Chapter 19
LACHLAN
Am I really going to sing in front of other people today? Singing has always been something I do just for me. I need to talk with someone about this. Should I text Malik? I don’t know him that well, but I have his number.
Isak. Out of everyone, I want to talk to Isak. When I arrive at school, I text him.
Me
Do you have any advice for auditions?
That hot girl from camp
Remember that the people running it are super nice
And looking for reasons to cast u
Me
Really?
That hot girl from camp
Yeah
They always smile and give u a chance
You’ll do fine
Me
I think I’m going to make a fool out of myself.
That hot girl from camp
We all do
Everyone’s scared we’re going to make fools of ourselves
Here’s the truth
We all DO make fools of ourselves
Me
That’s not particularly helpful.
That hot girl from camp
Sorry
My point’s not coming across
U can do it
Do I need to quote u that Teddy Roosevelt speech?
Me
What Teddy Roosevelt speech?
That hot girl from camp
Hang on
Okay
Found it
It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better.
The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming, but who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, who spends himself in a worthy cause;
Who, at the best, knows, in the end, the triumph of high achievement, and who, at the worst, if he fails, at least he fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who knew neither victory nor defeat.
Those words hit me deep. I have spent my life not “daring greatly.” Instead, I’ve tried to hide in plain sight and to not do anything that would disturb anyone else. I never want anyone to be pissed at me or for things to backfire.
But I’ve been caring too much about what others think. I’ve been caring about keeping my uncle appeased, my sister quiet, and my friends from asking questions about who I really am.
In the theater, though, I might be able to shed some of that. Just maybe.
Me
Damn.
That hot girl from camp
IKR
TR forgot to mention women and nonbinary folx
I might forgive him since he said it in 1910 at the Sorbonne and I like the sentiment anyway
It helped with the Becky shit
So go sing in the arena with dust and blood and sweat, Lach
Me
I don’t normally sing, period, in an arena or otherwise.
That hot girl from camp
Me neither
As long as u aren’t horribly off key, they’ll likely cast u
They aren’t looking for someone to win the next Tony
Me
I hope you’re right.
That hot girl from camp
I’m right
Strive valiantly
Err and come up short
Don’t be cold and timid
Dare greatly
Me
Thanks.
I think of something.
Me
Tell the Becky in your head that she’s not the critic who counts, either.
That hot girl from camp
Thanks for that
Still
Don’t remind me of her
Me
Sorry.
That hot girl from camp
It’s ok
And maybe that’s my next tattoo: “Dare greatly.”
I didn’t tell any of my friends about my plan to audition, because I might not get cast. I’m still going for it.
I want to be able to not go home, and I’ll do anything, literally make a huge fool of myself, to accomplish that goal.
I suppose I could build sets or help with sound, but I don’t think those take as much rehearsal time.
And I guess somewhere deep down inside I’ve always thought that I could sing, and I maybe have wanted to do something more artistic than throw a ball down a field.
I’m not knocking football, and being on the team has taught me a lot, but my heart isn’t in it.
It’s just easier to escape Uncle Norm if I’m doing something he considers legitimate.
I make it through the day, and after school, I pace before the “CLOSED AUDITIONS” sign on the theater door for about twenty minutes until the kid before me leaves and I’m next on the schedule.
The main theater feels huge—bigger than it did when we were just meeting to talk about the musical.
It must have a thousand seats or more, and now I’m imagining all eyes on me.
The walk down to the stage feels like it takes five minutes.
The curtains are pulled to the sides, so the stage is bare, and everywhere I look there’s a lot of black paint.
In the first row of seats, five people sit, papers on their laps.
Turn right around and get out of here. This isn’t your scene.
But … hours of practice daily. And more time with Isak, if he also makes the cut.
I can do this. Maybe. Kind of. I think.
Fuck it. I’m here. I’m going to go through with this. I’m not entirely sure I want to be showing off to everyone how I can sing—if they even agree that I can.
But I plain can’t stand the alternative: leaving school when classes end and being at my house the rest of the day because there’s no football, no weight room, no library, no job.
I fuss with my friendship bracelet and tuck it under my watch, then stride down to the group in front and stand before them, clearing my throat. “Um. Hi. I’m Lachlan. Lachlan Doyle.” I give them my most winsome smile.
Ms. Laurent returns it. “Thanks for being here, and sorry we’re running behind.
I believe you know I’m the director.” She introduces the choreographer, musical director, assistant director, and script coordinator, indicating each in turn.
With the exception of the musical director, Mr. Pascual, who also teaches choir, they’re all students or recent alumni.
“It’s nice to see you all,” I say, pressing my hands together and giving them a slight bow.
