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“I’m going to read the damn play.”
She laughed. “Text me if you get stranded.”
“Thanks,” I said, climbing out of the car. I bent between the door and the interior. “Thanks a lot, Angie. For a lot of things.”
She smiled. “Don’t get soft on me now, girl. And I want a full report of what it’s like watching Isaac Pearce in action.”
I rolled my eyes. “I might even do some acting too.”
She made a fist. “Power to the women people.”
I shut the door and stepped out into bright, icy sunlight. Winter felt like it was releasing its hold and the air was clean and biting. I hopped over an exhaust-tinged pile of snow at the curb and headed toward the public library, about a block and a half from the HCT. I found a table under a window and settled in with a copy of Hamlet and my laptop open to Sparks Notes for when I got stuck. Which was frequently.
The old Willow was a straight-A student who considered going to college for something to do with English Lit. But Hamlet hadn’t been a part of school curriculum and I’d never seen one of the film adaptations.
I scanned Ophelia’s scenes and was relieved to see nothing overtly romantic on the pages. Hamlet and Ophelia’s happy relationship existed prior to the start of the play. Their first scene together was essentially her—under pressure from her father—breaking up with him.
Hamlet torments Ophelia, kills her father.
She goes nuts, kills herself.
The End.
No romance. No declarations of love. No touching.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
File this under: things I should’ve investigated before auditioning.
I might’ve been the greenest of actors on that stage, but at least I wouldn’t embarrass myself by having a panic attack in front of the cast from having to kiss or touch anyone. The black X across my body would stay invisible while I used Ophelia’s scenes where she descends into madness to exorcise some more demons and find a little peace.
It was an innocent, naïve hope, and one that would eventually shatter into a million fucking pieces.
Willow
After a well-balanced dinner of fries, salad, and a chocolate milkshake at The Scoop, I walked the half block to the Harmony Community Theater. The front entry was eerily quiet, but a woman manning the front office directed me to a staircase that led to a second level above the stage.
The rickety steps smelled of dust and time. I passed closed offices and reached a large, dark room with one mirrored wall, like a dimly lit dance studio. A circle of chairs was set up in the center and the cast of Hamlet milled around them, talking and laughing.
“There she is.” The woman who played Jocasta in Oedipus waved at me. “Our ingénue. Welcome. I’m Lorraine Embry, but you can call me Queen Gertrude.” She wore bulky jewelry and flowing, silky clothes. I got the impression she enjoyed being dramatic on and off the stage.
“Hi, I’m Willow Holloway,” I said. “Or…Ophelia? I guess?”
The man who’d played Creon strode forward—tall with freckles, rust-colored hair and a wide smile. Dressed in an athletic suit, I pegged him for a university basketball coach, or the owner of a sporting goods store.
“Len Hostetler.” He engulfed my hand in his and gave it a shake. “My dear, your audition was really something. Really something.”
“Agreed,” Lorraine said. “Marvelous performance. So much heart and pure, organic talent.”
“Thanks.”
They stood beaming over me like proud parents. Since my own parents neither saw my audition, nor had any reason to be proud of me lately, their pride was like a shaft of sunlight on a cold day. But the silence stretched to breaking while they waited for me to say something.
“Um…do we sit anywhere?”
“Sure, sure,” Len said. “Herr Direktor will be in shortly.” He rubbed his enormous hands together. “Isn’t this exciting? Nothing like the first rehearsal for a new show, is there? Or is this the first of your first?”
“No, but it’s been a while,” I said.
