Exit Stage Left (4 page)

This is
not
happening. I blink hard and look at the list again. My name is not next to “Maria.” Amanda is Maria. Then where in the world am I? My eyes fly down the list:

Captain von Trapp: Trevor Blakeman

Baroness Schraeder: Gabby Butler

Max: Oliver West

Liesl: Kelly Hutchinson

Rolf: Harrison Kaelin

Mother Abbess: Casey Fitzgerald

No. Wait a minute. No. Mother Abbess? Mother
freaking
Abbess? I’m cast as a nun. Is Ms. Sharp insane? I’m not Mother Abbess, I’m Maria!

“Case, I didn’t expect . . .” Amanda says. She doesn’t finish the thought. I feel her looking at me, but I can’t drag my eyes away from
the cast list.

Amanda. My best friend. She of the preppy clothes and long blond hair and light soprano voice and insane piano talent. Not me. Amanda.

I look back at the cast list. I can’t believe it. I completely blew my chance at getting into NYCPA. Sure, there’s a musical next year, but that’s way too late if I want to be considered for a full scholarship. Which I
need
, because the only thing my parents can afford is community college—which probably doesn’t even have a theater program. And NYCPA is the only theater school that, if I wowed them at an audition, would offer me a full ride even with my less-than-stellar grades. What was Ms. Sharp thinking? I mean, Amanda’s a really good actor, and she had a perfect audition, but there’s no way she can carry an entire show in the lead role. Not like I can.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t think that way about my best friend. I shouldn’t. But this role was
everything
to me. How can I possibly be happy for her when everything I’ve worked so hard for is just . . . gone?

Forget New York. Forget NYCPA. Forget Broadway. I’ll have to give up my dream of acting and become . . . what?

I have no idea.

“Hey!” I say as someone pushes me aside.

The rude person is Silent Hollywood Guy. He mumbles something and runs his finger down the cast list. I peek over the shoulder of his ratty Black Sabbath T-shirt. His finger is resting just below the name Oliver West.

“Is that you?” I ask.

He nods.

“Congratulations.”

He just looks at me.

“Thank you, Casey. That’s really nice of you,” I answer myself for him since he’s obviously not going to say anything. I turn back to the cast list. Maybe this whole thing isn’t even real. Maybe I’m in the worst nightmare ever. Maybe I choked on my mixed veggies at lunch and I’m dead and this is hell, because I was too confident and I don’t like talking to my dad and—

“Did you make it?” he says in a clear voice.

I’m so surprised, I take a step backward. “Oh, uh, yeah.”

He gestures at the list.

“Um, I’m Mother Abbess, I guess.”

He smiles and walks off. Weirdest guy ever. Cute, but weird.

Out of my stupor, I go back to my friends. Amanda, Chris, and Kelly are fanning Harrison’s face, and he’s sitting on the floor.

“Really, I’m fine. You can leave me alone now.” His cheeks are bright red, and he keeps knocking their hands away.

“Are you sure?” Amanda leans over him like she’s his mother.

“I’m sure.”

“Dude, you’re as overdramatic as Casey,” Chris says. “No offense, Case.”

Am I overdramatic? Is
that
why I lost the role? The thought makes me want to join Harrison on the floor.

Amanda takes one last look at Harrison before turning to me. “Are you okay? I never in a million years guessed this would happen. You
had that role. I thought.”

I give her a weak smile. “Congratulations” somehow comes out of my mouth.

“Thanks,” she says in a pained voice. “I never wanted to take this away from you.”

I nod. Somehow that didn’t matter to Ms. Sharp.

“Let’s talk after school, okay? I have to get to Spanish.” She squeezes my arm before following Kelly down the hall, toward the language arts wing on the far side of the school. She keeps looking back over her shoulder at me, like she wants to make sure I don’t pass out or spontaneously combust.

“This sucks,” Harrison says.

“Tell me about it.” I pick up my backpack and my purse.

“What’s wrong? You both got in,” Chris says.

