Chapter Twelve
The script in my hands translates to one thing—commitment, one I might not meet. I think of the lie I’ll have to tell my mom today and tomorrow and the days and months ahead. I think of the lead role, the weight of it, the expectation, and my huge lack of experience. I filter through the crowd onstage until I see Ara, the bitter understudy and Davi’s ex-girlfriend, who definitely hates me. She deserves this more than I do, and she knows it. Her eyes meet mine; they narrow as if sizing me up, noting all the ways I don’t compare to her.
And then it occurs to me. I am dangerously close to having an enemy—a rival. And that is the last thing I want. In fact, it’s a rule on my list of high school dos and don’ts.
Rule #4: Don’t make any enemies or start a rivalry.
This rule is so important, I took an extra measure and created subrules.
a. Don’t brag about your grades.
b. Don’t be competitive.
c. Avoid conflict/drama.
But these extra steps were pointless because in the end, all I did was sing on a stage and like a boy—things that somehow led to Ara glaring at me and probably plotting my demise.
“Okay,” Mr. Roland says, clapping his hands. “Welcome to the production of Cinders and Embers, Bellwood’s modern retelling of Cinderella, set in New York City. I love that social media is a big part of this story, and that in the end, Cassandra—a.k.a. Cinderella—takes things into her own hands. I cowrote it, and I will admit, it’s brilliant. Opening night is scheduled for Friday, December eighth. That’s in three months. So let’s get started. We have lots to do.”
It’s a little past three. The last school bell rang thirty minutes ago. After dodging Davi, I sprinted to the theater for rehearsal. Since overhearing his conversation with Ara this afternoon, I’ve avoided speaking and making eye contact with him. Getting that information about his past changed things between us. He isn’t aware of this change, but I am, and it’s affecting how I interact with him. I’m more cautious now—careful not to hold his stare for too long or return his smile or walk too close to him. Careful not to feel too much or feel anything at all, because Davi is the complication I hoped to avoid in high school.
“Let’s take twenty minutes to go through the script. Use this time to highlight your lines. But I expect everyone to know their lines by next week.”
Mr. Roland’s instruction brings the theater to silence as everyone looks through the script and starts highlighting. His production assistant, a slim blond woman likely in her twenties, collects everyone’s email and phone number on a clipboard. After scribbling down mine, I look up and see Ara casually scanning the script, looking unfazed by its length. Maybe by the end of rehearsal, she’ll know every word, every action, every song. After all, she is a pro—Bellwood’s reigning musical theater queen. And I am…
I sigh.
I don’t know what I’m doing here. The script in my hand has too many neon-colored lines, indicating where I speak and sing. It’s too much. I haven’t acted a day in my life. I’m not even sure I can act. The weight of the role hits me again—the expectation, the commitment, my huge lack of experience. Suddenly, my heart thumps fast, and my breaths are short.
While I’m trying to manage my growing anxiety, Mr. Roland assembles the actors in the first scene. I stand with them onstage, the bulky script squeezed in my grip. Cole, the student playing the millionaire playboy—a.k.a. the prince—glances at the script in my hand and laughs lightly.
“Are you nervous or just annoyed and planning to whack Mr. Roland over the head with that?”
I loosen my grip on the bundle of paper and shrug. “A little of both, but more of the latter.”
He laughs again, louder this time. Mr. Roland stops speaking to the group and spins to us. “I’m sorry.” His impeccably shaped eyebrow, thick and the perfect contrast to his bald head, arches. “Am I amusing you?”
Cole and I shake our heads.
His hard stare remains on us for a moment, then shifts to the rest of the group. He continues speaking, elaborating on his incredibly high expectations and his very low tolerance for mediocrity and imperfection.
A knot forms in my stomach. Does this man know we’re high school students and not professionals? Well, everyone but Ara.
“Hey,” Cole whispers. “You okay?” He scans my face. Clearly, signs of my discomfort are on it.
“Just a little nervous.” I exhale. “Really nervous. I haven’t done anything like this before.”
“Well, I was here. In the theater. During your audition.” Cole’s eyes follow Mr. Roland as he marches across the stage and makes exaggerated hand gestures. “You weren’t nervous then.”
“I was. At first, but then I felt…”
“You felt what?”
I search my mind for the right words, the best way to explain the emotion that pushed me to sing like I did yesterday but come up with nothing. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t have to fully understand that feeling or even know where it comes from. Just go with it. Trust me. It helps.” He turns to me, and the corners of his lips lift. A deep blush warms his white skin. As if he’s aware of the change in his complexion, he looks away quickly and tilts his head down, enough that his brown hair dangles and covers part of his face.
