Chapter 4
4
OLIVIA
I roll to a stop at a red light on my way back from an audition with the Champlain Theatre Company in Burlington.
Vermont’s capital is about a half-hour’s drive from Cedar Shade, and the Champlain Theatre Company is a thriving organization that stages the best plays in the region.
Sure, it’s not Broadway or Off-Broadway by a long shot, but it’s a great company to gain experience with, and drama majors from both Brumehill and the University of Vermont always turn out for auditions.
This time, I’m going for a starring role in a classic: Lady Macbeth.
Generally, I’m more interested in modern productions, but there’s no way I’m going to pass up the opportunity to snag an iconic role in a classic staged by a reputable company. That’s the kind of thing that could do wonders for my future career.
And it’s not like acting opportunities grow on trees. Making it in stage acting isn’t any easier than making it in movies or television, and I need every leg up I can get.
While I’m stopped at the red, my phone rings. Glancing at it face-up on the passenger seat, I see it’s my dad.
We’ve been playing phone tag for a couple days now, me missing his calls and him missing my calls back. I decide to flip on my turn signal and pull into the shopping center on my right to take the call.
“Hi, Dad,” I answer.
“Olivia!” His booming, boisterous voice blasts through my phone’s speaker. “Finally! I feared we’d never speak again!”
I laugh at my dad’s signature melodrama. He delivers those words with the overwrought inflection of a veteran stage actor—which is what he is.
We spend a minute catching up and checking in; then he springs the reason for his call.
“So, your summer schedule is clear, right?” he asks.
“Actually,” I reply, “I have that internship with the firm in Burlington. Remember? The one I’ve mentioned about a dozen times?”
Along with being a Drama major, I’m an Accounting minor. Because, remember that thing I said about how hard it is to make it in acting? I wasn’t lying. It’s hard making it in acting.
Ask my parents, both of whom were drama majors and met in college. They’ve struggled to make ends meet their whole lives, pursuing their passions without having any solid fallback options.
I definitely want to live out my dream. I want to make acting my full-time career, and I’m willing to put in the work to make that happen.
But I’m not under any illusions. I could work hard, sacrifice, do my best, hone my talent, improve my craft—and still not make it. I don’t want to end up in that position without something more practical to fall back on.
Hence, the Accounting minor. And hence the summer internship with the big Burlington-based accounting firm that I’ve already accepted.
“Reschedule it,” Dad says. “I’ve got something much better for you to do this summer.”
“I can’t reschedule it. It’s a summer internship.”
“I’ve got a much better summer internship lined up for you.”
I angle my mouth away from the phone so my dad can’t hear my exasperated sigh. The instant Dad gets an idea that he likes, he immediately assumes everyone else will rearrange their whole lives to bring it to fruition.
“And what’s that?” I ask.
“I’ve got a role for you.”
While Mom’s left her acting days behind her, Dad’s still holding onto the dream. He’s still actively searching for roles, traveling around the country for auditions and production runs.
He’s talented, has starred in some successful productions, and has received good reviews for his skills, but his career has been the picture of instability. He often goes long periods of time without being cast—and therefore, long periods of time without making any money.
Mom’s always been the main breadwinner in the family. She went back to school for a teaching certificate so she could teach Drama classes at middle and high schools. That’s given her more regular paychecks than Dad, but unfortunately, when schools face budget cuts, the arts are always the first things to go. It hasn’t been easy for her, either.
Since I was a kid, my mom’s always stayed home where we live in New Jersey, while Dad’s search for theatre work often saw him moving around, living in different cities around the country for weeks or months at a time.
“A role, huh?” I’m less than enthused. Normally I’m up for any acting opportunity, but my internship has to be my priority this summer.
“Down here at the Pyramid Theatre in Charleston,” he says. My dad’s been living down there for a couple months now, working with one of the hotter theater companies in the country right now. It’s the most steady work he’s had in a while.
“Really, Dad, I need to complete this internship. It’s …”
“So you don’t want to share a stage with Benedict Monroe?”
I pause. “Benedict Monroe?” He’s one of the biggest names in stage acting right now, having just wrapped up a starring role in Lily’s Problem , an Off-Broadway production that got rave reviews and lots of media attention.
“That’s right. We’ve casted him in the starring role for Last Bus Out . It’s running from July to mid-August. We’re going to take in so much tourist money this summer we’ll be drowning in it.”
My eyebrows leap up my forehead. I’m impressed. This sounds incredible. But …
“I really do need this internship, Dad.” I’m only an Accounting minor, and I feel like I need an internship under my belt to make myself a serious candidate if I ever do have to step back from acting and get a regular job in the field.
“I’ve got the role of Jasmine with your name on it,” Dad says. Jasmine is a minor supporting character in Last Bus Out , but she does have a couple scenes where she exchanges lines with the stars.
There’s no doubt it would be a great opportunity. To share a stage, to even share lines, with a big name like Benedict Monroe?
