Cut the Lights Page 3

  I step off the low stage, hoping to hear how brilliant my plan is.

  “Why not aim the window toward the audience so they can see me when I stare out at the stars?” Sonata stands, towering over me. A crease forms between her delicate eyebrows.

  Mica nods. “They’ll want to see Sonata’s face. It’s so expressive.”

  George continues drawing in the prompt book.

  I frown. Sonata may be right, but I can’t let her boss me around. “No. The set will block the action.” I ponder arranging the counter and sink at an angle to the audience.

  The crease in Sonata’s forehead deepens. “I accepted a role in this play because I thought you’d listen to feedback.”

  What the hell? I square my shoulders. “All I want is for you to play your part, Sonata, so that I can direct.”

  “Briar, you have to understand that I have a lot at stake right now.” Her voice starts to waver, and I wonder if she’s acting. “I need this performance to go well.”

  “We all do.” I set my jaw. “It will be fine.” Obviously, she wants a spot in the exclusive acting workshop. Or maybe it’s because she’s graduating this year. Ratna says she’s applying to all the top acting schools.

  “Fine isn’t good enough.” Sonata sniffs. “It has to be perfect.”

  “It’ll be better than perfect.” Are the tears in her eyes real or forced?

  “Hey, Briar,” Clayton says. “While we’re talking, I’ve got to tell you that the glitter is no good. In fact, I think this part may not be right for me—”

  “Don’t interrupt, Clayton.” Mica elbows him. “Sonata’s talking to Briar.”

  “I’ll interrupt anyone I want to.” Clayton narrows his eyes at Mica, who backs down, even though he’s four inches taller and twice as wide.

  My stomach flutters. I need to take control. “Let’s just warm up with an improv game,” I say.

  “You’re a fabulous actor.” Mica leans closer to Sonata, who looks at him, startled. “I feel like I have a lot to learn from you.”

  “Mica!” I yell. “We’re trying to rehearse!”

  George glances up from the prompt book. Mica’s jaw drops. Sonata raises a hand to her mouth. Clayton smirks.

  I sit on the edge of the stage and put my head in my hands. I blew it. No matter what happens, a director should stay calm. I’m acting like an amateur.

  I take a deep breath. “Look, we all want to create the greatest possible experience for the audience. Right?”

  Sonata and Mica nod.

  George returns to the prompt book.

  Clayton looks skeptical.

  “We can do that best by working together.” I rise to my feet, ready to take charge no matter who does what. “George, please write up a rehearsal schedule and email it to everyone. The rest of you, let’s do some improv. Who knows Hot Seat? You know—when we take turns asking one actor questions to answer in character?”

  “Everyone knows Hot Seat.” Sonata sounds offended.

  “Great.” I collapse into one of the audience chairs near George. “You can go first, Sonata.”

  My actors meander onto the stage and sit around my makeshift table. Sonata’s eyes are glassy and distant. Mica looks wounded. Clayton slouches.

  I push my glasses up higher on my nose, trying not to feel like I’m a lousy director.

  “Sylvia,” I address Sonata’s character, “tell me how you first met Martin.”

  Her facial features rearrange until Sonata becomes a falsely cheerful Sylvia. Incredible.

  “We met in high school,” she begins, her voice projecting into the audience. “Martin sat behind me in biology. I always knew he had a crush on me. He was voted most likely to be a workaholic. I was voted most likely to keep my figure.”

  Six

  A French class at Whitlock. Monday morning.

  Madame Bouchard writes a new assignment on the whiteboard—an oral speech to be written, memorized and presented in seven days.

  The class groans.

  I grip my pencil tighter. I don’t have time for this assignment. Or the math test on Friday. Or my science lab. Rehearsals matter more. And I need to locate my set pieces and props, find someone to be my lighting and sound tech, look for costumes, keep George on track.

  My right leg develops a nervous tremble. I wrap it around the leg of my desk to keep it still. When my cell phone vibrates in my pocket, I don’t even notice it at first.

  I check my phone when Madame Bouchard’s back is turned. It’s a text from Sonata.

