A Tale of Two Centuries (17 page)

My heart clenches—not at Cat’s sentiment but at her fervent belief in it. What I wish more than anything is for my beloved cousin to understand that while the pain of potential heartbreak may not be worth it, actually living life
is
.

Regrettably, I do not have a chance to explain that because the doorbell rings. Cat lifts an eyebrow in question and I shake my head. I was not expecting anyone to call. The one person I know here aside from her is Austin, and he was heading home to bring Jamie to rehearsal.

Cat pushes herself to her feet, and I follow down the rug-covered hallway. She pauses in the atrium and stifles a yawn before opening the front door.

On the other side stands a handsome, smiling, book-toting Lucas.

Cat practically chokes on her sharp intake of air.

Biting off an amused grin, I look to the heavens and nod in acknowledgement.

Without taking his eyes off Cat, Lucas says, “I saw you weren’t in French, so I thought I’d drop off what we did.” He glances in my direction as he brandishes the book in his hand like evidence. He blinks, then looks again. “Cool hair.”

“Thank you,” I tell him, although he’s already returned his gaze to my cousin. “Is that your car in the driveway?”

Lucas glances at the sleek black car behind him. “Yep.”

“And you are able to drive yourself?” I ask to clarify, ignoring the probing look from my cousin. “You do not need a driver?”

“No.” A crease forms on Lucas’s brow but he shakes his head. “I’m seventeen and passed the test last month. No driver necessary.”

“Wonderful.” From the corner of my eye, I see Cat’s gaze grow wide with recognition of what I’m about to propose. Before she can interject, I rush to say, “I have a rehearsal this afternoon at The Playhouse, and Cat here was just saying how she wished to watch. We were about to call our driver.” My smile grows as she wrenches my wrist.
At least I discovered a way to use my lying for good.
“Perhaps you could take us there instead?”

Seeing Lucas now, I’m ashamed to admit it’s been five days since he passed all my tests. It’s even worse that I’ve spent all of them focused solely on myself. But Cat was correct earlier in one regard: the sand in the hourglass marking my stay is dwindling, as is my time to help her trust her heart again. It is as plain as the matching dimples in Lorenzo’s and Lucas’s cheeks that fate had a hand in this meeting. And the infatuated sparkle in Lucas’s warm brown eyes proves their job was well done. Cat may be scared to admit her own feelings, but I believe after a solid nudge, she will be well along the way to the path of love.

And if nothing else comes from my time travel journey, that will be enough.

…

Thanks to my quick-thinking maneuvering, and Lucas’s more-than-willing consent, we ride to the theater with Cat riding shotgun and me in the roomy backseat. The uncomfortable quiet between them lasts longer than I would like, but slowly, surely, Lucas draws her into conversation, and soon they are lost in laughter and discussion. As he pulls into a parking space, I can’t help but smile. Reyna would be proud.

The two of them take their seats in the cool shadowed house of the theater with the rest of the spectators, and I traipse up the stairs to the scuffed black stage. The balding, pudgy gentleman I have learned is Mr. Williams, our stage manager, rushes from the wings, gaping incredulously as he flies to my side.

“Wh-wh—” he stammers, a vein throbbing on his sweat-coated forehead. “What did you
do
?”

I look behind me and then down at my outfit, knowing I look no different than any of the other performers here. If anything, I actually fit in better in jeans, and it must be said they are much more comfortable in the frigid chill of the playhouse. I rub my hands over the rough denim, then scratch my head in contemplation, and realize he is referring to my hair.

Twirling around, loving the feel of my long, dyed tresses catching the wind and fanning behind me, I say, “Oh, isn’t it beautiful?”

He narrows his beetle-like eyes and huffs. “What it is
not
is Shakespearean!”

Oh, drat.
I hadn’t thought of that.

As he mumbles ungentlemanly remarks and flings accusatory glares at my person, I fight to hold onto my previous joy. Darting my eyes at the growing crowd around us, I notice Kendal among them. Of course.

Stiffening my shoulders, I share—as assertively as I can through a throat obstructed with dawning dread—that the dye is only semi-permanent, which the stylist assured me comes out after several washes. (As amusing as it would be to see the look on certain people’s faces, I could not chance returning home to Mama this way—she’d drop into a dead faint and then send me to church for practicing witchcraft as soon as she recovered.) Unfortunately, Mr. Williams doesn’t seem to think a few washes is fast enough.

