Exit Stage Left (5 page)

“Trevor? What’s he want?” I ask Amanda.

Better question: Why is Trevor texting Amanda?

“I don’t know. . . .” Amanda taps away at her phone.

I drum my fingers on the carpet. I told her all about what happened in the parking lot on Friday. She asked me what I really wanted, and I repeated that I wasn’t getting back with him after I reminded myself about a hundred times of how bad we are together. But after a while, the words lose their meaning.

“He wants to run lines,” Amanda says.

“With you?”

“Of course with me. We have a lot of scenes together.” She pauses. “What do you think?”

I shrug, like it’s no big deal that my ex-whatever-he-is wants to hang out with my best friend.

“If it weirds you out, I’ll tell him we’re busy.” Amanda’s fingers hover over her phone, waiting for me to say something.

“No.” I sigh and call up all my professional bravery. It’s just lines. They’re going to have to practice, and I’ll have to get over it. And not think about how he felt like the only normal thing in my life on Friday. “It’s fine. I don’t mind. Invite him over.”

“Right now? Are you sure?”

I nod and lie back on the carpet, arms over my face, while Amanda texts Trevor.

“He’ll be here in an hour. It’s okay if you want to leave,” she says.

“It’s all right. I’ll stay. I would’ve had to deal with him if I’d gotten the role anyway.” I move my arms up over my head so I can see Amanda, who’s looking super concerned. I sit up. “Really, it’s fine. I’ll jump in during my parts. And read the other parts for you guys, too.”

“Okay.” Amanda bites her lip. “But if you suddenly remember that you have to wash your hair while he’s trying to flirt with you again, I promise I won’t mind.”

I flip through the pages of my script and don’t meet her eyes. I feel like she’s telling me not to let him flirt with me, which is weird. “Come on, let’s work some more before he gets here. You need to practice sounding like you’re in love back here in Scene—”

Amanda thwacks me in the arm with her script.

“What?” I rub my arm and bite back a smile. “Just imagine you’re going to the spring formal again with Ben Taylor. You were soooooo in love with him—until he ran off to make out with Trista—”

Another thwack, but she’s laughing. Probably because I’d gone out to the Alcove of Sin, bought a can of Diet Coke, shook it, and then accidentally-on-purpose opened it toward Ben and Trista.

When Trevor finally arrives, Mrs. Reynolds yells up the stairs for us.

“Hey, Amanda,” Trevor says when we appear at the bottom of the stairs. He glances over and says, “Casey,” complete with sexy smile.

“Hi,” I say in my most not-interested, Friday-didn’t-happen voice.

“Ready to run lines?” Trevor asks Amanda.

“Sure. Want to go up—”

“You kids can stay in the living room or kitchen,” Amanda’s mom shouts, from the kitchen this time.

I stifle a giggle. Amanda’s mom will probably float in and out of the living room the whole time Trevor’s here. She likes to hover that way. When she finally caved to Amanda’s begging for a boy-girl party in eighth grade, I had to distract her with a made-up sprained ankle emergency so that Amanda could finally get an orchestrated-by-Casey moment with Joey Barnes, who she’d had a raging crush on for a year and was the whole reason she’d even wanted a boy-girl party to begin with.

Amanda rolls her eyes, flips her hair over her shoulder, and points at the couch. “Well, let’s just sit here, I guess. Sorry. Maybe we can go to your place next time. My mom’s a control freak.”

I snort. Trevor’s place wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t inhabited by the Grimaldi twins 90 percent of the time. Trevor looks at me with eyes that clearly say,
You can come to my place
. I shift and act like I’m deciding where to sit.

They take the couch. I grab a spot on the floor and lean against the recliner, ignoring the space on the couch that Trevor creates for me.
Toby lies on my feet. Or, actually, he lies on the whole lower half of my body. Good thing I’m not planning on going anywhere.

“Where do you want to start?” Trevor asks Amanda.

“Mmmm . . . how about the scene where Maria and the Captain first meet?”

“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” I ask.

“Why the beginning?” Amanda frowns.

Because
I
have lines at the beginning, obviously. Instead, I sing a line from the show: “Because it’s ‘a very good place to start.’”

“Well . . .” Trevor trails off as he pages through his script.

“Casey, I think Trevor wanted to run through the lines he has with me, remember?” Amanda gives me a pointed look that reads,
This is not all about you
.

