Look Both Ways (8 page)

Marcus stops on a stretch of flat lawn surrounded by weeping willow trees. “Sit,” he orders, like we’re dogs, and everyone does. I expect him to lay out what we’re going to do for the next couple of hours, but instead, he launches right in like we’re already in the middle of a conversation. “Acting is not about
pretending
to be another person. Any actor who tells you that deserves to be blacklisted from every stage in America. Acting is an embodiment of
real life.
When you act, you are not recreating. You are
creating.
”

I’m not totally sure I agree with that. If the actors are supposed to create the play, what’s the playwright’s job? When we do text analysis and stuff, isn’t the whole point that it helps us understand our characters and embody them instead of drawing from our real lives? I glance around to see how everyone else is reacting and see that most people are nodding, including Zoe.

“I had a student once,” Marcus continues. “She was rehearsing Lady Macbeth’s raven speech late one night in her room.
‘Come, you spirits that tend on mortal thoughts, unsex me here, and fill me from the crown to the toe top-full of direst cruelty!’ 
” The Shakespearean language rolls off Marcus’s tongue like it’s as familiar to him as a nursery rhyme. “As she said Lady Macbeth’s lines, she noticed the dagger-shaped letter opener on her desk. She grabbed it, feeling the surge of power that the blade in her hand put behind her words. She wasn’t herself any longer. She
was
Lady Macbeth. She gestured wildly with the knife, heedless of where her blade might fall. She didn’t even realize what she was doing until she had already plunged the knife deep into her own leg.”

Everyone gasps, and Livvy wraps her arms around her skinny thighs like she’s trying to protect them. I wait for Marcus to say something about how dangerous it is to
completely
lose ourselves, even as we
appear
to come apart in front of our audience. But instead he says, “
That
is dedication to craft. That is what I want to see from each and every one of you. If you are not prepared to stab yourself in the leg for art, you will never truly be an actor.”

“Um,” says a lanky apprentice with hipster glasses. “Was she okay?”

Marcus nods. “Yes, after three hours of surgery. She has a scar that will last forever. I envy her that. Every time she looks at it, she will be reminded what true transcendence feels like. Most of us have scars only on the inside.” His eyes sweep around the semicircle. “I need a volunteer.”

Under normal circumstances, I would never put myself out there without knowing what I was getting into. Just the thought of standing up in front of the whole apprentice company makes my stomach twist unpleasantly, much worse than it ever does at Family Night. But this is really, really important; half the company already knows I wasn’t cast in anything, and I need to prove to them that I belong here. Even if I fail completely, maybe they’ll respect the courage it took to get up first, especially after that story about the virtues of being injured. And if I do a really good job, it’s possible Marcus will even find a tiny role for me on the main stage.

I put my hand in the air.

Marcus zeroes in on me. His gaze makes me feel like I’m under the superbright light they shine into your mouth at the dentist. “Name?” he asks.

“Brooklyn.” My last name is on the tip of my tongue; maybe Marcus would go easier on me if he knew I was Lana’s kid. But it’s more critical now than ever that none of the other apprentices find out who my mom is.

“Stand over there,” Marcus says, gesturing to a stretch of grass in front of the trees.

I go where he’s pointing and face the group, chin up and shoulders back so nobody can tell how thoroughly freaked out I am. “A great actor never loses focus, no matter what is going on around him,” Marcus says. “Why is this?”

The redheaded girl who sneered at me earlier raises her hand. “Because you’re becoming another person, not playing a part,” she says. “Nothing can make you stop being you, no matter what happens.”

“Exactly,” Marcus thunders, and the girl flinches, even though he’s agreeing with her. “Name?”

“Pandora,” she says. I catch Zoe’s eye, and she raises her eyebrow like,
Seriously?

“I’ve never heard it put better,” Marcus says, and the girl preens and blushes. “
Nothing can make you stop being you
—not a missing prop or a coughing audience member or a siren going off down the block. Do you understand?” We all nod. “It is time to see if Brooklyn has what it takes to be a real actor.” Marcus turns to me. “What was your audition monologue?”

