I open the stage right door and poke my head out. A row of folding chairs lines the hallway, right in front of a glass case full of charcoal sketches of butts still lifes of peaches from one of the art classes, Jasmine’s among them. Hers is clearly the best: Iranians know their fruits.
I glance around. “Liam?”
His head snaps up.
“You’re next.”
He gets off his chair and gives me a grin, but there’s a tiny wobble in it, like he might actually be nervous, and worse, him being nervous makes me so nervous my heart does a little flutter. Which is weird, because he’s basically guaranteed a role in the chorus. Everyone gets a part in the musical.
Well, almost everyone.
Still, it would be hilarious if he got a big role. The senior actors would be pissed surprised.
He pauses right in front of me, so close I can smell his citrusy deodorant. “Wish me luck?”
Some of the other auditioners glare at his back, and based on facial expressions I’m pretty sure one of the sophomores just hissed like a cat.
“Never say that!”
“What?”
“You never wish someone luck in a theatre. Or even near one. That’s actually super bad luck.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, that’s why we say ‘break a leg.’ ”
“How am I supposed to act with a broken leg?”
I roll my eyes. I don’t have time to get into the contradictory origins of the phrase.
But Liam’s face lights up. “Oh. So I’ll be in the cast?”
“Come on.” I tug him into the theatre, my thumb sliding along the cord in his forearm, and I let go as the door swings shut behind us. He takes his mark, raising a hand to his brow to look out into the audience before dropping it back to his side.
I take Liam’s audition form out to the front-of-house table where Dr. Lochley and Mr. Cartwright, the choir director, are stationed.
Liam introduces himself. He runs a hand through his dark hair as Mr. Cartwright asks, “What are you singing for us?”
Liam clears his throat. “ ‘Gethsemane.’ ”
I take my seat at the end of the row in front of the table as our accompanist, Miss Dawson, starts playing.
I can’t tell if his singing is very good or not; without him mic’d up, I have a hard time discriminating his voice from the piano, no matter how much he projects, and I’m pretty sure he’s not even projecting.
But he looks great onstage. He’s tall and statuesque well proportioned, and after a couple of bars he seems to relax into the song. His shoulders unclench, and his body loosens, and it’s like he’s leaning out into the audience, pulling us in.
And even though I can’t make out the words, I can just tell. He’s good. My heart beats in time with the bass notes on the piano; the hairs on my arm stand up as I notice Liam’s Adam’s apple jiggling from his vibrato.
Wow.
I glance back at Dr. L, who’s leaning in too, lips parted slightly in surprise. The corner of her mouth has turned up a bit. She doesn’t have any obvious tells, but after two years of shows, I’ve started to pick up on the more subtle ones.
Mr. Cartwright, on the other hand, has no poker face whatsoever. He’s bobbing his head and beaming at the stage in wonder.
I can’t watch them for long, though, not with Liam onstage, drawing my attention like a magnet. His eyes meet mine for a second—in the stage light, they sparkle like a summer sky—and my heart skips a beat, because there’s nothing more awkward than having someone sing right at you. It’s too intense.
The music finally ends. Mr. Cartwright and Dr. Lochley sit back, stunned. Onstage, Liam relaxes, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, and it’s like someone turned down the dimmer on the sun. The theatre seems darker and colder, now that he’s not singing. I give a little shiver.
Mr. Cartwright recovers first, pushes his glasses up his large nose. He’s white, but his nose could give Dad’s Iranian nose a run for its money. “Thank you, Liam.”
Dr. L says, “What’s your monologue?”
Liam scratches the back of his neck. “It’s a poem, actually. I heard that’s somethingsomething?”
Dr. L nods, her eyebrows quirking up. Poems are allowed, but not many people do them.
Liam meets my eyes again before he starts reciting, and I can’t make out a single line. I pull out my phone and use the app to turn up the sensitivity on my hearing aids. When I look back up, Liam’s looking right at me as he speaks, and it’s still intense—his eyes really are a spectacular ridiculous shade of blue—but less than when he was singing, so I let myself lock eyes with him. Just so he knows I see him.
Auditioning can be really lonely. Not that I’ve done it since first year. Being a techie is way better.
Halfway through, the air in the theatre changes. I don’t know how he does it, but we’re all leaning in again, like he’s cupped water in his hands and all of us are thirsty. My skin buzzes with the sensation, and suddenly I’m aware that my shirt tag is sticking up again, but I ignore it, holding my breath as Liam finishes.
“One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To somethingsomethingsomething not to yield.”
My chest flutters as I finally exhale.
That was a killer audition.
I glance toward Dr. Lochley, and she’s got an eyebrow raised, which is even more powerful than a lip quirk.