I get that she’s trying to be professional. But this is going to be one long day if I never get to run my own lines. Except . . . the faster they get through their parts, the sooner this whole awkward thing will be over. So I shrug. “Okay. No problem. I’ll fill in for the other parts.”

They start reading, and I distract myself by trying to get into the different characters as best as I can.

“Case, you don’t have to do that,” Amanda says after I read Gretl’s line with a little-girl voice.

“Why not? I’m making it more realistic.” Out of habit, I turn to Trevor to get my back, but he’s looking at Amanda.

“Just read the lines, okay? Otherwise, we’ll be doing this all night.”

Usually Amanda is super tolerant of my quirks. I chalk it up to
her being nervous about the role, and I read the lines in a dull monotone. But is it a crime if I can’t help adding an accent when I do the Baroness’s lines? It makes Trevor smile, as usual. At least someone appreciates my talent, even if Ms. Sharp can’t see it.

“I’m
trying
to be happy for Amanda,” I say to Harrison as my locker door clicks shut on Monday afternoon. “But I really can’t figure out what Ms. Sharp was thinking.” And it’s turning me into a bad friend.

“I’m wondering if I’m meant to be an actor,” Harrison says.

“What?” I stare at him.

He’s leaning back against the lockers, his backpack hanging loosely from his right hand, and he’s looking across the hall at nothing in particular. “I wonder if I’m supposed to be an actor.”

“Of course you are. Isn’t theater all you’ve ever wanted to do?”

“Yeah, but I’m not so sure now.”

“Don’t you want to go to New York?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know how I’ll get in now.” He toes the floor. “My dad’s pushing me to go to Notre Dame. Legacy and all, you know.”

“No way. You can’t do that,” I say, although I’m not really sure I believe it myself. I start off down the hallway toward rehearsal. Harrison peels himself off the lockers and follows me.

“I remember rehearsals being fun last year,” I say to Harrison after an hour of sitting in the theater. Only one of my scenes has been called, and that was ages ago. I’ve mostly been entertaining myself by watching Tim, the lighting designer, tap away on his tablet, and
imagining how he’s designing the light plot. Which is something I know a little too much about, thanks to my dad, who does the same thing professionally.

Harrison’s slumped in the seat next to me, glasses resting on his chest. “It was fun because we were onstage so much last year.”

Someone shuffles down the aisle and sits down on my other side. It’s Silent Hollywood Guy. Oliver, I correct myself.

“Hi,” I whisper.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Um, hi?” I say again.

“Hey. How’s it going?” he finally says.

“Fine. You?”

“Good, thanks.”

Well, this is a scintillating conversation. I flip the pages of my script. Oliver doesn’t say anything else for several minutes. And I can’t think of anything to say to him. Why did he sit here? There’s a whole theater full of seats where he could’ve stuck his quiet self.

I go back to watching Tim and wondering if the desire to leave your kids is a prerequisite for being a lighting designer.

Out of nowhere, Oliver says, “Your friend Amanda is a good actor.”

“Yeah.” Apparently so, since she got the lead and I got the nun part with no lines and an ugly costume, I want to add.

“That Blakeman guy’s not so bad, either,” Oliver continues.

Harrison gives an audible sigh, but Oliver doesn’t notice. Instead, Oliver’s perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes following Amanda
and Trevor as they go through their scene.

I take the opportunity to get a good look at him since I’m tired of imagining the light plot and thinking about Dad. I like to study people and their habits and quirks. It’s good for the dramatic soul. Although I learned early on to do it when they aren’t watching. People get kind of weirded out when you stare at them too long.

Oliver is a puzzle. He’s gone from silent to kind of talkative. And he definitely doesn’t look like he’s from Hollywood. His long legs are covered in torn jeans. They jut out at angles, like they don’t completely fit in the small space between his seat and the seat in front of him. His dark hair is pushed back so it’s sticking up. He’s wearing a Nirvana T-shirt, which is like the third or fourth band shirt I’ve seen him in. Musician, definitely. Guitar. I can spot a guitar player from a mile away, thanks to having grown up with one. His shoes are an old, worn pair of Vans, and the left one is untied.

It looks like he spends a half hour on his hair, but his clothes are a disaster.

“Not bad, huh?” he says, turning toward me.

“Um . . . no . . . you’re not bad.” My cheeks flame. I add Big Ego to my mental checklist of Things That Make Up Oliver.

He raises one eyebrow. Which I always thought was impossible. I mean, I’ve practiced it in the mirror and could never get it. “Thanks,” he says. “I meant Amanda and Trevor, though.”

