“Don’t look,” whispers Nyla into my ear, “but there’s a new guy over there.”
It’s a Saturday morning, and we’re sitting in the house of the Bonneville High School auditorium, waiting to audition for Into the Woods, a musical that’s all the fairy tales put together. Ny and I both adore this show, and we’re desperate to be in it. I’m feeling sick to my stomach, which is business as usual. This is, like, the twentieth audition I’ve done, but I’m still a bundle of nerves.
I glance around, but I don’t spot anyone unfamiliar. “Guy?” I repeat. “What guy?”
“I said don’t look.” She tries to point with her head.
I follow the gesture, trying to look without looking like I’m looking, and sure enough, sitting in the second row with his green Converse sneakers propped up on the seat in front of him is a boy I’ve never seen before. I don’t know why I had to try to be subtle about it. Everybody in the theater is blatantly staring at him, gossip-whispering. The Bonneville High School theater scene is made up of a small, tight-knit group of the same students, performing play after play together, semester after semester, year after year, so anyone new among us is whisper-worthy. But this guy seems oblivious to the attention he’s getting. He’s focused on filling out the audition form, bent over his paper writing furiously like it’s an application to Juilliard.
“Hey, he may even be cute,” I observe, although from this angle it’s hard to be sure. I’m mostly seeing him from the back, but he has a nicely shaped head. Dark, careless hair. Skinny jeans. Good shoes.
“More importantly, he’s male,” Nyla says.
“Amen to that.” It’s a curse of high school theater that there are, like, three girls for every boy. Nyla and I have both done our share of playing male characters because there simply weren’t enough boys to fill the roles. Hopefully this new guy is more than cute. Hopefully he can act. And, for the purposes of this production, as it’s a Sondheim musical and the music is really freaking hard, hopefully he can also carry a tune.
The chatter in the house goes quiet as our drama teacher—Joanna Golden, but we call her Mama Jo—glides down the aisle and up onto the stage.
I blow out a shaky breath.
“Don’t be nervous,” Nyla commands me sternly in a whisper. “If you’re nervous, I’ll be nervous. And if I’m nervous, I won’t hit the high notes.”
“I’m not nervous,” I whisper back. “I’m completely relaxed. See?” I give her a terrified gritted-teeth type smile.
“Right. Well, don’t forget: I got you, babe,” she says.
“I got you.” This is part of our preperformance support ritual. We bump fists.
“Good morning,” Mama Jo says warmly. “I’m thrilled to see so many of you. This is a large-scale production and we’re going to need a big cast, so be patient; we’ve got a lot to get through today. Make sure Sarah the stage manager has your audition form—raise your hand, Sarah, everybody see Sarah?—and then sit tight and wait to be called up. First I want to hear the musical auditions you’ve prepared. Only one song per person, please. And after I’ve listened to everybody, we’ll break for lunch, and then come back and have you read for some of the roles. Sound good?”
There’s a weak chorus of yeses. Everyone, it seems, is equally nervous. I find this comforting. We’re all in the same queasy boat.
“Good,” says Mama Jo. “Let’s get started.” She jogs over to sit next to Sarah in the house, who hands her the first form on the pile, which of course belongs to:
“Nyla Henderson,” she calls out loudly.
I feel Nyla tense beside me. “You got this,” I say as she stands up and brushes past me.
“Hi, Nyla,” Mama Jo says when Nyla’s up at center stage. “It’s good to see you.”
Nyla smiles. “Hi. It’s good to be seen.” Nyla and I have performed, like, seven plays on this stage, all the way back to when we were freshmen. Mama Jo knows us both very well. Which takes some of the pressure off, I guess.
“What will you be singing for us today?” Mama Jo asks.
“‘Memory,’” Nyla answers. “From Cats.”
The music gets cued up, and Nyla begins to sing. At first her voice is soft—nervous, in spite of her swagger—but then her shoulders relax and she really starts to belt out the song, hitting every note solidly, the lows and the highs. And she doesn’t just sing. So many people, they get up there and they just sing, but Nyla becomes the character. She fills the lines with emotion. She believes it, and makes us believe it, too.
The song’s the perfect choice for this audition. I should know. I helped Nyla choose it, and we’ve been practicing for weeks. But even though I’ve heard her sing it, like, fifty times, I can’t help but hold my breath as she reaches the final note, a waver of tears in her voice. Then the music fades and everyone listening sits back, quietly stunned.
“Wow, thank you, Nyla,” says Mama Jo after a few seconds. There are sporadic claps and hoots, my own included. Nyla sashays back to her seat like her total awesomeness is no biggie.
“Show-off,” I fake grumble as she plops down beside me. Mama Jo calls up someone else, and I can breathe for a few seconds. “How am I supposed to follow that up?”
“Not my problem,” Nyla says, but then grins and puts her arm around me. “You’re going to slay it, too. You know you are.”
I wish I was as sure as she is about that, but whatever. Nyla’s amazing. If I’m being honest: she’s better than me. She always has been. I try not to feel competitive with her, but it happens. Sometimes she gets the part I want. Sometimes I get the part she wants. We’ve learned to navigate the envy, “the green monster” we call it, and simply try to be there for each other. Through thick and thin. Through everything.
We listen to, like, ten more songs from the other students—all good, no bombs. Everyone has apparently brought their A game. That’d be fantastic, if I weren’t competing with all of them for a part. Every time Mama Jo calls someone up who’s not me I tense up even more.
“Breathe,” Nyla whispers.
“I wish I’d gone first. How did you get so lucky? Who did you bribe?”
“Relax, Cass. You’re going to be fine.”
“You’re only saying that because you went first, and now you’re off the hook. You’re already fine. You’re—wait.”
Mama Jo has called out a name I don’t know.
It’s the new guy. He ambles up the stairs and onto the stage like he’s been here a million times. He tells Mama Jo he’s going to sing “Stars” from Les Misérables, a challenging song to say the least, but one of my all-time faves. He takes a minute to stretch—raises his arms above his head, drops them, rolls his head from side to side, shakes out his hands. And then the music begins.
“Whoa,” says Nyla after a minute. “New guy can sing.”
I stare at him. He’s not a big person—he’s maybe five nine, and slender—but he’s got this huge voice. He gets his notes to the back of the theater with ease. The song starts low, but his low notes don’t get lost the way they sometimes can. He practically purrs the song out, and he knows how to act, too. As we’re watching it’s like he stops being a high school–aged boy and becomes this bitter, weathered police inspector, determined to catch the runaway prisoner he’s been hunting for years. Then he shifts and sings in his upper register, this Adam Levine–like falsetto that makes goose bumps jump up along my arms. I’ve never had that happen before—goose bumps, without being cold. He’s that good.
“Holy crap,” breathes Nyla. “New guy can sing. What did she say his name was again?”
“Sebastian,” I answer. “Sebastian Banks.”
“This I swear by the stars!” sings Sebastian Banks, holding the last note long and steady and perfect. Then the high school–aged boy reappears, gives a little nod, and walks swiftly off the stage.
Nyla whistles. “Dang. Good thing he’s not auditioning for any of the female roles.”
I shake my head in wonder. “I’d hate to follow that up.”
“Cassandra McMurtrey?” Mama Jo calls.
I close my eyes. “Well, crap.” Another, better word bubbles up in my brain, but I always try not to swear in front of Nyla, who never swears if she can help it. My throat feels tight. This is bad. I don’t know how I’m going to get any notes out.
“Um, you got this?” Nyla offers.
“I got this,” I repeat, and then I take a deep breath and head up onto the stage.