Chapter 18
The performance in the dining hall worked.
It worked well.
After seeing that I’m not a complete fake and that I have no intention of bailing on the show, as Belinda led everyone to
believe, the diehards all showed up that afternoon and sang their guts out. Turns out, several people already had audition
songs prepared, and some of them were actually incredible.
By the end of the evening, we had more than enough people to fill every role, including Connie, who, it turns out, is actually
a decent performer. Her quirkiness instantly made me think she’d be a perfect fairy godmother, and I added her name to the
callback list as soon as she walked out the door.
Arthur didn’t come back for the afternoon auditions, which was kind of a blessing. But I was oddly concerned. I asked Connie
about it, and she seemed to imply this is typical for him. He likes to be by himself. And stage managers aren’t typically
at auditions anyway.
Everyone has gone, and I’m packing up my things when the door to the auditorium opens, drawing my attention to the back of
the space. To my surprise, it’s not Connie or Daisy or anyone I expect.
It’s Belinda.
She meets my eyes, and for the briefest moment, there’s a hitch in her step.
I stop moving and wait until she reaches me, moving down the aisle with the grace and beauty of a trained ballerina.
Once she’s standing in front of me, she pushes her hair back from her face, a nervous fidget I recognize immediately from
years of studying people.
A surprising sign that she’s not sure what to do with her hands.
She clears her throat. “Am I too late?” she asks without looking at me.
I see the olive branch she’s extending for what it is and choose to meet it with kindness. “No,” I say gently. “Of course
not. I’m glad you’re here.”
She gives me the slightest nod. “Very well. I assume your accompanist has already left for the day, so I’ll sing a cappella.”
She moves up onto the stage, and I sit back down in my chair and pull out my notebook.
It’s been a strange experience sitting on this side of the table, one that’s helped me understand what directors mean when
they say, “You just didn’t fit the part.”
It doesn’t matter how amazing you are—if you’re not right for the role, according to that director’s vision, you can’t change
that. It’s eye-opening to realize sometimes an actor can be really good but still wrong.
For years, I let every rejection inform the way I felt about myself, as if each one punctured a hole in my self-worth. Now
I realize what a waste of time that was.
I settle back and wait.
And the second she opens her mouth, I hear the proof of why people talk about her talent the way they do.
The familiar notes of “Memory” begin, and even though I’m not a huge fan of the musical Cats , the way she sings it makes me put down my pencil and just... listen.
For about one and a half minutes, Belinda transports me to an entirely different place. The emotion she’s able to access is stunning, and the way she carries herself is like a master class in grace and poise.
As she hits the final note, tears sting my eyes, and when she’s finished, she drops her hands and looks at me.
It feels wrong to applaud since I’m the only person in here, and yet, how do I properly convey to her how moving that was?
She watches me for a few seconds, then quirks a brow, as if expecting a response.
“That was...” I don’t even try to assign a single word to her performance. “Thank you.”
She gives me a nod, and then, as breezily as she walked in, she comes down from the stage.
“What made you change your mind?” I ask, standing.
She purses her lips. “Despite what you think, I do care about this theatre group, Miss Waterman. I care very much.”
“So it wasn’t my lunchtime performance?”
She scoffs. “Oh, heavens, no.” Then she gives me a quick once-over. “But... you weren’t half bad.”
I try to keep my smile hidden and easily come back with, “Neither were you,” while nodding to the stage.
Her lips press, and I can see she’s hiding a similar smile. Coming from her, this feels like she just gave me a Tony Award.
She picks up her purse. “I know some people have me pegged as the Evil Stepmother, but in this particular show, I would be
a wonderful Cinderella.”
And with that, she leaves.
***
Casting a show, I soon discover, is not for the faint of heart.
Emotion doesn’t get to sit at the table with you.
After a round of callbacks on Thursday, it’s obvious that a lot of the auditioners take this whole thing very seriously.
It’s strangely competitive but in a respectful way.
If what Connie said is true, this is more than just a show for many of them.
It’s the thing they get out of bed for. It gives them purpose—and it’s fun.
But more than fun.
Which makes me feel even more pressure to get it right.
As an actor, I take any role very seriously too. I’m diligent when I get a script, and bringing that character to life is
something I don’t take lightly. An extra, the friend next door, a corpse... it’s important for me to know the character
I’m playing. But I’m well aware that a show comes to life because of the director’s vision. Actors have very little say in
that, and my job is to try to make the director’s vision a reality.
But I’m the director now.
I’m the one who casts the vision.
I tell Ginny how I want the costumes to look.
I tell Booker what to build.
Having that much control over a show is kind of... amazing, actually. Now that I’ve seen that these actors are here to
work, that they don’t look at this as some light and fluffy production—they look at it as a chance to create something magical—I
want to work hard for them. I want to do right by them. My cast.
My cast.
My cottage.
My mailbox.
The reality of that settles on my shoulders as I look over the preliminary cast list we’ve made. It’s just me, Dylan, Veronica,
and Arthur at the table, and another encouraging realization I’ve had is that this team is actually strong.