  Can’t make rehearsal 2nite. Extra rehearsal for dance show. Sorry.

  Our second rehearsal, with just over three weeks to opening night, and she can’t come?

  The quiver in my leg gets stronger. Martin and the Star don’t even have any scenes together. How will I run a rehearsal?

  Madame Bouchard turns around, almost catching me with my phone out.

  I slip it into my desk and try to pay attention.

  But all I can think about is Sonata and her stupid dance show.

  Rehearsals are nothing without her.

  The set and prop room. Same day at lunch. Floor-to-ceiling shelves are stacked with large clear plastic boxes with weird labels. CUPS AND GOBLETS. WOODEN DAGGERS. CANDLESTICKS. PAPER MONEY and COINS. Beyond the shelves is the furniture.

  Mr. Ty lets only a few Fringe directors and their stage managers in at once. I get stuck with Lorna and Samuel and their sidekicks. George is nowhere to be seen, but at least I’ll get the set and props done right.

  While the others argue over who gets which plastic guns, I rummage through a bin of fake food until I find a basket of strawberries and something that resembles burnt steak. I’m glad mine is the only play set in a kitchen.

  After I locate a few dishes with gaudy flowers, some mismatched cutlery and an old metal pot, I go searching for my sink and table.

  Furniture and large props are stacked impossibly high. There are oversized flowers from a musical version of Alice in Wonderland, a throne painted gold, three couches from different time periods and Victorian chairs. I could spend days in here, just poking around.

  Several Greek columns lean into a corner. Two enormous tragedy and comedy masks hang on one wall. A metal chicken coop sits on sections of a white picket fence.

  I climb over about forty plastic pink flamingos—left over from the graduation prank last year—to find a fifties-style table with chrome legs. Perfect.

  As I’m searching for a sink, my phone buzzes again. This time it’s Clayton, making some stupid excuse for why he has to miss tonight’s rehearsal. I sigh. How can I run through a scene with one actor?

  “What’s wrong?” Samuel appears from behind the shelves, without his stage manager. “Can’t find your props?”

  “Props are the easy part.” I hold up my burnt steak. “They’re more agreeable than actors.” The words slip out before I can stop them. I don’t want Samuel to think that I can’t handle things or that I need advice. I get enough advice from Sonata, Lorna and even Ratna.

  But Samuel just laughs. “Tell me about it.” He runs his fingers through his hair and examines me with a sly smile.

  Is he flirting with me?

  I back away, stumbling over a few pink flamingos. “See you later,” I mumble. Romance is the last thing I need.

  “You bet.”

  When I glance back, Samuel is still watching me.

  Whitlock cafeteria. Later that day. The room has been transformed into a rehearsal studio. Scripts lie open on the floor. Backpacks have been tossed against the walls. A few odd props are stacked on tables.

  In the middle of the room, directors, actors and stage managers have gathered for a warm-up game of Battle-Axe while Mr. Ty looks on. It’s one of my favorite games, but I don’t feel like joining in.

  The game is simple. Everyone stands in a giant circle, and one person begins by throwing an imaginary battle-axe at another person with a guttural cry. The second person catches the axe and throws it again. I
t can be fun to get several axes going around the circle—some small and some massive.

  I’m not surprised to see George playing with gusto, his ears sticking out comically, his freckled face red as he bellows and throws an axe.

  Mica is there too, tossing with less effort, his face shining and happy.

  I lean against a table until they’re done, avoiding Mr. Ty because I don’t want him to notice that I can’t even get my actors to come to rehearsal. Mica beams as he approaches me.

  George’s face is still flushed. George and I run lines with Mica, which is all we can do. When I comment on Mica’s cheerful mood, he tells me that Sonata has promised to go for coffee with him—maybe next week.

  “I think she’s into me.” He smiles.

  “Oh,” I say, wondering if Sonata really does like him. “Great news.” I can’t help worrying about what a date will do to their stage dynamics.

  I watch Ratna laughing and talking with Lorna, Ashley and the other actors in their play. Lorna puts an arm around Ratna’s shoulder, chatting while Ratna nods eagerly. Samuel’s actors seem to have most of their lines memorized already.

