Exit Stage Left (7 page)

Except I need to be sure. The only way I’ll know if I’m really meant to be an artist is if I wholeheartedly believe I am. I’m imagining my future pottery career (mostly setting up shop on the beach somewhere and searching for inspiration each afternoon on a chaise lounge parked in the sand) when Harrison and I arrive at rehearsal. Chatter buzzes throughout the theater as everyone waits for Ms. Sharp. Hannah’s here, but she doesn’t dare start without Ms. Sharp.

“Hey!” Amanda dances up to me, her hair swinging behind her. “We get to start blocking today. Isn’t that great?”

I can’t help the smile that jumps up on my face. I love blocking. Figuring out how my character will move throughout the show is one of the best parts of rehearsal. Of course, it would be more fun if I were Maria. But that doesn’t bother me anymore. My best friend is Maria, and I’m thrilled for her.

“People. People!” Ms. Sharp walks down the main aisle, clapping her hands. “We’re going to block some of the bigger scenes today.
Everyone needs to pay attention, because we’re only going through each scene once. Let’s start with Scene Three. Sisters, onstage, please!”

I start to skip up the steps to the stage when I notice Trevor sauntering down the aisle toward Amanda. He intercepts her on her way to the stage, he says something, and she smiles at him. If I didn’t know for a fact that he still wanted to get back together with me, I’d swear he was flirting. And if I didn’t absolutely trust Amanda, I’d swear she was flirting back.

Ms. Sharp walks us through the entire song, and I fill my script with notes, distracted for a few minutes from Trevor and Amanda. Then I go offstage . . . and stay there forever. So I decide to get a drink from the vending machines.

I push through the theater doors when I realize someone else has the same idea. I turn around to see who’s following me. Oliver.

“Hey,” I say once we leave the theater.

He doesn’t say anything.

“Look, you don’t have to pull that whole Silent Hollywood Guy thing with me. I know you talk.”

His face goes a little red. “What did you call me?”

“Um, Silent Hollywood Guy.”

He laughs, and his face resumes its normal shade.

“I didn’t come up with it.” We stop at the alcove filled with vending machines that’s just outside the cafeteria. “So what brings you to the Alcove of Sin?”

“The Alcove of Sin?” Oliver repeats.

“You know, because it’s full of junk food. Or, well, it used to be. Now it’s mostly healthy snacks and things that pretend to be healthy, like Diet Coke.”

“I’ll be honest—Alcove of Sin brought something entirely different to mind.”

I flip my braid over my shoulder. That wasn’t at all a joke I thought someone like Oliver would make. “Well, I never said it wasn’t that too.”

He raises an eyebrow at me. What am I doing? I’m flirting with Silent Hollywood Guy. I need to quit that before he gets the wrong idea.

“What’s with the one-eyebrow thing? Are two eyebrows overrated or something?”

The eyebrow falls, and I swear he goes a little red again. I bet he thinks girls find the single-eyebrow raise sexy.

He clears his throat. “Damn, you saw right through that, huh. I’ll have to figure out something else now.” Just like that, the awkwardness falls away from him.

And,
this
is flirting again.

“I’m thirsty,” I say, kind of pointedly.

He crooks up half a smile and pushes a dollar into the slot of the closest machine. “What do you want?”

“Diet Mountain Dew, please. Here, I have . . .” I forgot I was wearing a skirt with no pockets. “Um . . . I don’t actually have any money.” Well, that’s useless. Who goes to get a drink from the Alcove of Sin without money?

Oliver touches his hair. Checking to make sure it hasn’t deflated, I suppose. “I’ll buy. Don’t worry about it.”

I take the drink he hands me. “Well, thanks.” He gets himself a Diet Coke and we start walking back toward the theater.

“So, what’s your story? Are you really from Hollywood?”

That half smile again. It’s like one side of his mouth doesn’t turn up as far as the other side. “Why, don’t I look like a celebrity?”

I roll my eyes. Guess he’s not an undercover actor.

“San Francisco, actually. Not Hollywood. Never even been there.”

“So what are you doing here in boring Holland, Indiana?”

“My parents split up last year. My aunt moved here years ago, and Mom always liked it. Dad’s from England, so he went back there.”

“How do you like it so far?”

He shrugs. “It could be worse.”

“It’s easier to make friends when you actually talk to people, like you’re doing now.”

“Right.” He looks down at his drink.

“You know what? My dad’s in London right now for his work.” Did I just willingly talk about my father? There’s something wrong with me. Maybe I’m coming down with the flu. I put a hand to my forehead.

“Really? That’s crazy, because mine is too. What’s he do?”

He specializes in leaving his kids to take a job halfway around the world. “Lighting design, for shows,” I say as I mess with the pull tab on my drink. I wish I hadn’t brought up the subject.

“That sounds like the best job in the world.”