We glare at him.

“Actors,” he says with a shrug and walks off down the hallway.

“I practiced until my throat was raw, and what did I get? A measly little lover-boy part. What the hell?” Harrison makes a gagging sound.

“I have every line memorized, and I get Mother Abbess. What about me says Mother Abbess?” I like having someone to complain with. It’s cathartic, and I feel oddly close to Harrison all of a sudden.

“You’re no Mother Abbess. You scream Maria.”

“And nothing about you says whiny Rolf. You should have been cast as the Captain.”

He squints at me through his glasses. “Yesterday you were all for
Trevor.”

I wave my hand at him. “That’s just because we have history. You’re a much better actor.”

“You know what?” Harrison throws his backpack over his shoulder and stands up straighter. “We should go register a complaint. Talk to Ms. Sharp and ask her why she did the casting the way she did. Remind her that we need this show to get into college.”

I perk up a little. “Yeah. We have a right to know. Hey, and maybe we can convince her otherwise. She’s always liked us.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“No, I can’t
change
the casting,” Ms. Sharp says from behind her cluttered desk. “You were assigned to the parts you’re best suited for.”

“I’m best suited to be a nun?”

“Yes.” She’s serious. How in the world can she be serious? Nothing about Casey Fitzgerald says nun.
Nothing
.

“But you gave me the lead last year,” I remind her.

“That doesn’t mean you’ll automatically be cast in the lead for the rest of your life. This is good practice for the real theater world. You won’t start at the top out there.” She shuffles through stacks of papers, looking for something. Copies of last year’s script fall to the floor, landing on a pile of old costumes.

I pick up the scripts and balance them on some dusty books at the corner of the desk. “Ms. Sharp, there might not even be an ‘out there’ for us. We’ll never get college auditions with these roles.” I know for a fact that Ms. Sharp went to NYCPA. If this doesn’t convince her,
nothing will.

“Casey, you will if you get recommendations. Don’t be so dramatic. Save it for the play. Remember, there are no small parts—”

“Only small players,” I say in a monotone. Obviously she hasn’t put two and two together to figure out that we can’t even get a second recommendation without a decent part in this show.

“Ms. Sharp—” Harrison begins.

“Mr. Kaelin. Enough. I’ll see you both in class.” She gives up her search and shows us the door.

“Well, that was pointless,” Harrison says as we walk down the hallway.

“I can’t believe she wouldn’t listen to us.” I couldn’t walk any slower than I am right now. I’m really not in the mood to go to class. I want to go home and scream. Or cry into my pillow. I briefly consider skipping the rest of the day, but it’s not like I can drive myself anywhere.

When we walk into Expressions of Art (aka Visual Art for People in the Performing Arts), everyone is decoupaging like crazy. We drop our bags near the back table, and get a lecture and tardy slips from Ms. Grayson.

I paste a picture of an ear cut from a magazine onto a baby food jar. What on earth I’m going to do with a decoupaged baby food jar, I don’t know. All I know is that it’s like an enormous black cloud has blocked out the sun, and I hate everything. Maybe I can smash the jar against the side of the school. I bet Harrison would join me. That would qualify as an Expression of Art, in my opinion. Although
knowing this school, they’d rope it off and call the shattered glass on the blacktop an “installation.”

My life as I’d planned it is over. I’m pissed at Ms. Sharp. And maybe a little at Amanda too. Part of me wants to know where she gets off, stealing my part, although the more rational side of my brain knows she had no control over the casting. But now she’ll be going to New York without me or Harrison. She’s going to wind up touring the concert halls of Europe, and I’m going to be stuck right here in Boring, Indiana. Maybe I’ll move to Kansas where no one knows me. I can pour coffee in a roadside diner all day and call people “Hon” and “Sugar.” I’ll wear a mustard-colored dress and have a steamy affair with a truck driver named Bo.

I push the jar aside and drop my forehead to the table.

