“Where are my tech and design interns?” calls Barb.
Someone whoops so loudly right behind me that I nearly jump out of my chair. I spin around to see a guy with dark curly hair and such long legs that they’re folded up against the back of my seat, his knees almost level with his chin. When he’s done screaming, he smiles self-consciously at me and mouths, Sorry. He looks friendly, and I kind of want to introduce myself, but I don’t want to miss a thing that’s happening onstage, so I smile back and turn around.
Barb speeds through a bunch of logistical stuff—emergency phone numbers, where the nurse’s office is, how to check the electronic call board to see where we’re supposed to meet for rehearsals each day. When she’s done, she says, “Now I’d like to turn the podium over to our managing director, Mr. Bob Sussman. Let’s give him a hand.”
Everyone claps as Bob bounds onto the stage, waving to us with both hands. He’s a wiry little man with a trim beard, and he’s wearing a gray suit with navy sneakers. When he reaches Barb, he gives her a hug, which she clearly doesn’t expect or want, and then he takes his place at the microphone.
“Good evening, warriors for art!” he shouts, and the microphone squeals with feedback. “I’m so thrilled to welcome you to another summer of creativity and collaboration. Working at Allerdale is such a unique experience. No matter what your role is, I promise that you will never forget your time here.” A warm, exquisite feeling of being part of something blooms in my chest like a big orange flower. Coming here was the right decision. There’s no way Allerdale could fail to make me fall head over heels in love with performing.
“I’m so looking forward to getting to know you and soaking up your creative genius,” Bob says, “but for now, I’m sure everyone’s eager to move on to the main event. So without further ado, let me introduce our incomparable festival director and my dear friend, Mr. Marcus Spooner!”
The auditorium erupts in screams so loud and frenetic, it reminds me of the videos I’ve seen of middle school girls at One Direction concerts. As Marcus enters from stage left and crosses to the podium, I half expect someone to whip off her bra and throw it at his feet. He keeps his eyes straight forward and his face blank, like there’s a one-way mirror between him and us. He’s wearing a blue button-down over a T-shirt that appears to bear the image of his own face. I turn to Zoe, eager to share this observation, but then Marcus opens his mouth, and everyone shuts up all at once.
“Every story that can be told has already been told!” he booms into the sudden silence. “That sounds discouraging, doesn’t it? To hear me tell you there’s nothing fresh, nothing original, nothing new in this whole crazy, goddamn world?”
He pauses and stares us down, waiting long enough for the silence to become intensely uncomfortable. Two seats away, Livvy fidgets in her chair, and it makes a tiny squeaking sound that echoes through the otherwise silent theater. She freezes in place, one leg half crossed.
“It is not discouraging,” Marcus finally says. “Why? Because we don’t need new stories to tell spectacular stories. This summer, we will say all the things that have already been said, but we will say them better. Each of us—each of you—has a unique perspective that has never been seen before. And because we are more evolved than previous generations, our perspectives are better than anything that has come before us. We are the pinnacle of human thought, and it is our responsibility to show everyone how we see the world. If you don’t strive to tell your story as carefully, as masterfully as you can, you are robbing the world of your voice, and that is unacceptable.
“This summer will be difficult. You will work harder than you have ever worked in your entire miserable lives. You will work until your flesh hangs from your bones in gruesome, bloody strips. If you are not willing to work that hard, there is no point in you being here at all. If any of you feels that hard, unrelenting labor is beyond the scope of your ability, you should leave right now. Leave! If you aren’t one of us, no one will be sad to see you go!”
Marcus points to the door. We all surreptitiously glance around, but of course nobody gets up, because we all belong here. I sneak a look at Zoe, and her face is upturned and radiant, like Marcus’s words are snowflakes falling on her cheeks.