“Ophelia.
‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown.’ 
”

“You will do your monologue now,” he tells me. “You will become Ophelia. Your surroundings, your colleagues, and I will cease to exist for you. You will not stop, no matter what happens. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I say.

He moves to stand next to his bag. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”

I close my eyes and try to let the willows, the summer breeze, the rustling of the other apprentices fade away. I try to forget that all my new friends are watching me, ready to assess how much acting skill I really have, and that I’m so nervous, the tips of my fingers are starting to lose feeling.
You are Ophelia,
I tell myself.
You don’t know any of these people, and you don’t care that they’re watching you. You’re not nervous at all. You’re miserable and wretched, and you’ve watched the person you love crumble to pieces right in front of you.
It actually helps me feel more grounded, and I start to think maybe there’s something to this “becoming your character” thing after all. Maybe this is something I can incorporate into my performances forever.

When I feel sufficiently Ophelia-esque, I open my eyes and begin, focusing slightly above the tops of the other apprentices’ heads.
“ ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ ”
I say.
“ ‘The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword…’ ”
Shakespearean language has never felt natural to me, and the words don’t roll effortlessly off my tongue the way they did for Marcus, but I’ve practiced them enough times that I sound reasonably good.

Marcus leans over and starts rummaging through the bag at his feet. Whatever’s in there makes a squeaking sound like Styrofoam rubbing together, but I try to ignore it. Where Ophelia is, there’s no squeaking sound.
“ ‘The expectancy and rose of the fair state,’ ”
I continue.
“ ‘The glass of fashion and the mould of form…’ ”

Something crunches against my collarbone, and I let out a little shriek as cold liquid starts dripping into my cleavage. My hand flies to my chest, and it comes away sticky and wet, sprinkled with bits of something hard and white. And just like that, I’m not Ophelia anymore. I’m Brooklyn Shepard, standing on a lawn in her favorite jeans and purple flats, gaping at the man who’s throwing eggs at her.

“What are you doing?” Marcus shouts. “Why is Ophelia touching her chest? There’s nothing on Ophelia’s chest!”

I close my eyes and struggle to regain my composure, even though I can feel the egg soaking into the cup of my bra.
“ ‘The observed
—
’
Um,
‘the observed of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched—’ 
”

Another egg explodes against my bare shoulder, and I pause to watch as the yolk slides all the way down my arm and drips off my fingers. Pandora giggles, and I begin to hate her with the fire of ten thousand suns.

“
Be Ophelia,
or what’s the use of saying the words?” Marcus roars. “Act, dammit!” He throws another egg at me, and this one splatters across my thigh.

“And…
‘and I, of ladies most deject and—’
Um, and—wretched—” But the monologue is gone. “I’m sorry. Can I start over from—”

Marcus throws a fourth egg, and this one hits me on the side of the head. At least half the apprentice company is laughing now, and white-hot fury flares up in me. I came here to learn how to
act,
not to be humiliated. I know I’m supposed to trust the process, trust the man who made this festival great. Everyone thinks he’s a genius. But honestly, this is ridiculous.

I look over at Marcus—it’s no use trying to pretend he’s not there now—and try to judge the trajectory of his next egg so I can dodge it. But he’s shaking his head sadly, like I’ve failed him. “Sit down, Brooklyn,” he says. “You’re done.”

I sit back down with the other apprentices and try to pull myself together, but I’m so angry, my entire body is shaking. Zoe reaches out and squeezes my hand, and it makes me feel a tiny bit better, but not much. I send the universe visions of me smashing an entire carton of eggs over Marcus Spooner’s smug head and watching the yolk drip off his stupid beard.

He doesn’t throw eggs at everyone. While Todd does his monologue from
Twelfth Night,
Marcus lobs water balloons at him. He shoots rubber bands at a tiny girl named Natasha, and she shrieks like she’s having her nails ripped out. During Jessa’s performance, he sets off an air horn. He stands about two inches from Kenji’s face, blocking him from the audience. He holds Pandora’s ponytail like reins and turns her head back and forth at random intervals. During Zoe’s monologue, he blasts the “I love you, you love me” song from
Barney
on an eighties-style boom box while performing interpretive dance moves. I half hope she’ll crack up so it’ll feel like we’re even, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t even raise her voice over the music; she just performs quietly for the people who are close enough to hear.

