Chapter Four #2
My gaze roves the architecture of the old building.
It truly is a remarkable structure for such a small town.
Up front, rich red curtains have been retracted to the sides, and a black backdrop hangs at the rear of the stage.
On the auditorium floor, dark red and gold patterned carpet leads to ornate balustrades that support red-curtained box seats.
It’s like something you’d see in a classic movie.
If Kanton had a theatre like this, I would want to move in.
I take a seat in the back of the auditorium and observe, unsurprised to recognize several faces from last year’s district and state speech team events.
In Leopold, the Fine Arts are as big of a deal in the high school and community as school sports are in Kanton.
And they prove it, year after enviable year, earning top awards at state band, choir, and speech contests.
I can’t help but sometimes wish Parre Hills was in this school district.
An electric tingle travels up my back, lifting gooseflesh as it grazes my arms on its way out. I glance over my left shoulder where the door has slivered open.
A pause. A familiar voice says, “Thanks.”
It’s him.
Another jolt crackles against the hairs on my neck, my arms. I hold my breath as Noah Spencer steps inside the auditorium, letting the door swing shut behind him.
Scowling at the practice schedule in his hands, he takes three steps down the aisle and halts. His head lifts. He examines the gathered crowd up front and then slowly, slowly, he turns to the right and finds . . . me.
“Madeleine Faith Prescott.” His instant smile grabs for my breath, which comes out in a whoosh. “You came.”
I nod. Swallow. “Yeah.”
“Is that seat taken?”
I move my purse.
Noah leans back in the seat and gazes around the auditorium. “Wow. They’ve really done something here. It’s like stepping back in time. Or walking onto the set of a film from the days of classic Hollywood.”
“I thought the same thing.”
“I’m glad you decided to come. I wasn’t sure you would. You were great in Annie, by the way. You nailed it.”
“Thanks. And thanks for the flowers, too. That was really . . . nice.” Nice? Lame, Faith. So lame.
“You’re welcome.” His dimple catches like it’s a switch, lighting sparks in his blue eyes. Noah’s smile expresses pure delight, as if sending me flowers gave him even more pleasure than I’d experienced receiving them. “I’m glad you liked them.”
“They’re beautiful. Such an uncommon color, too.”
“For an uncommon girl. But why didn’t you go out for the plays back when I was in school? I would have loved the chance to perform with you.”
“I wasn’t even in—”
“Your attention, please.” A deep voice booms from directly in front of the stage. “Everyone take a seat, and we’ll get started.”
The crowd falls silent and obeys.
“As I’m sure most of you know, I am a newcomer to the Leopold community. My name is Jeremiah Hitchings. I’m pleased to have been chosen as the director of The Sound of Music here at the historic Leopold Opera House.”
There is an awkward smattering of applause.
“Ours will be the first production to grace this stage in several years,” Dr. Hitchings says, “and, as such, I intend for it to be perfect.”
“No pressure,” Noah whispers.
I toss him a quick grin before returning my attention to the director.
“If today’s turnout is any indication, I expect I’ll need to schedule callback auditions sometime next week.
When I call your name, please come to the stage.
My wife Nancy,” he says, gesturing to a petite woman who stands and waves to the crowd before taking her seat again, “will give you a script and direct you to the correct page. You will read first and sing after. There may be a slight pause between actors as I take notes pertaining to your performance. Shall we warm up a bit?”
I am more than a little self-conscious to be singing through scales next to a guy who’s bound for a London theatre school, but I try to ignore the butterflies in my stomach and sit up a little straighter. I need to warm up my instrument. This is an audition.
Dr. Hitchings sits at the piano and leads the assembly in singing “Do-Re-Mi.” Finally, he calls the first person to read.
An attractive, heavy-set woman, whose short, silver-going-white hair is set off by a lavender sweater, announces she’s auditioning for the role of the Mother Abbess and proceeds to read through the lines with perfect inflection.
The bar is set. Until the woman opens her mouth to sing. Or not.
“Next.” Noah’s low whisper tickles my ear. I glance over, and he grimaces, adding, “Please.”
I stifle a giggle and turn my attention back toward the woman in the lavender sweater.
Lavender, like the roses Noah sent.
The director belts out, “Brittany Miller!” A perky blonde takes the stage.
Her reading goes well, I guess, though the delivery of those lines would have benefitted from a little more expression. Liesl’s lines, I note. But when she sings? Beautiful.
I slump back in my chair.
“She’s good,” Noah whispers. “Great voice.”
“Mm-hmm. I think she’s the vet’s daughter.”
“Huh?”
“The vet. Dr. Miller. The guy who donated the flyers.” I point at a line printed on the back of the leaflet that says, Donated by Miller Veterinary Hospital. “Her name is Brittany Miller.”
“Ohhh.” Noah catches my meaning. “Hmm. She sounds a little like Jackie Evancho.”
It’s a good comparison. “She sounds like an angel.” I almost groan.
“I guess that’s good news for you then.” He gives me a sideways smile. “Liesl von Trapp is no angel.”
I straighten. A rather non-angelic smile pulls my lips upward. He’s right. Liesl is the kind of girl who sneaks out her bedroom window to meet a boy. She’s a flirt. A rule-breaker.
Noah shifts in his seat. His hand rests on my forearm. “I meant that as a compliment on your acting skills, not as an insult to your character.”
“No worries. That’s how I took it.” It didn’t even occur to me otherwise.
“Good. After I said it, I thought . . .” He shrugs and gives my arm a quick squeeze. “I’ve seen you on the stage. You’ve got this, Madeleine Faith.”
Our eyes lock. A rich, sweet sensation—a rush of blissful, childlike glee that is at the same time oddly ancient and wise—constricts my chest. I hold completely still, almost afraid to breathe and lose it.
A name is called. The auditorium hushes. A piano plays. Someone sings. But the song and the singer are someplace else, where time is fluid and in motion, a place set apart from the warm and welcome bubble that’s captured me and Noah.
The dry, wintry air forces me to blink. Noah blinks, too, and the spell is broken. He pulls his hand from my arm. Shyly at first, as if we’re both embarrassed to be caught within such an unguarded, mysterious thing-of-a-moment, we smile.
“Madeleine Prescott!” A male voice calls from the stage.
“That’s you,” Noah whispers when I don’t respond. He winks. “Break a leg.”
That is a distinct possibility. I can’t even feel my legs.
“Madeleine Prescott!” The voice calls again. “Is there a Madeleine Prescott here?”
I shoot to my feet. “Here!”
Noah smiles. “You can do it. Just believe that you’re still sixteen going on seventeen.”
Easy enough, since it’s true. “I am sixteen going on seventeen.” I give a firm nod, and with a little smirk, I add, “and I’m no angel.”
“Attagirl.” His wink is melt-worthy, yet fortifying. “You’ve got this.”
Buoyed by Noah’s confidence in my abilities, I make my way to the stage, refocusing my mind as I trek up the aisle.
By the time I read Liesl’s first line, I own it. It only remains to be seen if the director agrees.
And if the town of Leopold will accept a Liesl who comes from Kanton.