Chapter Six #2
“And I’ve done a good job of it. Don’t worry. After all, how often do I get the chance to take a pretty girl out?”
My cheeks heat. “Well, I don’t know the answer to that, but . . . thanks.”
Between the café and the Opera House, we warm up our voices using exercises we both learned in Show Choir. “Charlie Chester chews cheddar cheese.” We sing up an octave and back down. “Susie Simmons saves small sweet seeds.”
When we finish a third time through our tongue twisting scales, Noah says, “Mr. Barron still makes me do those every week.”
“How? You graduated.”
“He goes to my church. I have a voice lesson with him every Wednesday night, after Bible study. I thought it would be good to keep working my instrument until I go to . . . wherever I end up.”
“Good idea.” It’s hard to picture Mr. Barron anywhere outside of the school, but I guess he actually does have a life. A life that includes Wednesday night Bible studies and . . . Noah.
Does my church do things on Wednesday nights? If they do, I don’t know about it. The Prescott family darkens the door on Christmas and Easter and maybe one or two other times throughout the year.
“Do you want to go through it again?” Noah’s question snaps me out of my church wonderings. I follow his lead, and we change keys and repeat the exercise two times before we mount the granite steps of the Leopold Opera House.
Once inside, I wait by the ticket booth as Noah sheds his coat and hangs it on a rack. The muffled sound of a piano filters beneath the auditorium door.
“Are we late?”
Noah checks his phone, which I could have done instead of asking him. Between dinner with a fellow musical theatre nerd—who happens to be hella cute—and the callback, I guess I’m a little distracted.
“We’re still a couple of minutes early,” he says, then tosses me another melty wink as he opens the auditorium door. “Break a leg.”
“Right back atcha.”
A triangle of light creeps into the auditorium ahead of us, widening to let us in.
“Where is everyone?” I whisper, but my voice must carry—thank you, wonderful acoustics—because the woman sharing the piano bench with Dr. Hitchings turns her head and stands.
Dr. Hitchings rises as well. “Ah, Mr. Spencer. Miss Prescott.” His reddish-white beard crimps the edges of his smile. “Excellent.” His eyes move back and forth between Noah and me as we follow the aisle to the front.
He casts a gaze at the woman I now recognize as the accompanist from the initial tryouts.
She nods. “Yes. Excellent.”
Dr. Hitchings’s grin widens.
“Dr. Hitchings.” Noah reaches a hand forward.
The director gives it a firm shake. “Call me Jeremiah.” He offers his hand to me, and I match his grip. “This is my wife, Nancy. She’s taking charge of choreography for the show. Nancy, this young man is Noah Spencer, and this charming young lady is Madeleine Prescott.”
Nancy Hitchings shakes our hands. “Very nice to meet you both.”
Dr. Hitchings hands each of us a music book and directs us to the correct page. “Shall we warm up a bit?”
I glance at Noah before saying, “We did some vocal warm ups on the way here.”
“Good, good. But to soothe me, we’ll do few little scales, eh?”
Dr. Hitchings sits down at the piano and guides Noah and me through a series of “La-la-la” and “Do-re-mi” scales.
“Good. Now let’s try the song.”
After one time through the duet “Sixteen Going on Seventeen,” he sends us to the stage and describes what he has in mind for the basic blocking of the scene and then retreats, taking the center seat in the front row. “Let’s take the scene from the top and lead right into the song.”
Blocking is always awkward. With no costumes, scenery, or props, my character is not as easy to grasp. I close my eyes and inhale, giving myself a moment to find her.
I am Liesl von Trapp. I am innocent, but not quite as innocent as everyone thinks. I am a na?ve little flirt longing for my first romance. I am sixteen . . . going on seventeen.
I open my eyes. I can do this.
We read the scene once through, take a few directorial suggestions from Dr. Hitchings, and run it again.
“I believe it.” Nancy Hitchings’s comment fills the silence after the last note is struck.
“My thoughts exactly.” Her husband stands. “What do you say, Noah? Madeleine? Are you ready to join the cast?”
We exchange a glance. “Don’t you have other callbacks?” I ask.