Ms. Laurent flips through her clipboard. “It says here that you’re interested in any role?”
“I really don’t care. I just want to participate in the show.”
“What musical selection have you brought for us?” Mr. Pascual asks. He’s a really big man, wearing a button-down shirt with sweat stains. But he has a great smile. I wonder if he has an operatic voice. Feels like he might.
“I was going to audition with a Julian Hill song,” I say. “‘Three Dots.’”
I get a few raised eyebrows.
Mr. Pascual looks impressed. “That’s a challenging song, but go for it.”
“I have a karaoke clip here,” I say, waving my phone.
“Go ahead and plug it into the sound system.” Jamarr, the assistant director, gestures, and I get it set up.
My stomach hurts, and my hands are quivering, but I can do this. Just because I’ve never sung in front of anyone else doesn’t mean I can’t sing. I know I can sing.
I cough. “Should I, um, go up there?” I indicate the stage.
“Yes,” Ms. Laurent says with a smile. “It’s all yours.”
I make my way to the stage. When I nod, Jamarr presses play on the music, and I open my mouth and start to sing. I’ve watched enough tutorial videos on Ad/VICE to know that I should sing from my diaphragm, so I do my best.
I eventually get brave enough to do something more than stand there and belt it out.
If I’m going to make a fool of myself, I might as well do it thoroughly.
So I move around the stage as I sing, flinging my arms out, taking a wide stance.
I make it to the part of the song where the melody goes up really high, and I know I can do this, so I stop, plant my feet, and focus on making the words come out strong and clear.
I like it when you can understand all the words.
At the end, I’m panting, but I made it. And I’m beaming. That was fun! I thrust a fist toward the ceiling. I don’t know if I’m the biggest loser who ever lived or if this is something to put in a hypothetical book of accomplishments.
I glance up at the five people watching me. They’re smiling. I bow, a drumming sensation in my chest, warmth radiating through my body.
“That was terrific,” Ms. Laurent says. “Why have you never tried out for one of our productions before?”
“I’m not sure. We sang when I went to church with Grandma when I was little, so that’s where I picked some of it up.”
“Do you mind if we ask you to sing something else? A slower song?”
I shift my weight. “I haven’t prepared anything else. But sure.”
They cue up another song that I know, and I sing it. I think I hit all the notes. Then they ask me to say some of the lines of dialogue from a script they hand me. I do okay.
It’s over all too soon. “Thanks for considering me.”
“We’ll be in touch,” Ms. Laurent says, which is what I think she probably tells everyone.
Still. Stepping on the stage was a revelation. I float home all high energy and wanting to run a victory lap.
I lie in my bed second-guessing myself. What the fuck was I thinking? Could I actually sing in front of an audience if I’m cast? Maybe I should just tell them that I’m not interested after all and withdraw.
My phone lights up at my side. My eyebrows scrunch together when I see who’s messaged me.
That hot girl from camp
I heard u
Me
What?
That hot girl from camp
I heard your audition from backstage
I auditioned after u
U were a hard act to follow
Heat suffuses my cheeks. I thought the auditions were closed. How … why?
Me
Now I’m embarrassed.
That hot girl from camp
Don’t be
U have the best voice I’ve ever heard in high school
I didn’t know u could sing
The praise warms me inside and out. I pull the necklace he made me out from under my shirt and play with it, my fingers running over the sun-and-moon design.
Me
After being up there once, I’m even more nervous about being onstage in front of an audience.
That hot girl from camp
Everyone is
All actors are nervous
If we weren’t, it wouldn’t be such a thrill when it all clicks
I think about his words. Perhaps he’s right.
Me
In football, I’m not scared, even before a big game, because I can rely on my teammates and I know the job I have to do. Sometimes I mess it up, and sometimes I get it right, but no matter what, I know I gave it my all.
That hot girl from camp
Same thing onstage
U can rely on all the drama kids to hold you up
We will support u
And we know that you’ll give it your all
Trust the process
The critics can fuck themselves
Me
You should know that’s easier said than done.
That hot girl from camp
True
Me
Why are you being so nice to me?
It takes a full five minutes before Isak texts back. Not that I keep refreshing my phone or anything.
That hot girl from camp
Because u deserve someone being nice 2u
And that hits me deep in the gut. How much Isak knows. How much I don’t have to tell him about my secrets.
Me
K
Tx
Now I’m the one sending him single-letter texts, but it feels too vulnerable to do more. I nevertheless change his name in my phone.
If my uncle sees … well, I have to be brave about some shit, and I don’t want to hide my friend.
Isak
Anyway, I wanted to wish u luck
I hope u get the part u want
I think you’ll nail the role
Me
I really hope that you get the part you want, too.