Cut the Lights

  CUT

  THE

  LIGHTS

  Karen Krossing

  Copyright © 2013 Karen Krossing

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced

  or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,

  including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and

  retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in

  writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Krossing, Karen, 1965-

  Cut the lights [electronic resource] / Karen Krossing.

  (Orca limelights)

  Electronic monograph.

  Issued also in print format.

  ISBN 978-1-4598-0414-2 (PDF).--ISBN 978-1-4598-0415-9 (EPUB)

  I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights (Online)

  PS8571.R776C87 2013 jC813’.6 C2013-901912-X

  First published in the United States, 2013

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935386

  Summary: Briar has been chosen to direct a one-act play at her

  performing arts high school, but she learns there’s more to it than imposing

  her vision on the cast and crew.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for

  its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:

  the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the

  Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia

  through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover photography by Getty Images

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO Box 5626, Stn. B PO Box 468

  Victoria, BC Canada Custer, WA USA

  V8R 6S4 98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  16 15 14 13 • 4 3 2 1

  For Paige and Tess, who shared their stories.

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Acknowledgments

  One

  A tidy kitchen. Early morning. A vase of lilies sits on the granite countertop.

  My parents chew their oatmeal without talking. Dad stares steadily out the window at the lilac blooms. Mom reads the newspaper folded beside her bowl. Upstairs, Mom’s much younger sister, Darla, thumps from room to room, hollering about a lost nose ring, threatening to bring her chaos downstairs.

  I slip on my new glasses—red cat’s-eye frames, no lenses—and position myself near the sink so I can see the table and hall.

  “Glasses?” My mother looks puzzled. “But your eyes are fine, Briar.”

  “Yup. They have no lenses, so I can see clearly.” I poke my fingers out through the eyeholes and wiggle them around. “It’s symbolic.”

  “Why are you wearing them?” Her nose wrinkles.

  “Is this a trend at that school of yours?” Dad lowers his spoon.

  “Trends are for followers,” I explain, even though it’s pointless. “These glasses remind me to think like a theater director—they frame the scene.”

  Mom pinches her lips together.

  “You’re still talking about directing?” Dad’s tone of voice says he hopes I’ll outgrow it.

  “Yup.” I pour myself a glass of mango juice, imagining a rosy future where my parents accept my dreams as more than whimsy. Impossible, I know, but before you judge them, try to understand. Dad is a bookkeeper. Not a useless profession; even theater directors need to track budgets and maybe even ticket sales. Mom’s job is more baffling—she’s an office manager at a sock company. The place is painfully practical—unless you make sock puppets and put on a show. I got in trouble for doing that on “Take Your Kid to Work” day.

  “Where would you get a job as a director?” Dad asks.

  I’m ready with numbers—it helps to speak his language. “Did you know that last year there were 227 productions in this city?” I down my juice and pocket a granola bar for later.

  “Really.” Dad frowns.

  “That includes 187 professional companies with 62 venues and over 38,000 seats, not including outdoor venues, theaters with less than 400 seats or comedy clubs.”

  “You seem to know what you’re talking about.” Dad raises his eyebrows.

  “Yup.” I smile, just as my aunt Darla clomps down the stairs in her high-heeled boots. I adjust my glasses, ready to view the full impact of the upcoming drama.

  “Morning.” Darla twists her nose ring into place.

  Dad grimaces and Mom nods. I wave hello, admiring how the sunlight cuts between Darla and my parents, dividing the kitchen in two. As Darla turns to the coffeemaker, her oversized fair-trade bag from Nepal knocks over the vase on the island.

  “Darla!” Mom leaps to catch the vase. She ends up with her blouse drenched and lilies spilling down her front, but she catches the vase before it shatters.

  Darla swings around, wide-eyed. “Did I do that?”

  If this were a stage, I’d put a mic over the island to capture the dialogue.

  Dad sighs and rubs his eyes.

  Mom grabs a clean dishtowel and starts mopping up water, her forehead creased.

  “Let me help.” Darla plucks lilies off the floor, setting them in the vase at bizarre angles. “I’ve got a job interview with Finders Keepers this morning—they find odd props for TV commercials. Maybe this time I’ll get lucky!” Darla calls herself an actress, although she hardly ever gets called for auditions anymore. Now she’s trying to get a behind-the-scenes job.

  “Maybe this time you’ll keep a job for more than two weeks,” Dad mutters. He hates it when Darla is out of work because she always moves in with us. She’s been here two months this time—long enough to set him on edge.

  Mom rearranges the jumbled flowers while giving Darla a disapproving look. “Why can’t you get an ordinary job like everyone else?”

  I consider reblocking the scene—turning Darla’s body toward the audience, and moving Dad so Mom’s not masking him.

  “Why would I want to do that?” Darla plants her hands on her hips.

  I leave for school, promising myself I’ll be anything but ordinary.

  A school hallway buzzes with students. Ten minutes to first class.

  Sonata, the best actor in the school, waltzes past in a white minidress with strategic rips in all the right places. A guy dressed like Alfred Hitchcock films a kid with a purple mohawk. Two grade-twelve girls sing Phantom of the Opera songs at full volume. Like Principal Racier says at every assembly, “You can be anything you want at Whitlock School of the Arts.”

