Starry-Eyed (46 page)

I guess I wanted to be an actress before I knew there was such a thing. Five years old? Could I have been five? All I knew was that it was more fun, more comfortable, to be someone else—Susie or Joan or John. Now, don't get me wrong, it wasn't like a split personality. I was just a shy girl child, an only child, pretending to be Bette Davis, with a martini glass (empty, of course) in one hand, a cigarette (unlit, of course) in the other, legs crossed, pretending. Acting?

I was sillier, happier, maybe even sexier (though I hardly knew what that was) as someone else.

Then came the idols who helped clarify this desire to pretend. There was Sarah Bernhardt (I knew about her because my mother at times called her oft-emoting child “Sarah”), then Eleanora Duse, Eva Le Gallienne, and of course, Olivier. That inspiration lasted a long time. I named my son Laurence after the great man. And even today I continue to find inspiration in people like Vanessa Redgrave and Cherry Jones, and the list goes on.

So, it's a “calling,” right? We don't decide. We have no choice. Read such writers as Camus, or
A Mystic in the Theatre
, or Simon Callow writing about acting. They'll tell you about choice and the lack of it. It's a crazy thing we
must
do. So, there.

My first confrontation with the real profession of acting came at the ripe old age of fifteen. I somehow managed to get myself taken on as an apprentice with a summer stock company in Plymouth, Massachusetts. I arrived with a steamer trunk filled with tap shoes, formal dresses, and lots of scarves. I was ready for anything.

Mostly I washed dishes, cleaned bathrooms, painted sets, and ironed the stars' costumes. And it was heaven, because I was also allowed to go
onstage. Small roles to be sure, but heaven.

In conclusion, there is no conclusion. Just the next role, the next challenge, the next mountain to climb, and the next stage to cross. Whatever and wherever that may be.

L
YNN
C
OHEN
is best known as Magda in
Sex and the City
(and the two subsequent feature films based on the series) and for her critically acclaimed portrayal of Golda Meier in Steven Spielberg's
Munich
. Lynn has also been seen in such films as
The Hunger Games: Catching Fire
;
Synecdoche, New York; The Life Before Her Eyes
(with Uma Thurman);
Deception
(with Hugh Jackman and Ewan McGregor);
Invincible
(with Mark Wahlberg); Louis Malle's
Vanya on 42nd Street; Across the Universe;
and Woody Allen's
Manhattan Murder Mystery
. Her recurring roles on television include
Damages, Bored to Death
, and
Law and Order
. She has been seen onstage in
Macbeth
and
Ivanov
, and works at New York Theatre Workshop, New York Shakespeare Festival, Primary Stages, and Ensemble Studio Theatre. Lynn is a Fox Fellow, a recipient of a Bowden Award from New Dramatists, and a member of the Actors Studio, New York Theatre Workshop, Ensemble Studio Theatre, and Actors Center.

BECCA FIRST

Alex Flinn

It was my mother who started calling her Becca First, back in those early days of fourth-grade glee club. I would come home every Tuesday and Thursday, primed to recount the indignities suffered at the hands of Miss Hakes, our music teacher.

“Becca, first,” I'd say. “It's always Becca, first—like the rest of us couldn't figure anything out without wonderful her.”

I was referring to Miss Hakes's practice of having Becca sing whatever vocal line we were learning so we could hear it done “the right way” before the rest of the group—a ragtag mob, who'd mostly signed up for glee club because our parents wanted us to have something to do after school—came along and butchered it. Becca would stand in front of us, singing in her clear soprano, her dark ponytail bobbing to a rhythm which most of the group hoped—maybe—to pick up by ear sometime before the concert. Then the rest of us would get a try.

I sort of hated that because, hey, I knew my part just fine, thank you. But Miss Hakes never seemed to notice me. Only Becca.

One time, I came home and announced, “Guess who got a solo?” Then without giving Mom a chance to answer, I yelled, “Becca Marino!”

I was expecting big sympathy. Instead, Mom looked confused.

“Who?”

“Becca Marino,” I huffed, “the one I talk about all the time.”

Mom's eyes lit with understanding. “Oh, my goodness, Meghan. I
thought her name was Becca First. That's what you always say about her.”

I laughed. “That
should
be her name. Becca First. Becca First and Meghan Last.”

“Not last with me.” My mother ran her fingers through my curly, blond hair. “I'm sure you'll get the next solo. You were always a great singer. I even wrote it in your baby book:
Meghan loves to sing
.” Then she took me and my best friend, Alli, out to Baskin-Robbins for Jamocha Almond Fudge sundaes.

But Becca First got the next solo and the one after that, and Baskin-Robbins became a regular part of our routine as the lineups for each winter and spring concert were announced.

“I don't get it,” I said to Alli on one of those trips. “I have a good voice, don't I?”

“I think so. It's hard to get you to shut up.”

I made a face at her, but it was true. “Then why can't I get a solo?”

“It wouldn't be so bad,” Alli agreed, “if Becca wasn't such a snot.”

I nodded sympathetically. Alli had learned the truth the hard way. Becca was friends with no one. She acted like it was some big thing if she looked at you in the hall. But Alli was one of those people who liked everyone, so she'd gotten it into her head to invite Becca First over to her house one day after school.

“Okay, I hate her too,” Alli had reported the next day. “She said no, and when my mom asked her if there was another day that would be better for her, she said no, she just didn't want to come over.”

“Well,” I said, secretly sort of happy Becca wouldn't be playing over at Alli's anyway, “If she came over, she wouldn't be able to spend the whole afternoon, hanging around sucking up to Miss Hakes.”

“Right? It's so weird that she stays after school,” Alli said.

