“All right. I still think it’s somethingsomething.”
“Say again?”
“It’s a shame you’re not auditioning. You’ve got the perfect look.”
I’m not sure if she’s saying that because I’m short, and wouldmake the leads look tallercreate interesting mise en scène; or because I’m half Iranian, which isthe wrong brownvaguely the right part of the world. But still: There’s no way. Some people aren’t meant for the stage, and I’m one of them.
“Who would stage manage, then?”
Dr. L chuckles. “Fair enough. Here, I’ll write you a pass.”
“Thanks.”
2
I open the stage right door and poke my head out. A row of folding chairs lines the hallway, right in front of a glass case full of charcoalsketches of buttsstill lifes of peaches from one of the art classes, Jasmine’s among them. Hers is clearly the best: Iranians know their fruits.
I glance around. “Liam?”
His head snaps up.
“You’re next.”
He gets off his chair and gives me a grin, but there’s a tiny wobble in it, like he might actually be nervous, and worse, him being nervous makes me so nervous my heart does a little flutter. Which is weird, because he’s basically guaranteed a role in the chorus. Everyone gets a part in the musical.
Well, almost everyone.
Still, it would be hilarious if he got a big role. The senior actors would bepissedsurprised.
He pauses right in front of me, so close I can smell his citrusy deodorant. “Wish me luck?”
Some of the other auditioners glare at his back, and basedon facial expressions I’m pretty sure one of the sophomores just hissed like a cat.
“Never say that!”
“What?”
“You never wish someone luck in a theatre. Or even near one. That’s actually super bad luck.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, that’s why we say ‘break a leg.’ ”
“How am I supposed to act with a broken leg?”
I roll my eyes. I don’t have time to get into the contradictory origins of the phrase.
But Liam’s face lights up. “Oh. So I’ll be in the cast?”
“Come on.” I tug him into the theatre, my thumb sliding along the cord in his forearm, and I let go as the door swings shut behind us. He takes his mark, raising a hand to his brow to look out into the audience before dropping it back to his side.
I take Liam’s audition form out to the front-of-house table where Dr. Lochley and Mr. Cartwright, the choir director, are stationed.
Liam introduces himself. He runs a hand through his dark hair as Mr. Cartwright asks, “What are you singing for us?”
Liam clears his throat. “ ‘Gethsemane.’ ”
I take my seat at the end of the row in front of the table as our accompanist, Miss Dawson, starts playing.
