Excerpt: EXIT STAGE LEFT by Gail Nall

8/20/2019 Excerpt: EXIT STAGE LEFT by Gail Nall

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Exit Stage LeftGail Nall


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To Eva, who is always center stage in my life.

Text copyright © 2015 by Gail Nall

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First Edition


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Chapte OnI’m warming up with my raisin face when Trevor appears in the door-

way. So I do what I always do when I see him in the two classes we

have together—I turn away and make it at Amanda instead. Scrunch-

ing up every muscle in my face is the last step in my routine of acting

class warm-ups.

“That’s a nice look, Casey,” she says. “Show that one to Trevor

and you’ll scare him off for good.”

I hold every muscle until it hurts, and then let it go, stretching my

eyes and mouth as wide as possible. I might not be great at finishing

pre-calc homework like Amanda, but no one can out-acting-class me.

Once I rearrange my expression back to normal, I avoid Trevor’s gaze

by checking out the front of the room where Ms. Sharp is busy arrang-

ing a stack of props that have zero relation to each other. Tiaras and

cardboard-cutout clouds, a stuffed cat and a monocle. A giant furry

monster glove falls to the floor. It’s typical Ms. Sharp.

“Trevor’s already seen my raisin face, by the way, and I think he


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likes it,” I say to Amanda.

She squishes her lips together, which means she’s trying not to

laugh at me. She might as well let it happen, since she’s only about

50 percent successful at keeping it in. I did this experiment back in

middle school, where I tried to see how many times I could make her

laugh in one day. I lost count somewhere after twenty.

“He was watching you through that whole solo you did in Choral

Ensemble today,” she says.

“Him and everyone else. I was kind of standing in front of the

entire room.”

“But he was watching you watching you. You know what I mean,”

Amanda says, eyeing me like she expects me to lose all my resolve and

go running back to him. Again.

I peek around her to see if Trevor’s doing any kind of watching me

now. He’s not—just sitting there, doing something on his phone. Ms.

Sharp lobs the stuffed cat at him, which is acting-teacher talk for Get

off your ass and help me with these props.

I turn my attention back to Amanda. “He’s not looking at me now,

which is exactly how I want it.”

“If you’re rehashing the latest episode of Casey and Trevor, I’m

going to sit somewhere else. Because I’m not listening to this again.”

Harrison drops his bag on the floor next to mine.

“Nothing to discuss, because nothing’s happening. We should talk

about more important things, like auditions. More specifically, who

else is trying out for Maria.” I eyeball pretty much every girl in the

room, sizing up my competition for The Sound of Music . Kylee—too


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quiet. Brianna—gorgeous voice, but not enough range. Rose—can

belt out a number like no one’s business, but not so good at act-

ing. Sophia—probably the next Meryl Streep, but sings like she’s

underwater.

“I heard Gabby wants the role,” Harrison whispers as Ms. Sharp

starts class. He pulls off his black-framed glasses and wipes the lenses

with this pristine-looking microfiber cloth he keeps in his pocket. Not

on his shirt, like every other guy on the planet.

“No way,” I say through my teeth. “She was bragging about that

car lot commercial she booked just yesterday.”

Harrison shrugs, and a tiny flutter of nerves makes that veggie

burger and mountain of salad I had for lunch twist in my stomach. I

need this role, more than anyone else.

You see, I have an exact plan for my life, and it goes something

like this:

1. Dazzle Ms. Sharp with my talent (and obvious commitment

to theater).

2. Land lead in The Sound of Music because of number one,

above.

3. Score recommendations from Ms. Sharp and one of her

famous theater friends so fabulous that the New York College

of Performing Arts will have no choice but to beg me to

audition.

4. Nail audition and apply early decision to NYCPA.

5. Get email congratulating me on my acceptance and offering

me a full scholarship, because NYCPA doesn’t come cheap


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and I have zero in college savings.

6. Be amazing in college and end up on Broadway before I’m

twenty-one.

7. Collect awards and accolades.

Basically, if I bomb this audition, my only other choice is going to

community college. Or maybe waiting tables at some roadside diner

in Nowheresville, Kansas.

And none of this involves, requires, or has anything to do with

hot guys who have soft brown eyes. Like the one who’s looking at me

right now.

“Casey Fitzgerald!” Ms. Sharp’s voice booms across the room.

“You look lost in dreamland. Are there ponies? Maybe rainbows and

unicorns and violins and not paying attention. So, if it isn’t too much

trouble, would you please come back to the dismal real world and join

your assigned partner for today’s exercise?”

Partner? I glance at Amanda, who’s got her desk pulled up next to

Harrison’s. She shakes her head and points to her right . . . at Trevor.

Who is looking at me again. Well, as best he can anyway, with that

floppy blond hair hanging in his eyes.

“Greaaaat,” I say under my breath.

Harrison rolls his eyes in typical Harrison style. He has no concept

of relationships and sort-of-relationships and how they end and why

people who were in sort-of-relationships shouldn’t be doing acting

class projects together.

“This century, Casey. Time is a-ticking,” Ms. Sharp says in the

semi-deadly voice she usually reserves for the last week of rehearsals.


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I scoop up my stuff and slide into the empty seat next to Trevor.

“Rainbows and ponies? More like practicing your Tony accep-

tance speech. I was in the front row, right?” he says with his usual

killer smile.

And this is why I can’t be acting class partners with him. Because

it’s completely confusing. That smile and those eyes and I want to

push his hair out of his face so badly that I have to sit on my hands.

I was so sure back in June that we couldn’t be together. So I called it

off and spent the summer learning my audition song and memorizing

an entire play (it doesn’t matter what Amanda says—it is too entirely

normal to memorize every line of the show you’re auditioning for).

“Don’t you wish,” I mutter. Because I don’t trust my mouth to say

anything else. Otherwise, I might find myself spending way too much

time with him in the props room. Which kind of happened a lot last

year. And the year before.

“So I was thinking—”

“What are we supposed to be doing?” I look past him toward Ms.

Sharp, as if that’ll answer my question.

“Uh . . . creating character sketches to use for improv next week.”

He leans over the notebook on his desk, hair in his eyes. Again.

“That’s easy.”

He looks up and gives me that smile. He could probably score a

toothpaste commercial with it. (But it does not affect me—at all.) “For

us. You probably have a list of characters for the whole year.”

I smile back. Stupid traitor face. I’m a professional—I should

have complete control over my expressions. “Only for the next two


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months,” I tell him. It would’ve been more, but Harrison and Kelly

threatened to hold an intervention for my weekly method acting. I

mean, come on, we go to an arts school. I operate on the assumption

that we’re expected to be a little . . . different.

“Don’t tell me you’re quitting,” he says.

I wave a hand. “No way. I just have to rein it in a little until Kelly

gets over me outing her crush on Ian Grimes when I was doing for-

tune-telling last week. And of course that brought up Harrison’s old

grudge from my cat week freshman year, because he can’t let anything

go.”

Trevor laughs. “That was classic.”

Yeah, it was, but then Harrison wouldn’t talk to me for two days.

Apparently I scarred his reputation when he tripped over my “tail”

and ended up crashing face-first into the freshman lockers. Anyway,

just because my friends get embarrassed doesn’t mean I need to choose

another route to dramatic success.

And at least Trevor appreciates it. It’s interesting how well we get

along when we aren’t together.

Trevor reaches over and tugs my Save the Whales shirt. “This is

cute. Are you some kind of activist this week?”

First, there is nothing even remotely cute about this T-shirt. It’s

a size too big and is completely shapeless and came from Goodwill.

Second, he’s flirting with me. Third, I’m having a hard time not flirt-

ing back.

“Vegetarian,” I say to my notebook. “So, characters. I think I’ll

test-drive my Hollywood Diva next week.”


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“Test-drive?” He laughs. “Case, you don’t even have a license.”

He called me Case. Which makes him laughing about my real,

true, 100 percent genuine fear of driving not quite as bad.