Next to me, Harrison smashes clippings of spiders and pissed-off-looking metalheads onto his baby food jar. Glue drips down the sides and pools onto the table.

At least I have someone to be miserable with.

If only Amanda hadn’t auditioned. Maybe she’ll get mono or something. Then I could take over the role. Being in the play with Amanda means a lot, but not as much as me snagging an audition at NYCPA. I mean, it’s nostalgia versus my whole entire future. And besides, there’ll be another musical next fall and we can do that one together for fun. Or maybe—

Amanda would quit the play if I asked her to.

Amanda leans against the wall next to me and smooths her unwrinkled pink skirt as if she can iron out the huge problem between us.

I dump books into my locker. “Hey.”

“Are you mad?”

Does she really need to ask? I look at her. She has this puppy dog
don’t-hate-me
look on her face. I sigh. There’s no reason for me to be so cold to her. “Not at you. I know it’s not your fault.”

“Case, I know how badly you wanted that role. It’s all you’ve talked about since the show was announced. I had no idea this would happen. I really didn’t think I’d get a big part. I’d have been happy as one of the kids or something.” She pulls the pre-calc book from my locker and adds it to my backpack. “Quiz tomorrow,” she reminds me.

“Thanks. Amanda . . .” Hmm. This is a little harder to ask than I thought it would be. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. It just sounds so selfish. I can’t do it. I
can’t
ask Amanda to do something this big.

This is the girl who didn’t mind when her seventh-grade crush
danced with me at the school mixer. Amanda—the friend I bought a hundred-dollar ticket with to see some famous pianist I’d never even heard of so she wouldn’t have to go alone. But neither of those things is like this.

“At first I thought I would quit,” she finally says. “Thinking that you could take my spot.”

I can hardly breathe.

“But then I realized that even if I did, we don’t know for sure that Ms. Sharp would give you the part. She might pick Gabby, or even that annoying Danielle girl. Can you imagine her as Maria?”

I smile and shudder at the same time at the thought of Danielle the Perk Monster in my role. I hate it, but Amanda’s got a point. Her quitting wouldn’t automatically make me Maria.

“And then I’d be out of the show, and you’d still be stuck as Mother Abbess. But maybe you can talk to Ms. Sharp yourself?”

“Already tried that. I found out that I’m ‘best suited’ to be a nun.” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“I’m sorry, Case. Well, at least this way, we can still be in it together.” She gives me a hopeful little smile.

“You’re right,” I say, even though it kills me to say it. “I’m just mad.” And more than a little depressed. Smashing that baby food jar is sounding better and better. Especially if I smash it against Ms. Sharp’s door. Of course, then I’d be giving up my one for-sure audition recommendation. Although I don’t know what good one recommendation is when I can’t get a second.

I scuff the toe of my super-cute red Mary Jane against the floor. “I
needed that part.”

“I know,” she says quietly.

As much as Amanda thinks she understands, she can’t. And how could she? She’s not on the verge of losing her biggest—and only—dream.

“They’d be crazy not to give you a shot. I’m sorry, Case. I’d give up this role in a second if I thought it would do you any good.”

She almost looks like she’s going to cry, and I know she’s being honest. I’ve barely even told her congratulations. She earned the role, and I’m not being fair to her at all. This play is turning me into a front-runner for worst friend in the world. From somewhere way down deep, buried under all the hurt and fear, I find the right words. “Your audition was great, and you are going to be a fabulous Maria.” I cross my heart and give her unjazzy jazz hands.

“Really? Because truthfully, I’m a little nervous about it.”

“You shouldn’t be. You’re amazing,” I say. And she
is
amazing. If this were any other situation, I’d be absolutely thrilled for her.

“It means a lot to hear you say that.” She leaps forward and gives me a bear hug. “Come on, I’ll drive you home. Or to the wonderful Bureau of Motor Vehicles, so that, you know, you can get your license.” She finally lets me go and smiles.