  Ratna waits by my locker, fidgeting. She’s petite, fine-boned, a brilliant playwright and my best friend.

  “Nice glasses.” She tucks her black, bobbed hair behind her ears.

  “Thanks. They’re my director frames.”

  Ratna shoots me a sideways look, but it’s brief. My glasses may seem radical compared to my plain jeans and Stage Crew T-shirt, but I’m not that weird for Whitlock. Last year, I joined the stage crew so I’d know enough about lighting and sound to direct a play this year.

  “I’m hoping my glasses bring me good luck today.” I cross my fingers and toes. “Is the list up?” Mr. Ty, the lead drama teacher, promised to post the list of student-written plays and student directors selected for this year’s Whitlock
Fringe Festival “at first light on April third”—his exact words.

  “Not yet.” Ratna chews a fingernail. “But we should look again.”

  “Definitely.”

  As we link arms and march toward the drama office, I swallow hard. Wish Upon a Star, written by Ratna and to be directed by me, just has to be listed. It would be my directorial debut, apart from short skits in drama classes. It’s only a one-act play, but I know I can still create a masterpiece of sound, lights, set and performance.

  “I want to cast Sonata for the lead,” I say, to distract myself from the idea that we might not get listed.

  “Every director will want her, Briar. You’ll never get her.”

  “I will when she reads the lines you wrote.” I elbow her.

  Ratna smiles at the compliment. “But she always works with Lorna.”

  “Hey, seniors aren’t the only talent in this school,” I say, even though Lorna’s an awesome director.

  “I know.” Ratna shrugs.

  We walk in silence.

  “If we don’t get picked, will you audition?” she asks.

  “Never.” I make a face. “I hate acting.” I don’t mention that acting makes me nervous.

  “But you take drama!”

  “Only because I want to direct. Directing has more…” I pause to find the right words. “Artistic control. With Wish Upon a Star, I was thinking—” I break off as we round the corner and see a crowd gathered outside Mr. Ty’s office.

  “The list!” Ratna grabs my hand.

  “Only seven plays selected.”

  “More than thirty submitted.”

  I frown. “Let’s get it over with.”

  As we get closer, my stomach lurches and my canvas Toms shoes feel like lead. I wish everyone would vanish—I won’t be able to bear the humiliation if Ratna and I aren’t listed.

  We elbow into the crowd. Sonata is there already, congratulating Lorna. Apparently, she’ll be directing a play she also wrote. Impressive. I can see over the heads to the sheet taped to Mr. Ty’s door. Before we get near, Lorna claps both Ratna and me on the back. “Way to go, you two!”

  My mouth goes dry. “We made it?”

  Ratna looks stunned, and then a grin widens her tiny face.

  “You’re the only grade tens on the list.” Lorna smirks like she has a secret. “So if you need any directing tips, Briar, I can…”

  “I’m fine,” I say quickly. I don’t need anyone’s help.

  Lorna looks down her long nose. “Of course you are.” She turns away.

  “We did it!” Ratna squeals before she disappears to read the list.

  I watch her laugh with the others. Lorna hugs Sonata.

  I straighten my glasses. Ratna’s work is done. Mine is only beginning.

  Two

  The next day after classes. A drama room in the basement of Whitlock. Dark curtains. A purple carpet. Looming black wooden boxes of various sizes to use for staging. Spotlights heat up the low stage.

  Mr. Ty stands in the hall, sending in actors one by one. I’m beside Lorna at the end of a row of seven directors fidgeting in chairs while watching auditions. We’re all on edge, hoping to land the perfect cast. The room smells stale. The auditions feel stale too.

  Each director takes a turn asking an actor to cold-read a page from his or her script. One actor blocked his face with the script while reading. Another droned in a flat, emotionless voice. A grade-nine girl came in a fairy costume with sparkly wings—totally unprofessional, especially when she was asked to read the part of a ship’s captain. Now we’re listening to a senior girl give a long speech about why she’s an amazing actor. I hike my glasses higher and picture her dressed in funeral black at her own hanging.

  “Thanks for auditioning,” I interrupt, even though she hasn’t read one line from the script. I’m starting to wonder how I’ll ever get a decent cast.

  The girl stops abruptly, her hand flying to her throat. “But I didn’t—”

  “You’ll be informed of any callbacks,” Lorna adds. “The final list will be posted in a few days.”

  The girl flounces out of the room, her hair swinging.

  “You can call her back, Lorna,” says Samuel, a long-haired director who always wears plaid shirts with jeans. “She’s all yours.” He smirks.

  “But you two would be perfect together.” Lorna’s smile is fake-sweet. “I insist you take her.”

  I shift uneasily, picturing lightning bolts sparking between Lorna and Samuel. Any director is a bit of a control freak, but seven in one room competing for actors is asking for trouble.

  Luckily, Mr. Ty sends in the next actor pronto. It’s a grade-eleven guy named Mica. He’s pudgy and pale, with a face that shows how nervous he feels.