“Thank you, Liam.”
“Thank you.” Liam cracks his usual smile, and the difference is stark, like he’s pulled on a coat, hiding all that talent shining within.
I sit there, staring at him, too stunned to move, until Mr. Cartwright says, “Jackson? Next?”
“Sorry.”
My feet are leaden as I escort Liam out. He asks me something but I don’t catch it.
“Huh?”
“Sorry.” He waits until we’re by the door, his face lit by the glow of the exit sign. “How’d I do?”
Amazing. “Well, you didn’t fall off the stage, so that was good.”
He laughs and reaches behind me to tuck in my tag. He’s got little beads of sweat along his hairline, and the scent of chlorine off him is stronger than usual. It’s not bad, though. He just smells aggressively clean.
I open the door to let him out, glance at my clipboard to see who’s next.
But how could I forget?
“Cameron,” I say, careful to keep my voice neutral. “You’re up.”
Cameron studies Liam as he brushes past, then turns to me. He’s got these deep brown puppy-dog eyes, the kind that make you want to automatically like someone, but I stare at my clipboard to avoid his gaze.
“Here.” He lays his form on my clipboard, and I open the stage door wider to let him in. As he brushes past, bumping my shoulder, I catch Liam watching me.
“Callback list goes up Wednesday morning,” I tell him.
“Got it.” He gives me a thumbs-up before I shut the door and follow Cam into the theatre.
I hand over his form and take my seat, pulling out my phone again to turn my hearing aids all the way down, because I do not need to hear Cameron sing. He’s got a beautiful voice, and he’s a phenomenal actor, but seeing him onstage is the worst complicated.
Cameron and I used to date, back when I was a first year and he was a sophomore. He was my first boyfriend. My first kiss too. Until he got a part in the fall musical (a gender-agnostic production of My Fair Lady), and I didn’t. Suddenly he was too busy with the other actors and didn’t have time for a boyfriend who was just on stage crew.
When Cam dumped me, I was so hurt, and angry, I threw myself into the show. Making lists of props and scene changes and costume changes and everything I could, just to distract myself, but that paid off. The stage manager for My Fair Lady was a senior named Caprice; she noticed all my hard work, and Dr. Lochley did too. They made me assistant stage manager—a big job for a first year—and when Caprice decided to act in the spring play, rather than stage manage, I got to take over for her.
Of course, Cam got cast in that play too, and he was even more insufferable, treating me like I was some sort of servant: walking over the stage after I swept it, ignoring me when I tried to get him to be quiet during rehearsals, leaving his props everywhere for me to chase down between acts.
He’s been in every single show since, and he’s only gotten worse. The problem with Cameron is, he does this thing where he’ll look at you with his puppy-dog eyes and his button nose and floppy hair and you’ll just want to forgive him for being awful. His was the first list I made for myself, rather than Jasmine. I’ve updated it so often, the original paper’s not in my binder anymore: I had to copy it over. Twice.
ARROGANT JERK
TOTAL PRIMA DONNA
FUTURE PROBLEMATIC WHITE BOY
TREATS TECHIES BADLY
GLOWED UP EVEN MORE SINCE WE DATED
BASIC WHITE BOY LOOKS
ALLERGIC TO ONIONS
ALWAYS MAKES THE CAST
After Cameron’s monologue (Atticus Finch from To Kill a Mockingbird, which remains his favorite play despite all the racism and N-word and white savior-ism stuff), I show him out. His shoulders are tense. I don’t know why—I already know he’s going to get a part. He knows it too.
But as we reach the door, he looks back past me, toward the proscenium. He can’t see Dr. Lochley or Mr. Cartwright from the door, but he bites his lip before he catches me watching him. He rolls his eyes and pushes out into the hall.
I fix my face and call in the next audition.
Once we’re done, I help Dr. L close up the theatre. It’s nearly five o’clock, and my stomach is growling. If this were a rehearsal, I would’ve ducked out for an afternoon snack, but with auditions there’s no breaks. And food isn’t allowed in the theatre.
Not that anyone else seems to obey the rule. Not even Mr. Cartwright, who was munching on Mike & Ikes—he calls them “the original gay candy!”—the whole afternoon. But as stage manager, I’m supposed to set a good example.
“What would I do without you?” Dr. L muses as I sweep the stage using a wide dust mop with RHS THEATOR (no idea) stenciled on its head.
I shrug and try not to blush. Sometimes Dr. L acts like the whole department would come crumbling down without me, but she’s always careful not to say that with an actor around. Probably because she knows their ego would melt, like a halogen lamp with oily fingerprints on it, if she ever acknowledged that anyone else in the world might have talent. So she heaps praise on them and treats me like a ghost, haunting the theatre in my show blacks.
