"You were yelling for
me
?"
“You
are
Stephanie, right?”
I nodded. “Close enough.”
“Good,” she said, standing straight. “Well,
you can sit with me.” She linked our arms together and pulled me
into the cafeteria. “So?”
“So?” I asked, hoping she’d elaborate.
“Where are you from?”
“Oh,” I said, hoping I’d only have to give
her the short version. “We—”
“Out of state?” she asked. “What about
siblings? Are you an only child? Ooo,” she said, suddenly
distracted by the short lunch line. Pulling me along, we stood
behind a group of jocks as she continued her line of questioning.
“What are your parents like? Mean, laid back, somewhere in between?
Mine are pretty strict, but it’s totally cool. I know they mean
well.” Her eyes widened further and she grabbed my arm. “Oh my God,
I have to ask! What did you think of Mr. Rivera?
Isn't he
hot
?”
“I guess, yeah—”
“Oh!” She slapped herself on the head. “Silly
me. You probably want to get your food before we start swapping
stories.”
We kept weaving through the line. Bridget
settled for nothing more than an apple and a bottle of water. I
followed suit, not in much of a mood to eat. I know I should’ve
mastered it by that point, but first days always made me
nervous.
“We sit over here,” Bridget said, directing
me to a large table in the far corner of the cafeteria. We sat
across from one another and she leaned forward. “Well?”
“Huh?”
“Where did you come from?”
“Kentucky—”
“Kentucky!”
And before she had time to fire off another
question, Nate slid in next to her.
“Ladies,” he said, nodding. He then took no
time at all to devour the steaming pile of spaghetti on his
tray.
I looked between Bridget and Nate, fully
expecting to see another spat. But Bridget rolled her eyes and took
a chunk out of the apple.
“Don forgesh yous gotta audition for the
playsh this evening,” she said to Nate.
“I'm not doing that—”
“
You most certainly are
,” she said,
swallowing the mouthful of fruit.
“Forget it, Bridge—”
“Nathaniel Bryan,” she said sternly, now
pointing a finger in his face. “You lost, you pay.”
“Lost what?” I asked, fully aware that I was
sticking my nose where it didn’t belong.
“The bet,” Nate mumbled.
“The bet?” I asked, looking at a smug
Bridget.
“He bet me that Mr. Rivera would be engaged
to Miss Holt by the beginning of the year. He was
so
sure.
But he was wrong, so I got to choose the terms of his loss—”
“Big mistake,” he added.
“Who’s Miss Holt?” I asked, remembering that
I’d seen her name on my schedule, but obviously hadn’t had her
class yet.
“Math teacher,” Nate said, rolling his eyes.
“And I was positive she’d have a ring on her finger—”
“But she doesn’t,” Bridget continued. “Nate
lost the bet—”
“So he's auditioning for...?”
“
Romeo and Juliet
.”
“You know, just because you're into all that
drama crap doesn't mean
I'm
gonna like it—”
“For one,
Nathaniel
, it's not crap.
And two, I don't care if you like it. I need a Romeo. You bet. You
lost. I won. Deal with it.”
“You're Juliet?” I asked, somehow not
surprised. Bridget seemed like the theatrical type.
“Not yet,” Nate said. “But she's practically
a shoo-in. There's nobody better for the part.” Bridget smiled and
flipped her hair behind her shoulder. “No one except for Rach—”
“Don't say it,” Bridget warned him.
“Rachel Canter.”
“Who's Rachel?”
“
I'm
Rachel,” a voice behind me said.
I turned to see the perky blonde from Mr. Rivera's class—the one
who’d waved her fingers at me like she was a candidate for Miss
America. She was just as beautiful as I’d remembered her from hours
before. Her pin-straight hair graced her shoulders as she dropped
her head to the side and looked down at our group. I noticed a tiny
beauty mark above her lip, one that would make her easily
identifiable in a line-up. She stood at the side of the table,
looking at me with vague interest. “And you're Steph?
Abcdef
Ghijk
. Am I saying that right?”
“How do you—”
“I make it my business to know everything
about my peers,” she said slyly as she stood a little taller.
“Welcome to Webster Grove.”
She was gone as quickly as she'd appeared.
Bridget and Nate turned to me with their mouths ajar.
