Twelve

TWELVE

In my up-to-then high school theatrical career, I had been in six school plays. Generally I am not the lead. But there are, as theater people know, no small parts, only small actors.

My first role was as Sneezy, the sixth of the seven Dwarfs in my kindergarten production of Snow White (where the teacher gave herself the role of Snow White). Millie noted I had a very believable sneeze, which I learned from Lucy’s allergies and a lot of practicing.

I was the Nurse in Romeo and Juliet in fifth grade, I was a townsperson in The Crucible a year later (I switched schools halfway through the term that year); ditto Our Town a year later. I was Nick Bottom in A Midsummer Night’s Dream because there weren’t enough boys that year and I was the only girl who wasn’t confined by gender roles.

My dream roles include: the Butler in Clue and Dorothy in The Wizard o f Oz.

But really, I’ll play anything.

I think that’s kind of key to being an artist. That level of flexibility.

Millie told me once that the stage is an example of a liminal space. Which is a space that’s between, not one thing or another. It’s the real world because it’s real people and it’s actually in the real world, not in say, space.

But it’s also a magical space. Where anything can happen. Where you can take a box and say it’s a spaceship and then it’s a spaceship, or take a kid who’s sixteen and from New Jersey and say they’re an ancient wizard.

On the stage, when the lights are on me, I can be whatever I want to be.

To prepare for an audition, when possible, I like to pretend I’m in a dressing room at a fancy Broadway theater, sitting in front of one of those mirrors with the lights all around, a bouquet of roses on my dressing table as I prep my makeup and run my lines. Obviously the bathroom on the second floor at Greenville High, the one with the door that doesn’t close and only one sink that works, is a poor substitute, but you work with what you got.

For the purpose of my stage debut at Greenville, I wore my signature orange in multiple shades of. . .orange: a set of blood-orange bell-bottom pants with heart patches on the knees, a sorbet turtleneck, and a neon-orange blazer that the salesperson at the used place where I bought it told me was once owned by a girl who worked for Lucille Ball (star of I Love Lucy and comedic genius).

Since Lucille Ball was around way before neon was chic, I was pretty sure it was a lie, but I appreciated the effort and the magic.

I’d re-dyed my hair Tangerine Madness, christening our new tub with an orange glow.

Millie said I looked like a really aggressive extra from The Mary Tyler Moore Show. Which is a retro reference that is curiously outside of my wheelhouse.

I read an article once that said an actor should have two auditions prepared in case someone else has the same piece ready, also so you can read the room and do whatever feels the most appropriate at that time. I had “Don’t Rain on My Parade” from Funny Girl and I had the “I Don’t Tip” speech from Reservoir Dogs memorized, which could be a controversial choice but a surprising one, I think.

Keep them on their toes.

I snapped my compact closed and moved my face closer to the mirror over the sink.

The whole way to my audition I sang “Don’t Rain on my Parade” under my breath, infusing it into my system. I wasn’t expecting to turn the corner and run into Tanner. But there he was, standing outside the auditorium in his soccer jersey and jeans, grinning like he was holding a package for me.

Special delivery.

I reached for the door. “I’m here for the auditions, Tanner Spencer. Please move.”

I buttoned my lips together.

His face bobbed in front of me, swimming on a sea of psychic steam that was clearly pouring out of my ears. He had a zit on the tip of his chin.

My face was getting hot, not helped by the fact that I was wearing a turtleneck, which was funneling all my body heat into my cheeks.

I visualized my fist connecting with Tanner’s jaw, cracking that smile off his face. The vision was powerful. But I also knew I was a hallway away from my mom’s office.

But still, it was a very satisfying idea and Tanner was being a jerk.

I rubbed my chin with my middle finger.

He wanted me to hit him.

And I was definitely considering it—when suddenly there was a bump from behind the door, and a scuffling sound, followed by a muffled, “Who is that?”

Tanner hop-stumbled forward, almost falling into me, as the door pitched open, revealing Mr. Davidson in a turtleneck (white) with a confused look on his face.

My face was the angriest red balloon.

Mr. Davidson looked at me for a long second. Then he nodded crisply. “I like your turtleneck.”

The red balloon became my face again. “Thanks.”

He stepped back, holding open the door. “Well, I’m very much looking forward to seeing both your acting chops,” he said.

Where I could breathe.

Inside, the auditorium lights were lowered except for three spots of light on the stage. Which seemed like a kind of gift really as I took a seat in one of the back rows and enjoyed a moment in the dark to hold my hands till they stopped shaking. Mr. Davidson walked to the front of the room, and the stage, which was lit up with lights, to talk to the rest of the people in the auditorium.

The room was quiet, just bodies in the dark, murmuring.

Sarah, Tanner, Gilly, and John sat in a cluster of seats in the front row.

Sarah and Tanner marched up to the front of the stage. Gilly’s head seemed to scoot down in her seat. Maybe she didn’t want to be there?

As Sarah got up onstage I noted that she was wearing a long blue dress with a white collar, her hair brushed into a soft blond swirl that fell around her neck.

She looked really nice. She looked. . .like she was in costume.

Sarah stepped up to the front of the stage and gazed out into the audience, purposefully wistful. I mean I’m not a huge fan of Our Town, but Sarah did look like Emily, and when she held her hand to her heart and delivered her lines, she sounded like Emily.

Mr. Davidson, who had walked backward up the aisle as she and Tanner delivered their lines, clapped loudly as they finished. Sarah took a very deep and graceful bow and Tanner did a little short one and then they hopped off the stage and took seats on the other side of the aisle.

Okay, so Sarah and Tanner had some chops. The world is a surprising place.

He turned, pointed at me with his clipboard. “Anne, you’re next.”

