Cut the Lights (4 page)

A main-floor drama room at Whitlock. Two days later, after school. Black wooden boxes arranged strategically on the raised staging area. The curtains pulled back. Dim lights where the audience will sit.

“This is our stage for Fringe Festival.” I step into a cascade of stage lighting and smile down at Sonata, Mica, Clayton and George, who'd promised to attend after I yelled at him in English class. “We won't always be able to rehearse in here, but I managed to book it for our first rehearsal.”

Sonata eyes my set structure critically, while Mica gazes at her and Clayton picks at his nails. George has the prompt book open on his lap. I think he may be doodling in the script, which I try to ignore.

“Here”—I point stage left to a large box with four smaller ones around it—“is where we'll place the kitchen table and chairs. And here”—I motion stage right to an even row of waist-high boxes— “will be the counter and sink. The window will be above the sink, and our Star can enter stage right.” I walk downstage toward them. “I hope to dig up a fifties-style table and chairs from the props room and maybe even some sort of sink and window. But this gives you a rough idea of the set structure.”

I step off the low stage, hoping to hear how brilliant my plan is.

“Why not aim the window toward the audience so they can see me when I stare out at the stars?” Sonata stands, towering over me. A crease forms between her delicate eyebrows.

Mica nods. “They'll want to see Sonata's face. It's so expressive.”

George continues drawing in the prompt book.

I frown. Sonata may be right, but I can't let her boss me around. “No. The set will block the action.” I ponder arranging the counter and sink at an angle to the audience.

The crease in Sonata's forehead deepens. “I accepted a role in this play because I thought you'd listen to feedback.”

What the hell? I square my shoulders. “All I want is for you to play your part, Sonata, so that I can direct.”

“Briar, you have to understand that I have a lot at stake right now.” Her voice starts to waver, and I wonder if she's acting. “I need this performance to go well.”

“We all do.” I set my jaw. “It will be fine.” Obviously, she wants a spot in the exclusive acting workshop. Or maybe it's because she's graduating this year. Ratna says she's applying to all the top acting schools.

“Fine isn't good enough.” Sonata sniffs. “It has to be perfect.”

“It'll be better than perfect.” Are the tears in her eyes real or forced?

“Hey, Briar,” Clayton says. “While we're talking, I've got to tell you that the glitter is no good. In fact, I think this part may not be right for me—”

“Don't interrupt, Clayton.” Mica elbows him. “Sonata's talking to Briar.”

“I'll interrupt anyone I want to.” Clayton narrows his eyes at Mica, who backs down, even though he's four inches taller and twice as wide.

My stomach flutters. I need to take control. “Let's just warm up with an improv game,” I say.

“You're a fabulous actor.” Mica leans closer to Sonata, who looks at him, startled. “I feel like I have a lot to learn from you.”

“Mica!” I yell. “We're trying to rehearse!”

George glances up from the prompt book. Mica's jaw drops. Sonata raises a hand to her mouth. Clayton smirks.

I sit on the edge of the stage and put my head in my hands. I blew it. No matter what happens, a director should stay calm. I'm acting like an amateur.

I take a deep breath. “Look, we all want to create the greatest possible experience for the audience. Right?”

Sonata and Mica nod.

George returns to the prompt book.

Clayton looks skeptical.

“We can do that best by working together.” I rise to my feet, ready to take charge no matter who does what. “George, please write up a rehearsal schedule and email it to everyone. The rest of you, let's do some improv. Who knows Hot Seat? You know—when we take turns asking one actor questions to answer in character?”

“Everyone knows Hot Seat.” Sonata sounds offended.

“Great.” I collapse into one of the audience chairs near George. “You can go first, Sonata.”

My actors meander onto the stage and sit around my makeshift table. Sonata's eyes are glassy and distant. Mica looks wounded. Clayton slouches.

I push my glasses up higher on my nose, trying not to feel like I'm a lousy director.

“Sylvia,” I address Sonata's character, “tell me how you first met Martin.”

Her facial features rearrange until Sonata becomes a falsely cheerful Sylvia. Incredible.

“We met in high school,” she begins, her voice projecting into the audience. “Martin sat behind me in biology. I always knew he had a crush on me. He was voted most likely to be a workaholic. I was voted most likely to keep my figure.”

Six

A French class at Whitlock. Monday morning.

Madame Bouchard writes a new assignment on the whiteboard—an oral speech to be written, memorized and presented in seven days.

The class groans.

I grip my pencil tighter. I don't have time for this assignment. Or the math test on Friday. Or my science lab. Rehearsals matter more. And I need to locate my set pieces and props, find someone to be my lighting and sound tech, look for costumes, keep George on track.

My right leg develops a nervous tremble. I wrap it around the leg of my desk to keep it still. When my cell phone vibrates in my pocket, I don't even notice it at first.