  It’s depressing.

  I end rehearsal early and walk home alone.

  Briar’s kitchen. Late evening.

  Dad is warming milk on the stove. He has the Financial Times tucked under one arm.

  I rummage through the kitchen drawers in search of Mom’s stash of aprons. Although she rarely wears them, I remember a colorful one from Darla that would work for Sylvia.

  “Dad…” I sit back on my heels. “How do you get people on a team to listen—people who have to work together?” He doesn’t know anything about theater, but I’ve heard him talk about managing teams at work.

  “Well”—Dad leans against the stove—“I explain logically what needs to be done and why.”

  “That only works if people are highly motivated,” Mom says behind me. “Sometimes you need to tell them what to do.”

  Both Mom and Darla have come into the kitchen—not good. Mom is in a linen suit, while Darla wears jeans with rips at the knees and a Bob Marley T-shirt.

  “That never works.” Darla gives Mom an incredulous look. “You need to inspire them, even though it’s against my principles to force people to listen in the first place. Why not let them think for themselves?”

  “Do your principles include paying for room and board?” Dad asks.

  Mom frowns at him. “Don’t start.”

  But it’s too late.

  As the shouting begins, I head upstairs to my room and shut the door. So much for teamwork. I’ll find an apron later.

  Seven

  Whitlock cafeteria. Two days later, after school. The din of seven sets of directors, actors and stage managers echoes throughout the room.

  Mica and Clayton wait beside our staging area for their cues. The recycling bins stand stage right, acting as our makeshift sink and counter. Four stackable plastic chairs sit stage left, around a nonexistent table. Sonata plunges her hands into the imaginary dishwater and pretends to wash a plate. She stares dreamily out the “window” and up at the “stars,” her lips slightly parted.

  “‘Star light, star bright...’” she begins.

  My shoulders are tight, and my neck aches. “Pay attention,” I whisper to George, beside me.

  He’s laughing at Samuel’s play—a comedy about a love triangle gone bad—instead of writing my actors’ blocking cues in our prompt book.

  “Great, Sonata,” I say when she finishes her wish and returns to washing dishes, her eyes overbright. “Now, Clayton, you’re going to enter upstage of Sylvia, who will turn toward you. Do you have that written down, George?” I glare at him, wishing I could will him into being the perfect stage manager.

  “Huh?” George looks startled, a grin still lurking on his face as one of Samuel’s actors tosses fake rose petals about their staging area.

  “Briar.” Sonata whacks her script against her thigh. “I can’t possibly turn my back to the audience at this crucial moment.”

  I grit my teeth. Not again. “Yes, you can, Sonata. It’s only for a moment. Because as our Star walks downstage, you’ll spin to open to the audience.”

  Sonata winces. “Sylvia’s reaction to the Star should be seen.”

  “It will be seen. But first the audience needs to see the Star, so we give him the stage and then we show Sylvia’s reaction.”

  “But, Briar—”

  “Sonata, please, will you just let me do my job?” My hands are clenched. I try to relax them.

  Sonata folds her arms across her chest and hugs herself. Is she really that upset?

  “I think Sonata—” Mica begins.

  “Not now, Mica.” I turn to George. “Did you write down Clayton’s cue?”

  George ignores me.

  I smack him on the shoulder.

  He jumps. “What?”

  “Write down Clayton’s cue.” I emphasize each syllable.

  “Fine.” He sneaks a peek at Samuel’s actors again. “What is it?”

  “Enter upstage right.”

  “He’s just going to walk in?” George’s eyebrows shoot up.

  Now George is questioning me? “Of course he’s going to walk in. What else would he do?”

  George shrugs. “I thought he would fly.”

  “Cool,” Clayton says.

  “That could work.” Sonata nods.

  “I like it too.” Mica agrees with her, of course.

  My face heats up. “The Star can’t fly through our window. It’ll be too small. And how would we get him to fly, anyway? No. He’ll land outside the house—offstage—and then walk in.”

