rows are filled with students, everyone buzzing with anticipation.
“Who’s first?” Mr. Harris asks.
I look at Regan. “Lear,” she says. “We need to get him right. Everyone else has to fit in around him.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Harris says. Then he yells, “LEAR!”
Two boys walk down to the stage and stand there as if they have to pee.
“Two?” I say. “That’s it?”
“That little one is no good,” Regan says. “Isn’t Lear supposed to be old? Like, fifty or something? That one looks like he doesn’t even shave.”
“What’s your name?” Mr. Harris calls, pointing to the little one.
“Quinn?”
“Are you sure?” Mr. Harris calls.
“Yes?” the boy says.
“What about you?” he calls to the taller one with the Canucks jersey.
“Rob.”
“Hockey player, Rob?”
He shrugs.
“Tell me about King Lear, Rob,” Mr. Harris says.
He shrugs.
“How about you, Quinn?”
“I memorized a speech?” Quinn says.
Mr. Harris waves him up onto the stage.
“‘Meantime we shall express our darker purpose,’” Quinn starts. Mr. Harris’s head snaps up to look at him. The theatre goes silent. “‘Give me the map there. Know that we have divided in three our kingdom: and ’tis our fast intent to shake all cares and business from our age; conferring them on younger strengths, while we unburdened crawl toward death …’”
After he finishes the speech, there’s absolute silence.
“Quinn?” Mr. Harris calls.
“Sorry?” Quinn says.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen?”
I look at Sam, at Regan.
“Hockey player,” Mr. Harris calls. “Do you sing?”
He shrugs.
“What about you, Quinn?” Mr. Harris calls.
Quinn clears his throat and sings “O Canada.” His voice tremors all over the place and at the end he cracks on the high note.
“Sorry?” he says when he’s done.
“Dude,” the hockey player says. He looks offended. “Don’t do that to the anthem , dude.”
Quinn looks as if he’s going to cry.
“‘O Canada,’” the hockey player sings. He sings the whole thing in a strong baritone, and the high note at the end is solid.
“Nice,” Sam whispers to me when he’s done, as if I couldn’t have figured that out for myself.
His monologue, though, is awful. He stands legs apart and fists clenched, like a gorilla, and emphasizes all the wrong words, so that it’s clear he has no idea what any of the lines actually mean.
“Any more Lears?” Mr. Harris calls. “All right. Cast will be posted outside my office Monday morning. Next is—”
“Cordelia,” I whisper to Regan. The good daughter, the female lead. She nods.
“Cordelia,” Mr. Harris calls.
I count seventeen girls who advance on the stage at once and stand there flipping their hair and looking at the sample speech we photocopied and handed out for them to memorize. These are the popular girls, the girlie-girls, the wannabe singers.
“Blond, blond, blondity-blond,” Regan whispers.
Most of them, predictably, are pretty bad. Sam sits mumbling to herself, wincing, putting on a show of the pained musician, but I’m glad it’s not me up there trying to sing, and I try not to laugh or be mean. Frankly, I’m more interested in the speeches anyway. These girls aren’t like Rob and Quinn, who both ignored the plain-language speech I’dprepared and photocopied. They’ve got it memorized, like homework, and most of them zip through as fast as they can, as if they need to get the words out of their mouths before the words roll out of their ears and end up on the floor. No one jumps out at me, but there are a couple of good readers and a couple of talented singers, and I’m sure we’ll be able to come up with someone.
At first, when Mr. Harris calls for the Fool, I’m afraid we’re in big trouble, because only one boy comes forward. But Regan murmurs, “Perfect,” and Mr. Harris leans back with what you might almost call a smile on his face. I look at Sam, who always knows
“Who’s first?” Mr. Harris asks.
I look at Regan. “Lear,” she says. “We need to get him right. Everyone else has to fit in around him.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Harris says. Then he yells, “LEAR!”
Two boys walk down to the stage and stand there as if they have to pee.
“Two?” I say. “That’s it?”
“That little one is no good,” Regan says. “Isn’t Lear supposed to be old? Like, fifty or something? That one looks like he doesn’t even shave.”
“What’s your name?” Mr. Harris calls, pointing to the little one.
“Quinn?”
“Are you sure?” Mr. Harris calls.
“Yes?” the boy says.
“What about you?” he calls to the taller one with the Canucks jersey.
“Rob.”
“Hockey player, Rob?”
He shrugs.
“Tell me about King Lear, Rob,” Mr. Harris says.
He shrugs.
“How about you, Quinn?”
“I memorized a speech?” Quinn says.
Mr. Harris waves him up onto the stage.
“‘Meantime we shall express our darker purpose,’” Quinn starts. Mr. Harris’s head snaps up to look at him. The theatre goes silent. “‘Give me the map there. Know that we have divided in three our kingdom: and ’tis our fast intent to shake all cares and business from our age; conferring them on younger strengths, while we unburdened crawl toward death …’”
After he finishes the speech, there’s absolute silence.
“Quinn?” Mr. Harris calls.
“Sorry?” Quinn says.
“How old are you?”
“Fourteen?”
I look at Sam, at Regan.
“Hockey player,” Mr. Harris calls. “Do you sing?”
He shrugs.
“What about you, Quinn?” Mr. Harris calls.
Quinn clears his throat and sings “O Canada.” His voice tremors all over the place and at the end he cracks on the high note.
“Sorry?” he says when he’s done.
“Dude,” the hockey player says. He looks offended. “Don’t do that to the anthem , dude.”
Quinn looks as if he’s going to cry.
“‘O Canada,’” the hockey player sings. He sings the whole thing in a strong baritone, and the high note at the end is solid.
“Nice,” Sam whispers to me when he’s done, as if I couldn’t have figured that out for myself.
His monologue, though, is awful. He stands legs apart and fists clenched, like a gorilla, and emphasizes all the wrong words, so that it’s clear he has no idea what any of the lines actually mean.
“Any more Lears?” Mr. Harris calls. “All right. Cast will be posted outside my office Monday morning. Next is—”
“Cordelia,” I whisper to Regan. The good daughter, the female lead. She nods.
“Cordelia,” Mr. Harris calls.
I count seventeen girls who advance on the stage at once and stand there flipping their hair and looking at the sample speech we photocopied and handed out for them to memorize. These are the popular girls, the girlie-girls, the wannabe singers.
“Blond, blond, blondity-blond,” Regan whispers.
Most of them, predictably, are pretty bad. Sam sits mumbling to herself, wincing, putting on a show of the pained musician, but I’m glad it’s not me up there trying to sing, and I try not to laugh or be mean. Frankly, I’m more interested in the speeches anyway. These girls aren’t like Rob and Quinn, who both ignored the plain-language speech I’dprepared and photocopied. They’ve got it memorized, like homework, and most of them zip through as fast as they can, as if they need to get the words out of their mouths before the words roll out of their ears and end up on the floor. No one jumps out at me, but there are a couple of good readers and a couple of talented singers, and I’m sure we’ll be able to come up with someone.
At first, when Mr. Harris calls for the Fool, I’m afraid we’re in big trouble, because only one boy comes forward. But Regan murmurs, “Perfect,” and Mr. Harris leans back with what you might almost call a smile on his face. I look at Sam, who always knows
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