“Abcdef Ghijk,” he said, completely
butchering the pronunciation. “What language was that?”
“Forget it,” I said, waving it off. “What's
her deal?”
“Inflated ego,” Bridget said. “Just sizing up
the competition.”
“Competition?”
“She’s a homecoming queen candidate,” Bridget
explained. “And the Student Body President…and most likely the
Valedictorian. God,” she said, puffing her cheeks. “I can’t believe
she’s going out for the show; as if she doesn’t already have
everything
.”
I nodded. I knew the type. I'd met more than
a handful of the Rachel-Canter-types over the past few years.
“Try not to sweat it,” I said, giving her an
encouraging nod. “I'm sure you'll get the role.” I took a drink of
my water and secured the lid back on the bottle. “Let me know how
it goes, okay?”
“You're not coming?”
“Huh?”
“To the auditions!
You're not
coming
?”
“I'm sure she's coming,” Nate said, rubbing
her back. He looked at me with wide eyes. “You
are
coming,
Steph?”
“Yeah, sure,” I said, determined not to let
her down. It hadn’t taken long to make friends; I didn’t want to
lose them just as fast. “I'll come… to watch, right?”
“Oh, thank God!” she said, clapping. “You're
an angel!
I love you. I love, love, love you
!”
“You're not gonna make
her
audition?”
Nate asked, seemingly disgusted that he was the only one getting
the raw end of the deal.
“Of course not!” she said. “Steph has
stage fright
written all over her. She's more of a backstage
kinda gal, right?”
“Well, no,” I said, shaking my head a little
too hard. “I'm just going for moral support. I don't want to be on
either side of the stage—”
“Oh, you
have
to sign up,” she begged.
“It's the best way to get to know new people. I'm sure you could
assist the stage manager or something. Or, if you don’t wanna do
that, there's a set to build, props to gather, make-up,
costumes—”
“Costumes?” I asked, suddenly eager to put my
creativity to work.
“Yup,” she said. “So, whaddaya say?”
“I guess that doesn’t sound so bad—”
“Great!” she said, clapping again. “Meet us
outside the school at five. Oh, and dress nice. I know you’re only
going out for crew, but rumor has it Mr. Rivera’s directing and…
well, you’ll wanna look your best. God knows
he’ll
be
dressed to impress.”
Bridget and I shared a childlike giggle and
Nate rolled his eyes.
“You girls,” he said, shaking his head.
“What’s the big deal with that guy, anyway?”
Monday, September 05
“Nervous?” I asked as we walked into the
auditorium at five o'clock.
“Of course not—”
“Speak for yourself,” Nate interrupted
Bridget. “I think I'm gonna barf.”
The theatre was large; there were aisles
among aisles of red, plush folding seats already filling with
hopeful cast and crew members. The students faced a stage that
expanded from one wall to the next; some were excitedly socializing
while others remained silent, seemingly on the verge of throwing up
at any given moment.
“This is quite a turn out,” I said.
“The love of the art is growing!” Bridget
bounced on her heels.
“Gag me,” Nate snapped, walking away and
taking a seat alone in the back.
Once out of earshot, I leaned over and nudged
Bridget.
“So, you and Nate...?”
“What?”
“Are you—?”
“We've been best friends since preschool,”
she said. “It's a love-hate thing.”
I nodded. But something in her eyes told me
there might be more to her ‘friendship’ with Nate than she was
letting on.
Mr. Rivera climbed to the stage; the room
immediately fell silent.
“The man commands a room, huh?” Bridget
whispered.
“I'd say.”
“Good evening ladies and gentlemen,” he said,
cupping his hands together. “Thank you all for joining us here.
Unfortunately, and as most of you already know, Mrs. Basting was
injured in a roofing accident last week. She is on bed rest for the
next few months, unable to direct the fall production of
Romeo
and Juliet
.” Some students grumbled; others rolled their eyes.
Some, like Nate, didn’t seem to care one way or the other. “For
those of you who are used to the stunning Basting productions, I
regret to inform you that I’m stepping up to take the reins.”
Most of the girls in the audience whistled
and giggled. Bridget, as I should’ve guessed, was among that
group.
As I watched our teacher in front of the
crowd, I couldn’t help but notice the way he commanded the room,
the way every eye watched him with admiration. And then one thing
about Webster Grove High School suddenly became clear.
