“I listen to Lana’s cast recording of Sunset Boulevard constantly,” Zoe says. “It’s perfect. She totally deserved that Tony.”
It would be so easy for me to say, Hey, guys, guess what? Lana’s actually my mom. Even though I can’t hit a high E, I’d become an instant celebrity at this table. I could tell them all kinds of insider information—how my mom sings “I’m Gonna Wash That Man Right Outa My Hair” every single time she takes a shower, or how she once kissed the UPS guy on the mouth when he delivered an exciting package. But if I do, it’s possible my new friends will put the pieces together and realize I might not have earned my spot in the company. It’s probably better to wait and tell them later, after the cast lists are up and I’ve proven I belong here.
Zoe turns to me. “I read an interview that said Lana lives on the Upper West Side. Has she ever done a workshop at your school?”
“No,” I say. It’s technically true. Of course, I started listening in on my mom’s workshops before I could read, but that’s not what Zoe asked.
“She probably lives right near you,” she says. “Oh my God, Brooklyn, what if she’s secretly been living in your building all this time? How amazing would that be?”
I think about my mom’s high, screaming laugh, the vocal warm-ups she does every morning, the way my whole family belts show tunes late into the night on Mondays. The idea of my mother living anywhere secretly is pretty ridiculous.
I laugh like this whole conversation is just a big joke. “Nah,” I say. “If Lana Blake Shepard were my neighbor, I’m pretty sure I would know.”
Legrand Auditorium is one of those gorgeous, old-fashioned theaters with dusty red-velvet seats and gold acanthus leaves climbing up the proscenium. There’s a giant crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling, surrounded by paintings of naked cherubs and muses in flowing robes. Even though the work lights are on and there’s nothing on the stage but a scuffed podium and a bunch of A-frame ladders, the space still feels as magical as it did when I was five and saw it for the first time.
I catch Zoe looking at me, and I realize I must have a goofy smile on my face. But instead of making fun of me, she slips her arm through mine and cranes her neck back to look at the ceiling. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” she says.
“I love this theater so much,” I say. “My parents brought me here to see The Secret Garden when I was little, and my mom says I took one look at that chandelier and announced that I wanted to be an actor. I thought it meant I’d get to live here.”
“You must’ve been so cute,” Zoe says. “Come on. Let’s find somewhere to sit.”
The theater’s not as loud as the dining hall, but the anticipation is palpable. Everyone knows Marcus Spooner is coming, followed by cast lists in one short hour. Zoe, Jessa, Livvy, and I are settling into row F when a spotlight comes up on the empty podium, and Company Manager Barb starts making her way toward it. Everyone cheers, and I wonder if she’s actually a nicer person than she seemed at registration. Maybe she has a cult following at the festival. I clap for her, just in case.
“Hi, everyone,” she says with a totally genuine smile. “Welcome to the Allerdale Playhouse. I’d like to extend a very special welcome to our brand-new company members; we’re so pleased to have you with us. Are you ready to make our forty-seventh season our best yet?”
Everyone around us cheers. I hesitate for a second, not sure if my new friends are as caught up in the excitement as I am. But then Zoe and Jessa let out shrieks on either side of me, so I do it, too. I’m a company member. Nobody can take this away from me.
“Where’s my non-equity company?” calls Barb, and a few rows of people to our left raise their arms in the air and scream. Equity is the actors’ union; the non-equity people are all here working toward eligibility so they can take jobs in higher-profile shows.
“Where’s my equity company?” Scattered grown-ups around the auditorium whoop and shout; the equity actors are the only ones who already know what roles they’re playing, and they stay only long enough to rehearse and perform in their own shows. The equity actors who are in Hedda Gabler, Dreamgirls, Bye Bye Birdie, and Macbeth don’t even get here for a few more weeks. It’s nice to see that the adults are as enthusiastic as we are, though.
“Where’s my apprentice company?” Barb asks, and my new friends and I cheer for all we’re worth. About twenty other people do the same, and I look around the theater and try to see who I’ll be spending my time with.