Exit Stage Left Read online

  “The chorus is where actors go to die,” I say as I glance up front. Ms. Monroe has finally finished talking to Alexa (who put up one effing huge protest in defense of her Winnie-the-Pooh idea) and is now trying to pull everything together to actually start class. “No offense.”

  “I didn’t exactly die last year,” Amanda says.

  “I would have.”

  “You’d live through it. Not that it’s anything you even have to worry about.”

  Even as she says that, I feel hot and my clothes seem too tight and I just want to go outside and breathe. Nervousness, I guess. And that’s insane, because I know I’m meant to be an actor. Ever since I was cast as the apple in my kindergarten production of The Food Pyramid, I’ve known acting was my passion. My whole entire reason for living. Lead roles don’t just fall into my lap. I work hard for them, and they mean everything to me.

  “So, Case, what are you going to do when Trevor gets the male lead?” Kelly’s pretty good at asking the world’s most uncomfortable questions.

  “Thanks for assuming that the rest of us don’t stand a chance,” Harrison says.

  Kelly shrugs and sneaks him the fries back under his desk. Or fry, because there’s only one left. Harrison gives it a sad look before grumpily eating it.

  “You have a chance,” Amanda says in her best encouraging voice.

  “Yeah, I guess,” Kelly says. “You’re a better actor, at least.”

  Harrison looks at her, as if he’s trying to figure out whether she’s giving him a compliment or insulting his voice.

  The thing is that Trevor has a lot going for him that Harrison doesn’t. He’s a senior, he has the right look (which I am not thinking about, at all). He’s somewhere over six feet tall and creates this presence on the stage that you can’t look away from. And—most important—he has a to-die-for voice. To. Die. For. As in, he could sing “Jingle Bells” and it would sound ten times better than anyone else singing . . . well, anything.

  I silently congratulate myself on admitting all this without feeling one ounce of nostalgia for our relationship. Or relationship-like thing. Mostly. I’ll get through the show, starring opposite him, without falling for him again. I am a professional, after all.

  “Casey?”

  I snap my head up from my desk later the next morning. Ms. Thomasetti is standing right in front of me, a dry-erase marker in her hand. I blink.

  “Are you awake now?”

  “Um, yes. Sorry.” I can’t help it. Music theory is the most boring class ever. And I mean, ever. I love music. I just don’t like the theory of it so much.

  “Good,” Ms. Thomasetti says. “Then perhaps you can tell the class which chord we just heard.” She pauses. “Are you feeling well?”

  Thank you, Ms. Thomasetti.

  “No. I think I ate a bad veggie omelet for breakfast. My stomach hurts.” I clutch my hands to my abdomen and put on a pained—but not overdone—expression. I am way too sick to name any chords today.

  Across the room, Amanda starts to laugh but turns it into a cough.

  “I think you should go to the office and lie down.” Ms. Thomasetti scribbles a note and hands it to me.

  “All right,” I say weakly. I head toward the door with my books and the note, and carefully let my hair fall into my face. I don’t push it away because—obviously—I’m too weak to do anything but trudge out of the room and down the hallway.

  Once out the door, I mentally celebrate my success. I can even sneak a quick nap before Pre-calc. I turn the corner and collide with someone tall and male.

  “I’m sorry! I didn’t see you,” I say to the Foo Fighters T-shirt I’m practically breathing on. I back up. The shirt belongs to a guy with a nice face and dark hair that sort of sticks up on purpose. I don’t recognize him at all. His books are all over the floor, and he kneels and begins to put them into his backpack.

  “Sorry,” I say again. I pick up a script that looks like it came from the library. The Sound of Music. “Hey, are you trying out for the show?”

  He nods.

  “I am too! It’s one of my favorites. I’m auditioning for Maria, of course. I’m Casey, by the way. Are you new here?”

  The guy nods again. He doesn’t say anything. He just tugs on his shirt and looks at me.

  “Um, well, okay. I guess I’ll see you at the auditions tomorrow.”

  He takes his script and lopes down the hallway.

  How weird was that? I’ve never met an actor who didn’t talk.

