“I miss you guys,” I say instead. “How’s everything at home?”
“Oh, everything’s fine. We all miss you like crazy, though.”
Talking to her is making me really homesick, so I say, “I’ve gotta go, Mom. I’m at the theater. I’ll call you soon, okay?”
“I love you, sweetie,” she says. “Dad and Uncle Harrison send love, too.”
“Love you back,” I say. I swallow down all my I wish I hadn’t comes and I don’t belong heres and I want to go homes, and I hang up the phone.
When I arrive at Legrand, about ten other people are grouped around the loading dock. Nobody’s really talking to each other, and at first I think it’s because it’s too early in the morning for getting-to-know-you chatter. But then a girl extends her cigarette pack to the guy next to her, and when he takes one without even thanking her, like it’s a routine, it occurs to me that the crew probably arrived at the festival before we did. The silence between them feels like the kind that can exist only between people who already know each other. I take a fortifying sip of my coffee and approach them.
The actor moves into enemy territory, I hear in a nature-documentary voice inside my head. Note the way her eyes dart from side to side. Her fight-or-flight response is working overtime.
There are only two other girls, and I approach the one with the cigarettes, whose stick-straight ponytail is so light blond, it looks almost white. I give her a big, friendly smile and say, “Hi!”
The girl’s almost invisible eyebrows scrunch together as she takes in my lip gloss and white tank top and shorts printed with stars. Everyone else is dressed in jeans, dark T-shirts, and sneakers, and they all have tons of stuff hanging from their belts—wrenches, rolls of black tape, paint pens, heavy-duty gloves, tiny flashlights. Where did they get all that stuff? Am I supposed to have that stuff? The actor and the techie have markedly different plumage, says the nature-documentary voice.
“The rehearsal rooms are over in Haydu Hall,” the girl says between drags.
“I…um, I know,” I say. “I think I’m supposed to be here, though. Is this the lighting crew?”
“Yeah. Who are you?”
The guy next to her flicks his cigarette onto the asphalt and grinds it out with the toe of his boot. “We get actors today, remember?” he says.
“Oh, right.” The girl stubs out her cigarette, too. “You guys are only supposed to be here in the afternoons, though. Don’t you have rehearsal or something?”
“My show’s not rehearsing yet,” I say, hoping they won’t ask which one I’m in. Fortunately, nobody seems interested. “I’m Brooklyn, by the way.”
“Courtney,” the girl says. She doesn’t extend her hand.
Nobody else introduces themselves, so I say, “Did you guys get here yesterday, too?”
“About a week ago. We had to load everything in.”
A tall, lanky guy arrives at the loading dock and slides a box of doughnuts onto the concrete next to Courtney. “Morning, all,” he says. He’s wearing those thick leather wristbands with a bunch of studs, the kind Marisol and Christa refer to as “douchebands.”
“Dude, doughnuts already?” one of the other guys says.
“You don’t waste time, do you?” says Courtney as she flips the box open.
The guy smirks. “Fresh meat,” he says. “Why wait?”
This makes absolutely no sense, but the guy sitting next to Courtney laughs and says, “Respect.” I make a mental note to pick up some doughnuts for everyone later this week. I could use some respect.
“Speaking of fresh meat…” Douchebands turns to me. “Who’s this?”
“Brooklyn,” I say.
“Pretty.” I can’t tell whether he means my name or me, but either way, I’m creeped out.
“Yo,” the guy next to Courtney says. “Gimme another cigarette?”
Before she can dig out her pack, a woman with dark curly hair and a clipboard comes around the corner. I assume she’s the boss, from the way everyone starts gathering their stuff. “Listen up,” she says when she gets close. “We’re going to start hanging the rep plot today. Grab a piece of the plot, check in when you’re done, and I’ll give you another. Remember to pull out your shutters and label your circuits, okay?” She looks up. “Who brought doughnuts?”
Douchebands smiles and gives her a little salute.
“Of course,” she says. She plunks a folder down onto the concrete and takes a doughnut with pink frosting. “Get to work.”
Everyone descends on the folder and extracts little slips of paper while I stand off to the side. Finally, the boss notices me and asks, “Can I help you?”
“Um, I’m one of the acting apprentices?” I say. “I guess I’m assigned to lighting this rotation. I’m Brooklyn.”