I poke him with my pen. He grabs it and folds his fingers around

my hand. Just as I’m wondering if a little distraction isn’t a good thing,

Gabby slides up the aisle toward Ms. Sharp. And Trevor’s eyes flick

over to her.

I pull my hand back and bite my lip to keep from saying anything.

He looked at her for only a split second, but it was long enough to

remind me of exactly why we can’t be together. I study his profile as he

starts to write something, and try to figure out why it is I keep com-

ing back to him. This is how it’s gone between us since my freshman

and his sophomore year, when we were both cast as leads in The Music

Man. He looks at me with those eyes and flashes that smile, I f lirt, he

flirts, we get together for a little while, he starts looking around, we

fight, I break it off, he goes out with other girls, I start to regret end-

ing things with him, and then he always comes back.

But not this time. This time, I refuse to go past the regretting-it

part. I have too much on the line this year to be distracted by Trevor—

the one who is so insanely good at distracting me—and all the drama

that comes with us.


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Chapte TwAs we walk down the hallway after the most confusing acting class

ever, I tell Amanda that I am—in no way shape or form—getting

back together with Trevor. Ever, ever, ever again. Which sounds like

a Taylor Swift song, but it’s true. “And if I do, please smack me.”

“Are you sure?” she asks. “I mean, remember how you said that

last year when you dropped him before auditions, and then the second

you were over mono, you fell into his arms faster than . . . I don’t know

what. Something really fast?”

“Positive. This year is different.”

Amanda pushes her long blond hair behind one ear and gives me a

side-eyed look. “You know, I’m proud of you.”

I check out my shoes. They’re these cute studded ballet flats I

found online while I was reciting lines a couple of weeks ago. I admire

them for a second before answering. “Thanks. So, um . . . do you

think there’s anything between him and Gabby?”

Amanda pauses. “It’s obvious she wants him, but really. If you


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snapped your fingers, he’d be here in three seconds flat.”

That makes me feel better. It shouldn’t, I know. I shouldn’t care at

all. But Amanda is probably the most rational, even-tempered person

I know. And she’s usually right about stuff like this, especially when

it involves Trevor.

Amanda leans into me and gives me a side hug. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Great, actually. Now listen to this and tell me if it’s any

good.” I stop in the middle of the hall, people streaming past me, and

quote a chunk of monologue I memorized in July.

“You know I love you, Case, but you need to stop reciting Act

One, Scene Six or whatever for at least ten minutes. I’ve heard that

one five times since homeroom.” Amanda crosses her arms and leans

against the wall.

“It’s part of Act Two,” I inform her. “And it is too different. Listen

again.” I close my eyes and recite the same lines with every ounce of

my energy. My voice carries through the hallway, drowning out the

shoe squeaks and shouts and slamming lockers.

It’s actually quiet for a second. Even the Bohemian Brigade,

perched on the radiators next to us, breaks out into applause. It takes

a lot to get their attention, since half of them are usually in a whole

other world. And then the hall roars back to life and someone bumps

my backpack off my shoulder.

“Nice projection,” Amanda says. “But we need to get to English,

okay?”

“I have to be perfect. My entire life depends on this role.”

“Don’t worry so much.” Amanda f licks her hair over her shoulder.


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She grabs my arm and pulls me toward the classroom. “You’ll get the

lead. There’s no competition. Listen.” She gestures toward a group of

freshmen singing a slightly off-key version of “My Favorite Things”

near the French room door. At any normal high school, they’d be

laughed into the corner with the gamer geeks and the goth kids. But

these kinds of moments are pretty much expected here. It’s like the

movie Fame, plopped down in a cornfield in the middle of Indiana. So

not really like Fame, but as close as we’re going to get around here.

I recite another line in Amanda’s ear as we reach our English class-

room. “That was a good one, right?”

Our friend Kelly is waiting just inside the door. “I don’t know. I

think it could’ve been louder. I could barely hear you from in here.”

“Don’t encourage her,” Amanda says as she drops her stuff on one

of the front desks.

“Hey, my methods work. I’m not about to change anything now,”

I say.

“That’s good,” Kelly says as she twists a curl around her finger.

“Because I saw Trevor and Gabby in the Alcove of Sin right after

lunch.”

“Oh?” Why did I say that? “I don’t care. What were they doing?”

Amanda glares at Kelly for even bringing the subject up.

“Talking,” Kelly says.

I snort. I can’t help it. Amanda’s right. There’s nothing going on

there.

“You’re not interested, remember?” Amanda pokes me in the side

with her pen. “Trevor is so yesterday, you’re over him, and you are


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999 percent focused on landing Maria in the show. So really, you don’t

care if Trevor and Gabby were all over each other against the Gato-

rade machine. Right?”

“Right.” I probably could’ve said that with a little more conviction.

Amanda smiles at me. “You know, that last line you did sounded

perfect.”

My heart swells about twelve sizes. Amanda totally gets it.

Harrison walks in at the very last minute, fries and ketchup in

hand. Which Ms. Monroe will freak out over if she sees them.

“Where did you get fries?” I whisper as I sneak one from where

he’s hiding them under his desk.

“Chris,” he answers. As if I even had to ask. Chris is like a walk-

ing restaurant. He probably bought six plates of them at lunch—two

hours ago.

“What song are you doing for the audition? Did you decide yet?” I

snag another mostly cold fry while Ms. Monroe has some deep discus-

sion with Alexa James, who is practically the captain of the Bohemian

Brigade (if they believed in captains), about why she can’t do a term

paper on the compiled literary works of Winnie-the-Pooh. (“But he’s

so zen!” she argues.) I’m so busy watching Ms. Monroe’s reaction that

I end up knocking ketchup onto Harrison’s button-down.

“Dammit, Casey, pay attention,” Harrison mutters as he swipes

at his shirt.

“Sorry, Gunther Engelbert,” I whisper before making the fry dis-

appear into my mouth.

“Don’t call me that.” He digs one of those stain-remover pens


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from his bag and dabs at the spot.

“You deserve it for being so mean to me,” I tell him. He renamed

himself in middle school after seeing Harrison Ford in Star Wars. No

one calls him Gunther except his parents. And me, when he’s espe-

cially annoying. Like now. He gets way too overprotective of his

clothes—and this is coming from a girl who’s really into her closet.

“Are those fries?” Kelly whispers from across the aisle.

Harrison sighs and passes the entire thing to her.

“You never answered my question,” I say to Harrison.

He gives up on the stain, which is now this damp blob. “I don’t

know. I can’t go wrong with Les Mis, right?”

“Hmm.” I study him for a moment. He’s one of my oldest friends,

and there’s no way I want to do this show without him. Which means

he needs to nail his audition. “What about Sweeney Todd ?”

“Really? Me?” Harrison gives me this look, like What about me

says murderous barber?

“You should totally do Sweeney Todd ,” Kelly says, her red curls

bouncing as she nibbles a fry. Holland Community Theater did a pro-

duction of Annie when we were in sixth grade. No one dared try out

for the title role once we found out Kelly had signed up. She’s like a

real-life Annie, minus the rich adoptive dad. And orphanage.

“I just don’t want to be stuck in the chorus again. I’d like an actual

role,” Amanda says from behind Harrison.

“The chorus is where actors go to die,” I say as I glance up front.

Ms. Monroe has finally finished talking to Alexa (who put up one eff-

ing huge protest in defense of her Winnie-the-Pooh idea) and is now


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trying to pull everything together to actually start class. “No offense.”

“I didn’t exactly die last year,” Amanda says.

“I would have.”

“You’d live through it. Not that it’s anything you even have to

worry about.”

Even as she says that, I feel hot and my clothes seem too tight and

I just want to go outside and breathe. Nervousness, I guess. And that’s

insane, because I know I’m meant to be an actor. Ever since I was

cast as the apple in my kindergarten production of The Food Pyramid ,

I’ve known acting was my passion. My whole entire reason for living.