“Who needs her?” We went to my room to play our favorite game, where we dressed up in my mother's cast-off clothes and high heels and pretended to be pop stars. Usually Alli was Christina Aguilera because she was little and blonde, and I, taller and more serious, was Celine Dion. After I
belted out her thrilling rendition of “My Heart Will Go On,” I said, “Someday, when we're famous, we'll come back and visit Cherry Hill Elementary in our limousine. Miss Hakes will be sorry she never let us sing a solo.”

One time, we devised a plan: We'd both sing louder than everyone else in glee club. That way, we figured, Miss Hakes would have to notice our glorious voices.

“Meghan McGinley and Alli Hall!” Miss Hakes shouted over the din that day. “That is good enthusiastic singing, but a choir is supposed to
blend
. Would you please sing a bit more softly?” She gestured over to the usual side of the room. “Listen to how Becca does it.”

And Becca First, with a satisfied smirk, showed us.

. . . . .

Middle school was a little better.

Mr. Oglesby, the chorus teacher, had a special “show choir,” and while Becca First was the only sixth-grade girl to make it in seventh grade (boys being in short supply, any boy who breathed and sang kind of on pitch got in whenever), Alli and I got in too. Mr. Oglesby said I was really good. More than before, I started thinking of singing as my thing.

I dropped out of other activities like softball, where I'd never really excelled, and concentrated on singing. I practiced every day, not just karaoke with Alli, but real songs, even some classical stuff. My mom and Alli's got real involved in the choir activities, heading up car washes and candy sales and making headpieces to match our costumes. In eighth grade, I finally got a solo in one of our songs. It was a real high to hear the audience applaud and know that they meant it, that my singing was that good.

That was the year we took an overnight trip to go to the state choir competition in Tampa. My solo was in one of our songs for state. My mother and Alli's fundraised their little hearts out and volunteered to be chaperones. Everyone was real excited about it. It was the first time our school had made it to state, and Mr. Oglesby kept saying it was because of
“my three stars.” But the day permission slips were due, Becca didn't have hers in.

“If you bring it first thing tomorrow morning, it will be okay,” Mr. Oglesby said in choir that day. “I don't have to have them into the office until nine. I just said today to give us a little leeway.”

“You can turn them in today,” Becca said, looking him straight in the eye. “I won't have it tomorrow either.”

“But why, Becca? You've worked so hard.” Mr. Oglesby's bald brow furrowed. “We need you to lead the soprano section.”

She looked at her shoes. “I have relatives coming from out of town that week. I can't go.”

Frankly, I thought that was a pretty lame excuse. It was only one night, after all, and we'd be back the next day before noon. And much as I hated to admit it, I knew we sounded a lot better with Becca. There were still lots of kids who were in choir for an easy A. They didn't love singing, and everyone would be okay with them staying home. But not Becca.

All week, I glared daggers at her, not mentioning it. But the twentieth time Oglesby sighed and said how he'd miss Becca's voice, I got mad enough to say something.

“I think it's pretty sad,” I said to her at the bus stop after school, “you not going to the state competition and letting everybody down. Way to support the group.”

“What do you care?” She straightened her skinny shoulders.

“I do care. You're being a brat. I know the only reason you're not going is because I got a solo for once and you didn't.” I hadn't thought of that before, but I bet it was true.

She laughed, a harsh bark that made some kids waiting around turn to look. “You think you're that important in my life? Is that what you think?” Her face looked pinched, like her ponytail was pulling too hard.

“It's what I know.”

Becca kicked a rock. It flew up and almost hit me. “You only got that solo because your mother hangs around and helps all the time—like it's
her life's work to assure that you get solos and special perks.”

“My mother has . . . it's not like your parents ever help out.”

“They don't have to. I can get my own solos.”

“So you think you should just get everything? No one else gets a chance?”

She rolled her eyes. “Everyone gets a chance! Mr. Oglesby told me all about it the day he handed you what should have been my solo—sort of apologized, really. He said he had to give everyone a chance. ‘If not,' he said, ‘parents complain.'”

I recognized her implication but ignored it. My mom had in no way complained to Oglesby. “So you think you should just get everything? Well, that's fair.”

“I think it's fair for the best person to get the solo.” She pivoted on her heel. “My bus is here.” She walked away, her dark ponytail bobbing as maddeningly as it had in fourth grade.

. . . . .

Choir was first period, and the next morning, I went in early to talk to Mr. Oglesby about getting receipts for some raffle prizes my mom had gotten donated. I was standing in the hall when something stopped me.

The voice was high and light and would have carried out to the parking lot if the choir room hadn't been sort of soundproofed. It climbed the scales, reaching for the heavens, and when it fell down again, it was reluctant, yet inevitable. She didn't seem to need to breathe, like God himself was keeping her supplied with some invisible pump. She was hitting notes I couldn't think of, and it sounded
easy
. As I came closer, I heard her words:

Oh had I Jubal's lyre or Miriam's tuneful voice
,

To sounds like his, I would aspire
.

In songs like hers, rejoice!

“Good job, Becca,” Oglesby's voice said at the end of it.

Becca. Becca took private lessons with Mr. Oglesby before school, and it was really helping, helping in a way my own lessons weren't helping me. Each note, each run and trill, was an icicle through my stomach. I felt tears coming to my eyes, not tears of anger, or frustration, but tears at the sheer beauty of her voice. Becca was an angel, and in that moment, I knew she was right. I wasn't as good. I'd never be as good. She deserved all she got.

I left without asking about the raffle prizes. I came back fifteen minutes later, as class was starting.

That afternoon, I ran home from school and found my mother at the kitchen table. “Did you ask Mr. Oglesby to give me a solo?”

“No!” My mother was sewing a patch onto my sister's brownie sash. She didn't look up. “Of course not.”