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22
DEXTER
Iopen the door to the unending pounding. “What do you want?”
Hank looks perplexed. “Really?”
I push my phone behind my back to keep from looking at the screen. “Did we have plans?”
“If by ‘we’ you mean ‘the society of Chamberlain Academy’ then yes. We had plans.” He pushes past me and flops into a chair. “What is wrong with you?”
I grin. I can’t help it. “Nothing. Not a thing in the world. Everything is very right.”
Hank’s single syllable of a laugh sounds like he’s not at all amused. I try to stay focused. He says, “Not everything.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, my mind already back to the message on my phone.
Hank begins, “Two words.”
“Yeah,” I interrupt. “Two words: Limited Engagement.”
I can barely keep from laughing. For real, I can feel it. Bubbles of actual mirth rising up in my stomach.
When Leon called me to check in, I was pleased, but not really surprised. I don’t talk to my agent much, but he’s always professional with me. He reaches out a few times a year, and he was very supportive when the summer audition mess was unfolding. But, this time, when he mentioned that Newton Drummond was asking for me to audition for a summer show, I nearly hyperventilated.
Newton Drummond. Newton Drummond! The producer that everyone on Broadway is talking about. The man with the magic touch—everything he’s produced in the last few years has turned to gold. They’re talking about renaming the Tony’s after him. And he wants me to audition for a summer run of Bridge to Yesterday.
Leon emailed me the script, and I haven’t been able to put it down.
Even now, watching Hank twitch on my leather chair, I’m anxious to get him out of here so I can finish reading the last few scenes. It’s brilliant—funny and poignant and daring—and I want to be in it. Everyone who reads it will want to be in it. I have that buzzing feeling in my fingertips that I get when I know something is going to be big.
“Have you. . .” Hank begins, at the same time I say, “Can we do this later?”
Hank looks surprised, and if I’m not mistaken, disappointed. But he shakes his head and says, “Sure. Another time.”
Letting himself out into the dark, Hank leaves me alone in my apartment, exactly where I want to be. In my favorite chair, phone clutched in my hands. I’ve nearly drained the battery, so I plug it into the charger and pick up where I left off in the play. Not long after, I’m laughing through the last scene and wiping a tear from my eye. An actual tear.
I have to do this play.
I must.
There isn’t a bad part in it. I’ll play the doorman in the apartment building if they’ll have me.
I text Leon. ‘I want it. Set me up an audition. Please.’
Leon responds more quickly than usual. ‘You read it?’
‘Couldn’t put it down.’
‘Favorite scene?’
Is this a test? I’ll pass it with flying colors.
‘The bit where Benjamin and Susannah dance in the barn.’
As soon as I thumb in the words, I know. I remember. Dance. I realize where I am supposed to be right now.
I realize what Hank came for. What he meant about Chamberlain plans. I look at the time on my phone, say a few words I’m glad my students don’t hear me say, and then, just to be certain, check the huge clock over the fireplace.