“Okay!” Mr. Roland claps. “Let’s begin! We don’t have all day.”
After a long sigh, I turn my crumpled script to the first act.
Ayana, who is playing the celebrity stylist—a.k.a. the fairy godmother—starts reading. “Once upon a New York minute,” she begins. The only sound in the theater is her voice—solid but soft because of the acoustics. When she stops speaking, she and everyone else turn to me.
I’m supposed to say or do something. I glance at my script for direction, then look at Mr. Roland. “It says Cassandra enters beneath the moon. And then it says she runs to a post light.” I look around the stage. “What post light? There isn’t one.”
After a second of silence, everyone laughs, including Ara, who’s sitting in the front row of the theater.
“Obviously, there is no set design yet.” Mr. Roland sighs. “Just use your imagination, Enore.”
“Oh.” My cheeks turn hot, burning with embarrassment.
“Go ahead,” Mr. Roland urges. “Carry on.”
Everyone watches, waiting for me to say something stupid again. Cole’s kind eyes encourage me, and I run to a spot where I imagine there’s a post light. I’m supposed to cry now while leaning against the post light. I clear my throat, then release a shrill sound that’s meant to be a whimper. People chuckle. It’s difficult, but I ignore them and focus on the script. The one line I’m supposed to say in this scene has only six words, but my mouth dries as I try to say them, and I stutter like a malfunctioning robot.
“Okay. That’s enough,” Mr. Roland says. “It’s only the first rehearsal.”
“Maybe it should be her last,” Ara retorts. She meets my stare and smirks, enjoying my humiliation.
“Let’s call it a day.”
I haven’t known Mr. Roland for long, but I’m surprised those words came out of his mouth, surprised he isn’t using every minute of the two-hour rehearsal to whip every cast member, especially me, into shape. Everyone looks just as surprised; they gawk at him with wide eyes as if he’s sprouted a second head.
“We’ll continue tomorrow. Make sure to learn your lines and musical numbers. We’ll start rehearsing with the band in a few weeks. And watch your emails for any announcements.” He claps twice. “You’re dismissed.”
People gather their things. Ara gives me one last condescending smirk, then struts off.
“Enore.” Mr. Roland says. “Stay back. I would like to talk to you in private.”
“Oh. Okay.” After my pathetic attempt at acting, I’m sure he regrets making me the lead. He likely wants to strip me of the title. And maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
I glance at Cole, who’s beside me, sliding his arms into his jean jacket. He looks from Mr. Roland to me, offers a sympathetic smile, and then walks offstage.
I fidget with my bag strap while watching Mr. Roland.
“Have you ever been in a play?” he asks when we’re alone and the theater doors are closed, blocking off the noise in the hallway. “You’re awkward onstage, so I’m guessing you haven’t.” He taps his chin and considers me deeply, like he did after my audition. “Actually, I’m not sure if you’re awkward, clueless, or just lack a great deal of confidence. Maybe it’s a combination of all three. What do you think?”
I frown. Does he really expect me to answer that?
“I would like an answer, especially since I’m trying to understand what’s going on here?”
He’s rude and very casual about his rudeness as if he expects everyone to just deal with it. I’m tempted to grab the script in my bag and smack him with it. Cole put the image in my head, and now it’s playing on a loop.
“I’m trying to help you, Enore.”
“Then maybe you should change your approach a little.” I bite my lip, stunned by my snappy tone.
Culturally, I’ve been taught to respect my elders. In the movies I’ve watched, teenagers are often rude to their teachers. They play pranks on them, insult them, and have outbursts that disrupt the class. None of that would happen in a Nigerian school, not with teachers who have access to canes and the authority to use them on any badly behaved student. The fear of being flogged is enough to keep most in line. It always kept me in line, but with that element—the threat of a firm wooden stick hitting my palm—gone, I’ve suddenly become uninhibited. Still, what I’ve been taught culturally— by my parents and so many others—resounds in my head. Always respect your elders. Respect elders who sometimes don’t deserve respect. That obligation is tangled with many others I can’t seem to untether myself from.
“Sorry,” I say, looking at my feet. “I shouldn’t have…” After blowing out a breath, I lift my head. “I should go.”
“Excuse me?” Mr. Roland scowls. “We’re having a conversation.”
“I quit,” I blurt out. Tears settle at the rims of my eyes. “I can’t do this. I… I don’t know how.”
His face is impassive. His lips are pressed in a tight line like he’s holding back a lot of words.
I get off the stage and rush down the aisle and then through the door, trying to convince myself, as I get further away, that I did the right thing.