Lead roles don’t just fall into my lap. I work hard for them, and they

mean everything to me.

“So, Case, what are you going to do when Trevor gets the male

lead?” Kelly’s pretty good at asking the world’s most uncomfortable

questions.

“Thanks for assuming that the rest of us don’t stand a chance,”

Harrison says.

Kelly shrugs and sneaks him the fries back under his desk. Or

fry, because there’s only one left. Harrison gives it a sad look before

grumpily eating it.

“You have a chance,” Amanda says in her best encouraging voice.

“Yeah, I guess,” Kelly says. “You’re a better actor, at least.”

Harrison looks at her, as if he’s trying to figure out whether she’s

giving him a compliment or insulting his voice.

The thing is that Trevor has a lot going for him that Harri-

son doesn’t. He’s a senior, he has the right look (which I am not


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thinking about, at all). He’s somewhere over six feet tall and creates

this presence on the stage that you can’t look away from. And—most

important—he has a to-die-for voice. To. Die. For. As in, he could

sing “Jingle Bells” and it would sound ten times better than anyone

else singing . . . well, anything.

I silently congratulate myself on admitting all this without feeling

one ounce of nostalgia for our relationship. Or relationship-like thing.

Mostly. I’ll get through the show, starring opposite him, without fall-

ing for him again. I am a professional, after all.

“Casey?”

I snap my head up from my desk later the next morning. Ms.

Thomasetti is standing right in front of me, a dry-erase marker in her

hand. I blink.

“Are you awake now?”

“Um, yes. Sorry.” I can’t help it. Music theory is the most boring

class ever. And I mean, ever . I love music. I just don’t like the theory

of it so much.

“Good,” Ms. Thomasetti says. “Then perhaps you can tell the

class which chord we just heard.” She pauses. “Are you feeling well?”

Thank you, Ms. Thomasetti.

“No. I think I ate a bad veggie omelet for breakfast. My stomach

hurts.” I clutch my hands to my abdomen and put on a pained—but

not overdone—expression. I am way too sick to name any chords

today.

Across the room, Amanda starts to laugh but turns it into a cough.


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“I think you should go to the office and lie down.” Ms. Thomasetti

scribbles a note and hands it to me.

“All right,” I say weakly. I head toward the door with my books

and the note, and carefully let my hair fall into my face. I don’t push it

away because—obviously—I’m too weak to do anything but trudge

out of the room and down the hallway.

Once out the door, I mentally celebrate my success. I can even

sneak a quick nap before Pre-calc. I turn the corner and collide with

someone tall and male.

“I’m sorry! I didn’t see you,” I say to the Foo Fighters T-shirt I’m

practically breathing on. I back up. The shirt belongs to a guy with a

nice face and dark hair that sort of sticks up on purpose. I don’t rec-

ognize him at all. His books are all over the floor, and he kneels and

begins to put them into his backpack.

“Sorry,” I say again. I pick up a script that looks like it came from

the library. The Sound of Music . “Hey, are you trying out for the

show?”

He nods.

“I am too! It’s one of my favorites. I’m auditioning for Maria, of

course. I’m Casey, by the way. Are you new here?”

The guy nods again. He doesn’t say anything. He just tugs on his

shirt and looks at me.

“Um, well, okay. I guess I’ll see you at the auditions tomorrow.”

He takes his script and lopes down the hallway.

How weird was that? I’ve never met an actor who didn’t talk.


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Chapte ThreAfter I convince the school nurse I’m cured, I sit at my desk in Pre-

calc. Right next to Amanda.

“Feeling better?” she asks with a grin.

“Like a million bucks.”

“Nice performance, although a little overdramatic. Practicing for

tomorrow?”

“Of course. And don’t think I didn’t see your Oh, I’m so faint I

think I might pass out thing last week. The hand to the forehead was a

little too much,” I joke back.

You see, there’s a fine line between playing sick well enough to

get out of class, and playing sick to the point that you get sent home.

Amanda and I perfected the just-sick-enough routine in ninth grade,

when we were subjected to a PE class that involved a lot of ball sports.

Volleyball. Basketball. Softball. Whateverball. God-get-me-the-hell-

outta-here-ball. By the end of the year, I’m pretty sure the school

nurse wanted to send us both for CT scans because of our constant


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“migraines” and “cramps.”

“I needed time to study for that physics quiz. At least I didn’t

clutch my stomach like my intestines were going to fall out,” Amanda

replies.

When Mr. Williams starts calling roll, my phone buzzes in my

pocket.

I pull it out and put it in my lap to read Amanda’s text. Technically

we can have phones in class—we just can’t use them. Technically.

Except the text isn’t from Amanda. It’s Trevor. Gonna hit up El

Burrito aft school. U in?

He knows exactly what he’s doing. El Burrito is our place. It’s

where we had our first date—or date-type thing—and (so very

romantically) had our first kiss in the parking lot.

Is it T? Amanda. Tell him to go take a long walk off a short catwalk.

I smile. It’s not like I have any trouble telling him to get lost when

I call things off, but now? Staying apart from him is really hard work.

But then again, so is being with him.

“Casey Fitzgerald,” Mr. Williams says.

“Here,” I say automatically.

Get yr ass to El B & put T outta his misery . I’ ll even buy u the damn bur-

rito. And that would be Steve-o Grimaldi texting on Trevor’s phone.

That seals it. Not like I was going anyway, but I’m definitely not going

if the Grimaldi twins—Trevor’s BFFs for reasons unknown—are

going.

Sry, busy. Practicing aud song with A & H , I write back to Trevor/

Steve-o. Total lie, but worth it.


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If anyone asks, we’re practicing aud songs aft school 2day , I type out

to Amanda.

Got it , comes the answer.

Will regale u with my fab rendition of “The Impossible Dream.”

“Amanda Reynolds.”

“Here.” Amanda peers at her phone. And laughs out loud.

Mr. Williams looks up from his roll sheet, frowns, and asks us all

to remain quiet while he finishes. When he picks up where he left off,

my entire body melts with relief. A confiscated phone is not in my

plans today.

What is in my plans today: reciting a few more tricky lines, run-

ning my song again, and getting through yet another awkward call

with my dad.

Focus. I’m all focus.

My pre-calc homework lies abandoned on the coffee table while I

recite lines from The Sound of Music out loud to my brother. I have

him reading Liesl, the oldest daughter. Which I find kind of hilarious.

Eric is a senior, all of fifteen months older than me, and he plays that

big-brother card just a little too often. So of course I have to bring him

down a peg or two on occasion.

“Jesus, Casey, I’m not saying this line out loud.”

“Eric! You interrupted the flow of the scene again. Now we have

to start from the beginning.”

He tosses the script on top of my homework. “Hell, no. I’m done.

Get Mom to run lines with you.” Before I know it, all I see of him is


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the back of his black bomber jacket as he stomps off toward the base-

ment and his guitar, leaving me alone. Brothers are more trouble than

they’re worth.

I grab the script and read one line over and over, putting the

emphasis on different words to see which works best.

“Sounds good.” Mom stands in the doorway to the kitchen. “Are

you ready?”

“Definitely.” I think.

“That’s what I like to hear.” Mom grins. “Now maybe you should

focus on that.” She nods toward the textbook on the table.

“I’m too nervous about auditions. I’ll do it in the morning.”

Mom raises her eyebrows. She’s not so much a fan of my theater-

first, school-second priorities. “I expect to see nothing lower than a C

at the end of this semester.”

Some parents let their sixteen-year-old daughters organize their

own lives. Those parents would not be my mother. Unfortunately.

“You need to call your dad tonight, too.” She glances at the clock

on the wall. “You should be able to catch him in about twenty min-

utes.” Mom disappears back into the kitchen.

