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Rose screamed on the outside the way I screamed on the inside. On and on, all day long, every day, screaming from somewhere way down deep. Screaming like vomiting. Screaming until the sound exploded my bones. Mustering the courage to look into the mirror and being shocked I was still in one piece. I’d read books about people going fucking crazy. How was I still doing this one-foot-in-front-of-the other bullshit?
You still burn, Grandma whispered.
I grabbed my laptop and opened it, punched in the URL for the Harmony Community Theater. The site loaded to a flattering shot of the brick building under a blue, cloudless summer sky. Photo stills of the latest show, Oedipus Rex, were posted below, almost all of them showing Isaac Pearce, bearded and bloody, his naked emotions spilling out of the screen.
At the bottom of the page was an audition sign-up sheet for Hamlet. I typed in my name and contact info and hit send.
Willow
Two weeks later, Angie dropped me off at the audition.
“Looks packed,” I said, staring out the passenger side window at the crowd in front of HCT.
“Hamlet’s a big play,” she said. “They need to cast lots of gravediggers and guards and traveling jesters.” She nudged my arm. “Break a leg.”
“Thanks,” I said, my mouth bone-dry. “I’ll meet you at The Scoop when I’m done.”
“I’ll have chocolate waiting.”
The theater lobby was bustling with auditioners, college age to seniors. I recognized a few people from Harmony, as well as a few college students I didn’t. I spied a couple of older girls hanging out together, talking with their heads bent. Ophelia wannabes, maybe. They gave me a shared glance and turned their backs.
A middle-aged woman with dark hair in a loose bun was behind the sign-in table. She peered at me through thick-rimmed glasses. “Name?”
“Willow Holloway,” I said, my heart pounding.
She made a check mark on her list. “And what role are you reading for?”
“Ophelia. Where are the auditions being held?”
“Through there,” she said, jerking her thumb at the main theater entrance.
“We’re all auditioning together? Onstage?”
“Correct.”
“We’re not being called in a room to read alone? For the director only?”
“Mr. Ford doesn’t do it that way,” she said, her expression placid. “He likes to keep things open and transparent. Break a leg. Next?”
I stepped inside the theater and saw the seats were two-thirds full with prospective Hamlet cast members.
Holy shitballs.
I nearly turned around and walked back out. No way I could perform my monologue in front of all these people. I couldn’t even do it in front of Angie, no matter how many times she’d pestered me over the last few weeks.
If you can’t perform a monologue in front of people, how can you perform an entire play?
“I can’t,” I whispered behind my teeth. “This is stupid. I shouldn’t be here.”
Yet I forced myself into a seat in the back row, near the door. This dumb audition was my best and only plan to dispel the darkness or crack the ice around me. Doing nothing hadn’t worked. I had to try.
And if I humiliate myself, so be it.
I closed my eyes and thought about the opening words to my monologue.
I couldn’t remember them.
I opened my eyes, heart now crashing in my chest. The director, Martin Ford, was setting himself up onstage. I recognized him from the HCT website. A lanky guy with flyaway hair and large eyes. He looked friendly. Welcoming. I still felt like I was going to puke.
