “No. Just watch it, okay? I have to go. Love you.”
“Back at you.” Though I’d love him more if he hadn’t messed up my life so much.
I close my laptop, drag myself out of bed and pad out to the condo living room. Even after a month, I’m still freaked by the floor-to-ceiling windows in here. Our high-up view is cluttered with the windows of other buildings. Other buildings filled with other people. I’m all for an audience, just not in my own living room. I slouch down onto the still-smells-new sectional and swap my cell for the TV remote.
“Welcome back. It’s five past eight,” Dad says from the tall stool he’s told me is too slippery. He’s six-foot-one and not really made for perching. A woman with short black hair smiles from the stool beside him. She is made for perching. She’s petite and curvy, rocking a tight red dress and matching lipstick.
“In our studio with me now is Renée Felix, artistic director of the Youth Works Theater Company, or YWTC, for short. She is a passionate believer in the power of musical theater to engage youth.”
I sit up straighter.
“Good morning, Mike.” Her voice is melted-butter smooth.
“You know, Renée”—Dad smiles at her, then at the camera—“some of our viewers may not believe this, but I once trod the boards myself. Back in high school. In The Boyfriend.”
I moan. “Your viewers don’t want to know.”
“I’ll bet you were the boyfriend,” Renée says, right on cue.
“How did you guess?” He laughs and points off-camera. “Okay, my producer is now spitting out her coffee, so we better move on.”
Renée feigns disappointment. “You’re not going to sing for us?”
“Better not. Tell us about YWTC.”
“Please!” I say.
“We mount top-notch musical-theater productions, in a professional theater, entirely with actors aged thirteen to nineteen.” Renée delivers this mission statement with a warmth that makes it sound like a fancy French meal. And I’m hungry for it. “I hire professional directors and choreographers, so each rehearsal process is like a master class in musical theater for our performers.”
“Wow.” Dad pulls his head back. “Sounds intense. But exciting too.”
Always the cheerleader. Breakfast television is not exactly hard-hitting journalism.
“They love it, Mike. It is such a learning experience, to see what it takes to put together a show. They really bond working together. And, of course, it’s fun too. It is musical theater, after all!”
“Absolutely. And where do you find these performers, Renée?” Dad turns toward the camera. Toward me.
“Yes, Dad, I’m getting this,” I answer back. He’s been on my case about moping around the condo too much. And I’ve been helping him feel guilty about having to leave Rossmere Heights. Could this theater company be the one thing that doesn’t suck about moving here?
“Mike, you know this city is such a theater town.” Renée touches his arm. “It’s filled with teens who have grown up seeing wonderful shows—The Phantom of the Opera, Legally Blonde, Mama Mia! They’re keen for the chance to discover what it’s like to actually be in one. We have a lot of interest.”
Filled with teens. I picture gangs of musical-theater nerds dancing their way around the subway, breaking into song. I wish.
“And you’re going to be giving those teens that chance again soon, isn’t that right?” Dad glances off-camera. Probably getting the “keep-things-moving” signal from Bev, his producer.
“Our next show is in late November, so we start rehearsals September 25th. We’re holding auditions for it this Saturday and Sunday at the East End United Church. Our website has all the details.”
“Yes, we’ve got that address on the bottom of your screen,” Dad interjects, looking at the camera.
I grab a pen off the coffee table and write the website address on the back of my hand. It’s shaky. The word auditions has made me nervous.
Dad turns back to Renée. “What’s the show? Something classic? Like The Boyfriend?” He winks.
I throw the pen at the TV. “Enough with The Boyfriend.”
“No, something new,” Renée says, ignoring the bait. “We’re very excited. It’s a new off-Broadway musical called Schooled. The storyline is perfect for teen actors. It takes place in a boarding school. Sort of a mash-up between Annie and Hairspray.”
“That sounds weird.” I slump back into the couch.
“Sounds great,” Dad says, clearly having no clue what such a show would look like. He smiles at Renée and then at the camera. “Okay, future musical-theater stars, polish up your best songs and—”
I turn off the TV. I stare at the address on my hand but don’t move to get my laptop. The condo is silent all around me.
I never had to audition at my school. I was Sandy in Grease, Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz, Galinda in Wicked, because our drama and choir teacher, Mrs. Mowat, knew I was the best one for the lead roles.
And what about all of those musical-theater-savvy kids Renée Felix mentioned? How many of them would I be up against in an audition?
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Dad’s text reads, Told you you’d be interested! :)
I don’t text back. But the phone’s clock tells me I’m going to be late for school. Again. I look over to the wall of windows and wish for the thousandth time that I’d never had to leave Rossmere Heights, where I knew I always had a place onstage. I yank my pajama sleeves down, covering up the writing on my hand.