I hear a snicker and instinctively know who it is. Who other than Kendal would take delight in this moment? Reid materializes beside me and places a supportive hand on my elbow.

Mr. Williams lifts his hands. “When Marilyn sees this—”

“Oh, chill, Mark, it’s no biggie.”

All eyes shift to Maggie, one of the hairdressers I met last week who doubles as Mr. Williams’s assistant. She fluffs her artfully coiffed blond hair and says, “The night of the dress rehearsal, I’ll mix up a quick batch of bleach and shampoo, work it through, and all that gorgeous color you see before you will disappear in moments.” She shrugs. “It’ll be a shame, but I do it all the time.”

The tension formerly forcing my shoulders up into my ears deflates, and if it would be at all appropriate, I would kiss the woman.

Maggie’s words seem to appease the hairy, scrunched-up monster otherwise known as Mr. Williams’s eyebrows. They settle back into their rightful place, and he shuffles off, muttering something about inconsiderate actresses. Reid plucks a strand of my pink hair and says, “I happen to like it. Totally matches that perky, bubbly smile of yours.”

Kendal walks behind him and lifts a finger to her mouth, pretending to retch. Reid turns to see what I’m glaring at, and she gives him an innocent smile. When he turns back, she mouths the word
freak
and disappears offstage.

Clearing my head from her vile influence, I say, “Thank you, Reid. As always, your flattery is appreciated.”

“Hey, it’s not flattery; it’s the truth. I’m counting on that smile to light up the stage during our scene.” He leans in and mock-whispers, “It’s our secret weapon.”

He flashes his childlike grin, and the familiar blush I’ve grown to loathe heats my cheeks. There is no denying he’s handsome. And I defy any woman to hear a kind word from a gentleman, especially a handsome gentleman, and not preen just a little. But as I stare at my costar’s upturned lips, the only thing I can think about is Austin’s tempting version. One hard-earned smile from him is worth at least a dozen of Reid’s easy ones.

Reid continues to watch me, as if waiting for me to respond in some way. But I don’t know how. Other than a handful of dance requests from gentlemen at a lifetime of balls, Matteo was my first real experience with male attention. And if his abrupt turnabout to Novella was any indication, my feminine responses with him left much to be desired.

Although my lack of knowledge in this regard doesn’t quite matter now—for it is not
Reid’s
attention I wish to cultivate.

Pity Austin doesn’t seem as interested in being my suitor as this charmer.

Luckily, Marilyn Kent saves me from making a further awkward fool of myself. The side doors to the theater bang open and conversation around me stops. Briskly walking across the floor to the lamplit table, the
click-clack
of heels punctuating each precise step, Marilyn commands every eye on stage to follow her progress like the world-famous director she is. And it’s not until after she takes her seat, sets down her clipboard, and takes a long sip of water that she lifts her head to survey her awaiting cast. When her shrewd gaze lands on me, she pauses.

My mouth goes dry, as if suddenly filled with the puffs of white cotton Cat keeps in the bathroom. I fight the urge to blink, scared to miss a twitch or tick that will give me a clue as to what she could be thinking, and curse my burning eyes.

What if Ms. Kent doesn’t know about Maggie’s magic solution, or worse, doesn’t care? Could my first—and potentially only—touch of spontaneity result in her asking me to abandon my dream and leave the workshop?

Finally, her mouth curves into a faint smile. And when she calls out, “Let’s begin,” my heart stops its attempt to leap from my chest.

One of the young assistants looks at her clipboard. “Reid and Alessandra, you’re up first.”

Relieved, and to be honest, a little light-headed, I walk to center stage. Lightheadedness turns to full wooziness as, between Marilyn and her various assistants, I am beset with thousands of minute details: where to stand, where to look, when to enter, what my character is feeling. The past few rehearsals were spent sitting around a table reading our lines, but this is the first time I’m actually onstage, surrounded by the beginnings of an actual set. I glance out into the dark audience where I know Cat and Lucas are watching, needing just an ounce of her unending strength.

As overprotective as she can be, my cousin is my rock, the one thing that remains constant and familiar as I continue acclimating to this crazy world. And she’s always been my number-one fan.