  “Through the door?” George snorts. “That’s boring.”

  “Could you just write down the cue?” I shout. Lorna and a few others gape at us.

  “Whatever.” He scribbles something in the prompt script and returns to watching Samuel’s play.

  I sigh. “Clayton, you’re on now. Sonata, you turn upstage as he enters.”

  Clayton steps onto our staging area, looking uncomfortable. Sonata refuses to follow my directions, keeping her face to the audience as he walks downstage.

  My head pounds. “Next time, we’ll need Sylvia to face upstage”—I’m careful to control my tone of voice—“but let’s move on for now. We’ll have some theme music for the Star’s entrance. I’m still deciding what that will be. And the lighting will make him seem to shimmer. Go ahead with your line, Sonata.”

  “‘You’re...you’re glowing!’” Sonata says to the Star. “‘Who are you?’”

  Clayton reads from his script in a wooden voice, one word at a time. “‘I...am...a...Star.’”

  “‘You heard my wish?’” Sonata falls to her knees.

  Clayton squints at his script. “‘We...all...did...’” He stumbles over his words, not even trying.

  “Clayton, you should have learned some of your lines by now!” I can’t stand his bumbling any longer.

  “Yeah, I can’t get into these lines. They’re just not me.” He drops his script.

  “No, they’re the Star’s lines. Maybe if you’d memorize them, you’d see that. George, why don’t you run lines with Clayton while I work with Sonata and Mica? George? George!”

  After I get George’s attention, I set him up at a nearby table with Clayton and a script. When I return to our makeshift stage, it’s pretty obvious that Mica is begging Sonata for a date.

  “How about tomorrow night?” He steps closer.

  “I have dance practice.” Sonata shakes her head, looking disappointed. Does she really want to go out with him? Or is she trying to let him down easy?

  “Plan it later, guys.” I frown. “We need to rehearse.”

  Then I catch sight of Lorna watching me, a smirk on her face. I try not to notice how organized her rehearsal is. Even Ratna seems relaxed and happy.

  “I’m free Friday night,” Mica pleads.

  “That’s the dance show.” Sonata fl
ips her hair over one shoulder.

  I straighten my glasses and focus on Sonata and Mica. “I said, plan it later!” I’ve raised my voice. My rehearsal must look pathetic.

  Sonata purses her lips. Mica retreats. I’m just relieved they listened.

  “Let’s review your first scene together, before Sylvia’s wish,” I say. “The blocking is fine, but I’d like to work on Mica’s reactions. How do you think Martin feels when Sylvia throws a slipper at him?”

  “Uh, surprised?” Mica gazes at Sonata as if he’s hoping for approval.

  Sonata nods encouragingly. Who’s the director here?

  “Yes, and maybe he feels a little confused too,” I say. “Let’s try it again.”

  Sonata takes her position for the scene. Mica’s eyes follow her.

  “‘You want to know what’s for dinner?’” She pretends to remove a slipper and lob it at Mica. “‘Here’s the chef’s special!’”

  Sonata turns into Sylvia in the blink of an eye. If I weren’t so frustrated with her, I could enjoy her acting more.

  “‘You hired a chef?’” Mica’s voice drips with affection and longing.

  “Mica, I’m still reading infatuation, not confusion,” I say.

  “I’m trying my best.” Mica shoves his hands deep into his pockets.

  “Yes, and you’re doing fine. Let’s do it again, this time with a neutral face and no expression, just for kicks.” I’m hoping we can start with no emotion and then build to Martin’s feelings.

  “‘You hired a chef?’” Mica repeats. This time, he pastes on a deadpan expression, although his voice gives away his desire for Sonata.

  I attempt a smile. “Let’s try that one more time.” I glance at George and Clayton, who are laughing and talking over the script. Could they actually be working?

  I work with Sonata and Mica until the end of rehearsal, trying and failing to help Mica get in character, writing the blocking cues in our prompt book myself and giving director notes that my actors continue to ignore. As everyone leaves, I consider talking to Mr. Ty about how to control my cast, but he’s chatting with Lorna.