Look Both Ways (12 page)

Rehearsals for
Midsummer
are kicking into high gear when we’re called in for our second shot at
Señor Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders.
Since a bunch of our cast members are in both shows, we aren’t even able to gather until ten-thirty at night, after the main stage rehearsal is over. I’ve already been in the theater for twelve hours, fetching gels and moving ladders and refocusing lights, and I’m not looking forward to another useless night of slogging through imaginary tar. But I’m a little heartened when I arrive and see that Clark is carrying a stack of stapled packets that look like scripts. Even having a couple of concrete scenes to read through would make me feel so much better about this production.

But when we settle into our circle of chairs and I look down at the “script” Clark has handed me, I feel the bizarre urge to laugh and cry at the same time.

SEÑOR HIDALGO'S CIRCUS OF WONDERS

my mind is a circus of wonders

wonderful circus of the mind

dark matter in three rings, circling, circling

(THE ENSEMBLE becomes a series of concentric circles, pulsing, nesting, pulling apart, linking and unlinking)

rings like a ringmaster

rings like a doorbell

(DING, DING, DING, THE ENSEMBLE becomes a doorbell)

rings on my fingers and bells on my toes

(jingle bells, jingle bells)

rings around my mind

like an iron band squeezing, squeezing, clamped around my brain

until the pain the pain the pain

the pain turns into rings

rings like saturn

my mind is a circus of planets spinning spinning spinning out of control

(THE ENSEMBLE spins out of control spins spins spins EXPLODES)

explosion of light, explosion of the mind

the furious light of a supernova

my mind is a supernova

wonderful supernova circus

(THE ENSEMBLE coalesces into a writhing mass of fury)

I wonder wonder wonder wonder wonder

wonder wonder wonder wonder

wonder wonder wonder

wonder

(THE ENSEMBLE sings)

Okay, seriously,
what
are we supposed to do with this?

I glance up at our “playwright,” who’s sitting across the circle. He’s looking down at his lap, tapping a pen against his leg with one hand and sliding his glasses up and down his sweaty nose with the other. He looks like the kind of person who would spend his time doing something comfortable and safe, like painting model airplanes alone in a basement. He does not look like someone whose mind is a furious supernova. Russell’s sitting next to me, and I turn to give him a
Can you believe this?
look. The expression on his face is so horrified, I have to look away so I won’t burst into inappropriate laughter.

“Um,” says the guy with the long hair from across the circle. “I don’t mean to be rude or anything, but how are we supposed to read this? It doesn’t indicate who says what.”

Clark runs his hands through his hair and heaves one of his world-weary sighs. “It’s not a script. It’s a jumping-off point. These are prompts, not lines. It’s an
ensemble
piece. That means we create it
together.
Right, Alberto?”

Our playwright looks up like he’s in the crosshairs of a rifle and nods quickly.

“I think it might be easier if—” the long-haired guy starts, but Clark cuts him off.

“If you want to do things that are easy, you shouldn’t be here. On your feet, everyone! Start at the top.”

We move our chairs back, stand in a circle, and stare down at our pages of text, but nobody does anything. After about ten seconds, Natasha says, “I don’t really get what any of this means. Shouldn’t we do some table work first and talk about themes and stuff? Like what Alberto’s inspirations were for writing this?”

Alberto cringes back into his seat, and Clark shoots Natasha a death glare. “Who’s directing this project? You or me?”

“I mean, you. But I don’t understand your directions.”

“I don’t get it, either,” says bench-press guy. “Like, here at the bottom of the page, it says we’re supposed to sing. But
what
are we supposed to sing? We haven’t had a music rehearsal or anything.”

“Sing what you feel moved to sing! God!” Clark’s voice comes out high and hysterical. Personally, I feel moved to run out of the room. I send the universe an image of the fire alarm going off so I can go spend this evening hanging out with Zoe, but it remains annoyingly silent.

So I do what I always do when I don’t want to participate in a performance. I walk over to the piano, where I feel safe and comfortable, and I start playing. Nothing I know seems appropriate, so I improvise a low, creepy, meandering bass line to underscore Alberto’s nonsensical words. Everyone seems to relax a little now that something is happening, and they start reading aloud, talking over each other and trying to make their bodies into doorbells and concentric circles and masses of fury. It’s cool that my music is the thing that spurred everyone into action, but the result is still pretty abysmal. Clark nods like this is exactly what he wants from us, but I can’t imagine how this random chaos is ever going to become a presentable show.

I stay at the piano for the entire rehearsal, playing with melodies to go with my bass line. I feel a little guilty that I’m enjoying myself over here while everyone else is yelling and contorting and writhing in a pile on the floor, but much more than that, I’m relieved to have found a way out. As I play, I try to remember every detail of the “acting” going on across the room so I can recount it for Zoe later. My body is here in rehearsal, but my mind is already back in the room, doing a dramatic reading of this “script” and reducing her to helpless, tearful laughter. It felt so awesome to have all her attention focused on me when I described last week’s rehearsal. I can’t wait to make it happen again.

Rehearsal ends as abruptly as it did last time; when Clark has had enough, he scoops up his clipboard and walks out. Alberto drops a pencil as he scurries after him, and the guy with the long hair pockets it on his way out the door. Pandora dials her phone as she leaves, and from out in the hall, I hear her say something about “amateur bullshit” and “meeting with company management.”

Russell intercepts me before I can leave the piano bench. “My pain is like the rings of Saturn,” he says.