Everyone—male and female— loved and respected Mr. Rivera.
A group of boys clapped and cheered as Miss
Holt joined her co-worker center stage. My little experience in
Miss Holt's class earlier today told me everything I needed to know
about her; she was an adult replica of Rachel Canter. Her blonde
hair fell straight down her back, complimenting her bright green
eyes. And just like Rachel, she walked around a room like the whole
world owed her a favor.
“Shh,” Miss Holt said, lifting a finger to
her pink painted lips. “Quiet down.” When the cheers and whistles
finally subsided, she continued. “We’re starting with brief
interviews and sign-ups for crew positions in the back.” She
motioned toward a desk set up along the back of the auditorium. “It
should only take about fifteen minutes, so actors should start
preparing monologues. Also,” she said, looking past the front rows.
“You are only allowed to stay for the auditions if you intend to
act in the show. We want this process to go as smoothly as
possible, so no stragglers.”
Bridget rolled her eyes.
“Sorry,” I whispered.
“I have two requests,” Mr. Rivera spoke
again. “First, please be patient with us. We're clearly not as
skilled and professional as Mrs. Basting, but we will most
certainly try as hard as we can to produce the best show possible.
And second, we know how much some of you look forward to being in
the show.” His gaze fell on Bridget. “But there are more students
than there are roles, so some of you may have to settle for less
than what you want. Unfortunately, that’s the life of an actor. All
I ask is that you please use this process as a learning experience.
Don’t let the outcome make or break you. Now, with that behind us,
I wish you all the best of luck.”
“Okay,” Miss Holt spoke up again. “Anyone
interested in signing up to work backstage should go ahead and line
up.”
The two teachers moved off the stage and
toward the desk. Together they sat side-by-side and began talking
to a group of students who were already waiting.
I turned to Bridget. “Should I…?”
“Go, go,” she said, pushing me along. “You
have a résumé right?”
“Uh, not exactly—”
“
Steph
!”
“I've never done anything like this,” I said,
lifting a drawing collection out of my shoulder bag. “But I brought
a portfolio. Will this work?”
She took the binder and flipped it open.
“
You drew these
?”
“Yes—”
“Honey,” she said, pushing the collection
back in my hands. “
Go
!”
“Okay,” I said, smiling sheepishly.
“Um...good luck—”
“
Break a leg
,” she corrected me
melodramatically.
With a helpful shove from Bridget, I moved
toward the sign-up line. I clutched the portfolio to my chest and
waited patiently as the group slowly progressed forward.
“Miss Ghijk,” Mr. Rivera said when I finally
reached the table. “It's good to see you getting involved on your
first day.”
“
Bridget
—”
“I figured,” he said, grinning as I signed my
name under the costume crew. He eyed the paper in front of him and
looked back to me. “Do you have any experience in costuming?”
“No, but I brought—”
“You were instructed to bring a résumé,” Miss
Holt interrupted.
“I've never done this before,” I said,
ignoring her sneer. Keeping my gaze fixed firmly on Mr. Rivera’s
dark eyes, I continued, “I’m sorry I don’t have any experience in
the theatre, but I’ve been designing and constructing clothing for
about nine years.” He didn’t break eye contact as he extended his
hand to take my designs.
He opened the portfolio and immediately drew
in his bottom lip. He flipped through a few more pages without a
word, but his eyes wandered wildly across each design.
“Well,” I said after a few long seconds.
“What do you think?”
“Miss Ghijk, this is incredible,” he said,
looking back to me. “You’d be a valuable asset to our team—”
Miss Holt’s scoff interrupted him. “I thought
you were going to ask your grandmother to help design the
costumes,” she said to her co-director as if I couldn't hear the
objection in her voice.
“Gran has bigger and better things to do than
bother herself with this production,” he said, trying to keep his
voice low. “Besides, there's no point in asking for outside help
when we have a qualified student candidate right in front of us.”
He sifted through the designs again. A minute later, he closed the
portfolio and offered it to Miss Holt, who declined looking at it.
He ignored her blunt rudeness and passed the collection back to me.
“Thank you for coming out and sharing this, Steph. You can look for
the crew list first thing tomorrow morning.”