“Somethingsomething monologue and a soliloquy?” Liam asks. We’re in the Theatre Office, me working on my stage manager binder, him browsing Dr. Lochley’s shelves.
“You can do either.”
He shakes his head. “What’s the difference?” He signs it too.
“Oh. A monologue is delivered to another character. A soliloquy is delivered to the audience or yourself. Like an internal monologue. So in Hamlet, ‘To be or not to be,’ that’s a soliloquy, but in Julius Caesar the whole ‘Friends, Romans, countrymen’ thing is a monologue.”
“Huh,” Paige says from her spot on the floor. She’s helping me sort the inventories I made of our sets and props and costumes. With the budget so tight, we need to reuse or repurpose anything we can. “I never knew that.”
Liam nods and turns back to the shelves, pulls out a slim blue volume with Best Monologues for Boys, 2001–2010 on the spine. I can’t believe they gendered a monologue book.
Liam thumbs through it while Paige types away on her laptop, updating the scenery spreadsheet, and I mark up the script for Twelfth Night.
Dr. Lochley’s thinking about doing the show in the Little Theatre, either in the round or in a thrust configuration, where we block off the south side of the house and use it as a backdrop.
Liam flaps his hand to get my attention.
“Hm?”
“What about sonnets?”
“Well, they’re not really monologues or soliloquies, they’re more like poems. Like the one you did for JCS auditions.”
“You remember that?”
“Of course.” I remember everything about it. Well, I don’t remember the words, but I remember the way it felt like he was talking just to me. I remember the way my arms broke out into goose bumps.
Liam’s cheeks color as he pulls out a slim yellow volume of sonnets.
“Hey, didn’t this get damaged somethingsomething?” Paige points to one of the flats on our list: part of the garden of Gethsemane that got snagged on the dimmer rack because the actors carrying it were goofing off.
“Oh, good call.”
Paige is really sharp, with a great mind for details, which lets me focus on the big-picture stuff. We’re kind of a perfect partnership.
As we work, Dr. L rounds the corner, tote bag slung over her shoulder and Cam trailing in her wake, talking too low for me to make anything out.
But Cam’s mouth shuts once he sees we’re in the office.
“Sorry, we’re in your way,” Liam says, more to Dr. L I think, because Liam’s eyes narrow at Cam.
“No worries.” Dr. L drops her tote bag on her desk with a thud I can feel through the floor. “Looking at sonnets?”
Liam nods.
“Ambitious. What about you, Paige?”
“Somethingsomething monologues.”
I whip around to face her, my mouth hanging open. Did she say she was looking at monologues?
Is she auditioning?
I thought she was going to be my ASM. In fact, I was kind of counting on it.
“I’ve got somethingsomething, give me one second.” Dr. L sits, gestures to Cam to take the seat opposite her desk as a pile of scripts slides off her desk.
She sighs but ignores the mess. “Anyway, I know Tisch was your first choice, but—” I lose what she says as she ducks under her desk to find the book she needs.
Cam winces, and his shoulders hunch up.
Tisch . . . like NYU?
Did Cam not get in?
A really small, really mean part of me does a little dance, because for once Cameron didn’t get what he wanted. But the rest of me actually does feel kind of bad.
I know how I’d feel if my dream schools fell through.
“Right,” Cam finally says.
Dr. L emerges from below her desk, a bunch of books in her arms. “Well, I think it’s premature to panic, don’t you? Ah, here we are!” She extends two slim pink volumes toward Paige. “Take a look.”
“Thanks.” Paige stands to grab them.
I can’t believe she’s auditioning.
I can’t believe she didn’t tell me.
Dr. L turns back to Cam. “NYU is just one no. Let’s wait and see what the others say.”
My jaw drops. He really didn’t get in.
Dr. L sees me gawking. “Jackson, did you need something?”
I shake my head. “Just getting ready for auditions. We can go.”
I risk another glance at Cam, whose face has gone pale, like he’s got mime makeup on. He’s staring at the corner of Dr. L’s desk.
We scurry out into the hall. I pause in front of the Theatre Board. Sure enough, there’s Paige’s name, right below Madison’s.
“You’re auditioning, then?” I manage to ask her.
“Yeah.” She shrugs. “I figured it would be fun to try. I probably won’t make the cast, though.”
“That’s cool,” I say, proud of myself for sounding like I mean it.
Paige hoists her backpack. “I’ll send you the spreadsheet when I finish?”
“Great. Thanks.”
She heads off down the hall, and then it’s just Liam and me. He crosses his arms and leans against the Theatre Board. His biceps strain the fabric of his T-shirt. I trace the cords of his forearms with my eyes.
“Well, that was awkward,” Liam says, and I snap out of it.
I shake my head. “I’m not mad at her for auditioning.”
Just . . . sad.
“No, I meant with Cam back there.”
“Oh. Yeah. I feel kind of bad for him.”
“Why? He’s always awful to you.”
“I know, but if I didn’t get into NYU I’d be . . .”
Crushed. Heartbroken.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get in.” He gives me a wicked smile. “Maybe Cam didn’t pay his dues enough.”
I honk out a laugh, then cover my mouth, because I don’t want Dr. L to hear me.
Liam’s smile softens. He reaches behind me and tucks in my tag, fingers brushing the back of my neck. “These tags are out of control. If I get a role, you should let me cut them all off.”
“No way, then the little corners will itch.”
“Oh. Well, we can’t have that.” He bites his lip.
“Who says you get another reward for getting a role, anyway?”
His smile turns into a smirk. He’s still standing close to me, warming me with the body heat he always throws off like a furnace.
“You’re saying I don’t get one?”
Is he flirting with me?
He can’t be.
I’ve been down this road before. Thought he was flirting, thought there was something between us, only to find out I’d read him wrong. That day in the catwalk, when I felt something— and thought maybe he did too—he’d already agreed to go out with Jasmine.
I keep wishing for something that’s never going to happen. I must’ve smelled too many paint fumes in the scene shop while I was inventorying the flats. Or maybe the school has a carbon monoxide problem and I’m actually getting poisoned. The catwalk isn’t nearly as well ventilated as it should be.
“What am I going to do with you, Jacks?” he asks, shaking his head.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t know, but if you’re not careful I’ll start using some of Jasmine’s shmoodie recipes.”
He laughs, giving a theatrical little shudder. But then his smile fades.
I don’t know why I decided to bring up my sister. But the memory of her will always be hanging between us.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t—”
“It’s fine.” He waves me off, but his mouth has gone all tight. “It is what it is.”
Still, I want to crawl back into the little hidey-hole in the catwalk, cover myself in asbestos dust and disappear. Live my life as the Phantom of the Little Theatre. Pine after Liam from the shadows. Make friends with the mice.
Actually, maybe that last one is more Disney than Andrew Lloyd Weber. Though it turns out both Toxic Fandoms are equally litigious.
“Hey. You need a ride home?”
I shouldn’t.
“Sure.”
I can’t help myself.