Chapter Four
I’m not generally a morning person, but Saturday finds me wide awake a good ninety minutes before my alarm is set to go off.
Dusky sleepiness surrenders to the buzz of excitement hurtling around in my brain.
It takes me a moment to remember why I’m so fully awake. When I do recall the reason, I grin.
The auditions are today.
Since I’m too wired to go back to sleep, I throw off the covers and go downstairs for a bowl of cereal.
“You’re up early.” Mom, dressed in a turquoise and gray tracksuit, is putting on her gloves. “I’m going for a run, but I can wait if you want to go with.”
“Um, not really.” I open the cupboards. “But thanks.”
“Okay. Would you mind starting a pot of coffee?”
“Sure.” I reach for a brightly colored box.
“One of these days, I’m going to make you start buying that stuff for yourself. You have no idea how ridiculous I feel buying cereal with a cartoon character on the box. If I ran into my trainer at the store, I’d be mortified.”
“But Mom, they’re magical and delicious.” I reach in the box, grab a handful, and then tip my head back to drop the cereal in my mouth.
Mom shakes her head, but I smile and offer the box to her, careful to keep my lips closed, lest I ruin a rare relaxed moment with her.
“Thanks, but no.” Mom gives me a half-smile. “Don’t forget about the coffee.”
“Got it.”
“And don’t talk with your mouth full.”
“’Kay.” Oops. I swallow. “Are you taking Janey with you?”
“Yep.” Mom nods and heads for the door.
I fill the coffee maker before seeing to the rest of my breakfast. By the time Mom returns from her morning run, I’m showered, dressed, and sitting at the table, ear buds in and music on.
Mom peers around my cup of herbal tea to look at my playlist. “What are you listening to?”
I pull one ear bud out. “The Sound of Music.”
“I didn’t think you liked that one.”
“It’s okay. Not my favorite.” I’m surprised she remembers. “I’m listening to it for the Leopold Community Theatre audition. Remember? It’s this morning.”
“Right. You mentioned that.” Mom takes a sip of her coffee. “Mmm. This is good, Faith.”
“It looks like tar.”
“As it should.” She takes another sip. “Sounds like your dad’s up.” Mom leans back in her chair. “The paper’s on the kitchen counter!” She turns back to me. “What time do you need to leave?”
“Around nine. The auditions don’t start until ten o’clock, but I want to be early.”
“Well, good luck.”
My eyes round. I wince.
“What?” She sets her cup down. “What did I say?”
“You said ‘good luck.’” I shudder, maybe a little more than necessary.
“And? I may not be into all this artsy business of yours, but can’t a mother wish her daughter good luck?”
“Well, sure. Just . . . not like that. Remember when I studied the Scottish play in Mrs. Whetstein’s A.P. lit class last year?”
“Which Scottish play?”
“The Scottish play.”
“She means Macbeth.” Dad’s slippers make a slish-slish sound as he crosses the slate floor from the kitchen to the breakfast room.
“Thank you.” I tilt my head, acknowledging Dad’s unexpected Shakespearean Theatre knowledge.
“Oh, good.” He takes a seat and reaches for the carafe. “Coffee.”
“Anyway,” I continue, “Mrs. Whetstein taught us about theatre superstitions. One famous superstition is that you’re not supposed to say the name of the Scottish play when you’re in a theatre. Another is—”
“We’re not in a theatre.”
“Okay, okay. Macbeth. There. I said it. Happy?” I roll my eyes but only the slightest bit before I remember how much Mom hates it when I roll my eyes.
“And another is that you should never, ever wish an actor good luck. Saying ‘good luck’ is considered bad luck. That’s why people say ‘break a leg.’ It’s the law of opposites or something. ”
“Well, that makes perfect sense.” Mom shakes her head, frowning. “So if I said, ‘Faith, I hope you fall, bump your head, get a concussion, and have to get nine stitches across the bridge of your nose,’ it would mean you would get the lead role?”
“Sweet!” I laugh. “But, no. It’s just a silly superstition. I don’t believe it or anything. But some people are superstitious in the theatre, so I don’t want to say something at auditions that’s going to make someone else freak out.”
“What’s this about you trying out for a role in Macbeth?” Dad already has the paper open and is perusing the financial section.
“Not Macbeth. The Sound of Music. The Leopold Community Theatre is putting it on this winter, and I’m trying out for the part of Liesl.”
“What’s that got to do with Macbeth?”
“Nothing, dear. Read your paper.” Mom grants me a silent smile. “So, did you eat a good breakfast?”