I briefly consider hiding out in my room but decide I’m too lazy to

make it up the stairs. Phone calls with the father who chose to take a

job far, far away from his family—and then won’t even write a col-

lege recommendation for his daughter despite the fact that he’s a Big

Deal lighting designer—aren’t exactly high on my priority list. So I

pick up the pre-calc book and stare at a problem. The numbers swim

in front of my eyes. I fill in all the o’s and d’s and b’s on the page of


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my textbook instead. I’m in the middle of sketching a series of hearts

in the margin when my phone rings. I leap off the couch and snatch it

from the end table.

“Casey, hey.” It’s Amanda. “I’m bored.” She has to be if she’s call-

ing instead of texting. That’s a whole new level of bored for Amanda.

“Me too,” I say. “You’ve saved me from pre-calc misery.”

“I finished that,” Amanda says. “It isn’t too hard.”

“Some of us aren’t mathematical geniuses, you know.”

“Please. It’s only because I paid attention in class instead of recit-

ing lines in my head,” she teases. “I’ll go over the problems with you

in the morning if you want.”

“Thanks. I’ll bring you a muffin.” Amanda’s been helping me with

homework since fifth grade. And I’ve been paying her in my mom’s

chocolate chip muffins ever since. The fact that I actually passed

geometry freshman year? All thanks to Amanda. The least I can do is

give her amazing muffins in return.

Amanda’s quiet for a second. “So, did you hear Gabby’s definitely

trying out for the play now? The car lot moved their filming back.”

“No,” I say with a groan. Gabby is real competition.

“I thought you should know, but Case? Don’t stress about it.”

Amanda pauses. “It’s almost eight. I gotta go.”

“Right. What are you working on?” I ask. Amanda religiously

practices piano for an hour each night, and for two on the weekends.

She’s as obsessive about her piano as I am about theater. Sometimes

she props the phone beside her on the bench, and I listen as she plays. It

always sounds perfect to me, but she usually has a long list of mistakes


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to break down afterward.

“This great new Chopin piece.” Amanda goes on and on about it,

diverging into Serious Piano Talk. I pay attention, but I can pick up

only about half of it. “And here comes my alarm clock. . . .”

Mrs. Reynolds’s voice echoes through the phone. “A-man-da! Are

you going to practice?”

“See you tomorrow,” I say.

Gabby. I can’t believe it. Why does the local Commercial Queen

have to show up and ruin everything?

Maybe she’ll have a cold and will sniff le her way through the audi-

tion. I hope.


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Chapte Fou Gabby doesn’t have a cold. Instead, she has gorgeous highlighted hair,

big blue eyes, and a voice to rival Kristin Chenoweth’s. I sink into my

plush red theater seat.

“Look,” Amanda says. “Gabby’s good. But who cares? You’re the

one who scored the lead last year.”

“Until I got mono and had to quit.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have been all over Jackson Neal,” she says

with a smirk.

“I wasn’t!” Okay, maybe I was. Once. Or twice. I liked the way

he moved the set pieces around onstage. Trevor and I were in one of

our Between phases then. But anyway, that’s not how I ended up with

mono. And I know Amanda’s just trying to distract me from freaking

out about the auditions.

Amanda turns in her seat and pulls a leg up under her. “Look, you

know you can go up there and sing even better than that. So, forget

about Gabby. Just get on that stage and kick ass like you were meant


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to.”

I laugh. Amanda would make a great football coach, if we weren’t

so afraid of sports that involve balls. Ms. Sharp twists around in her

front-row seat next to Hannah Goldman—who has the unfortunate

role of student director—and glares at us before calling Amanda to

the stage.

Amanda stands up, sheet music for “Think of Me” from The Phan-

tom of the Opera rustling in her just-slightly-shaking hand.

“Break a leg.” I draw an X over my heart and do jazz hands. It’s

super corny, but we’ve been doing it since our first audition in mid-

dle school. And if something works, why change it? Even if you are

juniors and shouldn’t really need ultimate-best-friend hand signals

anymore.

Amanda gives me a stronger smile and then moves toward the

stage.

I lean forward in my seat to watch her. She takes her place at center

stage behind the microphone, clasps her hands in front of her, and

waits for the piano. Amanda’s voice is high and clear, and she hits

every note perfectly. As she moves through the song, she loosens up.

And when she ends, she looks as if she were born on the stage.

Hannah hands Amanda a script, and Ms. Sharp has her read for

four different parts. I try to be fair, which is hard since I’m obviously

biased toward my best friend. But playing If I Were the Director is

one of my favorite audition games. So, if I were the director, I’d cast

Amanda as Liesl or the Baroness. I’m sure she’ll get a part. At least,

she’d better get one. I can’t imagine being in the play without her. The


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cast becomes its own little community during a show, and not having

Amanda there would be . . . awful.

“I was so nervous I nearly threw up onstage,” she says as she slips

back into her seat. “How’d I do?”

“Perfect.” I squeeze her hand. “You’re getting a real role this year,

or I’m going to have words with Ms. Sharp.”

Together, we watch as Kelly sings “Send in the Clowns,” her curls

swaying as she moves her head back and forth looking all sad and

nostalgic.

“Casey Fitzgerald!” Ms. Sharp’s voice booms through the theater.

I wipe my sweaty hands on the Maria-like gray wool skirt Amanda

lent me as Kelly squishes past us to get back to her seat. At the front

of the house, I hand my music to the pianist. Somehow, I walk up the

wooden steps to the stage without tripping over my feet. For someone

who’s clearly meant for the stage, I get embarrassingly nervous for

auditions. I read a technique book once that said nerves keep the actor

humble. I’ll go with that, I suppose.

When I reach the microphone, I focus on the fire exit sign, way

over everyone’s heads, but not before catching Amanda’s reassuring

nod from the audience, Harrison’s thumbs-up, and Trevor’s smirk—

whatever that means. I take a deep breath and inhale the dusty wood

and fabric scent of the stage. It smells like home, years spent in the-

aters all over the place with my dad before he left. And like my future.

I can do this. I want to do this. I want—no, need —to be Maria. I

am Maria. The piano starts. I take another deep breath.

“The hills are alive . . .” I sing. I picked this song from The Sound


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of Music on purpose. I ran it all summer in my voice lessons. I can do

this piece in my sleep. My voice comes out strong and confident as I

serenade the f ire exit sign.

“To laugh like a brook when it trips and falls . . .” I move around

the stage with grace and poise. This is going even better than I thought

it would. Amanda was right. I shouldn’t have doubted myself.

I’m almost finished with the song. A few more lines and I’m home

free. That part is so mine I can almost taste it. “My heart will be

bless—” CRACK .

I cough. Oh my God. That did not just happen.

“. . . With the sound of music . . .” I force myself to finish the song.

Then I smile. What problem? There’s no problem at all. My voice

didn’t crack in the middle of the most important part of the whole

freaking song. I silently dare Ms. Sharp to say something. She doesn’t.

Instead, she hands me a copy of the script before Hannah even has a

chance to get up, and asks me to turn to page forty-seven.

I force the song disaster out of my head. Time to concentrate on

reading. I don’t even have to look at the script as I rattle off lines for

three different parts.

“Thank you, Casey.” Ms. Sharp smiles at me.

I numbly pass the script back to her and climb down from the

stage. Gabby didn’t get “thank you” after she read. Gabby got “excel-

lent,” and Amanda got “great work.”

It takes all my willpower not to go flying out the door and running

all the way home in the September heat, wool skirt or not. Instead, I

plunk down in a seat next to my friends.


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“You read great,” Kelly says.

I can’t even look at her. She’s just being nice.

“Case, it wasn’t that bad,” Amanda says. “The song sounded per-

fect up until your voice cracked. I’m sure Ms. Sharp knows that was

a one-time thing. I’ve never heard you do that before. Plus, Kelly’s

right. You read really well. Much better than Gabby.”

“Are you serious? It was awful!” I bite my lip to keep from crying.

No way am I crying here. Not when Trevor’s sitting just two rows

ahead with Gabby. And—ugh—why do I even care what he thinks?