I shrug.

“Your mom miss him?” Oliver asks.

“No way. They’re as divorced as divorced can get.” I barely even talk to Amanda about this stuff, so how am I having this conversation with Oliver?

“I—” Oliver’s cut off when the door to the theater opens. I silently thank whoever it is. Danielle skips out.

“Oh no,” I say under my breath. I brace myself for the pep. Maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to end that painful Dad chat with Oliver.

“Hey, guys!” Danielle bounces toward us. “They’re blocking now for the ‘Sixteen Going on Seventeen’ scene!”

“Only ten hours before I need to be back onstage,” I mumble.

Oliver snorts.

“Ha! Casey, you’re so funny! Isn’t this great?! I love this play! I love being
in
this play! Can you imagine anything more fun than this?!” Danielle looks at me and Oliver, her ponytail swinging as her head whips back and forth. She’s like one of those yappy little dogs watching a squirrel. I really, really hope I didn’t sound like that as a freshman, despite my Danielle-like overenthusiasm for everything theater.

“It’s not bad,” Oliver says. “I love acting. Doesn’t matter which show or part.”

I tilt my head, trying to figure out if he’s telling the truth. I mean, everyone knows the lead is the best role. How is it fun to be in only a few scenes?

“Ooh! Me too!” Danielle agrees. “What’s your favorite play?!”

“
Oklahoma!
”

“Seriously?” I ask. I would’ve guessed
Jesus Christ Superstar
or
American Idiot
. Something slightly less traditional than
Oklahoma!
, the least edgy show in the world.

He nods. “It was the first one I was ever in.” He takes a deep breath and belts out, “Oooooook-la-homa! Where the wind comes sweeping down the plain!” He looks so earnest that I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.

“Oh my God! That’s so funny!” Danielle actually bounces up on her toes toward him.

Oliver takes a step backward.

I crack up just as I take a sip of my drink, and end up choking on it.

“Oh my God! Are you okay?” Danielle yells in my ear. “Can you breathe?”

Oliver slaps my back and I stumble forward, still coughing.

“Stop! I’m fine.” My eyes water and I wave my free hand at my face.

The theater door flies open.

I blink through my tears to see Trevor standing there, pushing his hair out of his eyes and looking very . . . Trevor-like. I try not to cough, but I can’t help it.

“You okay, Casey?” he asks.

I nod mutely. And cough again.

“Ms. Sharp sent me out to tell everyone to come in. She wasn’t digging . . . how’d she put it? ‘All that terrible noise outside the doors.’” He steps forward and puts a hand on my back. “Sure you’re all right?”

It feels like his hand is made out of fire. Which reminds me of that moment in the parking lot a few days ago, when his hand was in mine. And that same hand on the back of my neck the last day of school in June, right before I told him it was over. We’d snuck into the theater and spent a lunch period definitely not eating lunch. Christ, this is
not
what I need to be thinking about. I need to focus on The List and fixing my life.

But for some reason, my body won’t cooperate and move away from him.

Trevor leans forward and opens the theater door, his hand still on my back, so warm I think it’s burning a hole through my tie-dyed shirt.

“Thanks, Trevor!” Danielle squeaks.

“Yeah,” Oliver says with a quick glance at the two of us. I can practically hear him piecing two and two together.

“No problem, bro.” Trevor moves his hand to my shoulder, and my brain kicks into gear again. I practically leap away from him, bumping into Oliver as he follows Danielle into a row of seats.

I sit down and look to see if Trevor’s joining us. He’s not, and in fact, he’s already halfway up the aisle. That’s good. I don’t need him sitting here and distracting me.

One thing’s for sure, though. He’s definitely still interested in me, even after I pushed him away the other day. Which means that ride and movie-lending thing with Amanda is nothing to worry about.

Satisfied, although I don’t know why exactly, I turn my attention to the stage. Harrison and Kelly stand there waiting, scripts and pencils in hand.

“And the song ends with a kiss,” Ms. Sharp is saying.

Harrison blushes even more. Kelly coughs.

Oliver whispers to me, “Your friends?”

I nod.

“They have to kiss!” Danielle whisper-shrieks, like she’s in second grade.

Watching Harrison and Kelly struggle through the scene only reminds me of the one just like it that will come up later with Amanda and Trevor. Except I’m 99.9 percent sure that Trevor isn’t gay. And maybe only 85 percent sure that he wasn’t flirting with Amanda. Make that 90 percent.

Pottery. I should think about pottery and the Throw-In tomorrow. Who needs plays or romantic scenes between your best friend and the guy you’ve spent the better part of two years with? I don’t. All I need is some clay and a kirn. Or tiln. Or whatever the thing that hardens the clay to make pottery is called. Casey, her clay, and her kirn. Or tiln.

