Chapter 10
There’s nothing like a dress rehearsal. Before that, no matter how good you are, how talented, how serious, you’re basically a bunch of kids playing pretend.
Lancelot in a tennis visor is not romantic, and the battle scenes between him and the other knights are hard not to giggle at.
It’s just a bunch of boys I know dancing together.
But once all the lights have color filters, the sound is amplified, and costumes are on, the drama of it all permeates, and it’s possible to be transported.
The only hitch for me personally is that although my chemistry with Arthur in the first act is shooting sparks out into the audience, it also makes Guenevere’s great love affair with Lancelot in the second act look a little limp.
Our original Lancelot got mono, so Mr. Price tapped some guy from the community college who’d played the role before to come and fill in.
Even though this guy, Carter, is only like three years older than me, he treats me like I’m in preschool, and he’s constantly doing belly breath warm-ups backstage that make him sound like a pregnant lady in a rom-com about to give birth.
The whole thing is the opposite of sexy.
I’m hoping the boost of tech and costumes will help me set the second act on fire.
So far, so good. I fly offstage. I’ve got eight bars of music to do my quickest costume change—off with the peach tunic and on with the sky blue—and grab up a dozen flower garlands.
I’ve done this transition plenty of times, but now that the stage lights are on, they’ve contracted my pupils into pinpricks, and backstage is a sea of black.
I put my hands out into empty air, inching my way forward to where the props table ought to be, but my trajectory is off and the nothingness goes on indefinitely.
I almost wipe out on some coiled cables. I stop.
Shit. More than my inability to see, I’m frustrated by my own incompetence. Why hadn’t I anticipated this? I should have known, should have made a plan. When am I going to stop pretending to myself that I’m just like everybody else? I’m worse than my dad refusing a Seeing Eye dog.
My musical cue comes and goes. I hear the pit pause, then start up again eight bars earlier.
They must think I’m spacing out back here, but we all have strict orders from Mr. Price to treat this like a performance and keep going no matter what.
“Hello?” I whisper hoarsely. Where’s the stage manager?
Isn’t there anyone back here to grab those garlands for me?
If there is, they’re sadistically witnessing me freeze up like a lawn ornament.
The idea that I’m currently being observed is intolerable.
I turn and look back at the tempting brightness of the stage.
Missing that cue again will be mortifying. I guess I’ll wing it.
I burst back onstage empty-handed and already singing, a little too forcefully, like if I sing loud enough I can muscle this scene into working.
When the rest of the cast onstage sees me propless, surprise registers on their faces.
All our choreography for this number involves the garlands—tossing the garlands, dancing in and out of the garlands, playing tug-of-war with the garlands, even pretending to knight the ladies-in-waiting with the garlands.
Garlands I do not have. I sing the lyrics on autopilot as I try to improvise movements, most of which, weirdly, seem to end up being square dance moves.
I do-si-do with ladies-in-waiting and promenade with knights, half of whom look pissed.
The other half look baffled, like they just woke up on an iceberg and are now dancing with a penguin.
I grind my teeth. This is the real trouble with being double cast. It’s not that I get half as much performance time.
It’s that I could be fired at any moment without a second thought.
My replacement is prepared and ready. She’s sitting in the auditorium right now, and she’s probably enjoying the hell out of this.
In fact, everything that is good in my life right now—this play and Richard—could be lost in a quick switcheroo.
Amanda could slide right in without missing a beat.
The end of the song is the worst, because by this time I should have given away all the garlands, and the chorus members are supposed to attach them to a pole that is lowered from above and then weave them together in a climactic May Day dance.
As it is, everybody is just sort of walking in a circle as a random bare pole descends.
And all the while, their eyes are throwing daggers at me.
Or at least it feels that way. Even the pit seems to be accelerating the tempo, as if the whole woodwind section has decided to get through this train wreck as fast as possible.
When the run-through is over and everyone is back in their street clothes, we all sit in the first couple of rows to get notes.
Mr. Price flips through pages on his clipboard and clears his throat.
“Really nice work, everyone. Overall, I feel confident in saying that the magic is coming alive up there. Especially you knights. Thank you so much, boys, for learning your lines. You were supposed to be off book ten days ago, but better late than never. Arthur, make sure to hit all your marks in that first scene so the spot can pick you up, and Guenevere—” He looks up at me over the top of his reading glasses.
“I’m almost afraid to ask. Where were you and what happened to the wonderful flowers? ”
The heads in the row in front of me all turn in my direction. “It was really dark backstage,” I say. “I couldn’t find the props table.”
Mr. Price looks at me like this is the least believable performance I’ve given yet.
“As the lead, my expectations for you are here,” he says, indicating the high bar with his hand.
Apparently, there is something magical about expectations set at the left temple.
“At this point in rehearsal, there should be no excuses. There’s no room for lapses.
” Ouch. “And Sofi”—here he puts his arm around the stage manager’s shoulder as if to protect her from a nonexistent attack from me—“has done an excellent job of organizing the props so you will always know where they are. Garlands are where, Sofi?”
“All the way to the left,” she replies, looking bored.
Oh my God, am I going to have to explain my diagnosis right now? In front of the entire cast? I am not ready for today to be the day where everyone changes how they see me, where I become Hattie, the disabled girl, or worse, the differently-abled girl. Not for some trite May Day dance.
I’m stuck in suspended animation, still trying to decide what I can possibly say that won’t make a bad situation into an annihilating one, when Richard speaks up from several rows behind me.
“I’m not busy during that transition,” he says.
“I can hand them to Hattie if there’s no time for her to get to the props table. ”
My hero. I turn to him and mouth, Thank you, my eyes burning in adoration with enough intensity to light a match.
His eyes twinkle back at me, and he lifts his chin in a reverse nod as if to say, I got you.
But Mr. Price is trolling for drama, and he seems somewhat disappointed to be moving on. He takes one more jab at me. “And I presume you will remember the real choreography once you have props in hand?”
The relief I’m feeling makes me goofy. I’m not getting fired. I don’t have to quit. “Absolutely, Mr. Price. Real choreography. One hundred percent. Count on me.”
He finally cracks a smile. “I do like enthusiasm,” he says. “And that goes for everyone! T-minus six days to final dress, everyone! Get psyched!”
Oh, I’m psyched all right, Mr. Price. No thanks to you. I’m psyched to be the one making that twinkle happen in Richard’s eyes.