I check my phone when Madame Bouchard's back is turned. It's a text from Sonata.

Can't make rehearsal 2nite. Extra rehearsal for dance show. Sorry.

Our second rehearsal, with just over three weeks to opening night, and she can't come?

The quiver in my leg gets stronger. Martin and the Star don't even have any scenes together. How will I run a rehearsal?

Madame Bouchard turns around, almost catching me with my phone out.

I slip it into my desk and try to pay attention.

But all I can think about is Sonata and her stupid dance show.

Rehearsals are nothing without her.

The set and prop room. Same day at lunch. Floor-to-ceiling shelves are stacked with large clear plastic boxes with weird labels. CUPS AND GOBLETS. WOODEN DAGGERS. CANDLESTICKS. PAPER MONEY and COINS. Beyond the shelves is the furniture.

Mr. Ty lets only a few Fringe directors and their stage managers in at once. I get stuck with Lorna and Samuel and their sidekicks. George is nowhere to be seen, but at least I'll get the set and props done right.

While the others argue over who gets which plastic guns, I rummage through a bin of fake food until I find a basket of strawberries and something that resembles burnt steak. I'm glad mine is the only play set in a kitchen.

After I locate a few dishes with gaudy flowers, some mismatched cutlery and an old metal pot, I go searching for my sink and table.

Furniture and large props are stacked impossibly high. There are oversized flowers from a musical version of
Alice in Wonderland
, a throne painted gold, three couches from different time periods and Victorian chairs. I could spend days in here, just poking around.

Several Greek columns lean into a corner. Two enormous tragedy and comedy masks hang on one wall. A metal chicken coop sits on sections of a white picket fence.

I climb over about forty plastic pink flamingos—left over from the graduation prank last year—to find a fifties-style table with chrome legs. Perfect.

As I'm searching for a sink, my phone buzzes again. This time it's Clayton, making some stupid excuse for why he has to miss tonight's rehearsal. I sigh. How can I run through a scene with one actor?

“What's wrong?” Samuel appears from behind the shelves, without his stage manager. “Can't find your props?”

“Props are the easy part.” I hold up my burnt steak. “They're more agreeable than actors.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I don't want Samuel to think that I can't handle things or that I need advice. I get enough advice from Sonata, Lorna and even Ratna.

But Samuel just laughs. “Tell me about it.” He runs his fingers through his hair and examines me with a sly smile.

Is he flirting with me?

I back away, stumbling over a few pink flamingos. “See you later,” I mumble. Romance is the last thing I need.

“You bet.”

When I glance back, Samuel is still watching me.

Whitlock cafeteria. Later that day. The room has been transformed into a rehearsal studio. Scripts lie open on the floor. Backpacks have been tossed against the walls. A few odd props are stacked on tables.

In the middle of the room, directors, actors and stage managers have gathered for a warm-up game of Battle-Axe while Mr. Ty looks on. It's one of my favorite games, but I don't feel like joining in.

The game is simple. Everyone stands in a giant circle, and one person begins by throwing an imaginary battle-axe at another person with a guttural cry. The second person catches the axe and throws it again. It can be fun to get several axes going around the circle—some small and some massive.

I'm not surprised to see George playing with gusto, his ears sticking out comically, his freckled face red as he bellows and throws an axe.

Mica is there too, tossing with less effort, his face shining and happy.

I lean against a table until they're done, avoiding Mr. Ty because I don't want him to notice that I can't even get my actors to come to rehearsal. Mica beams as he approaches me.

George's face is still flushed. George and I run lines with Mica, which is all we can do. When I comment on Mica's cheerful mood, he tells me that Sonata has promised to go for coffee with him—maybe next week.

“I think she's into me.” He smiles.

“Oh,” I say, wondering if Sonata really does like him. “Great news.” I can't help worrying about what a date will do to their stage dynamics.

I watch Ratna laughing and talking with Lorna, Ashley and the other actors in their play. Lorna puts an arm around Ratna's shoulder, chatting while Ratna nods eagerly. Samuel's actors seem to have most of their lines memorized already.

It's depressing.

I end rehearsal early and walk home alone.

Briar's kitchen. Late evening.

Dad is warming milk on the stove. He has the
Financial Times
tucked under one arm.

I rummage through the kitchen drawers in search of Mom's stash of aprons. Although she rarely wears them, I remember a colorful one from Darla that would work for Sylvia.

“Dad…” I sit back on my heels. “How do you get people on a team to listen—people who have to work together?” He doesn't know anything about theater, but I've heard him talk about managing teams at work.

“Well”—Dad leans against the stove—“I explain logically what needs to be done and why.”

“That only works if people are highly motivated,” Mom says behind me. “Sometimes you need to tell them what to do.”