And it wasn’t like it was out of the realm of possibility to think that I could do it. Gelsey Edwards, two years older than me and the star of our dance school, became an apprentice at the New York City Ballet when she was fifteen and joined the company the following year. But right before my freshman year started, my teacher sat down with me and my parents and told me she didn’t think I’d be able to make it. That while I was technically proficient, she didn’t “anticipate” I’d get an offer from a company. I still auditioned for the School of American Ballet—but didn’t get in. And suddenly, all my plans—all I’d thought my life would be—were thrown up in the air. I wasn’t going to SAB and Professional Children’s, in the city. I was going to Stanwich High and would have to figure out something else to do with my life.
At fourteen, I was all washed up.
But during the second week of school, there was an announcement about auditions for the fall play. I dragged myself there, not expecting anything, just to have something to do. But there in line behind me had been Stevie Sinclair. We were both cast as maids in The Cherry Orchard, and I fell in love. With all of it. With my new best friend, with the camaraderie, with the long rehearsals, punchy tech run-throughs, sitzprobes and opening nights, striking the sets and cast parties. I loved it all. Joining the theater department turned what had been the lowest moment in my life into something better than I ever could have imagined. I was all in, 100 percent. And I’d barely danced since.
“Kat, wait up!” I stopped crossing the student center and turned around, seeing my friend Teri running toward me, her brown hair flying behind her.
“Hey,” I said, giving her a smile. “Where are you coming from?”
Teri (short for Teresa) Tsai had been in middle school with me, but we’d never really gotten to know each other until we were in theater—and a surprising number of classes—together as freshmen. Teri was my closest friend who wasn’t Stevie, and I think this was mostly because Teri’s best friend was always whoever she was dating. She usually had a boyfriend, and they usually seemed to live out of state. Stevie and I had never pressed the issue, but we honestly weren’t sure these boyfriends of Teri actually existed. At any rate, we’d never managed to meet any of them.
“Just had French,” she said, pausing to catch her breath and then straightening up again. She frowned. “Why do you have two coats?”
“This one’s Stevie’s,” I said, trying to squish it down over the arm that was carrying her textbook. We fell into step together as we headed toward the north exit.
“Heard anything about the list?”
“It won’t be up yet,” I said with confidence, even though hearing her say the list sent an excited, nervous thrum through me. There was an order to this, one we had never, in four years, deviated from. Mr. Campbell, the head of the theater department, had a routine.
Auditions and callbacks started on Monday and went all week, and the cast lists were always posted on Friday just after classes let out—typed up and taped to the front door of the theater building. You were supposed to initial next to your name to indicate that you were accepting the part, and then the first meeting was held right after—just a quick one, everyone getting their scripts and either celebrating or pretending they were okay with being the butler who’s only in two scenes. It was the first time we all sat around together, as a cast, and even when I was a freshman, with silent walk-on roles, I’d loved it. The sense of possibility that came with that first day—the beginning of the adventure.
The Stanwich High theater department, to put it plainly, was a big effing deal. We’d won tons of awards, including a few national ones. We had a tech and costume shop that did near-professional work, and everyone on the crew side took things just as seriously as we did. All our productions got reviewed in the Stanwich Sentinel, and we had at least one famous, nearly movie-star alumna. And our shows were good.
It wasn’t like the theater programs at the schools my cousins went to, where they did one musical at the end of the year, and that was it. We did three main-stage productions a year: a play, a Shakespeare, and a musical. This didn’t include the musical revue or the improv shows or the Shakespeare Competition or the volunteering we did at senior centers and elementary schools. Auditions for the next production started the week after we’d closed the last one, rehearsals were every day after school, and weekends too as we got closer to tech. It was a full-time commitment, something my parents frequently complained about. But I never did. There was nowhere else I ever wanted to be.
“Erik and Jayson were heading over early to see if it was up,” Teri said, sliding the R charm on her necklace back and forth, her expression worried.
I shook my head. “It’s not going to be. Mr. Campbell isn’t going to do that before we all have to be in class together. Can you imagine?”
Teri sighed deeply. “I’m just bracing myself,” she said, “to see the whole cast and then at the bottom, ‘Teri, see me about assistant directing.’ ”
I bit my lip as we negotiated around a group of sophomore girls walking five across, which was not good student center etiquette. The truth was, while Teri was good, she wasn’t one of the best actors in the department. And so twice, when he couldn’t cast her, Mr. Campbell had asked her to assistant direct. I understood why you might be disappointed by this, since you wouldn’t have all that much to do. But it meant that Mr. Campbell still wanted you to be a part of the show. You’d still get to come to the rehearsals and be a member of the team. You just had to do it from the sidelines. Sometimes when he offered assistant director to people, they turned it down—and then they never got cast in anything again. Some people thought this was harsh; I thought it was completely understandable. You didn’t get to decide when you were going to be a part of this department—you were either all in or out, and that was just how it was.
But it was senior year, and Teri had been dedicated—I was sure she’d get cast. “I don’t think you need to worry about it,” I said, and Teri brightened.
“So what are you thinking?” she asked. “Jayson will be Lear, Stevie will be Goneril…”
“Erik will be Gloucester,” I said. We all paid incredibly close attention at the callbacks, since it was our best window into Mr. Campbell’s thought process. Who he paired up, who he read multiple times, and who got told they could head home early—the worst thing of all.
“Not Kent?”
“I don’t think so. He read Perry more for it.”
“You’ll be Cordelia—”
“Don’t jinx it,” I said, even as butterflies swooped in my stomach. “He read Emery for her too.”
“Yeah, but not as much. I think you’re a lock.” The first bell—which meant hurry up and get to class—rang. We picked up our pace as we left the student center and headed down the long hallway that would lead us to the north exit.
We were only a few steps in when I saw Stevie walking toward us. I grinned at her, throwing my arms up in an exaggerated what the heck gesture. “You’re going the wrong way!” I yelled, and saw her smile even though she widened her eyes at me, and I knew she thought I was being too loud. Stevie often thought I was being too loud; I usually thought she was being too quiet. And I was certain that I was always at the exact right volume.