Dr. Lochley’s pretty strategic with cast lists. They always go up during seventh hour, while everyone (including her!) is in class. I don’t know how she does it: whether she enlists help from the front office; or gets Denise to come in and do it for her; or if she’s somehow harnessed the power to be in two places at once.
If it’s the last one, she’s not showing any obvious signs of having superpowers. She’s sitting at her desk in the Little Theatre, talking about Stanislavski and what she calls “the art of experiencing.”
“Most of you spent the week in auditions, where you tried your own hand at the art of experiencing. Anyone want to share what they felt?”
Mae raises her hand. “I felt like vomiting,” she says, which gets chuckles from everyone.
“Not unheard of,” Dr. L says. “But not exactly what I was looking for. Cameron?”
The worst part of being the TA for Theatre IV is that Cam’s in it—and Philip, his new boyfriend. Philip actually kind of looks like Cam—white, floppy brown hair, brown eyes—but he’s a bit shorter, and a bit less handsome.
Not that he’s not handsome: Philip’s good-looking, and I had a little crush on him, up until I got to know him.
TRAGICALLY BORN WITHOUT A PERSONALITY
TALENTLESS HACK
MEDIOCRE ACTING AT BEST
SELF-OBSESSED GYM GAY?
TERRIBLE HAIRCUT
MOUTH BREATHER!!
ALWAYS TOUCHING CAMERON
ALWAYS AGREEING WITH CAMERON
THINKS IN CRAYON
Honestly, I’m not sure why I even made a list for him; I’ve barely looked at it since I tucked it into my binder, and even then only to update it when he started dating Cam.
They’ve been sitting next to each other on the second row bench since the year started, though lately it’s devolved into Cam lying with his head on Philip’s lap, Philip playing with Cam’s soft hair while they listen to someone’s monologue or nod along to the lecture or watch a video on the TV Dr. Lochley wheels into the theatre sometimes.
They’re not sitting like that now, though: Cam is leaning in, fingers interlaced and elbows on his knees as he considers. But Philip’s hand still rests on the small of Cam’s back.
“When I was auditioning, it felt like pulling on a comfy sweater. It’s the kind of thing you only really get by doing the work. Trying and failing and learning and doing better over time. Paying your dues.”
I fight not to roll my eyes. Even when he’s answering questions in class, Cam acts like a spotlight’s on him.
But some of the others nod along. That’s a big thing with the seniors: paying your dues. Doing small roles and bit parts and being in the chorus as you build up to being a lead your senior year, like a role is something that’s owed to you. But somehow, paying your dues never seems to include focusing lights or painting sets or altering costumes.
Dr. Lochley taps her finger against her lips, says something to the class I can’t make out. I’m still trying to parse it when she turns to me. “Jackson, what do you think?”
“Huh?” I clear my throat. “Say again?”
“Do you think there’s such a thing as natural talent? A moment when lightning strikes?”
“Well.” I think about Liam. How he seemed to transform himself out of nowhere. “Acting is an art, and all art is unpredictable. Sometimes you spend years on something and it never works out; sometimes you’re in the right place at the right time and magic happens. I think that practice makes it easier to reach for that magic, but sometimes it’s just there. Right when you need it.”
“Well said. That’s the ephemeral thing about it. Acting!” Dr. L karate chops as she says it, then makes a show of checking her watch. “Oh. The bell’s about to ring.”
It’s a calculated thing; all the actors shift in their seats and stare at each other.
“Your assignment for the weekend: Find a clip of a performance you like, and be prepared to explain why you like it, and what kinds of experiences the actor might be using to inform the role. Try to—”
But I lose the rest of it as everyone starts shuffling and getting up. The bell must’ve rung out in the hall. The Little Theatre’s got its own PA that’s not connected to the bell system.
Dr. L starts stuffing her own books and binders into the giant black tote bag she carries everywhere. It’s got Act well your part in gold letters on one side, and the comedy and tragedy masks on the other. When she stands, everyone stops to look at her. “By the way, the cast list is up if you want to take a look.”
Everyone bolts from the room. Everyone except me. I take my time packing my stuff.
Dr. L taps my shoulder. “And so it begins.” She’s got a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “I liked your metaphor, about reaching for magic. I’m going to remember that one.”
I try not to smile too big.
“Have a good weekend, Jackson.”
“You too.”
With a few swift strides, she’s gone. Normally she hangs around after school for a little while, even on days where there’s no rehearsal, to answer questions, deal with emails, do all the weird things the district makes teachers do. But on cast list days, she heads straight for the parking lot; she’ll be off school property before the first buses even leave.
I’m anxious and I don’t even know why. It’s not like my name will be on the list.
I’m really hopeful for Liam, though. He was so good. Dr. L has to know he’s the best. But sometimes there’s Cam’s ego department politics other factors to consider.
The hallway is a crush of bodies and a jumble of crackling noise so overwhelming I turn my hearing aids off. Too much cross talk, too many shrieks of joy or cries of disappointment.
And holy shit, the cast list is huge. Not huge as in the number of people in the show, but huge as in Dr. Lochley must’ve used the plotter printer, because the cast list is like twelve feet wide and three feet high, draped across the Theatre Board and onto the brick wall beyond.
This is the most extra Dr. L’s ever gone for a cast list.
Tension ripples through the crowd as some people have their year made and others have their dreams crushed. Tori, a Black girl and one of the few senior actors who’s genuinely nice to me, raises her hands to the sky and cries out so loud I feel it in my chest.
I figured she was a shoo-in for Mary Magdalene.
A few feet away, Cameron stands rigid, staring at the list, Philip’s arm around his waist. Then he turns, and for a second his eyes meet mine, big and shiny like he wants to cry. His lip even quivers.
And for the briefest of moments, I remember what it was like when we were together, and he got into a nasty fight with his brother and cried on my shoulder. Or his mom threatened to ground him for getting a C on an Algebra II test.
But then his expression hardens. He keeps his eyes fixed on me while he whispers something that makes Philip chuckle. And then they both skulk off toward the stairs.
Whatever. I’m used to it. I ignore them and push my way toward the board.
Sure enough: Mary Magdalene–Tori Tanner.
And just above that: Judas Iscariot–Cameron Haller.
And at the very top: Jesus Christ–Liam Coquyt.
A shoulder brushes against mine. Liam. He’s looking pale, eyes wide with panic, mouth hanging open.
“Hey. The list is up,” I tell him, as if he wasn’t staring at it unblinking.
He nods, silently mouths Jesus Christ. Slowly the shock melts into a smile like the sunrise, and I find myself smiling in sympathy. He deserves this. As he turns to face me, smile even broader somehow, I laugh and say, “I guess I owe you some shmoodies.”