“Yep.”
“Protein?”
“Um, I guess. I’d have to check the box.”
“Faith, protein is brain food. You need protein in the morning. How about I whip up a couple of egg white omelets?”
“But it’s Saturday.”
“So?” Mom arches an eyebrow.
“I don’t use as much of my brain on Saturday. Besides, egg white omelets are gross.”
“Hear, hear!” Dad raises his mug.
“You should practice what you preach, Doctor Prescott.” Mom points a finger at her husband. “What would your patients say if they knew what you—”
“Janet, I really don’t think it will kill me if I have a yolk in my omelet on Saturday morning.” He sets his paper down. “Besides . . .”
Like clockwork, the regular Saturday morning argument begins. Regardless of his title of cardiologist, I’m pretty sure Dad would go for donuts and frothy cappuccinos on the weekends if he could get away with it, but Mom doesn’t believe in varying nutritional content based on the day of the week.
I see my opportunity to escape and take it.
My parents will likely debate weekend nutrition for the next fifteen minutes at least, and by the time they’re finished, Dad will be choking down three spears of asparagus wrapped in a tasteless, unsalted white omelet, just like Mom.
Neither will notice that their youngest child has left the table.
Once upstairs, I finish drying my hair and brush my teeth. After a quick but careful application of blush, mascara, and ice-pink lip gloss, I dock my phone and soak in The Sound of Music soundtrack until it’s time to go.
It’s about a seven-minute drive from Parre Hills to Kanton and another fifteen or so minutes to the slightly larger small town of Leopold.
The Opera House, located off the town square, is easy to find.
Nearby parking, however, is not. On my fourth time around the square, I finally spot someone’s reverse lights in front of a small pharmacy.
I can see my breath as I cross the square and mount the granite steps of the Opera House. Once inside the large building, I’m greeted by a middle-aged man who directs me to a table to collect a questionnaire card and a practice schedule.
Pulling a pen from my purse, I inscribe my contact information on the card, wondering if my address alone will disqualify me from serious consideration.
Leopold’s community theatre has a reputation for casting hometown leads for every production, often leads who also contribute generously to the theatre fund.
It’s unlikely a sixteen-year-old girl from the rival school will be cast in a role larger than “chorus,” if she’s cast at all.
But it doesn’t hurt to try.
I hand the completed card to the smiling, gray-haired lady sitting behind the table. The woman scans the information and then looks up at me with a raised eyebrow—and a cooler smile than before.
“You’re from Kanton, I see.”
I hold in my sigh. “Yes.”
“And you’re trying out for the part of Liesl.”
“Yes.”
The woman sniffs and sets the card in a stack. “They’ll call your name when it’s your turn. You’ll be asked to read with Dr. Hitchings, and then you’ll be asked to sing.”
“Dr. Hitchings?”
“Our new director. He’s not from Leopold.
” The woman’s frown suggests that to originate from anywhere but Leopold is the eighth deadly sin.
“We certainly miss Mrs. Arbuckle. Francine Arbuckle, our old director. Twenty-two years she directed our little theatre. She was born and raised in Leopold, you know. Spent her whole life here.” The woman shakes her head.
“But her health forced her to move in with her daughter this past winter. In Arizona.”
“Oh.”
The woman arches an eyebrow and looks as if she expects more.
“Um, that’s too bad.”
“Yes. Yes it is. It took four years to get the theatre renovated, and now she won’t even be here to see the first post-renovation production.
” She clicks her tongue. “Here’s a brochure about the theatre’s history and the renovations.
Since you’re from Kanton, you probably aren’t all that familiar with our town. ”
“Thanks.”
“Dr. Miller had these printed up for us. Donated the cost. He’s the veterinarian here in Leopold and has starred in several past productions, you know.”
“That was very, um, generous of him.” I take the brochure and try to think up an exit strategy.
“He’s a lovely man. He’ll audition for Captain Von Trapp, of course. His daughter Brittany is trying out for the part of Liesl. She has a beautiful voice. Plans to be a music teacher someday, or so I’ve heard.”
“Oh.” My stomach drops. If LCT royalty is auditioning for the same part, why should I even bother?
I take a breath. Even if I don’t get the part, I gain experience auditioning. “Okay. Well, thanks.” I swallow. “I guess I’ll go find a seat now.”
Before the woman can start in with another paragraph, I make for the auditorium doors.
The three rows closest to the stage are already filled. A few children run around squealing and chasing each other through unoccupied rows. Others stand at attention while their mothers give last minute directives.
Everyone looks like they know each other, of course.