“You’ll get the part,” Harrison says, leaning over Amanda.

“And Harrison will be the Captain, and it’ll be so romantic. Just

think of that kiss!” Amanda adds.

I almost choke on my tongue. Harrison’s face goes bright red. I’ve

had my suspicions about Harrison for a while now. That boy is so far

in the closet, he’s turning into last year’s Christmas sweater.

“See?” Amanda says. “It’s not that bad. It could be much worse!”

Harrison mumbles something, but I’ve already turned back to

watch the rest of the auditions. When Harrison’s called, he does fine,

but nowhere near the level of Trevor, who follows him.

I fight it, but I think I sigh a little when Trevor finishes. Amanda

gives me a look.

“Just because we’re not together doesn’t mean I can’t objectively

acknowledge his talent.”

“Uh-huh,” Amanda says, as if she doesn’t believe me.

Trevor pushes his hair out of his face as Ms. Sharp passes him a

copy of the script. He reads for the lead first. After the last line where


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he begs Maria to stay, he looks up with pleading in his deep brown

eyes.

I remind myself that he’s been “talking” to Gabby—and probably

more—and if we were together, that’s exactly what we’d be fighting

about right now. “So . . . he was perfect,” I say in the most measured

tone possible.

“I don’t know,” Amanda says. “I think Harrison did just as well.

And Trevor’s so full of himself.” She glances at me. “Sorry, Case, but

you know that’s true.”

There’s a fine line between self-centeredness and confidence—

and I’m never sure exactly where that line is. “Maybe it is, but he’s still

the best singer in this school. Harrison is really good, but he doesn’t

scream Captain von Trapp.”

“Hey!” Harrison complains. “Your friend Harrison. I’m sitting

right here. You know, the guy who let you copy his chem homework

all last year? The one you spilled Mountain Dew on at the zoo in fifth

grade and then all the goats kept trying to lick me?”

“Sorry, Harrison,” I say.

“Trevor’s hot” is all Kelly has to say. “Am I allowed to say that? ”

she asks me.

I shrug.

Harrison looks like he’s been hit in the face. “And I’m not?”

“Well . . .” Kelly says.

Harrison slumps back into his seat. “I need to find some new

friends. Maybe I should go sit with the Grimaldi twins. At least

Johnny and Steve-o might appreciate me.”


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“We love you, Gunther Engelbert,” I say in my best Grimaldi-

twin Jersey accent. “Besides, you’re too short and skinny to hang out

with Johnny and Steve-o.” Also, after having been forced to spend

time with them by virtue of being with Trevor, I’m pretty sure Steve-

o’s after-school “job” is both illegal and very lucrative. And that’s not

exactly Harrison’s scene. I don’t even know why they’re in the theater

right now—it’s not like they’d be caught dead trying out for the musi-

cal. But there they are, stretched out like two oily shadows next to

Trevor and Gabby.

“I really need some new friends,” Harrison grumbles.

“Is that the last person?” Amanda asks as a tiny freshman steps

down from the stage.

A tall guy with messy-spiky dark hair and a Pink Floyd T-shirt

strides past us down the aisle and approaches Ms. Sharp.

“Maybe not,” I say. “Who is that? He looks familiar.”

The guy says something to Ms. Sharp, she says something back,

and he bounds up the stairs to the stage.

“Oh, wait! That’s Silent Hollywood Guy!” Kelly says, sitting up

straighter.

“Who?” Amanda asks.

“Hey—I ran into him in the hall yesterday.” I remember him now.

The one who wouldn’t say anything to me. “He is silent.”

“Yeah, everyone says he’s from California, but I’ve never heard

him talk,” Kelly says. “I think he moved here over the summer.”

Who in their right mind would move from California to Podunk

Holland, Indiana?


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“What’s his real name?” Amanda asks.

“No idea,” Kelly says.

Silent Hollywood Guy sings “One Song Glory” from Rent . I guess

he’s not so silent after all. Ms. Sharp has him read for several parts,

which he does with a loud, ringing voice.

“I’m in love with him now,” Kelly says. “He’s so much cuter when

he talks. Do you think he has a girlfriend? Do you think he’s in a

band? He looks like he should be in a band. Do you think he’ll give

Trevor a run for the lead?”

Harrison shakes his head and mutters something about the

Grimaldi twins. Silent Hollywood Guy finishes and steps down from

the stage. His beat-up tennis shoes make a muffled swishing sound as

he shuffles down the carpeted aisle to his seat.

“Thank you for coming,” Hannah starts, but as usual, she’s inter-

rupted by Ms. Sharp. Why we even have a student director is beyond

me.

“That’s it, people!” Ms. Sharp says. “Check the bulletin board

outside the theater tomorrow. Casting should be posted by noon.

Remember! There are no small parts, only small players.”

I roll my eyes. Easy for her to say. Her entire life isn’t riding

on this one play. No way will one of Ms. Sharp’s former Broadway

director friends recommend someone who lands a pea-sized role. Or

worse—chorus.

We stand up to leave. Silent Hollywood Guy brushes past without

seeing any of us. Trevor follows, the Grimaldis trailing after him. I try

to look like I’m super busy with . . . picking lint off my top.


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“Hey, Case,” he says in that melting-chocolate voice. “Nice job.”

I pry off a really stuck ball of fuzz and finally look up at him.

“Thanks. You too. I’m sure you’ll get the lead.” It’s stating the obvi-

ous, and I say it in as bland a voice as I can muster.

Trevor’s giving me a look like I just handed him the part along

with a million dollars and the key to Broadway and a vocal role in the

next huge Disney animated film. “I hope so.”

False modesty. He knows he’s getting the lead. I’d usually feel the

same way about myself, but it takes everything I have to force a smile

right now.

“See you in rehearsals,” Trevor says, grazing his fingers across

my arm as he follows the Grimaldis out of the theater. My traitor skin

breaks out in goose bumps.

“I hope I see Silent Hollywood Guy in rehearsals,” Kelly says.

“And I hope he’s un-silent.”

“Ooh, me too,” Amanda agrees.

As we walk up the aisle, Gabby flies past us, somehow managing

to knock my purse off my shoulder. I reach down for it, and when I

look up again, she’s shoulder to shoulder with Trevor up ahead.

Not my problem to deal with anymore. And that makes me smile

for real.


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Chapte FivI’ve spent the entire lunch period pushing mixed veggies back and

forth across my plate.

Just fifteen minutes until Ms. Sharp posts the cast list.

Harrison is stirring his soup but not eating it. Across from me, our

one non-theater friend, Chris, chomps down on a stomach-turning

pile of six peanut butter sandwiches and an entire bag of Cheetos.

Amanda and Kelly are chatting away, like they aren’t even the tiniest

bit concerned about what parts they’ll get.

I dump my uneaten lunch into the trash and balance my tray on the

towering stack of dirty ones. I glance around the cafeteria. Groups of

people talk and eat, like it’s any other day of the week.

That’s it. I can’t hang around the cafeteria any longer. I go back to

the table and grab my backpack. Harrison jumps up and follows me.

Without talking, we walk across the lobby and around the cor-

ner to the hallway that runs next to the theater. The bulletin board

holds signs advertising yesterday’s auditions and other artsy projects.


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Apparently the Objets d’Art Club is hosting a Throw-In, whatever

the hell that is, and the ballet company is planning a production of Cin-

derella. I dump my backpack on the floor and sit against the opposite

wall. The painted cement feels cool against my back. Harrison slides

down next to me. The hallway is deserted except for us. Sounds echo

from the cafeteria, where everyone is happy and unconcerned about

whether my future works out as planned.

Harrison’s stomach growls. We both stare at the bulletin board

as if the cast list will magically appear. I’ve done this so many times

now—waiting in this hallway, at this very spot, my entire body a

mess of nerves and excitement and dread. Freshman year, I parked

here with Amanda and Harrison, having no idea if any of us even got

into the cast, much less a speaking role. Amanda and I played endless

rounds of MASH to distract each other while Harrison drilled holes

into the bulletin board with his eyes.

