I open the door to let him out, glance at my clipboard to see who’s next.
But how could I forget?
“Cameron,” I say, careful to keep my voice neutral. “You’re up.”
Cameron studies Liam as he brushes past, then turns to me. He’s got these deep brown puppy-dog eyes, the kind that make you want to automatically like someone, but I stare at my clipboard to avoid his gaze.
“Here.” He lays his form on my clipboard, and I open the stage door wider to let him in. As he brushes past, bumping my shoulder, I catch Liam watching me.
“Callback list goes up Wednesday morning,” I tell him.
“Got it.” He gives me a thumbs-up before I shut the door and follow Cam into the theatre.
I hand over his form and take my seat, pulling out my phoneagain to turn my hearing aids all the way down, because I do not need to hear Cameron sing. He’s got a beautiful voice, and he’s a phenomenal actor, but seeing him onstage isthe worstcomplicated.
Cameron and I used to date, back when I was a first year and he was a sophomore. He was my first boyfriend. My first kiss too. Until he got a part in the fall musical (a gender-agnostic production ofMy Fair Lady), and I didn’t. Suddenly he was too busy with the other actors and didn’t have time for a boyfriend who was just on stage crew.
When Cam dumped me, I was so hurt, and angry, I threw myself into the show. Making lists of props and scene changes and costume changes and everything I could, just to distract myself, but that paid off. The stage manager forMy Fair Ladywas a senior named Caprice; she noticed all my hard work, and Dr. Lochley did too. They made me assistant stage manager—a big job for a first year—and when Caprice decided to act in the spring play, rather than stage manage, I got to take over for her.
Of course, Cam got cast in that play too, and he was even more insufferable, treating me like I was some sort of servant: walking over the stage after I swept it, ignoring me when I tried to get him to be quiet during rehearsals, leaving his props everywhere for me to chase down between acts.
He’s been in every single show since, and he’s only gotten worse. The problem with Cameron is, he does this thing where he’ll look at you with his puppy-dog eyes and his button nose and floppy hair and you’ll just want to forgive him for being awful. His was the first list I made for myself, rather than Jasmine.I’ve updated it so often, the original paper’s not in my binder anymore: I had to copy it over. Twice.
CAMERON’S BREAKUP LIST (V.33):
ARROGANT JERK
TOTAL PRIMA DONNA
FUTURE PROBLEMATIC WHITE BOY
TREATS TECHIES BADLY
GLOWED UP EVEN MORE SINCE WE DATED
BASIC WHITE BOY LOOKS
ALLERGIC TO ONIONS
ALWAYS MAKES THE CAST
After Cameron’s monologue (Atticus Finch fromTo Kill a Mockingbird,which remains his favorite play despite all the racism and N-word and white savior-ism stuff), I show him out. His shoulders are tense. I don’t know why—I already know he’s going to get a part. He knows it too.
But as we reach the door, he looks back past me, toward the proscenium. He can’t see Dr. Lochley or Mr. Cartwright from the door, but he bites his lip before he catches me watching him. He rolls his eyes and pushes out into the hall.
I fix my face and call in the next audition.
***
Once we’re done, I help Dr. L close up the theatre. It’s nearly five o’clock, and my stomach is growling. If this were a rehearsal, I would’ve ducked out for an afternoon snack, but with auditions there’s no breaks. And food isn’t allowed in the theatre.
Not that anyone else seems to obey the rule. Not even Mr. Cartwright, who was munching on Mike & Ikes—he calls them “the original gay candy!”—the whole afternoon. But as stage manager, I’m supposed to set a good example.
“What would I do without you?” Dr. L muses as I sweep the stage using a wide dust mop withRHS THEATOR(no idea) stenciled on its head.
I shrug and try not to blush. Sometimes Dr. L acts like the whole department would come crumbling down without me, but she’s always careful not to say that with an actor around. Probably because she knows their ego would melt, like a halogen lamp with oily fingerprints on it, if she ever acknowledged that anyone else in the world might have talent. So she heaps praise on them and treats me like a ghost, haunting the theatre in my show blacks.
Actors get standing ovations. Techies get fiberglass splinters.