  I perk up. Physically, he’d be a great male lead for my play if Sonata were my female lead. She’s leggy and graceful—taller and thinner than him—and the contrast would be perfect. I have three parts to cast: a clueless husband, his demanding wife and the star she wishes on.

  Mica heads to center stage. Ratna creeps up behind me—she must have snuck in with Mica.

  “How’s it going?” she whispers.

  I lean back in my chair. “Better now. Mica could play opposite Sonata.”

  “You think he’s a good choice?” Ratna eyes Mica doubtfully.

  Lorna glares at me. “Sonata in your play? Dream on, Briar.”

  I ignore them both and give Mica my full attention. It’s my turn to direct the audition, and he’ll be reading from Ratna’s script.

  “Hi, Mica.” I keep my tone friendly to put him at ease. “You’ll be reading from Wish Upon a Star by Ratna Kapur.” Behind me, Ratna makes a happy, squeaking noise in her throat.

  “Not a very original title, Ratna,” I hear Lorna whisper. “You may want to rethink.”

  “It’s about a young wife who wishes upon a star to make improvements to her workaholic husband. It’s very funny,” I say a little too forcefully, glancing sideways at Lorna, daring her to contradict me. “You’ll be reading the husband’s monologue about his wife, Sylvia. The setting is a nineteen-fifties kitchen at night. Your wife is asleep in the next room, and you want a midnight snack.” I pause, deciding to see what he can do on his own before directing him further. “Any time you’re ready.” I keep my expression neutral, even though I’m jittery too.

  Mica takes a minute to read the script over and then begins.

  “‘I’m sure Sylvia didn’t mean to burn the steak.’” He rubs his stomach as if he’s hungry. “‘She had a hard night. Really.’” He pleads for us to understand. “‘Her car broke down. The dog threw up on her new shoes. I didn’t mean to be late for dinner...’”

  In the stage lights, his eyes take on the color of strong tea. He doesn’t stumble over his words. In fact, he sounds like he reads aloud often.

  “That was great,” I say when he’s done. But would he have chemistry with Sonata? Would people believe they were married?

  “Thanks.” Mica ducks his head as if he isn’t used to taking compliments.

  “Can you read it again, but this time imagine that your wife has just thrown one of her fuzzy slippers at you for no apparent reason?” I hold my breath, hoping for magic.

  “Uh, okay.”

  Mica repeats the lines.

  This time, his voice is full of doubt. His eyebrows pull together. He looks confused.

  My heart thrums. I catch a glimmer of Martin Wright, Sylvia’s husband in the play.

  “Thanks for auditioning.” I break into a smile, resisting the urge to offer Mica the part right away. I’m supposed to negotiate with the other directors for actors. Still, I have a good chance of casting him, since they’ll want the more attractive male actors.

  Ratna auditions next—I didn’t know she was on the list. She’s not bad, although she’s obviously more comfortable writing than performing.

  After Ratna leaves, I ponder who I could cast as the Star. I want her to be blond and impish, like Ti
nkerbell. Ashley, another actor who sometimes works with Lorna, might be good.

  Then Sonata walks in. Her straight, dark brown hair tumbles down her back. Her olive skin glistens under the lights. She claims the stage with each step. I’m already impressed.

  It’s Lorna’s turn to direct. Her play, titled Please, Mr. Bank Manager, Save My Mother, is about two sisters who attempt to rob a bank to get money for their mother’s cancer treatments.

  “‘Put your hands up and no one gets hurt...’” Sonata begins.

  She seems to make eye contact with every one of us. Her posture is flawless. She speaks like she means to gun us down. By the end of her monologue, I’m ready to fork over money for her fictional mother’s treatments.

  I catch my breath. She’s perfect. I have to cast her as Sylvia. But Lorna’s sure to want her, and maybe the other directors will too. What to do?

  Sonata heads offstage. I stand, knocking my chair over with a loud thud. “Can you do evening rehearsals?” I blurt out.

  “Pardon?” Sonata pivots on one foot like a dancer, squinting against the stage lights.

  “Briar!” Lorna’s eyes are hot coals.

  My blood pulses faster. “Because I’d love you to play the lead in Wish Upon a Star.” I fumble in my bag. “If you’d just read it, I promise you’ll want the role.” I jog closer, holding out the script.

  Sonata’s eyes find Lorna’s before she extends a long-fingered hand to take the script. “Bold move.” She smiles. “I like that.” Then she exits stage right.

  I hurry back to my seat. Samuel is laughing at Lorna’s pinched face. A few others are frowning.

  “That was amateur.” Lorna turns on me, nostrils flaring. She looks me up and down, as if seeing me for the first time. “Why are you wearing those stupid glasses, anyway?”

  “Because I can.” I right my chair and take a seat, my heart pounding.

  Three

  Monday at lunchtime. A medieval jousting field. (At least, you could picture it that way.)

  The seven Fringe directors stand on either side of the table, ready to battle it out for the actors they want to cast. Mr. Ty should be at the head of the table as judge, but he refuses to attend because he wants us to work it out ourselves. Lorna is facing me down. I’m glaring right back. Between us is a large chart listing all the plays and actors.