At one point, I told Amanda that I didn’t know what I’d do if I

didn’t get cast, and she looked me right in the eyes and said, “Casey

Fitzgerald. If you don’t get into this play, we will go audition for every

show within an hour of here until you do get cast.” And when I asked

her how we’d get to all these imaginary auditions, she told me that

she’d steal her mom’s car and drive me. Which cracked both of us

up because 1) Amanda is incapable of stealing anything, 2) the only

thing she’d ever driven at that point was her uncle’s John Deere, and

3) Mrs. Reynolds would have needed hospitalization after the connip-

tion fit she’d have thrown when she found out. Turns out, Amanda

didn’t have to steal the car, because I got cast as Marian the librarian.


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Of course, getting Marian then (and snagging Tracy Turnblad in

Hairspray last year, even though I had to drop out) made this whole

waiting thing a lot better.

At seven minutes until twelve, a girl skips toward us like she’s Dor-

othy in The Wizard of Oz or something.

“Hi!” she says with a chirping voice. “Are you waiting for the cast

list too?! I hope I get in! I so want to be Maria, but I’ll be happy with

anything! I’d even love to be in the chorus! Oh, by the way, my name

is Danielle. I’m a freshman. What are your names?!”

I’ve never seen this girl in my life. She must’ve auditioned early

yesterday, while I was mentally rehearsing my song. Harrison stares

blankly at her. She blinks a couple of times and smiles at him. Then

she looks at me.

My heart melts a little at her enthusiasm about the whole thing.

I was exactly like her two years ago. Although less peppy. A lot less

peppy.

“I’m Casey.” Even though I get where she’s coming from, I kind

of hope that will make her stop talking. My stomach feels like it did on

the roller coaster at Holiday World that I dragged Amanda onto over

the summer—the one we rode after I brought the park down with my

rendition of “On My Own” while standing in line. Amanda and I had

been talking to these really cute guys from Evansville, and they both

gave us their numbers afterward. I think Amanda texted with one of

them for a while, but I never did, even though I’d just broken things

off with Trevor.

“Casey! I love that name! Were you in the play last year?! I was


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in all of the plays in middle school! I have a perfect casting record!

That’s why I really want to be in this show! Even if it is just the cho-

rus!” Her head bounces with every syllable. She has curly light brown

hair pulled back in a cheerleader-style high ponytail. It bounces, too.

Every time she opens her mouth, the light from the ceiling gleams off

her silver braces.

Harrison continues to look through her.

“Casey?! Were you in the play last year?!” Her ponytail bobs

again.

“No. I got the lead and had to drop out because I got sick.” I really

don’t want to think about that right now. In fact, I’m afraid I’m going

to get sick again. My stomach doesn’t feel so good. I really, really wish

she’d stop talking. I need all my concentration to focus on keeping my

nerves in check.

“Oh! That’s awful! I hate being sick! I’m glad you’re okay this

year!”

“There you are,” Amanda says, as she, Kelly, and Chris walk up.

“You guys disappeared so fast.”

“I couldn’t sit there any longer,” I say.

“You’ve got this in the bag, Case.” Amanda peers into Harrison’s

face. “But he doesn’t look so good.”

He stares at her the same way he did Danielle.

Danielle keeps on talking. “Hi! Did you guys try out too?! I did!”

“Um, yes,” Kelly says warily.

Danielle the Perk Monster steps toward her like a cat backing a

mouse into the corner. Kelly bumps up against the wall, but Danielle


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keeps talking at her. I’m beginning to think her excited chattiness is

covering up her own nerves.

“It’ll be over soon,” Amanda says, joining Harrison and me on

the floor. “Then we’ll know, and we won’t have to worry about it

anymore.”

“You don’t even look worried.” I mess with the zipper on my

purse. Open. Close. Open. Close. It’s almost hypnotic.

“I am. I just don’t show it. Besides, I don’t think I have as much

riding on this as you and Harrison.” That’s true. Amanda’s got plans

for studying classical piano at NYU. No important-theater-people

recommendations needed for that. Just big-deal-pianist recommenda-

tions, which she already has. “But I really want to be in the play. It’s

always such a blast. And no party beats a cast party, right? Look, you

don’t have any reason to be worried. And hey, on the bright side, if

you don’t get in, you’ll finally have enough time to take your driving

test.”

I smile. Just a tiny bit. Only because Amanda bugs me pretty much

every day to get my license already so she won’t have to drive me

everywhere like she’s been doing for months. It’s not my fault that her

birthday is six months earlier than mine. And that parallel parking

freaks me out. And that I was crazy busy memorizing an entire play

this summer. And that I kind of like riding to school with her in the

mornings. It sure beats getting a ride with my brother.

Amanda checks her phone. “Only two minutes left. She should be

here soon. Um . . . Harrison?”

I give the zipper one final tug before I look up at Harrison. He’s


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sitting with his head between his knees.

“Dude, are you going to puke?” Chris squats in front of Harrison.

“Go away.” Harrison’s voice is muff led.

“Yeah, just don’t puke, okay? I have a weak stomach.”

Amanda laughs. I manage another faint smile as Gabby wafts into

the crowd. She looks more like she’s arrived to accept a crown and

scepter than to check a casting list. Trevor follows with the Grimaldis.

I swear I can smell Johnny Grimaldi’s hair gel from clear over here,

and it’s not helping my stomach. Or maybe it’s the way that Trevor is

talking to Gabby. I squeeze my eyes shut. Nothing matters right now

except the cast list.

“Here she comes!” The Perk Monster jumps up and down. A

crowd of students follows Ms. Sharp down the hallway. She’s like

the Pied Piper of the theater program. Amanda and I stand, and then

reach down to pull Harrison up. He gets to his feet, swaying slightly.

Ms. Sharp fights her way through the crowd. “Excuse me. Ex-cuse

me!” Brushing students aside with her elbows, she reaches the bulle-

tin board. “First rehearsal, which is a read-through only, is tomorrow

after school.” With that, she turns around, tacks the cast list to the

board right smack over the Throw-In notice, and pushes her way out.

Everyone swarms the bulletin board.

Gabby’s right in the front. She checks the list, and when she turns

around, she’s not smiling. My heart does a leap. That’s good.

“Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease. I will never ever in my entire life

ask for anything else.” I say something that resembles a prayer under

my breath as we move toward the board. I spot Trevor’s head near the


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front of the crowd. He reaches the bulletin board, reads it, and breaks

into a smile. Johnny Grimaldi slaps him on the back.

“Oh no,” Harrison mumbles.

We continue to push our way forward. I grab Amanda’s hand as

we get closer. I squint, but I still can’t see the names. Finally, after

what seems like hours, we get to the board. Amanda puts her finger

up to the list.

“Oh wow,” she says.

I look over her shoulder and read:

Holland Performing and Visual Arts High School’s Production of

The Sound of Music

CAST

Maria: Amanda Reynolds

Wait, what?


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Chapte SiThis is not happening. I blink hard and look at the list again. My name

is not next to “Maria.” Amanda is Maria. Then where in the world am

I? My eyes fly down the list:

Captain von Trapp: Trevor Blakeman

Baroness Schraeder: Gabby Butler

Max: Oliver West

Liesl: Kelly Hutchinson

Rolf: Harrison Kaelin

Mother Abbess: Casey Fitzgerald

No. Wait a minute. No. Mother Abbess? Mother freaking Abbess?

I’m cast as a nun. Is Ms. Sharp insane? I’m not Mother Abbess, I’m

Maria!

“Case, I didn’t expect . . .” Amanda says. She doesn’t finish the

thought. I feel her looking at me, but I can’t drag my eyes away from


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the cast list.

Amanda. My best friend. She of the preppy clothes and long blond

hair and light soprano voice and insane piano talent. Not me. Amanda.