Maybe I could’ve done that, too, if I’d had more time to prepare. Probably not, though.

Only four people make it all the way through their monologues. When Marcus is done torturing everyone, he heaves a world-weary sigh and slowly packs up his canvas bag. Then he says, “You all know which of your colleagues are real actors now. Watch them and learn to be better.” I expect him to explain the next exercise, maybe one that’ll teach us about focus, but instead he picks up his bag and walks away.

For a second we all sit there in silence. Then Jessa says, “That’s
it
?” and a few people laugh nervously, which breaks the tension. Nobody seems sure if we’re allowed to leave or not, but we all scoot toward our friends and start talking in low voices.

Zoe puts a hand on my shoulder. “Hey, c’mere. You’ve got shells in your hair.”

When I was eight, I got Silly Putty in my ponytail while Marisol was babysitting me. It took her nearly half an hour to pick it all out, but I sat there happily the whole time, pleased to have her undivided attention. That’s exactly how I feel now as Zoe combs her fingers through my sticky hair, careful not to pull as she picks out the fragments of shell. She’s so focused on me that I become hyperaware of how I’m sitting, how loudly I’m breathing, whether I smell like egg. I’m suddenly not positive I put on deodorant this morning. When Zoe finally says, “There, you’re done,” it’s kind of a relief, but I also feel weirdly let down.

It’s been more than five minutes now, and since Marcus still isn’t back, we decide it’s probably safe to leave. As I head toward the dining hall with Zoe, Livvy, Jessa, Kenji, and Todd, I say what I’m sure everyone’s thinking: “So…that was complete bullshit, right?”

I wait for everyone to laugh and say,
Oh my God, seriously!
But they’re all quiet, and then Zoe says, “Well, yes and no.”

“What do you mean?”

“His execution’s definitely over-the-top, but I think Marcus’s theories are actually pretty sound,” Zoe says. “I really liked what he said about how acting is creating, not recreating.”

“He’s one crazy-ass dude, but he’s kind of brilliant,” Jessa says.

“Really? You guys thought that was a good class?” I try to sound confident, but now I kind of wish I hadn’t said anything. From now on, I’m going to wait for someone else to express an opinion first.

“I mean, I don’t think he taught us enough,” Zoe says. “It doesn’t really seem fair to point out our flaws without giving us any tools for how to correct them, you know?” It’s big of her to say “us”; according to Marcus, she doesn’t have any flaws.

“The whole thing
was
pretty gimmicky,” Kenji says. “The guy’s obviously supersmart, but I wish he’d show us the substance underneath the flashy stuff. I felt like he didn’t bother because we’re so low on the totem pole.”

I still don’t see why everyone thinks Marcus is so brilliant; all he did was distract us. Sutton and Twyla could do that. “What about that whole stabbing-yourself-in-the-leg thing? That was nuts, right?” I say. I want so badly to hear everyone confirm that I have the right opinion about
something.

“I bet that’s not even a true story,” Kenji says. “Who even has a letter opener except, like, people from
Downton Abbey
? I think he was making a point about how there should be no limits on what you’re willing to do for art, you know? And obviously there
are
limits, but maybe he was trying to tell us to push ourselves. The whole thing was probably supposed to be a metaphor about boundaries?”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too,” Zoe says, and everyone else nods.

This never even occurred to me, and I feel really stupid. “Well, I wish he’d work on his nonmetaphorical boundaries,” I say. “I still have egg in my hair.”

Zoe shoots me a sympathetic smile. “You got the worst of it for sure. Barney is nothing compared to being egged.”

“I know he was trying to start things off with a bang, but I wish it hadn’t been you up there,” Livvy says. She probably means she’s sorry I had to suffer, but what I hear is
I wish it had been someone who could’ve handled it better.

“It was really brave of you to get up first, not knowing what to expect,” Zoe says. “Marcus is going to remember that.”

The rest of my friends agree, and I try to be gracious and thank them, but now I wish I’d never started this conversation in the first place. When someone takes a blind leap into the unknown, it doesn’t necessarily mean she’s brave. Sometimes it means she doesn’t understand what she’s up against.