When Amanda pulls up Friday morning, I step out the door wearing a pair of black leggings and a long, flowy shirt. I have a headband around my forehead and Necklace Girl’s beads looped twice around my neck. Another totally artsy outfit, perfect for the Bohemian Brigade and my new life as a potter.

Maybe I can major in pottery, and then, after I master that, I can branch out into—I don’t know—painting or sketching. I wonder if there’s a market for decoupaged baby food jars?

“Cute headband,” Amanda says when I slide into her passenger seat. She looks like regular old Amanda—tailored skirt, fitted sweater, straight blond hair in a low ponytail. “You’re still on a bohemian, hippie girl streak, right?”

“No, not really. I think I’m tired of the method acting,” I say.

“Really? Wow. I never thought that would happen. Your theme weeks are so . . . Casey.”

“Yeah, I know. But I can’t keep doing it forever, right?” I guess
I’m still being Method Actor Casey, but in a different way. I’m trying on a new character, but not just temporarily. I’m auditioning for a college major.

Amanda nods as she makes a right turn onto the road that stretches across town to school. “Probably good to change now. So, tonight!”

“I’ll be there at seven. And I’ll bring the cookies.”

We pull up at a light behind a school bus. Up through February of sophomore year (when Amanda got her driver’s license), we rode the bus together every day. We always had the same routine. Each morning we switched who got the window seat and who got the aisle. Of course, the Amanda I started the tradition with in first grade never let my ex maybe-flirt with her. She didn’t even chase Ricky Evans around the playground like every other seven-year-old girl, because I thought he was cute.

“So, what did Trevor say was so great about this movie?” I ask, totally fishing for clues.

“Oh, not much. Just that it’s his favorite. It’s got some killer dialogue.”

“That sounds good.” I pretend to look in my purse for something. “I don’t remember him ever mentioning it. I must’ve zoned out.”

“Huh. He went on and on about it in the car the other day.” Amanda floors it through a yellow light, which is not very Amanda-like at all. I narrow my eyes a bit. She’s nervous about something. Probably a Trevor-something.

Amanda’s phone buzzes.

“Who’s texting you this early?”

She plucks it from the cup holder and passes it to me.

I click the phone on. And I want to cry.

Watch the movie 2nite?

A text from Trevor. Practically inviting himself over to her house. What the hell?

“Well, if you’re not going to read it to me . . .” Amanda brakes at the light at Wabash next to Holland’s one-and-only Walmart (parking lot packed, as usual) and snatches her phone back.

I put a hand to my chest like that can stop my heart from beating so fast. “I thought you didn’t like him.”

“I don’t!” She reads the text again. “Look, he probably just wants to know what I think about that movie. Maybe there’s something in there that applies to
The Sound of Music
.”

I take a couple of deep breaths. I have to trust her. Besides, I’m going to be there, so it’s not like anything can happen. And maybe I can figure out what’s going on—or not—between them. I hate feeling like this, so it’d be nice to put a rest to it.

“I’m going to tell him no,” Amanda says, starting to type.

“Say yes. Tell him to come over. Hurry up, before the light changes.”

“Casey, I don’t know. . . . I’m not sure if that’s the best idea.”

I yank the phone from her hand. “You drive. I’ll text.” I tap out a quick
yes
response to Trevor and drop her phone back into the cup holder.

Tonight I’m going to get some answers. And then I’m going to make sure I’m over Trevor for good.

When Harrison and I arrive at one of the big art studio rooms on the third floor, the Throw-In is already well under way. Someone’s put on some kind of reggae music, and pottery wheels spin like mad.

“Harry! Casey. I’m so glad you came.” Alexa dashes up to us, her hands dripping in wet clay. She pushes her mane of hair out of her face with an arm. “Hey, everyone, this is Harrison and Casey!”

Some people look up and murmur, “Hi.” But others are too intent on their work to notice that Alexa said anything. Those, I decide, are the serious artists. Well, except for that same guy I saw at the Bohemian Brigade’s lunch table Wednesday. He’s got his head down on a pottery wheel, eyes closed. Someone should check to make sure he’s still breathing.

“Grab a wheel and some clay and make whatever your heart tells you,” Alexa’s saying. She drifts off back to her wheel.

The clay is cold and wet and makes a plopping sound when I drop it on a wheel next to Necklace Girl.

“So . . .” Harrison eyes the lump on his wheel. He’s carefully pushed up the sleeves of his Henley and is poking at the clay, like it might come to life and start moving across the wheel. “How exactly do we do this?”

“You have to roll it first,” Necklace Girl says in her singsongy voice. “Ask the bubbles to leave. Like this.” She reaches over to my lump and begins kneading it, while humming something that’s entirely different from the Bob Marley reverberating through the room.

“Thanks, um . . .” I have no idea what Necklace Girl’s real name
is, and calling her Necklace Girl seems sort of rude.

“Rain,” she says.