Imagining spending my summer like that certainly makes for an appealing contrast versus spending it in a Burlington office building where the air conditioning is way too cold, hunched over a desk all day.
If I were the type of person to say screw tomorrow and live for today, the type of person who snatches high-risk, high-reward opportunities with dreams of sure success in her head rather than anxiety over probable failure in her chest, I’d jump on it.
But …
“Sorry, Dad,” I say, feeling a twinge of disappointment because acting in Last Bus Out in front of a big audience really would be incredible. “You should find someone else for the role.”
“How about this? I’ll give you some time to think about it.”
I open my mouth to tell him that I’ve already made up my mind, but only a sigh comes out. When Dad gets an idea in his head, it can be completely impossible to talk him out of it. You just have to wait a little while until his first wave of excitement fizzles out.
“Fine,” I concede.
We say our goodbyes and I hang up, feeling more agitated than I was beforehand.
Of course, my dad not accepting my decision is agitating. But what’s also agitating is this balancing game I have to play between chasing my dream of acting and trying to make practical decisions for my future.
I don’t want to end up like my parents, without a marketable skill and struggling to find precarious jobs to make ends meet; I also don’t want to give up on my dream just because it’s hard, just because it requires sacrifices, just because success is unlikely.
I know I have the talent it takes to make it on stage—I also know that talent isn’t enough. Luck counts for a lot.
Now that I’ve ended the call with my dad, slivers of doubt start to furrow into my mind. Maybe I should take him up on his offer.
Sharing a stage with one of the top stage actors in the country? That’s an opportunity that very few college students have. And there’s no doubt that one of the hottest actors staring in one of the hottest contemporary plays is going to attract the attention of critics—critics who will then come and see me, even if I only have a couple lines.
And if I can make the most out of those couple lines …
But this internship is important. For one, I’ve already accepted it. Backing out now would reflect poorly on me. And I’ll need the experience if I want this Accounting minor to actually make me competitive if and when I’m looking for a regular nine-to-five job.
Know what would be great? If I were a spoiled rich kid and I didn’t have to worry about practical considerations. If I didn’t have to worry about setting myself up to make a decent living, because that was just a given.
A lofty position that certain people I know find themselves in …
Letting out a puff of self-pity, I switch off the ignition of my car and head into the convenience store I’m parked in front of. Summer and I are running low on some household supplies, and now’s as good a time as any to pick some up. Maybe a tiny shopping trip will help clear my mind, anyway.
But when I get back to my car, sling the bags into the passenger’s seat, and insert the key to turn the ignition back on, my mind becomes anything but clear.
The car won’t start.
I try again and again, to no avail. I let my head fall back against my seat, clenching my eyes tightly. This car’s been giving me trouble for a while now, but of course I haven’t had the money to get it looked at. This is the first time it hasn’t started, though.
I hop out of my seat again and walk towards the front of the car, popping the hood. When I find myself gazing at the intricate jumble underneath, I wonder why the hell I even bothered. It’s not like I have any freaking clue what I’m looking at.
For a couple moments I just stand there, frozen in frustration, staring blankly at gears, tubes, and auto parts I know literally nothing about.
It’s not a mystery what I’m going to have to do. I’m going to have to get it towed. My stomach turns at the thought. Heaven knows how many hundreds of dollars that alone is going to cost.
And have it towed to where? An auto shop for repairs I can’t afford?
Better to just have it towed in front of my house and let it sit out by the curb. It’s not like I need a car in my day-to-day life in Cedar Shade, where everything is within walking distance. I mostly just drive back and forth between Burlington for auditions and to see plays, since it’s so much easier than catching the irregularly schedule bus that connects the small college town to the big capital city.
“Nothing hotter than a woman who knows how to turn a wrench.”
My back stiffens at the sound of that familiar, casual drawl. Surely, at this time of all times, the universe wouldn’t be so cruel as to …
When I turn my head to the side, I find that the universe is indeed that cruel.
By some terrible twist of fate, none other than Tuck McCoy is standing next to me. Right in front of the black Mercedes that his rich family no doubt paid for.
I bet he’s never had to deal with a single moment of car trouble in his life.
As usual, my frustration at seeing him contrasts with the boyish grin on his lips. Lips that are entirely too plush. It’s just not fair.
Everything about Tuck McCoy’s appearance is unfair. His dimples unfairly accentuate his high cheekbones and angular features. His jaw is unfairly sharp and broad. His bright blue eyes are downright unjust.
“Please tell me you’re not stalking me, Tuck,” I deadpan.
He chuckles. That low, rumbly timbre of his voice? Also unfair. “I was driving past and had to do a double take when I saw some girl standing over her engine, gawking at it like she was looking at an instruction manual written in Mandarin. Couldn’t believe it was you. What are the odds?”
“Low, which says something about my bad luck.”
Those words are laden with pain from the depths of my soul, but Tuck just laughs them off again. He steps to my side, looking down at the engine along with me.