  Chapter Three

  After I convince the school nurse I’m cured, I sit at my desk in Pre-calc. Right next to Amanda.

  “Feeling better?” she asks with a grin.

  “Like a million bucks.”

  “Nice performance, although a little overdramatic. Practicing for tomorrow?”

  “Of course. And don’t think I didn’t see your Oh, I’m so faint I think I might pass out thing last week. The hand to the forehead was a little too much,” I joke back.

  You see, there’s a fine line between playing sick well enough to get out of class, and playing sick to the point that you get sent home. Amanda and I perfected the just-sick-enough routine in ninth grade, when we were subjected to a PE class that involved a lot of ball sports. Volleyball. Basketball. Softball. Whateverball. God-get-me-the-hell-outta-here-ball. By the end of the year, I’m pretty sure the school nurse wanted to send us both for CT scans because of our constant “migraines” and “cramps.”

  “I needed time to study for that physics quiz. At least I didn’t clutch my stomach like my intestines were going to fall out,” Amanda replies.

  When Mr. Williams starts calling roll, my phone buzzes in my pocket.

  I pull it out and put it in my lap to read Amanda’s text. Technically we can have phones in class—we just can’t use them. Technically.

  Except the text isn’t from Amanda. It’s Trevor. Gonna hit up El Burrito aft school. U in?

  He knows exactly what he’s doing. El Burrito is our place. It’s where we had our first date—or date-type thing—and (so very romantically) had our first kiss in the parking lot.

  Is it T? Amanda. Tell him to go take a long walk off a short catwalk.

  I smile. It’s not like I have any trouble telling him to get lost when I call things off, but now? Staying apart from him is really hard work. But then again, so is being with him.

  “Casey Fitzgerald,” Mr. Williams says.

  “Here,” I say automatically.

  Get yr ass to El B & put T outta his misery. I’ll even buy u the damn burrito. And that would be Steve-o Grimaldi texting on Trevor’s phone. That seals it. Not like I was going anyway, but I’m definitely not going if the Grimaldi twins—Trevor’s BFFs for reasons unknown—are going.

  Sry, busy. Practicing aud song with A & H, I write back to Trevor/Steve-o. Total lie, but worth it.

  If anyone asks, we’re practicing aud songs aft school 2day, I type out to Amanda.

  Got it, comes the answer.

  Will regale u with my fab rendition of “The Impossible Dream.”

  “Amanda Reynolds.”

  “Here.” Amanda peers at her phone. And laughs out loud.

  Mr. Williams looks up from his roll sheet, frowns, and asks us all to remain quiet while he finishes. When he picks up where he left off, my entire body melts with relief. A confiscated phone is not in my plans today.

  What is in my plans today: reciting a few more tricky lines, running my song again, and getting through yet another awkward call with my dad.

  Focus. I’m all focus.

  My pre-calc homework lies abandoned on the coffee table while I recite lines from The Sound of Music out loud to my brother. I have him reading Liesl, the oldest daughter. Which I find kind of hilarious. Eric is a senior, all of fifteen months older than me, and he plays that big-brother card just a little too often. So of course I have to bring him down a peg or two on occasion.

  “Jesus, Casey, I’m not saying this line out loud.”<
br />
  “Eric! You interrupted the flow of the scene again. Now we have to start from the beginning.”

  He tosses the script on top of my homework. “Hell, no. I’m done. Get Mom to run lines with you.” Before I know it, all I see of him is the back of his black bomber jacket as he stomps off toward the basement and his guitar, leaving me alone. Brothers are more trouble than they’re worth.

  I grab the script and read one line over and over, putting the emphasis on different words to see which works best.

  “Sounds good.” Mom stands in the doorway to the kitchen. “Are you ready?”

  “Definitely.” I think.

  “That’s what I like to hear.” Mom grins. “Now maybe you should focus on that.” She nods toward the textbook on the table.

  “I’m too nervous about auditions. I’ll do it in the morning.”

  Mom raises her eyebrows. She’s not so much a fan of my theater-first, school-second priorities. “I expect to see nothing lower than a C at the end of this semester.”

  Some parents let their sixteen-year-old daughters organize their own lives. Those parents would not be my mother. Unfortunately.