I stood up abruptly, my knee knocking the seats as I scooted out of my row. I deep-breathed calm into my body as I headed down the aisle. I was a few steps from the stage, walking toward Mr. Davidson, when suddenly I felt something hard hit my foot, coordinated with someone calling out:

I flew forward into the dark, catching sight of Mr. Davidson’s horrified face as he leaped forward to grab me before I took a total header. My wrist got the hard end of his clipboard as we both struggled to get to our feet, while snickers rolled over the audience behind us. A somewhat familiar, hissing voice cut through it all.

Mr. Davidson managed to get his footing and haul me to my feet, a human bag of flustered.

Gilly was standing in front of her seat. She looked at me, and then at Tanner, who threw his hands up.

Sarah stood. “I saw it,” she said. “Anne just tripped on her shoe or something.”

I tugged my turtleneck back into place and tried to wipe the sweat out of my eyes. Mr. Davidson tightened his grip on my hand. “Do you need a moment, Anne?”

I roller-skate and I have taken part in my share of performance art. You need to do a little more than stick your foot out to get in my way, Tanner Spencer.

But my legs were wobbly as Mr. Davidson gave me a pat on the arm before letting go.

I looked up. Gilly’s eyes darted over to Tanner and Sarah before settling on me.

The auditorium stage was shallow, and the floor looked like the same floor as the basketball court. My knees felt soft and shaky as I stepped up to the edge, the edge of the light and the line between real and make-believe.

A small snort echoed through the room.

I walked to the center of the stage, shook my hands out, they were so sweaty. I faced my audience, tried to feel the rest of my body. My feet, my legs. My voice, which was somehow gone. Or hiding somewhere in my chest. Fluttering around in the dark where I couldn’t find it. Where I couldn’t touch it with my fingers outstretched. I closed my eyes.

My singing voice sounded strangled, like someone was holding it by the tail. Suddenly there was a low gutter-rumbling cough.

I stopped.

Mr. Davidson looked around the room, then back at me, nodding. “Take your time, Anne.”

I started again, did my best to channel my inner Funny Girl.

This time it was two coughs. One low and one high. Followed by whispers. And a laugh. I knew where it was coming from. But it was also spreading. Little coughs. Someone clearing their throat. Snickering.

The coughing continued, getting louder and louder with every second. Louder as I sang louder.

So I stopped. My breath stopped too. Everything stopped. On the stage.

I dropped my head. Everything froze. Including the coughing.

I lifted my head. Felt the light on my face.

Come on, Anne, I thought. You love this. This is your fucking thing. Don’t let them take it away.

I opened my mouth and let the first thing to come out of it, come out.

I was not surprised that it was “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor, released 1978, with a roller-skating video that’s maybe the coolest thing on the internet, that was the first thing past my lips.

And it’s a song about not giving up.

And I wasn’t giving up.

I threw my arms up in the air, glared out into the audience as I belted out the chorus.

I did once have a routine I used to do to this song when I was twelve, which I knitted into my a cappella rendition for my audition. It included a set of splits on the second chorus, which I think surprised everyone in the room.

But not as much as the backflip I saved for the final move.

Yeah, that’s right, Greenville. I can backflip.

After that I went right into my monologue, which I switched up as well. I did Romeo’s monologue from Romeo and Juliet. Why that was in my brain, I don’t know. But “But soft, what light from yonder window breaks,” just seemed like a legit follow-up to Gloria Gaynor.

The whole thing was like this beautiful carousel ride. I didn’t have to think at all. I just let everything come out. I was completely and totally me in Greenville.

Miracle.

Mr. Davidson’s applause boomed out over the auditorium again as I blinked and realized it was over. “Very nice, Anne. Very interesting choices. Bravo!” He looked at his notes. “Gilly? You’re up next.”

I floated off the stage like a tiny disco cloud, bumping into Gilly on my way up.

Gilly looked really nervous. On the stage, she shifted around like she was trying to get out of the light.

She turned her face away from the light. And let out a long sigh as she tilted her head. She clasped her hands together. Then she closed her eyes and lifted her chin. “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?”

There was something about her, standing in the spotlight. Maybe because Gilly was always turning her head away, or looking down, there was something about seeing her whole face lit up. Like she was suddenly there. Like I could see how scared she was, but she was hanging in there.

Like how Juliet is standing there, hoping for this impossible thing to happen in the play. Even if that thing she hopes will happen will be the end of a part of her that used to feel safe.

It was really good!

I leaned forward in my seat.

Her hands fluttered by her sides till she held them together. Like she was steadying a creature. Her voice trembled, but her eyes were wide and searching.

And then, I could swear, she looked right at me.

I mean. Maybe because we were doing two parts from the same play? Or?

But, yeah, I’m 99 percent sure she looked right at me. But then she looked up across the field of seats, and suddenly I was having a heart attack?

In a flash, like she’d been released, Gilly hopped off the stage and disappeared out the door to the hall, her hair swishing behind her.

And just like that, my very strange heart did a little twirl in my chest. For the one person it should not be doing any moves for whatsoever, Gilly.

I will say Greenville High had way more solid theater performers than I would have originally thought, which is my prejudice, obviously. There was a kid named Taylor Mackenzie who brought his drum from marching band up onstage, and he was amazing. There was a girl named Minnie, who, did I detect some excessive artful eyeliner? Who requested to be a “non-human part if possible.” And a kid named Brandon, who was at least six foot two who did a solid bit from Glengarry Glen Ross and requested the part of an old man if there was one.

Such interesting choices!

I sat ruminating on this awesomeness until the theater was empty except for me and Mr. Davidson. Just the two turtlenecks.

Davidson tapped his clipboard. “I do have a thought, about the play, I’d like to run by you.”