Veronica’s callback dance combo was simple enough for the auditioners to learn and perform, but interesting enough to challenge
them. And not a grapevine in sight, which is a big praise the Lord in my book.
Arthur said very little throughout the entire process, but I learned very quickly to listen when he did speak.
While I was surprised he showed up for callbacks, it became obvious he isn’t just the guy who manages the theatre here—he knows what he’s talking about, which makes me wonder why he didn’t direct this show.
I find myself mostly wanting to discover a way to make him like me.
The real surprise, though, is Dylan. While I initially put her in charge of hair and makeup, she quickly stepped right into
the position of assistant director, taking initiative in areas that I hadn’t even thought of. She’s organized and detailed
and, when she wants to be (and isn’t on her phone), she’s really pleasant to be around. It’s impressive, given her age.
Now, after much debate, I lean back in my seat and look over the names on the whiteboard. Every character name went up on
that board with a list of possible performers underneath, and as we discussed and decided, Dylan erased all but one name for
each character. Looking it over now, I see that we don’t have anyone else to talk about.
“Oh my gosh, we did it,” I say. “We have our cast.”
“Good, can we go home now?” Arthur says. “You women are so indecisive.”
“I feel like I should be offended by that, but since I’m in such a good mood, I’ll let it slide,” I say.
“Yippee,” he says dryly.
We all stand, pushing away from the table.
“I’ll type everything up and send it to you to look over,” Dylan says. “Is there anything else you want me to do before the
first rehearsal? I can come in early and number the scripts for you?”
I can’t quite reconcile this girl in front of me with the one I met on the bench only days before. It’s like she was just waiting to be noticed, and now that she has been, she couldn’t wait to come to life. “That sounds great, Dylan, thank you. For everything—you’ve been a huge help.”
The smile skitters across her face and is gone just as quickly, like she remembered she’s decided not to smile today. “Great.
I’ll see you later.”
“Wait, I’ll walk with you,” Veronica says, following her out. She lifts a hand in a wave. “Have a good day off tomorrow, Rosie.
I’ll see you Saturday at the first rehearsal!” She singsongs that last bit, and a wave of excitement rushes through me.
I can’t believe it, but I’m actually excited to begin.
And I’ve completely forgotten anyone’s age.
Once they’re gone, I’m alone on the stage with Arthur, who is holding his keys and staring at me.
After a three-count, he sighs like an automated phone system just asked him to reenter his date of birth again for the fifth
time. “I can’t leave till you leave.”
“Oh! Sorry. Right, I’ll just...” I hurry and pack up my things, shoving my laptop and notebooks and callback notes haphazardly
into my tote bag and slinging it over my shoulder. “Thank you, Arthur, for being here. And for all the insight.”
“I didn’t do anything,” he says, walking toward the stage-right wing. He grabs the ghost light and wheels it out onto the
center of the stage.
Most theatres carry on this tradition of keeping an electric light on the stage once all the other lights are out. It’s said
to act as a guide to the ghosts that surely haunt every theatre.
It’s an old tradition, and I don’t believe in ghosts, but I do love that the theatre world still holds on to it. And, of course,
there are practical reasons to keep a light on a dark stage; otherwise, anyone who wanders in could tumble right off the edge.
Arthur spins the bulb and the dim light appears at the end of the pole.
“I disagree,” I say. “You know your stuff.”
He huffs.
“I just mean...” He really sets me on edge. “I didn’t know you were more than just a tech guy.” A flash of his tearful face at the end of my performance
washes over me. I want to ask him why.
“It seems there’s a lot you don’t know.” He turns.
“So tell me.”
He stops, and I white-knuckle the strap of my bag, bracing myself for what I fear is coming.
He turns around and meets my eyes, studies me for a beat, like he’s not sure I’m worth his time. Or maybe like he’s not sure
my skin is thick enough to hear what he has to say.
“You didn’t give everything you had to that song in the cafeteria.”
I start to protest, but he cuts me off.
“I saw it the second you pulled back.”
Oh wow. He knew .
“Most people wouldn’t catch it, but I know that song—intimately.” He presses his lips together, and I know there’s more to
that story. I also know the odds of me ever hearing it are slim, which makes me want to know even more.
“It’s like you were afraid to trust yourself in the moment you needed to most.” He shakes his head. “Full of doubt.”
I steel my jaw, and he seems to notice that too. He seems to notice everything.
He tilts his head, still studying me. “And if I had to guess, I’d say there’s a whole part of you that you don’t access when
you work.”
I swallow, and it’s so quiet in here that I hear the noise of it in my head like it’s a sound effect in a cartoon.
He leans forward. “You’re holding back.”
My laugh is nervous. “You got all that from one performance?”
He shrugs.
“I must’ve done something right,” I say before I lose my nerve. “It made you cry.”
He goes still but doesn’t turn back.
I stop breathing in anticipation of whatever he’s going to say next, but he starts walking again and calls over his shoulder,
“Try not to drive into a ditch on the way home.”
And then he’s gone, and all that’s left on the stage is the dim ghost light and me.