Oops. “Oh. Yeah, they’re not bad. Sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry, but I am.” Dammit, Casey. Just shut up before you make it even worse.

He runs a hand through his hair, like talking somehow made it
go flat. Then he swallows as if he was going to say something but changed his mind. He moves to another row without a word.

I slump back into my seat, in the same position as Harrison. “I don’t get him,” I whisper to Harrison.

Harrison shrugs, and the corners of his mouth turn up just a little. “He’s not so bad.”

At first, I think he’s finally admitting his status as last year’s Christmas sweater. Until I realize he’s just making fun of me. I elbow him hard in the ribs.

Late that night, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Something Harrison said earlier in the day is bothering me.

I wonder if I’m supposed to be an actor.

All I’ve wanted, ever since I was a little kid watching the actors run around in the productions Dad worked for, is to be onstage. And I thought I was good at it. I always got great parts—until this year. But maybe I’m not as talented as I thought. There’s no way I’ll be able to convince NYCPA to give me an audition with just one of the two required recommendations. Not when they’ve got thousands of other hopeful students with two glowing recommendations.

Theater has turned me into a depressed, grumpy person, too selfish to be a real friend to Amanda and too confused to remember my pride when it comes to Trevor. I don’t like myself right now, and I’ve
never
felt that way before.

I roll over and punch my pillow. Something has to change. My grades aren’t good enough for a state school. But even in community
college, I’d need a major. And it can’t be theater.

So, if I’m not supposed to be an actor, then what? What if I was meant to be something else all along? Something I don’t even know I can do yet.

I mean, think of all the things I’ve never even tried, but I could have some natural talent at. Like baking. Or skydiving. Or synchronized swimming. I was so into theater, even when I was really young, that I never played soccer or took gymnastics like the other kids. Maybe one of those things is my true passion, and acting is just a hobby. Well, probably not soccer. That’s pretty much a lost cause where I’m concerned. But what if I lived my whole life and never found the one thing I’m great at? How depressing is that?

It’s time for me to completely shed my old life. No more Broadway dreams. Definitely no more Trevor. I’ll be a completely new Casey. I just have to find out what kind of Casey I’m going to be, which means I need to find my real talent.

I spend most of Physics thinking about what my new purpose in life might be. By lunch, I have a long list of new things to try. And by music theory, I’ve chopped the list down to five possibilities. I’m feeling pretty good for a change when my phone buzzes with a text from Amanda.

Hellllooooo 2 C . . . what r u doing?

I peer across the room to where she sits, her long hair hiding her face and her phone. But I’m distracted by Johnny Grimaldi, who’s sitting right behind her and is looking at me. Okay, that’s not creepy at all. I give him a good hard look, and he turns away.

With Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony blaring through the classroom, I finally type back,
Nothing. U?
I don’t want to share my life-changing list with Amanda—not just yet. I need Harrison’s opinion first, since he’s going to be my comrade-in-arms. Besides, Amanda has enough to worry about with her part in the show.

U’ve been writing all morning
.

Homewk
, I lie.
What r u doing aft school?

Nothing
.
Gng home. Lrning lines.

Me 2
, I lie again. Not like I have any lines to learn.

Want a ride?
she asks.

Nah, will catch one with Eric. Thx.

The bell rings, and I stuff my phone into my pocket. I grab The List, my purse, and my bag before I meet Amanda at the door.

“I don’t think I can make it through Pre-calc.” Amanda runs her fingers through her hair, working out the world’s tiniest tangle.

I nod and hand her a brush from the front pocket of my backpack as we walk the whole five feet to class. I’m dying to show Harrison The List.

“Wait!” Amanda stops dead in the hallway and whirls around to face me.

“Oh my God, what?” I feel my hair for a giant spider. Nothing’s there. “What?”

Amanda’s pointing at me with the brush. “I figured it out. You’re Quiet Girl this week, aren’t you? Inspired by Silent Hollywood Guy?”

I blink at her.

“That’s it, right? I mean, you’ve barely said anything yesterday or today, except in texts or during rehearsal.” Amanda grins like she’s won a game show or something.

“Um, yeah. You guessed it!” I force myself to smile. The truth is, I said more to Oliver yesterday than I have to Amanda all week. I’ve just been really preoccupied. “Quiet as a mouse. That’s me.”

“See, I’ve known you too long.” Amanda lifts her chin in victory as we sit at our desks.