  “You need to call your dad tonight, too.” She glances at the clock on the wall. “You should be able to catch him in about twenty minutes.” Mom disappears back into the kitchen.

  I briefly consider hiding out in my room but decide I’m too lazy to make it up the stairs. Phone calls with the father who chose to take a job far, far away from his family—and then won’t even write a college recommendation for his daughter despite the fact that he’s a Big Deal lighting designer—aren’t exactly high on my priority list. So I pick up the pre-calc book and stare at a problem. The numbers swim in front of my eyes. I fill in all the o’s and d’s and b’s on the page of my textbook instead. I’m in the middle of sketching a series of hearts in the margin when my phone rings. I leap off the couch and snatch it from the end table.

  “Casey, hey.” It’s Amanda. “I’m bored.” She has to be if she’s calling instead of texting. That’s a whole new level of bored for Amanda.

  “Me too,” I say. “You’ve saved me from pre-calc misery.”

  “I finished that,” Amanda says. “It isn’t too hard.”

  “Some of us aren’t mathematical geniuses, you know.”

  “Please. It’s only because I paid attention in class instead of reciting lines in my head,” she teases. “I’ll go over the problems with you in the morning if you want.”

  “Thanks. I’ll bring you a muffin.” Amanda’s been helping me with homework since fifth grade. And I’ve been paying her in my mom’s chocolate chip muffins ever since. The fact that I actually passed geometry freshman year? All thanks to Amanda. The least I can do is give her amazing muffins in return.

  Amanda’s quiet for a second. “So, did you hear Gabby’s definitely trying out for the play now? The car lot moved their filming back.”

  “No,” I say with a groan. Gabby is real competition.

  “I thought you should know, but Case? Don’t stress about it.” Amanda pauses. “It’s almost eight. I gotta go.”

  “Right. What are you working on?” I ask. Amanda religiously practices piano for an hour each night, and for two on the weekends. She’s as obsessive about her piano as I am about theater. Sometimes she props the phone beside her on the bench, and I listen as she plays. It always sounds perfect to me, but she usually has a long list of mistakes to break down afterward.

  “This great new Chopin piece.” Amanda goes on and on about it, diverging into Serious Piano Talk. I pay attention, but I can pick up only about half of it. “And here comes my alarm clock. . . .”

  Mrs. Reynolds’s voice echoes through the phone. “A-man-da! Are you going to practice?”

  “See you tomorrow,” I say.

  Gabby. I can’t believe it. Why does the local Commercial Queen have to show up and ruin everything?

  Maybe she’ll have a cold and will sniffle her way through the audition. I hope.

  Chapter Four

  Gabby doesn’t have a cold. Instead, she has gorgeous highlighted hair, big blue eyes, and a voice to rival Kristin Chenoweth’s. I sink into my plush red theater seat.

  “Look,” Amanda says. “Gabby’s good. But who cares? You’re the one who scored the lead last year.”

  “Until I got mono and had to quit.”

  “Well, you shouldn’t have been all over Jackson Neal,” she says with a smirk.

  “I wasn’t!” Okay, maybe I was. Once. Or twice. I liked the way he moved the set pieces around onstage. Trevor and I were in one of our Between phases then. But anyway, that’s not how I ended up with mono. And I know Amanda’s just trying to distract me from freaking out about the auditions.

  Amanda turns in her seat and pulls a leg up under her. “Look, you know you can go up there and sing even better than that. So, forget about Gabby. Just get on that stage and kick ass like you were meant to.”

  I laugh. Amanda would make a great football coach, if we weren’t so afraid of sports that involve balls. Ms. Sharp twists around in her front-row seat next to Hannah Goldman—who has the unfortunate role of student director—and glares at us before calling Amanda to the stage.

  Amanda stands up, sheet music for “Think of Me” from The Phantom of the Opera rustling in her just-slightly-shaking hand.

  “Break a leg.” I draw an X over my heart and do jazz hands. It’s super corny, but we’ve been doing it since our first audition in middle school. And if something works, why change it? Even if you are juniors and shouldn’t really need ultimate-best-friend hand signals anymore.