“Done. Political formality.” Dr. Hitchings waves a dismissive hand. “I’d already made my decision. And now I know I was right. But just so you know,” he pauses, giving us a big smile, “if you two were a few years older, you’d be my Maria and my Captain Von Trapp, no contest.”
Surprise is a mild word for the emotion that steals my breath, but Nancy calmly nods, saying, “I agree. Such talent!”
“Honestly, if it wasn’t for your work schedule, Noah, I would risk the tarring and feathering and cast you anyway.
” Dr. Hitchings winks. “But since your evening availability is limited, and I’m less-than-comfortable with the idea of casting Madeleine opposite a fifty-year-old veterinarian, I hope I can count on the two of you to apply your considerable talents to the roles of Rolf and Liesl. What do you say?”
He had considered me for the lead? The lead? I mean, Noah is amazing. He could absolutely carry the Captain Von Trapp role. But me?
I nod, feeling like my blood is made of glitter and light, and try to sound cool. “I’m in.”
“Me, too.” Noah nods, too, grinning. “You bet.”
Not only was I considered for the lead, not only have I been cast in the exact role I auditioned for, but I will also be acting opposite—and kissing! Well, stage-kissing, anyway—Noah Freaking Spencer, the hottest, nicest theatre nerd I know?
Yes, yes, and Y.E.S!
“Terrific! I’ll see you both next Tuesday? At 6:30?”
“We’ll be here.” Noah answers for both of us. I just nod, absently wondering if I look half as bobble-headed as I feel.
The director dismisses us, and we head out. When Noah suggests a celebratory peppermint mocha, on him, I gladly agree.
“Too bad you didn’t bring your coat,” Noah says after I refuse his again. “It would be a nice night to sit out on the waterfall.”
“Yeah.” Pleasure lifts my cheeks as, mochas in hand, we hurry toward Noah’s car. “But I promised my best friend and her boyfriend I’d help them study, so even if I had my coat, I wouldn’t be able to go tonight.”
“Right. I forgot.” Noah goes through the necessary routine to open Eliza’s passenger door. “What are you doing this weekend?”
“Let’s see . . .” I wrack my brain, a task made more difficult with Noah’s blue eyes so near, so focused on me. “Um, on Saturday my family is going to Iowa City for the Hawkeye game. My brother got us tickets. But that’s about it, I think.”
Noah moves around to his side of the car and gets in. He turns the ignition. “What about Sunday afternoon? I’m leading worship at church this week, but I should be finished around 11:30.”
“Which church?”
“Fellowship Community.”
“Is that the big one just off the highway?”
“Yep. Halfway between Sommerton and Kanton. So . . . are you free Sunday afternoon?”
“I think so.”
“It sounds like it’s going to be pretty nice weather. We could take a picnic to the waterfall.”
“Sure.” A picnic. With Noah. “That sounds like fun. Do you think you can find it?”
“I’m sure of it.”
He bites his lip and lets it go so quickly I almost don’t notice. Almost.
“I, uh, went online and found that map you told me about. I’ve gone out there a couple of times since and made it out alive.” He grins. “What time should I pick you up?”
My racing blood stills. My parents expect my dates to come in and meet them, but I’m not sure what they’ll think of him . . . with me. “Why don’t I meet you there?”
“What? Don’t you want another chance to ride in my luxurious automobile?”
I laugh. “Eliza’s a peach, but Janey loves to walk in the woods. If I go to the waterfall without her, I’ll feel guilty.”
True enough, but if I’m being entirely honest, the thrill of Noah Spencer wanting to spend time with me is probably stronger than any guilt I might feel over leaving my dog at home.
Or telling my parents about him. Probably.
Maybe.
“I don’t want to be responsible for a dog’s sadness. How about this. Since you won’t let Eliza and me come pick you up, you have to let me provide the picnic.”
“Deal.”
“Then it’s a date.” Noah smiles. “Well, sort of a date.”
Sort of. I swallow. Technically, I’m not supposed to date any boy my parents have not met. But sort of a date means not entirely a date, doesn’t it?