“Rain?” Harrison adjusts his glasses. I give him a good elbow in the ribs. Everyone knows that super-artsy people pick new names. He’s going to make us look like we don’t belong here.

“Rain.” She looks as if she’s going to say something else, but her eyes take on this glassy look. She starts humming again and spinning the clay on her wheel.

“All right, then,” Harrison says under his breath.

“Come on, let’s do this . . . Autumn Leaves,” I say.

“No,” he replies, glaring at me through his glasses.

“Fine. You’re more of a Storm Clouds anyway.” I pull my stool up to the wheel, dig my hands into the clay, and start rolling it the same way Rain did. It makes tiny burping noises as I move it back and forth under my hands. It’s fun, like squeezing bubble wrap. And I can kind of see how the narcoleptic guy in back could fall asleep doing this. It’s like a meditative, zoning-out sort of experience. Which is definitely something I can use right now.

“What do you do after the air bubbles are out?” I ask Rain.

“Hmmm?”

I feel bad, like I’ve pulled her from a trance. “Once the bubbles are out, what’s next?”

“Oh, you have to get your hands wet, and then center the clay on the wheel. Then you . . . create.” She’s already engrossed in her clay again, so I figure that’s all I’m going to get.

“What are you going to make?” Harrison asks once we’ve done
what Rain said.

“I don’t know yet. I think I’ll just see what form it takes.” That seems like the artsy thing to do. I push the pedal and my wheel starts spinning. I place my hands on either side of the lump of clay. It’s cool and smooth.

“Huh. I think I need a plan first.” Harrison looks at his clay as if it’s going to jump off the wheel and make itself into something.

I close my eyes and feel the wet clay move beneath my hands. The room is a chaos of music and pottery wheels and chatter and I think someone’s singing “Kumbayah.” This is it.
This
is what I’m going to do with my life. I feel like I can shape a whole new world—or at least a college major—with just a lump of clay. Trevor could be texting Amanda right this very second, and I wouldn’t care. Mostly.

“Um, Casey?”

I open my eyes. “What?”

“You’re humming. You’re humming ‘Kumbayah.’”

“I am?” I start singing it instead. But more in tune than the guy across the room.

“Ooookay . . .” Harrison turns back to his clay. “I think I’ll make a bowl.”

“Very original, Gunther Engelbert,” I sing.

“Shut up. At least I know what I’m doing now. All you’re making is a clay ball.”

“I’m going with my muse. And she doesn’t like to be directed.”

“Hmmph.”

I ignore Harrison and concentrate on my clay. I point my finger
into the top of the ball and create an indentation. It looks like a funky vase. I poke the top edge and make a dip. Now it looks like a vase-bowl, whatever that is.

I look around the room. Rain is making some sort of tall, thin thing. “Kumbayah” Guy has a wide, flat platter going on. Alexa’s using a paper clip to create lines on a bowl. Now that’s an idea. I glance at the stuff littering the shelves in the studio. A paintbrush. Chicken wire. (What in the world is even remotely artsy about chicken wire?) Styrofoam cylinders. Calligraphy pens.

That’s it! I lift my foot off the pedal and grab one of the calligraphy pens.

“What are you doing?” Harrison pushes his lips together in a suspicious pout.

“Being creative. Stepping outside the box. Isn’t that what art’s all about?” I tap the pedal again and reshape my vase-bowl into a ball. Then I hold the calligraphy pen to the side of the clay, just like Alexa’s doing with her paper clip. The sharp nib of the pen makes a tiny dent all around the ball.

“Um, Casey?” Harrison stops his wheel.

“What?” I push the nib a little farther into the clay. It makes a deeper indentation, but much narrower than my finger could ever make.

“I don’t think you’re supposed to use that for pottery.”

“That’s so sweet,” Rain says. She’s staring at the pen and the little line it’s making in my clay. I think it’s putting her into another trance.

“I’m not sure—” Harrison starts.

“Look, Harrison, did Jackson Pollock always do what he was
supposed
to?”

“Who?”

“Are you being serious with me right now? You don’t know who Jackson Pollock is?” Harrison can name every star of every Broadway show ever, but he’s never heard of Jackson Pollock? How does he have better grades than me, again? “What about Georgia O’Keefe?”

“What does she have to do with anything?”

I shake my head. Harrison and his regular-guy Henley and his basic bowl. He’s never going to make it in the art world. Or art school, for that matter.

I push the calligraphy pen even farther. It divides my big ball of clay into two half balls, held together by an inch or so in the middle. Rain gasps in delight and claps her hands together like a little girl. At least someone has faith in my creation. Harrison just sits there, frowning.

“Casey . . .” he says again.

I ignore him. If I could just get that little connecting piece of clay a bit thinner, it would be perfect. I dip the calligraphy pen just a little bit more.

Big mistake.