  Amanda gives me a stronger smile and then moves toward the stage.

  I lean forward in my seat to watch her. She takes her place at center stage behind the microphone, clasps her hands in front of her, and waits for the piano. Amanda’s voice is high and clear, and she hits every note perfectly. As she moves through the song, she loosens up. And when she ends, she looks as if she were born on the stage.

  Hannah hands Amanda a script, and Ms. Sharp has her read for four different parts. I try to be fair, which is hard since I’m obviously biased toward my best friend. But playing If I Were the Director is one of my favorite audition games. So, if I were the director, I’d cast Amanda as Liesl or the Baroness. I’m sure she’ll get a part. At least, she’d better get one. I can’t imagine being in the play without her. The cast becomes its own little community during a show, and not having Amanda there would be . . . awful.

  “I was so nervous I nearly threw up onstage,” she says as she slips back into her seat. “How’d I do?”

  “Perfect.” I squeeze her hand. “You’re getting a real role this year, or I’m going to have words with Ms. Sharp.”

  Together, we watch as Kelly sings “Send in the Clowns,” her curls swaying as she moves her head back and forth looking all sad and nostalgic.

  “Casey Fitzgerald!” Ms. Sharp’s voice booms through the theater.

  I wipe my sweaty hands on the Maria-like gray wool skirt Amanda lent me as Kelly squishes past us to get back to her seat. At the front of the house, I hand my music to the pianist. Somehow, I walk up the wooden steps to the stage without tripping over my feet. For someone who’s clearly meant for the stage, I get embarrassingly nervous for auditions. I read a technique book once that said nerves keep the actor humble. I’ll go with that, I suppose.

  When I reach the microphone, I focus on the fire exit sign, way over everyone’s heads, but not before catching Amanda’s reassuring nod from the audience, Harrison’s thumbs-up, and Trevor’s smirk—whatever that means. I take a deep breath and inhale the dusty wood and fabric scent of the stage. It smells like home, years spent in theaters all over the place with my dad before he left. And like my future.

  I can do this. I want to do this. I want—no, need—to be Maria. I am Maria. The piano starts. I take another deep breath.

  “The hills are alive . . .” I sing. I picked this song from The Sound
of Music on purpose. I ran it all summer in my voice lessons. I can do this piece in my sleep. My voice comes out strong and confident as I serenade the fire exit sign.

  “To laugh like a brook when it trips and falls . . .” I move around the stage with grace and poise. This is going even better than I thought it would. Amanda was right. I shouldn’t have doubted myself.

  I’m almost finished with the song. A few more lines and I’m home free. That part is so mine I can almost taste it. “My heart will be bless—” CRACK.

  I cough. Oh my God. That did not just happen.

  “. . . With the sound of music . . .” I force myself to finish the song. Then I smile. What problem? There’s no problem at all. My voice didn’t crack in the middle of the most important part of the whole freaking song. I silently dare Ms. Sharp to say something. She doesn’t. Instead, she hands me a copy of the script before Hannah even has a chance to get up, and asks me to turn to page forty-seven.

  I force the song disaster out of my head. Time to concentrate on reading. I don’t even have to look at the script as I rattle off lines for three different parts.

  “Thank you, Casey.” Ms. Sharp smiles at me.

  I numbly pass the script back to her and climb down from the stage. Gabby didn’t get “thank you” after she read. Gabby got “excellent,” and Amanda got “great work.”

  It takes all my willpower not to go flying out the door and running all the way home in the September heat, wool skirt or not. Instead, I plunk down in a seat next to my friends.

  “You read great,” Kelly says.

  I can’t even look at her. She’s just being nice.

  “Case, it wasn’t that bad,” Amanda says. “The song sounded perfect up until your voice cracked. I’m sure Ms. Sharp knows that was a one-time thing. I’ve never heard you do that before. Plus, Kelly’s right. You read really well. Much better than Gabby.”

  “Are you serious? It was awful!” I bite my lip to keep from crying. No way am I crying here. Not when Trevor’s sitting just two rows ahead with Gabby. And—ugh—why do I even care what he thinks?