“Not today,” I say in the happiest voice possible. And it sounds believable, because I can, after all, act. Or at least, I think I can, although my entire future has shriveled up into a supporting role. And I’m alone to boot. I can’t even make myself feel better by hooking up with Trevor.

The jealousy is like a slime creeping up from deep inside. Amanda has everything: an undeniable musical talent, my role in the musical, a future far away from here, hair that’s never heard the word frizz, a dad who’s actually around, and a driver’s license. And I have . . . nothing.

We’re all sitting in a circle on the stage to do the read-through the next afternoon. Trevor’s sprawled between peppy Danielle and me. Not by my choice—
he
sat next to
me
. I’m trying really hard to ignore him, and Gabby is shooting me pointed looks from across the circle. I’m sure he’s thinking that since the auditions are over, I’ll come crawling right back to him. I’m not. I have more pride than that, even if nothing else has gone the way I planned.

Since I have hardly any lines in this show at all, I briefly considered not even showing up today. It’s not like anyone would notice a missing nun. But 1) that’s totally unprofessional, and 2) Amanda looked genuinely freaked the hell out when she saw exactly how many lines Maria has. She needed a friend sitting next to her, sending her vibes of support and encouragement, which I’ve mustered up as best as I can. But it doesn’t take long for my mind to start drifting, first to thoughts of me onstage as Maria, and then—annoyingly—to imagining myself on a beach with Trevor, complete with palm trees and crystal blue waves.

I tune in during the scene with Liesl and Rolf, aka Kelly and Harrison, mad at myself for indulging in any Trevor-related fantasies. Harrison’s frowning. I wonder if he’s contemplated smashing baby food jars against Ms. Sharp’s door. Kelly is happy and smiling, until
she reads the stage direction
They kiss
.

“Oh,” she says.

“Kelly, that’s not part of the script.” Ms. Sharp’s eyes narrow as she looks at Kelly. “And I expect my actors to be professional.”

“Sorry,” Kelly says.

Harrison’s face has a green tinge. You’d think he’d be prepared for this. I mean, the world is full of gay actors who have to play straight. Not a big deal. Of course, I can’t tell him that until he bothers to let me in on his big secret.

I begin counting the pages until I come back into the play. One, two . . . twenty-four . . . thirty . . .

Silence. I look up to see what’s going on.

“Oliver, you’ll need to speak up. We can’t hear you.” Ms. Sharp cups a hand behind her ear.

Then Silent Hollywood Guy delivers the line perfectly. What’s up with that? And is he really from Hollywood? Since I need something to keep me from dying of boredom or wasting away from theater-induced depression, I decide he’s someone super famous, undercover to research a role as your average drama student at a not-so-average Midwestern high school. I study his face, trying to figure out whether he looks like a movie star. He catches me staring and turns as pink as Kelly’s shirt.

When Hannah calls the read-through finished—the only thing she’s managed to say during the whole two hours—Amanda and I walk to the lobby together.

“Maria has a lot of lines,” Amanda says again, in a way that clearly
indicates she’s afraid she can’t remember them all.

“That’s because it’s the lead.” I bite my lip to keep the jealousy from rolling out. I’m supposed to be happy for her. “Sorry. You’re right. If you want, I can read them with you sometime.” Which will be like rubbing salt into the wound, but she needs help. She refused to let me fail Algebra II last year, and I refuse to let her be a flop onstage, even if it kills me.

“Really?” Amanda’s face lights up. “What about Sunday afternoon, after rehearsal?”

“Sure,” I say, kind of flat. “I think Eric’s waiting. See you then.” I don’t even give her the chance to offer me a ride home. Instead, I race to the parking lot—where Trevor’s leaning against Eric’s sorry excuse for a car.

I stop in my tracks.

“Thought you might show up here,” he says. “Want a ride?”

My heart thumps. The easiest answer is yes. But I remember our rides home. They were about 10 percent driving and 90 percent kissing at stop signs.

“No,” I finally say. “I’ll wait for Eric.”