Convinced she’s imparted all she can for now, Marilyn calls us into place. I chance a quick wave out into the audience, and a lone whistle answers from the darkness. With renewed confidence, I take my mark.

…

Standing atop my makeshift balcony, reciting the lines I now know by heart, I realize I am no longer the same aspiring actress from my audition. With my new hair, new clothes, and new attitude, it is as if I have taken on two separate roles: the one of Juliet, and the side of me that Austin has let loose.

When Reid and I conclude the third run-through of our scene, Ms. Kent nods in approval. Reid squeezes my hand as we exit the set.

“You
are
a natural,” he tells me once we reach the wings. He folds his arms across his chest and tilts his head. “I knew you were good during the read-throughs before, but man, it’s like you were born for this. On the one hand, I’m glad to hear the rumor mill was right for once. In Hollywood, that’s not normally the case. But then on the other hand, you’re forcing me to bring my A game.”

Catching enough of his meaning to understand, I shrug a shoulder and give a teasing grin. With a friendly pat of his arm, I say, “I’m sure by opening night you will find some way to keep up.”

Reid’s eyes widen as if I surprised him—I know I continue to surprise myself daily. But before he can issue a retort, an intern grabs him for an interview. It is with obvious reluctance that he leaves, stopping halfway to the exit door to shoot me an amused grin, and I laugh at his retreating back. This twenty-first century role is getting easier by the day. Proud of my accomplishment, I turn to watch the next performance.

“No way in hell it’s coming close to yours,” Jamie says, appearing out of the darkness. “You were awesome out there. Kendal was practically spitting nails at all the praise Kent gave you.” She wraps me in a hug. “It totally made my day.”

Filled to near bursting with the praise I’ve spent years yearning for, I squeeze her tightly, then turn to watch the actress in question. Kendal may have wanted to play Juliet for the workshop, but her assigned role could not fit more perfectly. She is portraying Katherina from Shakespeare’s
Taming of the Shrew
, a description that appears apt for both girls. In fact, I’d think the Bard had her in mind when he wrote the play…except that Ms. Kent does not appear quite as certain.

“No, no, no,” she says after correcting Kendal for at least the tenth time. Marching onto the stage, face pinched in frustration, Marilyn stops in front of her. With hands on her hips, she says, “Miss Matthews, there is no question that you play the bitch role with flair, but there’s more to Katherina than PMS. You must dig deeper. What is she
feeling
in this scene?”

The entire theater grows deathly quiet to hear how Kendal will respond. Jamie has confided that Kendal has a reputation for not always handling criticism gracefully, a trait I have witnessed for myself in our drama class. Tuesday’s class was all about improvising, a skill with which our teacher’s pet seemed to struggle. The fact that I didn’t, and in fact earned praise from Mrs. Shankle, only solidified my place as her enemy.

Hayley reminded me after class that auditions for the musical begin next week and pushed me again to try out for Tiffany. Figuring Reyna would send me back long before the final production, I told her no. But standing here in my new clothes with my new hair and receiving such praise, I’m tempted to change my mind.

On stage, Kendal’s hands flex and then unclench, and I can’t help but feel a tug of sympathy. Despite her horrid behavior toward me, I take no joy in watching our director publicly scold her. Had she not been so talented, perhaps it would be a different story, but she is. Her impressive ability to unleash anger with a moment’s notice and project her voice to the rooftops is inspiring, and it is apparent, at least to me, that she is trying her best.

She answers Ms. Kent in a voice so soft I can scarcely hear it, but what little I do hear sounds strained. She shifts her weight, and the spotlight hits eyes glazed, shockingly, with repressed tears.

Marilyn sighs and dismisses her, promptly calling for the next set of actors, and as Kendal strolls off stage, her shoulders droop in disappointment.

Jamie looks at me and flattens her lips in an uncomfortable grimace. “That was not as much fun as I would’ve thought.”

I nod in agreement, and when Kendal draws nearer to where we wait in the wings, I take a step out of the shadows. “Good job out there.”

Her head snaps up, eyes wary from being caught so distressed. Behind us, Marilyn begins the onslaught of details for the next scene, asking the actors, “As you enter the Forest of Arden, what do you think you are
feeling
?” and Kendal ignores my compliment, choosing instead to twist around and watch.