I tap my foot on the ancient, pea-green linoleum as I wait for Pre-calc to start. Before Holland became
the
regional school for performing and visual arts in South Central Indiana, it was plain old Holland High School. The linoleum is probably vintage HHS.

Harrison sits across the room from Amanda and me, but I’m not about to text him with something as important and life-changing as The List. When the bell finally rings, I grab my stuff, say good-bye to Amanda, and run after Harrison.

“Hey,” I say when I catch up to him at his locker. “What’s up?”

“Nothing. Life still sucks. You?” He throws his Spanish book into the locker so hard the metal wall rattles. His picture with Anthony Rapp, who totally made the role of Mark in
Rent
, flutters to the floor. It lands tape side down. I pick it up and restick it to the locker door. The Harrison in the photo looks like the normal Harrison I know—happy. We’d stood outside a stage door in Indy years ago, in the freezing cold for an hour, just so he could get that picture. Maybe my great idea will make him look that way again.

“I have a surprise,” I say.

“What?”

“Not here.” I look side to side. I don’t want anyone else to hear my plan before Harrison. Gabby’s a few lockers over, talking to Jill from the stage crew. Which is a nice change from seeing her chasing after Trevor like usual these days. And I know there’s a group of set design guys behind us. As big as this school is, the theater people always seem to be drawn together, like gossip-loving magnets.

“Why? What’s so top secret that you can’t talk about it in the
hallway?”

“Don’t ask questions. Just meet me after school.”

The rest of the day drags by. I barely make it through a splatter paint project in Expressions of Art. When the bell rings, I grab Harrison and pull him outside. I lead the way down the front steps through clumps of students.

“Casey! Harrison!” Kelly waves at us from where she’s standing with Chris, Tim, and some other drama people.

I wave back. “See you later.” The List can’t wait. Now that I’m determined to find my true passion in life, I don’t want to waste another second. Kelly gives us a funny look and turns back to the others.

We weave through the parked buses out front and the parents lined up for carpool. I don’t stop until we reach the small park across the street, where I plop onto a bench. Harrison stands in front me.

“So, what’s all this about? Did Ms. Sharp change her mind?”

“No. Better than that.”

“What, then?” He drops his backpack on the ground and sits next to me. “I’ve got to get to the elementary school by four.” Once a week, Harrison volunteers to help little kids learn about theater. It’s insanely cute, and he’s great with the kids. I’d do it too, but I decided a long time ago that I couldn’t let anything interfere with my dedication to my art. No volunteering, no job (much to Mom’s annoyance), no unrelated extracurriculars. Only theater, dance class, and voice lessons. And, well, Trevor.

I might be regretting all that now.

“Remember yesterday, when you said you didn’t know if you’re supposed to be an actor?” I say.

Harrison nods. “If I was, then I would’ve gotten the lead, right?”

“Right. Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and I feel the same way. About me, that is. What if I wasn’t ever meant to be in theater? What if I’m really supposed to be . . . I don’t know . . . a botanist or something?”

“A botanist?”

“That’s not the important part. The point is, how will we ever know what our real passion is if we don’t look for it? Just think of how many things you could be a genius at, but don’t even know you can do.” I wait for Harrison’s reaction.

He thinks for a moment. “Okay. That makes sense, in some kind of odd philosophical way. So how do we look for it?”

With a flourish, I pull The List out of the front pocket of my backpack. The paper flutters in the warm breeze. “This is The List.”

“The what?”

“The List,” I say impatiently. “The List of How We Find Our Passion.”

“Oh. Okay. So, what’s on it?” He peers over the edge of the paper.

I clear my throat and pull the paper toward my chest so he can’t see it. “I’ll read it to you.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Number One: Art. Since drama is an art, maybe we’d be good at regular art, like drawing or something.”

“I can barely draw a stick figure. And did you see my splatter paint thing just now?”

“But have you tried? I mean, really, really tried? Taken a serious class—not Expressions of Art? Read a book about it? Studied technique?”

“No, I guess not. Okay, what’s next?”

“Number Two: Horseback Riding.”

“I’ve only been on a horse one time,” Harrison says.

“So? I’ve never been on one. We can learn. It can’t be that hard. I mean, people used to ride horses all the time before there were cars.” Maybe I should’ve added lawyer to The List. I’m pretty good at this persuasive argument thing.

“But what would we
do
with that?”