He pushes himself away from the car and reaches for my hand. I’m just about to yank it away when he says, “For what it’s worth, you should’ve gotten that role.”

He should not affect me at all, but those words are exactly what I need to hear. Pull it together, Casey. “You know we’re not together anymore, right?”

“I know.” And with that, he takes a step forward, and before I can
even wrap my head around it, his mouth is on mine.

I promptly forget why I ended things with him. I must’ve been crazy. I must’ve completely forgotten how warm his lips are and how solid and comforting he feels when he’s this close to me.

When he stops, I open my eyes, completely dizzy and a little unsure of what just happened.

He pushes my hair back and says, “I knew it was just about time.”

“Time?” My brain is taking its
own
sweet time at working again.

“It’s been about three months.” He’s still running a hand through my hair as he studies my face.

Three months. Which means it’s time for us to get back together. Except . . .

I shake my head. “That was for good, Trevor. I’m sorry. . . . I . . .” I back away and push my own hair back behind my ears. “I have to concentrate. Figure out what I’m doing, okay?”

“Figure out what?” he asks.

“I don’t know. My life? I just got theater-dumped. I . . . I need more time.” This is weird. I’m feeling really out of control here, and I don’t like it. “Isn’t Gabby waiting for you?”

Trevor shoves his hands into his pockets. He smiles, which means he isn’t taking the bait. For like the first time ever. “Right. You sure you don’t want a ride?”

I nod. “Thanks.”

He disappears through the mostly empty parking lot toward his own car.

I open Eric’s unlocked door and throw myself in. I curl up in the
front seat while I wait for him to finish rehearsing with his band. And to drive Trevor out of my head, I entertain guilty daydreams of an opening night when both Amanda and her understudy get sick, and I’m the only possible replacement for Maria.

I spend Saturday at home, practicing the whole two lines I have in the play. An exaggeration, but exaggeration is pretty much my bread and butter. I catch Eric dozing off in the family room and make him read the part of Maria and the other nuns I have scenes with. It’s so hilarious that I threaten to get him a habit and find him a role in the chorus.

“A habit! You’re going to have to wear a habit onstage.” Eric bursts out laughing. “Now that’s something I can’t wait to see. Can I borrow it to wear to Charlie’s Halloween party?”

I smack at him, but my hand just barely brushes his shaggy brown hair. He ducks and runs laughing from the family room.

Oh. My. God. He’s right. I’m going to have the most hideous costume of all time. A nun costume is not going to exactly enhance my assets. I might as well be dressed as a rock. For a moment, I wonder if Trevor will notice, but then I throw my script aside. Even doing pre-calc homework sounds like more fun right now. And it will make me stop thinking about Trevor.

“But they’re children!” Amanda exclaims. She flings her hair over her shoulder for even more emphasis.

I redo the line in my head the way it should be. I’m scoring massive bonus points in the BFF department right now. I remind myself that
I’m happy for her and I’m being a good friend, so . . . I suppose it could be worse. I could be listening to Danielle or Gabby.

We’re lounging on the white-carpeted floor of her clean-freak bedroom. I’m pretty sure she vacuums it every single day. If he wasn’t lying on the bed, you’d never know she has a huge, hairy sheepdog named Toby. I’ve never seen a stray dog hair on Amanda’s floor—ever.

I recite the next line without consulting the script, then I sneak a look at my phone for the time. Maybe I can distract Amanda from reading lines. I could offer to listen to her new piano piece, but she’s probably already gotten her day’s practice in. And I bet she’s finished every little bit of homework.

Maybe I can pretend to faint. Or have a heart attack. Or go into a diabetic coma. I wonder what the symptoms of Ebola are? I should add hypochondriac to my weekly method acting.

But why bother doing that when my acting career is obviously over?

“Casey? Hello.” Amanda slaps my knee with her script.

“Sorry. Where are we?”

“I say—” Her phone beeps. She fumbles under Toby, finds it, and reads the text.

“Who is it?” I ask her.

She frowns. “Trevor.”