“Car troubles?” he asks.
I turn my head slowly to him, leveling him with a nonplussed glare. “No, I just decided that driving out to a shopping center on the outskirts of Cedar Shade and standing in front of my engine in the freezing cold would be a good way to pass time between classes.”
“Hm,” Tuck hums, taking my answer at face value. “In that case, I’ll join you.”
Seconds tick past. Tuck is just standing silently next to me, hands slung into his jean pockets, eyes glued to my engine.
My brain is discombobulated from the downright absurdity of it. Just how long will Tuck stand here in the freezing cold with me in front of my propped-open hood? Does he love tormenting me that much?
“You can go now, Tuck,” I finally say.
“No way. This is just starting to get good.”
I was putting off the pain of calling for a tow, but the pain of spending any more time here next to Tuck McCoy is even greater.
“I’m just going to call a tow truck,” I say, reaching into my pocket for my cell phone.
“Have you tried jumping it yet?” Tuck asks.
“Jumping?”
“Jump-starting it. You know, the battery?”
My lips are a flat line as I blink dumbly at Tuck.
He grins. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?”
I narrow my eyes on him, feeling my jaw tighten in annoyance. “Care to enlighten me?” It’s true, I officially know jack-shit about cars. Sue me.
“It’s not every day I know something you don’t, Lockley. Let me savor the moment.”
He dips his head back and closes his eyes, taking in a deep breath like he’s inhaling the freshest scent of flowers on a gorgeous spring day. Then he lets it out in a long, loud exhale that ends with a satisfied sigh.
I roll my eyes. “Has the moment been sufficiently savored yet?”
He holds up his index finger. After two more beats with his head flung back and his eyes closed, he finally opens them and nods. “Yeah. Sufficiently savored. Alright, let me get my cables.”
He brings out two cables from his truck, pops his own hood, and then connects the cables between his car and mine.
“This is supposed to … revive the battery?” I ask.
He chuckles again, earning him another glare. “Yeah, Lockely,” he says, a patronizing tone in his voice like he’s explaining something only an idiot wouldn’t already know.
He goes back to his car and starts it. He revs the engine a couple times and then rolls down his window to say to me, “In a minute or two, try to start your car.”
I sigh. “If you say so.” Normally, I wouldn’t trust Tuck about anything, but he actually seems to know what he’s doing here.
Kind of surprising. I would have thought his family would have a full staff of chauffeurs to make sure none of them ever had to sully their hands with tasks like this.
After a bit, Tuck gives me a thumbs up, signaling that I should try to start my engine.
I do … nothing happens.
“Try again,” Tuck shouts from his car.
I do … and nothing happens, again.
I try a couple more times. Each time, no luck.
“Shit,” Tuck says, stepping out of his car at the same time I step out of mine. “It must be something worse than that.”
“Thanks for trying,” I say. “But you can go home now. I’ll just call a tow truck like I said.”
“Lemme check a couple things,” he says, ignoring my words.
He unzips his jacket and flings it onto the roof of his car. My breath catches when he pulls up the sleeves of his grey sweater, revealing those thick, dense forearms again. My eyes linger on the articulated veins and the downy brushing of his brown hair over the tops of them.
He leans over my hood and reaches his left hand deep into the maze of car parts. Suddenly, it feels like there’s something in my throat making it hard to swallow.
Maybe a bug flew in my mouth or something. Surely it’s not the sight of Tuck with his sleeves rolled up, reaching deep into the gears of a car with rugged masculine confidence that’s affecting my swallowing ability …
“Hm, that’s not it,” he grouses. “What about …” He pulls his left hand out then plunges his right deeper into another part of the engine. “Nope, not that, either.”
He takes a step back, scrunching up his mouth and regarding my car thoughtfully. He raises his right hand to scratch the top of his head, the action making his bicep pop noticeably even through the bunched-up sleeve of his sweater.
He lets out a heavy breath. “Lemme try one more thing.”
This time he reaches deeper into the car, bending over deep enough that his sweater rides up his back. I catch a sliver of his smooth, clear skin. A chill dances up my spine—thanks to a cold breeze that just rolled by, no doubt.
“Try starting it one more time,” Tuck says, straightening up.
I slide into my driver’s seat.
Again, nothing.
“Damn,” Tuck says, sounding genuinely disappointed. “Yeah. Nothing to do but get it towed.”
“Thanks for trying,” I say. He did take a chunk of time out of his day, stood in the freezing cold, and got his forearms all greasy when we’re not even friends.
“Call the tow truck and tell them where your car is. Usually takes them a while to get around to making a tow. I’ll drive you back into town.”
I think about turning down his offer, but then I consider the alternatives, like walking the couple miles back home in this cold weather down a road that has zero space for pedestrians. So, I agree.
A couple minutes later, after calling a towing company, I find myself one place I never intended to be: in the passenger seat of Tuck McCoy’s Mercedes.