I look back at the cast list. I can’t believe it. I completely blew my

chance at getting into NYCPA. Sure, there’s a musical next year, but

that’s way too late if I want to be considered for a full scholarship.

Which I need , because the only thing my parents can afford is commu-

nity college—which probably doesn’t even have a theater program.

And NYCPA is the only theater school that, if I wowed them at an

audition, would offer me a full ride even with my less-than-stellar

grades. What was Ms. Sharp thinking? I mean, Amanda’s a really

good actor, and she had a perfect audition, but there’s no way she can

carry an entire show in the lead role. Not like I can.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I can’t think that way about my best friend.

I shouldn’t. But this role was everything to me. How can I possibly

be happy for her when everything I’ve worked so hard for is just . . .

gone?

Forget New York. Forget NYCPA. Forget Broadway. I’ll have to

give up my dream of acting and become . . . what?

I have no idea.

“Hey!” I say as someone pushes me aside.

The rude person is Silent Hollywood Guy. He mumbles something

and runs his finger down the cast list. I peek over the shoulder of his

ratty Black Sabbath T-shirt. His finger is resting just below the name

Oliver West.

“Is that you?” I ask.


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He nods.

“Congratulations.”

He just looks at me.

“Thank you, Casey. That’s really nice of you,” I answer myself

for him since he’s obviously not going to say anything. I turn back to

the cast list. Maybe this whole thing isn’t even real. Maybe I’m in the

worst nightmare ever. Maybe I choked on my mixed veggies at lunch

and I’m dead and this is hell, because I was too confident and I don’t

like talking to my dad and—

“Did you make it?” he says in a clear voice.

I’m so surprised, I take a step backward. “Oh, uh, yeah.”

He gestures at the list.

“Um, I’m Mother Abbess, I guess.”

He smiles and walks off. Weirdest guy ever. Cute, but weird.

Out of my stupor, I go back to my friends. Amanda, Chris, and

Kelly are fanning Harrison’s face, and he’s sitting on the floor.

“Really, I’m fine. You can leave me alone now.” His cheeks are

bright red, and he keeps knocking their hands away.

“Are you sure?” Amanda leans over him like she’s his mother.

“I’m sure.”

“Dude, you’re as overdramatic as Casey,” Chris says. “No offense,

Case.”

Am I overdramatic? Is that why I lost the role? The thought makes

me want to join Harrison on the floor.

Amanda takes one last look at Harrison before turning to me. “Are

you okay? I never in a million years guessed this would happen. You


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had that role. I thought.”

I give her a weak smile. “Congratulations” somehow comes out

of my mouth.

“Thanks,” she says in a pained voice. “I never wanted to take this

away from you.”

I nod. Somehow that didn’t matter to Ms. Sharp.

“Let’s talk after school, okay? I have to get to Spanish.” She

squeezes my arm before following Kelly down the hall, toward the

language arts wing on the far side of the school. She keeps looking

back over her shoulder at me, like she wants to make sure I don’t pass

out or spontaneously combust.

“This sucks,” Harrison says.

“Tell me about it.” I pick up my backpack and my purse.

“What’s wrong? You both got in,” Chris says.

We glare at him.

“Actors,” he says with a shrug and walks off down the hallway.

“I practiced until my throat was raw, and what did I get? A mea-

sly little lover-boy part. What the hell?” Harrison makes a gagging

sound.

“I have every line memorized, and I get Mother Abbess. What

about me says Mother Abbess?” I like having someone to complain

with. It’s cathartic, and I feel oddly close to Harrison all of a sudden.

“You’re no Mother Abbess. You scream Maria.”

“And nothing about you says whiny Rolf. You should have been

cast as the Captain.”

He squints at me through his glasses. “Yesterday you were all for


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Trevor.”

I wave my hand at him. “That’s just because we have history.

You’re a much better actor.”

“You know what?” Harrison throws his backpack over his shoul-

der and stands up straighter. “We should go register a complaint. Talk

to Ms. Sharp and ask her why she did the casting the way she did.

Remind her that we need this show to get into college.”

I perk up a little. “Yeah. We have a right to know. Hey, and maybe

we can convince her otherwise. She’s always liked us.”

“It’s worth a try.”

“No, I can’t change the casting,” Ms. Sharp says from behind her clut-

tered desk. “You were assigned to the parts you’re best suited for.”

“I’m best suited to be a nun?”

“Yes.” She’s serious. How in the world can she be serious? Noth-

ing about Casey Fitzgerald says nun. Nothing .

“But you gave me the lead last year,” I remind her.

“That doesn’t mean you’ll automatically be cast in the lead for the

rest of your life. This is good practice for the real theater world. You

won’t start at the top out there.” She shuffles through stacks of papers,

looking for something. Copies of last year’s script fall to the floor,

landing on a pile of old costumes.

I pick up the scripts and balance them on some dusty books at the

corner of the desk. “Ms. Sharp, there might not even be an ‘out there’

for us. We’ll never get college auditions with these roles.” I know for

a fact that Ms. Sharp went to NYCPA. If this doesn’t convince her,


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nothing will.

“Casey, you will if you get recommendations. Don’t be so dra-

matic. Save it for the play. Remember, there are no small parts—”

“Only small players,” I say in a monotone. Obviously she hasn’t

put two and two together to figure out that we can’t even get a second

recommendation without a decent part in this show.

“Ms. Sharp—” Harrison begins.

“Mr. Kaelin. Enough. I’ll see you both in class.” She gives up her

search and shows us the door.

“Well, that was pointless,” Harrison says as we walk down the

hallway.

“I can’t believe she wouldn’t listen to us.” I couldn’t walk any

slower than I am right now. I’m really not in the mood to go to class.

I want to go home and scream. Or cry into my pillow. I briefly con-

sider skipping the rest of the day, but it’s not like I can drive myself

anywhere.

When we walk into Expressions of Art (aka Visual Art for People

in the Performing Arts), everyone is decoupaging like crazy. We drop

our bags near the back table, and get a lecture and tardy slips from Ms.

Grayson.

I paste a picture of an ear cut from a magazine onto a baby food

jar. What on earth I’m going to do with a decoupaged baby food jar,

I don’t know. All I know is that it’s like an enormous black cloud

has blocked out the sun, and I hate everything. Maybe I can smash

the jar against the side of the school. I bet Harrison would join me.

That would qualify as an Expression of Art, in my opinion. Although


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knowing this school, they’d rope it off and call the shattered glass on

the blacktop an “installation.”

My life as I’d planned it is over. I’m pissed at Ms. Sharp. And

maybe a little at Amanda too. Part of me wants to know where she

gets off, stealing my part, although the more rational side of my brain

knows she had no control over the casting. But now she’ll be going to

New York without me or Harrison. She’s going to wind up touring

the concert halls of Europe, and I’m going to be stuck right here in

Boring, Indiana. Maybe I’ll move to Kansas where no one knows me.

I can pour coffee in a roadside diner all day and call people “Hon” and

“Sugar.” I’ll wear a mustard-colored dress and have a steamy affair

with a truck driver named Bo.

I push the jar aside and drop my forehead to the table.

Next to me, Harrison smashes clippings of spiders and pissed-off-

looking metalheads onto his baby food jar. Glue drips down the sides

and pools onto the table.

At least I have someone to be miserable with.

If only Amanda hadn’t auditioned. Maybe she’ll get mono or

something. Then I could take over the role. Being in the play with

Amanda means a lot, but not as much as me snagging an audition at

NYCPA. I mean, it’s nostalgia versus my whole entire future. And

besides, there’ll be another musical next fall and we can do that one

together for fun. Or maybe—

Amanda would quit the play if I asked her to.


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Chapte SeveAmanda leans against the wall next to me and smooths her unwrin-

kled pink skirt as if she can iron out the huge problem between us.

I dump books into my locker. “Hey.”

“Are you mad?”