“I feel more like a furious supernova, personally.” I slump back against the wall. “What are we going to do?”

“I mean, what
can
we even do? We can’t make a play until that dude writes a play.”

“Do you think we could get the show canceled if enough of us complained? I’d honestly rather be in nothing than be in this.”

“Well, you wouldn’t be in
nothing.
What about your main stage show?”

“I’m not in one. Apparently I suck too much to be on the main stage.” It’s been long enough now that it doesn’t hurt to say those words anymore.

Russell scoots me over with his hip and sits down next to me on the bench. “I’m sure you don’t suck,” he says.

“Trust me, I kind of do.”

“Well, I guess I don’t know for sure, since I’ve never seen you act. But you were good enough to get in here in the first place, and it’s pretty competitive. Plus, you’re a kick-ass musician.” He puts his hands on the keys and starts trying to replicate the bass line I was playing. “I love this. Did you write it?”

I’ve never really thought of the silly little tunes I pick out as
writing
something, and I’m pretty sure nobody’s ever called me a musician before, either. To everyone at home, I’ve always been just an accompanist. “Yeah,” I say. “I made it up.”

“It’s really cool.” With his other hand, Russell adds some chords, and they harmonize better than the ones I was using earlier. “What about this?”

“Ooh, nice.” I start playing with a melody on the high keys, and pretty soon we’ve got an interesting little song going, melodic lines twining around each other in this cool, haunting way. Russell and I barely know each other, but somehow we’re each able to anticipate what the other is about to do, like we’ve been making music together for years. My pulse speeds up, and my brain starts feeling busier, somehow, like I’m using more parts of it than usual. I’m always so self-conscious when I’m acting or singing, but it’s totally different when I’m at the piano; I’m confident enough that I’m able to laugh off my mistakes like they don’t even matter. What Russell and I are doing feels like playing in the most literal sense.

We finish the song by getting slower and slower, tapering off like a music box that’s winding down. When the last note has faded away, we sit there for a second, motionless, still caught up in the web of what we’ve created together. Then Russell says, “That was
awesome.
”

“Wasn’t it?” I feel weirdly giddy.

“You’re really talented.”

I shrug and smile. “Not the kind of talented that matters around here. But thank you. So are you.”

“Are you a music major?”

“I don’t start college till next year, actually, but I wasn’t planning on it. I don’t have any formal training or anything. My uncle taught me to play.”

“That’s cool. Is he a professional pianist?”

“No, he’s a producer for the New York Musical Festival. He’s really good, though, and we both get a ton of practice accompanying my family. They’re all theater people, and everyone gets together every Monday night to eat dinner and get drunk and sing.”

“Like, show tunes and stuff?” I nod. “Nice. Today’s Monday; they’re probably doing it right now.”

I hadn’t even noticed it was Monday; when you work seven days a week, it’s easy to lose track. I picture everyone gathering without me—Marisol’s belly getting bigger, Sutton and Twyla growing taller, Skye getting closer and closer to everyone. I must have my feelings painted all over my face, because Russell says, “You miss them, huh?”

“Yeah. A lot, actually.”

“Play something for me.” He moves over a little so I can have access to the lower keys, but his shoulders are so broad that he’s still taking up most of the bench.

“What should I play?” I ask.

“I don’t know, anything.
The Sound of Music.
”

I start laughing. “Really?
That’s
the first thing you thought of?”

“Shut up and play it!”

I roll my eyes and play the introduction to “Edelweiss,” and Russell starts to sing. His voice is rough and untrained, but he wouldn’t embarrass himself doing karaoke or anything. Instead of the real lyrics, he makes up his own: “Crazy Clark, crazy Clark, never runs a rehearsal…We stand by, wond’ring why. Is this just universal?”

I smile and pick up where he leaves off. “This is so dumb, why’d I even come, when I could be sleeping? Crazy Clark, crazy Clark, you might make me start weeping.”

Russell laughs and high-fives me. “Damn. A stellar pianist and a master of parody,
and
you have a pretty voice. You didn’t list that stuff under your special skills.”

I blush a little and look down so he won’t see. “My uncle and I make up silly lyrics all the time. He loves this kind of stuff. He once produced a parody of
Cats
that took place in a tattoo shop. It was called—”

“
Tats
?”

“Quick on the uptake,” I say.

“Was it funny?”

“I thought so. My mom left at intermission. She thinks stuff like that is an insult to real theater.”

“All theater is real theater. Except maybe
Señor Hidalgo’s Circus of Wonders.
” He puts his hands back on the keys. “Let’s do another one.”

Russell may not be a performer, but he knows his musicals inside and out, and we work our way through song after song, cracking each other up with ridiculous lyrics. It feels so relaxing and familiar that when Zoe finally texts to ask where I am, I can’t believe how late it is. Russell and I have been playing for almost an hour.

“Wow,” I say. “I’ve gotta run.”

“Meeting someone?” He says it casually, but I can tell he’s asking if I’ll have to bring doughnuts for my crew tomorrow. I can practically see him repressing a teasing eyebrow-waggle.

“Just my roommate,” I say, but there’s no
just
about it. She could be hanging out with anyone at all right now, but she wants to know where
I
am.

“Let’s play together again sometime, okay?” Russell says. “This was really fun.”

“Definitely,” I answer, but I’m already halfway out the door, hoping Zoe will be up for another epic game of Love or Hate.