“Good,” Marcus says. “Everyone here is prepared to work. Luckily for you, it won’t feel like work. It will feel like transcendence. Some people say that true theater, true art, comes from the outside and fills us up. They credit their inspiration to the muses, or to God. That is idiocy. It’s not God who creates theater! God is dead! And that is why we must transcend, why we must lay the world bare with our voices and our gestures and our sheer, raw power! The world needs gods, so we must become gods! We must allow ourselves to be nothing short of spectacular, because to do so is to spit in the face of the world! We are Titans, and we shall not be conquered!”
And then, with no warning at all, Marcus turns and strides off the stage. There’s no thank you, no goodbye, no I look forward to working with you. The auditorium is dead silent for a full count of ten, like everyone is waiting for him to jump back out and keep going. But then Barb reappears, and we all exhale in unison. By the time people realize it’s okay to clap, Marcus is long gone. We give him a standing ovation anyway.
Zoe slumps against me like her strings have been cut. “He’s unbelievable, isn’t he?”
I’m not totally convinced everything Marcus said made sense, but I don’t really care, either. I feel like my brain is emitting sparks, and there’s a slight tingling sensation in the tips of my fingers. This is what true inspiration must feel like. “Totally unreal,” I say.
When Barb reaches the podium again, she bows dramatically, acknowledging our thunderous applause, and everyone laughs and sits down. “All right, kids,” she says. “Cast lists are up in the usual place. Try not to trample—”
I don’t even hear the rest of her sentence; the entire company leaps back up, shouting and pushing and bottlenecking as they try to get out the door. My instinct is to wait until the path is clearer, but Jessa grabs my wrist and pulls me forward. I reach back for Zoe’s hand as I stumble into the aisle, and her fingers close around mine.
Going through the auditorium doors is like being squeezed through a funnel, and then we’re outside in the cool evening air. People stream across the lawn and down the hill in the direction of the box office, so we sprint after them. Jessa lets go of me so she can run faster, but Zoe keeps a firm grip on my hand, and I time my steps to hers.
“Are you nervous?” I ask.
“A little, I guess. Are you?”
“Sort of,” I say, trying not to show that my heart is actually going about five times its normal speed. “I really hope I get something good, you know? Something with lines. I mean, obviously I’ll take anything, and I don’t expect much, but…”
I realize I’m babbling, and I break off as the box office comes into view. It’s a freestanding, hexagonal kiosk with glass walls, and there’s a cast list posted on each side. People swarm around it, shrieking with joy and dismay and hugging each other; it’s like the gravitational force of the kiosk has pulled all the emotions in the world into a ten-foot radius. A girl with a black ponytail dashes past us in the direction of the dorms, tears streaming down her face.
“Wow,” Zoe says. “This is intense. Are you ready?”
I don’t want to seem like a wimp, so I say, “Ready.”
“Let’s make a pact not to cry, okay?”
“We’re not going to cry,” I say. “We’re at Allerdale.”
I try to stay near Zoe when we get to the box office, but we’re immediately separated by the jostling crowd. I run my eyes down the first cast list I see, which is for Dreamgirls. Jessa’s name is listed under “Ensemble,” and I wonder if she’s excited or pissed. My name isn’t on this list, so I move to the right and scan the one for Macbeth. It’s not there, either, though I check the list of spear-carriers, guards, and servants several times to be sure. Hedda Gabler’s next—my dad took me to see it last year, and I thought it was kind of boring. Fortunately, my name’s nowhere to be found.
I wipe my sweaty palms on my shorts as I scan the list for Catch Me If You Can. Nothing. A Midsummer Night’s Dream is next, and the number of names printed on the paper sends a wash of relief through me. There are at least twenty fairies, probably mostly apprentices, and I feel certain I’m going to be one of them. I find Livvy’s and Zoe’s names, and I send the universe an image of the three of us huddled together backstage, wearing gauzy costumes. It’s so close I can taste it.
Except my name isn’t on the list.
This can mean only one thing—my audition was good enough to land me a part in Bye Bye Birdie. My mom is going to flip out when I tell her. With a sense of delicious anticipation, I move toward the sixth side of the kiosk. A cheer starts building in my throat, ready to burst out as soon as I see my name. I feel like one of those aerosol cans that say, “Warning: contents under pressure.”