Cut the Lights (5 page)

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 flips 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.

I shove the chairs and recycling bins back in place, stalling for time, hoping Lorna will go, even though I'm not sure what to say to Mr. Ty.
I can't get Mica to show any emotion except infatuation?
Sonata won't stop directing? Clayton won't
learn his lines? George won't do anything?

Mr. Ty will think I'm a failure.

Forget it. I hoist my backpack and head out. As I pass Mr. Ty and Lorna, I hear him say, “A successful director empowers actors to create great art as a team.”

“That's so true!” Lorna fake-smiles at me.

I step into the hall, where Ratna's waiting for me. Am I a successful director?

Right now, I can't seem to empower anyone, especially myself.

Eight

Bean Me Up coffee shop, three blocks from Whitlock. A week later at lunchtime. A wobbly table that's too uneven to set a drink on. Uncomfortable chairs designed to make you leave quickly. The scent of roasting coffee.

Ratna and I sit near the front window, cupping our mugs and staring through the steamed-up windows at the spring rain. My glasses are perched on top of my head. After another week of challenging rehearsals crammed between mountains of homework, I want a break from thinking like a director. If only Ratna would stop ranting about Lorna's terrific rehearsals.

“And then Lorna says that she doesn't want to tell me
how
to act—that I should bring my own ideas to the scene.” Ratna breaks off a chunk of cranberry muffin and pops it in her mouth, chewing happily.

“She never gives advice?” I snort. Lorna loves to offer me “friendly advice” when she's really telling me what to do.

“Well...” Ratna finishes chewing. “She gives examples of how to act, and she reminds us what the script says.” She rips apart her muffin, tearing the tender inside into bite-sized pieces. “It's going well—we've got the whole play blocked, and now we're working on gestures that show character motivation.”

“Yeah?” I nibble my bagel, wishing I could get to that point with my actors.

Ratna smiles. “Yup. The bank teller's hands shake whenever the sisters aim a gun at her. She's thinking how she wants to make it home to her son.”

I frown. It's a good motivation. I bet Lorna thought of it.

Ratna studies my face. “Maybe you should talk to Lorna. She might be able to help with—”

“No. I'm fine.” I lean back in my chair and glance away. There's a line of people at the counter, waiting to order—mostly Whitlock students. I can't bear to think about which of them will come to see my play and whether it'll even be worth watching.

“Okay.” Ratna gives me an anxious look. “It was just an idea.”

A bad idea. I imagine Lorna's snooty expression as she tells me how wrong my approach is. I frown and start to drum my fingers on the table just as Sonata pushes through the line of people. She's coming from the back of the café and racing toward the exit. Her face is pale with red splotches, her eyes darting.

“Sonata?” I stand, shoving my chair back. “Are you okay?”

Her eyes barely focus as she hurries past without answering. Long strands of dark hair cling to her cheeks.

“What was that about?” Ratna gapes.

“I have no idea,” I say, realizing how little I know about Sonata's life outside school. “She's been really busy with the spring dance show, but now that it's over I thought she'd calm down.”

I'm about to follow her out—offer to help somehow, even though it's none of my business unless it affects rehearsals—when Mica pushes through the same crowd, following Sonata.

“Mica?” I wave him over. “Were you with Sonata? What's going on?”

Mica looks dazed. He wipes a meaty hand over his face. “Why doesn't she want to date me?” His bottom lip quivers. “After I finally got her out for coffee. What's wrong with me?”

He takes off into the rain.

“Wait!” I glance at Ratna, who's staring after Mica. So are most of the customers. “I should try to do something,” I say. “Sorry.”

“Of course. Go.” She nods, her eyes still wide.

“Thanks. I'll talk to you later.”

I shove the rest of my bagel in my bag, dart outside and hurry toward the school. The rain starts hammering. I pull up the hood of my Whitlock sweatshirt and scan the sidewalk for Sonata and Mica, who are nowhere in sight.

As I break into a run, my glasses slide down my forehead and land on the tip of my nose. I nudge them up into place, wondering what this mess is going to do to Sonata and Mica's stage chemistry. I reach the school in time to see Sonata disappearing inside. Maybe Mica took off somewhere else.

I step into the main foyer and shake off the rain. Near the fashion class's display of mannequins in duct-tape dresses, Lorna is comforting Sonata, her arms wrapped around her as they whisper together.

I take a step forward, not sure what to do. Sure, Mica was pressuring Sonata, but I couldn't tell if she liked the attention. Should I have interfered?

Lorna's eyes meet mine and then narrow.

I'm so not wanted.

I head for my locker, still soggy, wondering how to handle the next rehearsal with two emotionally fragile actors. What am I going to say to them? I cringe just thinking about it.

“Briar!” someone calls. “I've been looking for you.”

I turn to find George rushing toward me.

“Hey, George,” I say, hoping he's not bringing me more problems to handle.

“Come with me.” He latches onto my arm and tugs me back the way I came. “I've got a surprise for you.”

Not what I expected. “Where are we going?” I yank my arm free but keep walking.

“The main-floor drama room. Hurry. Clayton's waiting.”

“Clayton? What's this about?”

He grins, and his sticking-out ears go red. “Can't tell you, but you're going to love it!”

I stare at George. Why is he so excited?