“Show them. Like, in the Olympics. Be a veterinarian. Or buy a horse farm and breed thoroughbreds for like a gazillion dollars each. Or work on a dude ranch out west. Buy a stable and give lessons to little kids. Be stunt doubles in the movies. Or—”

He holds up a hand. “Okay, I get it.”

“All right, Number Three.” I pause again because this is definitely the most exciting thing on The List.

Harrison checks his phone. “Spit it out already.”

“You’re ruining the moment,” I inform him.

“I’m going to be late.”

“All right, fine. Flying a plane. That’s Number Three.”

Harrison’s eyes go round behind his glasses. “Seriously? Like a real plane? In the sky?”

“No, in the ocean. Of course, in the sky. We can learn to be pilots! Can you believe something that awesome is an actual job? Greater
Holland Airport has flying lessons. I’ve seen it on that big sign they have by the road out on Highway 57.”

“I am so up for that. I’ve never even been in a plane.”

“That’s because your family’s idea of a vacation is a football game in the snow at Notre Dame.”

He rolls his eyes. “I think I still have frostbite from that. Okay, so what’s the fourth thing?”

“Number Four: Join a Band.”

“Like a rock band?”

“Yup, or any kind of band really. I mean, if Eric can do it, why can’t we? It just has to be something totally different from theater. So like, no Broadway covers.”

“I hate to break it to you, Case,” Harrison says. “But the only instrument I play is the kazoo. You remember that awful two weeks Dad made me take sax, right?”

I shudder. “We can be co-lead singers or something. Maybe you can be the drummer too. All you have to do is keep rhythm. And think of how hot that would make you look.”

He pushes his lips together, like he’s considering it, and then he starts tapping out some rhythm on the bench. He’s really getting into it, bobbing his head, and I try really hard not to laugh. I mean, he’s shorter than me and wears glasses and has regular-guy hair. He doesn’t look like a rock star.

I interrupt his drum solo. “Want to hear Number Five?”

He sits back down, grinning. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile since the cast list was announced.

I clear my throat. “Number Five: Figure Skating.”

“Figure skating?” he says in a tone as if he doesn’t believe what I just said.

“Figure skating is drama on ice,” I inform him. “They have classes. We could do pairs!”

He raises his eyebrows even higher. I’m afraid they’ll disappear into his hair. “No,” he says. “No way.”

“But why?”

“Because I’m
really
not coordinated enough for that. Everyone would laugh at me. And you have to wear those tight clothes. And I think you have to start that kind of thing when you’re like four to be any good at it.”

I hate to admit that he’s probably right. I’ve been ice skating twice, and I spent most of the time clinging to the wall and wishing that ice were softer. “Okay, then. We need a new Number Five.”

We sit in silence for a minute.

“Botany?” I suggest.

Harrison rolls his eyes and checks his phone again. He stands up.

“You can’t leave until we have a new Number Five!”

“How about poker?” he says.

“Really?” I picture fat men with cigars in a dark room tossing cards on a table and grunting things like, “One-eyed jacks are wild.”

“Yes, poker. C’mon, Casey. You picked everything else. I demand poker. And just think of how rich you can get if you’re really good and go to Vegas to be a poker shark. You wouldn’t even have to go to college then.” Harrison crosses his arms.

I wouldn’t have to go to college. I hadn’t even thought of that. I know plenty of people don’t go to college, but I’d never even considered it. Mom assumes that both Eric and I will get degrees. But why waste her money if I know my talents lie elsewhere?

“Okay, poker it is.” I cross out
Figure Skating
and write
Poker Shark
next to the number five. Then I fold The List and return it to my backpack.

“So, when do we start?” Harrison asks as he leads the way back toward school.

“Tomorrow. Art is up first.”

“You know what? We should talk to Alexa James and her friends.”

The Bohemian Brigade. Perfect. “Good idea. Hey, can you drop me at home?”

“Casey, I have to get to the school!”

“It’s on your way. Sort of. Please don’t make me hang out here and listen to Eric’s band.” I fold my hands in a prayer.

“Fine,” he says with a huff. “I think you should add
Get a License
to that list.”

“Why? So I can become a race car driver? No thanks.”

We’ve just crossed the street when I stop in my tracks.

No way. I did
not
just see what I thought I did. I close my eyes and open them again. It’s still there.

Harrison stops when he realizes I’m not behind him. “What? What’s going on? You’re making me late.”

I can’t speak. I just point.

At
them
.