Usually it’s the opposite scenario—a secret lover someone tries to pass off as their platonic acquaintance despite the damning circumstances, because people are shameless.
M.P.M.
Chapter 8
Arden snuck a glance at the nearest clusterof auditionees, who were loitering amid the faded grandeur of the Millville College theater lobby. Some were monologuing under their breath, while others stretched or stared at their phones.
“Do you think they think we’re in college?” she asked, barely moving her lips.
“Either that or a gang of jewel thieves.” Lydia smoothed the front of her navy tunic, which she had paired with leggings of the same shade. It had been Arden’s idea for everyone to wear dark colors, the better to blend in with all the thespians.
The doors of the auditorium swung open. A hush fell over the lobby as the twins emerged. Van’s expression was tense and slightly abstracted, as though she had the weight of the world on her shoulders. I put it at about 70 percent genuine, and the rest performative: the great director at work. Behind her, Addie wore a less showy air of preoccupation, which gave way to a smile when she spotted me.
“Mary.” Van waved a peremptory hand, despite the fact that I was already moving in their direction. “We need you.”
“You are such an insider, Lady Mary,” Arden breathed behind me.
“My friends are here with me,” I explained to the twins.
“How can we help?” Lydia’s brisk tone exuded competence.
Van regarded them with new interest. “We can use you at the first checkpoint. I’m not saying actors are like cattle, but they do respond to herding.”
Addie frowned, lips parting as if about to protest, but Van had already marched back into the auditorium, drawing the rest of us in her wake. The heavy doors closed with awhooshbehind us.
Van pointed to a long table leaning against the wall, legs folded. “Check-in is there.” She moved her arm to indicate a spot at the back of the theater, between the last row of seats and the main doors. “We need them to sign in and fill out a contact sheet, and then you can give them a packet with the scenes we’ll be reading from.” Bending, she lifted a box from the floor and passed it to Lydia. “Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” Lydia executed a sharp turn and headed for the table.
“Not you,” Van said, when I took a step in that direction. “Anton needs you backstage.”
“He’s the costume and makeup person,” I explained, in response to Arden’s look of interest.
Addie checked her watch. “You can open the doors in ten minutes,” she instructed my friends. “And thank you,” she added, smiling warmly.
I glanced worriedly over my shoulder as I trailed the twins down the center aisle, wondering if the other three regretted their impulsive decision to accompany me this afternoon. To my relief, they looked more excited than put-upon. Lydia even went so far as to flash me a thumbs-up.
On the other side of the curtain, the first person we encountered was Karen, Baardvaark’s stage manager. As usual, she wore a full headset, despite the fact that there was no one running lights or the sound board with whom she would need to communicate.
“That’s how she gets orders from her alien overlords,” Anton whispered in my ear.
I turned to hug him, the nubby wool of his cardigan a familiar prickle against my cheek. He was by far my favorite member of the company, with the obvious exception of my sisters.
“Be gentle. Uncle Anton is feeling fragile today.” He touched a hand to his temple, in case the sunglasses indoors weren’t enough of a clue.
“They need to see me first,” Karen boomed at us. Anton winced. “I’m taking Polaroids, because you know half of them won’t have headshots. I’ll send them to you after, if there’s time.”
“I live to serve,” Anton said with patently false humility. Turning to me, he raised his travel mug of coffee. “Let’s go to our corner.”
In the costume area, he collapsed into a tattered wingback chair that must have been the remnant of a non-Baardvaark production. Something depressing about family conflict in suburban America, at a guess. “You’re on point today, precious. I love your sisters, truly I do, but why they insist on starting so early is a mystery to me.”
“It’s almost two o’clock,” I pointed out, though I was accustomed to Anton’s nocturnal habits, which went hand in hand with his vampiric pallor.
“Easy for you to say, Baby Fresh Face.” He lowered his glasses, peering at me over the chunky plastic frames. “What is this look?”
I was wearing an old Baardvaark T-shirt (black, from a production ofTitus Andronicus) and my darkest jeans. “It’s Saturday, and I’m here to work.”
With a long-suffering harrumph, he heaved himself out of the chair and crossed to a rolling rack of clothing. “Here,” he said, whipping something black from a hanger and holding it out to me.
