his right hand, and he’s looking across the hall at nothing in particular. “I wonder if I’m supposed to be an actor.”
“Of course you are. Isn’t theater all you’ve ever wanted to do?”
“Yeah, but I’m not so sure now.”
“Don’t you want to go to New York?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know how I’ll get in now.” He toes the floor. “My dad’s pushing me to go to Notre Dame. Legacy and all, you know.”
“No way. You can’t do that,” I say, although I’m not really sure I believe it myself. I start off down the hallway toward rehearsal. Harrison peels himself off the lockers and follows me.
“I remember rehearsals being fun last year,” I say to Harrison after an hour of sitting in the theater. Only one of my scenes has been called, and that was ages ago. I’ve mostly been entertaining myself by watching Tim, the lighting designer, tap away on his tablet, andimagining how he’s designing the light plot. Which is something I know a little too much about, thanks to my dad, who does the same thing professionally.
Harrison’s slumped in the seat next to me, glasses resting on his chest. “It was fun because we were onstage so much last year.”
Someone shuffles down the aisle and sits down on my other side. It’s Silent Hollywood Guy. Oliver, I correct myself.
“Hi,” I whisper.
He doesn’t say anything.
“Um, hi?” I say again.
“Hey. How’s it going?” he finally says.
“Fine. You?”
“Good, thanks.”
Well, this is a scintillating conversation. I flip the pages of my script. Oliver doesn’t say anything else for several minutes. And I can’t think of anything to say to him. Why did he sit here? There’s a whole theater full of seats where he could’ve stuck his quiet self.
I go back to watching Tim and wondering if the desire to leave your kids is a prerequisite for being a lighting designer.
Out of nowhere, Oliver says, “Your friend Amanda is a good actor.”
“Yeah.” Apparently so, since she got the lead and I got the nun part with no lines and an ugly costume, I want to add.
“That Blakeman guy’s not so bad, either,” Oliver continues.
Harrison gives an audible sigh, but Oliver doesn’t notice. Instead, Oliver’s perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes following Amandaand Trevor as they go through their scene.
I take the opportunity to get a good look at him since I’m tired of imagining the light plot and thinking about Dad. I like to study people and their habits and quirks. It’s good for the dramatic soul. Although I learned early on to do it when they aren’t watching. People get kind of weirded out when you stare at them too long.
Oliver is a puzzle. He’s gone from silent to kind of talkative. And he definitely doesn’t look like he’s from Hollywood. His long legs are covered in torn jeans. They jut out at angles, like they don’t completely fit in the small space between his seat and the seat in front of him. His dark hair is pushed back so it’s sticking up. He’s wearing a Nirvana T-shirt, which is like the third or fourth band shirt I’ve seen him in. Musician, definitely. Guitar. I can spot a guitar player from a mile away, thanks to having grown up with one. His shoes are an old, worn pair of Vans, and the left one is untied.
It looks like he spends a half hour on his hair, but his clothes are a disaster.
“Not bad, huh?” he says, turning toward me.
“Um . . . no . . . you’re not bad.” My cheeks flame. I add Big Ego to my mental checklist of Things That Make Up Oliver.
He raises one eyebrow. Which I always thought was impossible. I mean, I’ve practiced it in the mirror and could never get it. “Thanks,” he says. “I meant Amanda and Trevor, though.”
Oops. “Oh. Yeah, they’re not bad. Sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry, but I am.” Dammit, Casey. Just shut up before you make it even worse.
He runs a hand through his hair, like talking somehow made itgo flat. Then he swallows as if
“Of course you are. Isn’t theater all you’ve ever wanted to do?”
“Yeah, but I’m not so sure now.”
“Don’t you want to go to New York?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know how I’ll get in now.” He toes the floor. “My dad’s pushing me to go to Notre Dame. Legacy and all, you know.”
“No way. You can’t do that,” I say, although I’m not really sure I believe it myself. I start off down the hallway toward rehearsal. Harrison peels himself off the lockers and follows me.
“I remember rehearsals being fun last year,” I say to Harrison after an hour of sitting in the theater. Only one of my scenes has been called, and that was ages ago. I’ve mostly been entertaining myself by watching Tim, the lighting designer, tap away on his tablet, andimagining how he’s designing the light plot. Which is something I know a little too much about, thanks to my dad, who does the same thing professionally.
Harrison’s slumped in the seat next to me, glasses resting on his chest. “It was fun because we were onstage so much last year.”
Someone shuffles down the aisle and sits down on my other side. It’s Silent Hollywood Guy. Oliver, I correct myself.
“Hi,” I whisper.
He doesn’t say anything.
“Um, hi?” I say again.
“Hey. How’s it going?” he finally says.
“Fine. You?”
“Good, thanks.”
Well, this is a scintillating conversation. I flip the pages of my script. Oliver doesn’t say anything else for several minutes. And I can’t think of anything to say to him. Why did he sit here? There’s a whole theater full of seats where he could’ve stuck his quiet self.
I go back to watching Tim and wondering if the desire to leave your kids is a prerequisite for being a lighting designer.
Out of nowhere, Oliver says, “Your friend Amanda is a good actor.”
“Yeah.” Apparently so, since she got the lead and I got the nun part with no lines and an ugly costume, I want to add.
“That Blakeman guy’s not so bad, either,” Oliver continues.
Harrison gives an audible sigh, but Oliver doesn’t notice. Instead, Oliver’s perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes following Amandaand Trevor as they go through their scene.
I take the opportunity to get a good look at him since I’m tired of imagining the light plot and thinking about Dad. I like to study people and their habits and quirks. It’s good for the dramatic soul. Although I learned early on to do it when they aren’t watching. People get kind of weirded out when you stare at them too long.
Oliver is a puzzle. He’s gone from silent to kind of talkative. And he definitely doesn’t look like he’s from Hollywood. His long legs are covered in torn jeans. They jut out at angles, like they don’t completely fit in the small space between his seat and the seat in front of him. His dark hair is pushed back so it’s sticking up. He’s wearing a Nirvana T-shirt, which is like the third or fourth band shirt I’ve seen him in. Musician, definitely. Guitar. I can spot a guitar player from a mile away, thanks to having grown up with one. His shoes are an old, worn pair of Vans, and the left one is untied.
It looks like he spends a half hour on his hair, but his clothes are a disaster.
“Not bad, huh?” he says, turning toward me.
“Um . . . no . . . you’re not bad.” My cheeks flame. I add Big Ego to my mental checklist of Things That Make Up Oliver.
He raises one eyebrow. Which I always thought was impossible. I mean, I’ve practiced it in the mirror and could never get it. “Thanks,” he says. “I meant Amanda and Trevor, though.”
Oops. “Oh. Yeah, they’re not bad. Sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry, but I am.” Dammit, Casey. Just shut up before you make it even worse.
He runs a hand through his hair, like talking somehow made itgo flat. Then he swallows as if
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