Actors get standing ovations. Techies get fiberglass splinters.
But it’s fine. I like being backstage.
I rack the dust mop, grab my backpack, and head for the exit. But when I swing the door open, it stops with a soft thump.
“Sorry.” I look around the door. Liam’s there, rubbing his elbow and shaking his head, but he’s got a tiny smile.
“My bad. I forgot they opened outward.”
“Still. You need that to swim.” I nod at his arm. His sleeve is riding up a bit, showing off the little vein down his bicep. Liam has really nice strong arms. I think I do too, but mine are just kind of big from all the work on lights and scenery. His are cut defined.
His grin widens, and I can’t help mirroring it a little. He steps closer to me, and his body heat washes away the last chill of the theatre.
“Yeah. Or act, if I get a part.”
I back up, but the door is right behind me. “If you’re fishing for intel, it won’t work. You’ve got to wait for the callback list like everyone else.”
But I can’t imagine him not getting a callback. Not after an audition like that.
I turn and head toward the Art wing, but Liam hurries ahead of me and turns to walk backward, so I can see his face as he speaks.
“Not even a hint? To make up for all the shmoodies you owe me?”
“I don’t remember owing you any shmoodies. You’re not on the shmoodie list.”
There is no shmoodie list. I only bring one for me and one for Bowie.
“If I get a role, will you put me on it?”
“No.” But he gives me the biggest, goofiest frown, and I accidentally crack a smile.
He laughs. “Just you wait. I’ll make that shmoodie list someday.”
And then he spins on his heel and walks next to me. His shoulder brushes against mine, and for a second I wonder if he’s doing it on purpose. As far as I know, Liam’s straight, and most straight guys would drop a no homo after brushing against another guy. Especially a gay one.
Then again, Liam’s never been homophobic, unless you count him being nice to me: Straight guys being nice to gay guys is kind of homophobic as is.
Still, he makes sure to give me some space. I’m just hoping imagining things.
He is really beautiful; the kind of beautiful that guys shouldn’t be allowed to be. The kind where I can’t always tell if I’m jealous or attracted to him or both. But I shake the thought off as I stop at the door to the pottery studio; Liam keeps on going for a few steps before turning back quizzically.
“This is me. See you.” I give him a wave before letting myself into the studio.
There’s a weird, wet earth smell to the pottery studio, like the way the ground smells after it rains.
“I’m all done,” I tell Jasmine, who’s hunched over one of the tall worktables, poking a little wooden stick into the corner of a tiny box. There’s a smear of brown clay on her cheek, and her hair is pulled back into a ponytail.
I don’t catch her answer, but she gets up, takes her tiny box to the closet thing that stores the pottery, then grabs her tools and takes them to the sink in the back.
I hop onto one of the high stools and pull my binder out to organize my notes from today, but I pause when I feel warmth on my back, like someone’s looming behind me. I jerk away.
Liam has followed me in.
“What?” I say. “Don’t loom over me like that.”
“Sorry.” He backs away. “I was just checking this out. I never took pottery. Or any art class, really.”
“Oh.” I can’t imagine that. I’ve been in one (or more) Theatre classes every year. “My sister does pottery.”
I nod toward the back just as Jasmine emerges, scrubbing at her cheek with a flimsy brown paper towel.
“Ready to go?” she asks, but then she notices Liam standing over me. Her lips quirk, and her cheeks flush, and she reaches for her hair to play with it before realizing it’s still in a ponytail.
Oh no. I’ve seen this process before.
“Hey.” Suddenly her stride has a lot more hip in it.
“Hey. Jasmine, right? We had APUSH last year.”
“Yeah.” Her eyes slide from Liam’s face to his swimmer’s shoulders to his arms and then back up.
“I was just trying to convince Jackson to put me on his shmoodie list.”
Jasmine laughs. “I’m his own sister and he won’t put me on it. He only makes them for Bowie.”
Jasmine hates shmoodies, for the same reason she hates soup: a firm conviction that food should be eaten and never drunk. But my chest tightens at her jab. Making me sound like a bad guy.
“Fine.” I huff and pull my backpack on. “If you get a part, I’ll add you to the list. Okay?”
Liam beams. “Really?”
I nod and move toward the door, but Jasmine doesn’t follow.
She’s studying Liam, bottom lip curled under the top one. “You need a ride? We’ve got room.”
Liam chuckles and rubs the back of his head, which makes his shirt ride up, showing off the bottom of his abs. Actual abs. I’ve seen them at swim meets before, but never up close.
Jasmine’s looking at me expectantly.
“Huh?”
“I said, let’s go.”
“Oh. Yeah. See you, Liam.”
I push my way out the door.