Does she really need to ask? I look at her. She has this puppy dog

don’t-hate-me look on her face. I sigh. There’s no reason for me to be

so cold to her. “Not at you. I know it’s not your fault.”

“Case, I know how badly you wanted that role. It’s all you’ve

talked about since the show was announced. I had no idea this would

happen. I really didn’t think I’d get a big part. I’d have been happy as

one of the kids or something.” She pulls the pre-calc book from my

locker and adds it to my backpack. “Quiz tomorrow,” she reminds me.

“Thanks. Amanda . . .” Hmm. This is a little harder to ask than I

thought it would be. I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. It just sounds

so selfish. I can’t do it. I can’t ask Amanda to do something this big.

This is the girl who didn’t mind when her seventh-grade crush


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danced with me at the school mixer. Amanda—the friend I bought a

hundred-dollar ticket with to see some famous pianist I’d never even

heard of so she wouldn’t have to go alone. But neither of those things

is like this.

“At first I thought I would quit,” she finally says. “Thinking that

you could take my spot.”

I can hardly breathe.

“But then I realized that even if I did, we don’t know for sure that

Ms. Sharp would give you the part. She might pick Gabby, or even

that annoying Danielle girl. Can you imagine her as Maria?”

I smile and shudder at the same time at the thought of Danielle the

Perk Monster in my role. I hate it, but Amanda’s got a point. Her quit-

ting wouldn’t automatically make me Maria.

“And then I’d be out of the show, and you’d still be stuck as Mother

Abbess. But maybe you can talk to Ms. Sharp yourself?”

“Already tried that. I found out that I’m ‘best suited’ to be a nun.”

I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my voice.

“I’m sorry, Case. Well, at least this way, we can still be in it

together.” She gives me a hopeful little smile.

“You’re right,” I say, even though it kills me to say it. “I’m just

mad.” And more than a little depressed. Smashing that baby food jar is

sounding better and better. Especially if I smash it against Ms. Sharp’s

door. Of course, then I’d be giving up my one for-sure audition

recommendation. Although I don’t know what good one recommen-

dation is when I can’t get a second.

I scuff the toe of my super-cute red Mary Jane against the floor. “I


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needed that part.”

“I know,” she says quietly.

As much as Amanda thinks she understands, she can’t. And

how could she? She’s not on the verge of losing her biggest—and

only—dream.

“They’d be crazy not to give you a shot. I’m sorry, Case. I’d give

up this role in a second if I thought it would do you any good.”

She almost looks like she’s going to cry, and I know she’s being

honest. I’ve barely even told her congratulations. She earned the role,

and I’m not being fair to her at all. This play is turning me into a front-

runner for worst friend in the world. From somewhere way down

deep, buried under all the hurt and fear, I find the right words. “Your

audition was great, and you are going to be a fabulous Maria.” I cross

my heart and give her unjazzy jazz hands.

“Really? Because truthfully, I’m a little nervous about it.”

“You shouldn’t be. You’re amazing,” I say. And she is amazing. If

this were any other situation, I’d be absolutely thrilled for her.

“It means a lot to hear you say that.” She leaps forward and gives

me a bear hug. “Come on, I’ll drive you home. Or to the wonder-

ful Bureau of Motor Vehicles, so that, you know, you can get your

license.” She finally lets me go and smiles.

“Not today,” I say in the happiest voice possible. And it sounds

believable, because I can, after all, act. Or at least, I think I can,

although my entire future has shriveled up into a supporting role. And

I’m alone to boot. I can’t even make myself feel better by hooking up

with Trevor.


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The jealousy is like a slime creeping up from deep inside. Amanda

has everything: an undeniable musical talent, my role in the musical, a

future far away from here, hair that’s never heard the word frizz, a dad

who’s actually around, and a driver’s license. And I have . . . nothing.

We’re all sitting in a circle on the stage to do the read-through the next

afternoon. Trevor’s sprawled between peppy Danielle and me. Not by

my choice— he sat next to me. I’m trying really hard to ignore him,

and Gabby is shooting me pointed looks from across the circle. I’m

sure he’s thinking that since the auditions are over, I’ll come crawling

right back to him. I’m not. I have more pride than that, even if nothing

else has gone the way I planned.

Since I have hardly any lines in this show at all, I briefly consid-

ered not even showing up today. It’s not like anyone would notice

a missing nun. But 1) that’s totally unprofessional, and 2) Amanda

looked genuinely freaked the hell out when she saw exactly how many

lines Maria has. She needed a friend sitting next to her, sending her

vibes of support and encouragement, which I’ve mustered up as best

as I can. But it doesn’t take long for my mind to start drifting, first to

thoughts of me onstage as Maria, and then—annoyingly—to imag-

ining myself on a beach with Trevor, complete with palm trees and

crystal blue waves.

I tune in during the scene with Liesl and Rolf, aka Kelly and Har-

rison, mad at myself for indulging in any Trevor-related fantasies.

Harrison’s frowning. I wonder if he’s contemplated smashing baby

food jars against Ms. Sharp’s door. Kelly is happy and smiling, until


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she reads the stage direction They kiss.

“Oh,” she says.

“Kelly, that’s not part of the script.” Ms. Sharp’s eyes narrow as she

looks at Kelly. “And I expect my actors to be professional.”

“Sorry,” Kelly says.

Harrison’s face has a green tinge. You’d think he’d be prepared for

this. I mean, the world is full of gay actors who have to play straight.

Not a big deal. Of course, I can’t tell him that until he bothers to let

me in on his big secret.

I begin counting the pages until I come back into the play. One,

two . . . twenty-four . . . thirty . . .

Silence. I look up to see what’s going on.

“Oliver, you’ll need to speak up. We can’t hear you.” Ms. Sharp

cups a hand behind her ear.

Then Silent Hollywood Guy delivers the line perfectly. What’s up

with that? And is he really from Hollywood? Since I need something

to keep me from dying of boredom or wasting away from theater-

induced depression, I decide he’s someone super famous, undercover

to research a role as your average drama student at a not-so-average

Midwestern high school. I study his face, trying to figure out whether

he looks like a movie star. He catches me staring and turns as pink as

Kelly’s shirt.

When Hannah calls the read-through finished—the only thing

she’s managed to say during the whole two hours—Amanda and I

walk to the lobby together.

“Maria has a lot of lines,” Amanda says again, in a way that clearly


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indicates she’s afraid she can’t remember them all.

“That’s because it’s the lead.” I bite my lip to keep the jealousy

from rolling out. I’m supposed to be happy for her. “Sorry. You’re

right. If you want, I can read them with you sometime.” Which will

be like rubbing salt into the wound, but she needs help. She refused to

let me fail Algebra II last year, and I refuse to let her be a flop onstage,

even if it kills me.

“Really?” Amanda’s face lights up. “What about Sunday after-

noon, after rehearsal?”

“Sure,” I say, kind of flat. “I think Eric’s waiting. See you then.”

I don’t even give her the chance to offer me a ride home. Instead, I

race to the parking lot—where Trevor’s leaning against Eric’s sorry

excuse for a car.

I stop in my tracks.

“Thought you might show up here,” he says. “Want a ride?”

My heart thumps. The easiest answer is yes. But I remember our

rides home. They were about 10 percent driving and 90 percent kiss-

ing at stop signs.

“No,” I finally say. “I’ll wait for Eric.”

He pushes himself away from the car and reaches for my hand. I’m

just about to yank it away when he says, “For what it’s worth, you

should’ve gotten that role.”

He should not affect me at all, but those words are exactly what I

need to hear. Pull it together, Casey. “You know we’re not together

anymore, right?”

“I know.” And with that, he takes a step forward, and before I can


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even wrap my head around it, his mouth is on mine.

I promptly forget why I ended things with him. I must’ve been

crazy. I must’ve completely forgotten how warm his lips are and how

solid and comforting he feels when he’s this close to me.

When he stops, I open my eyes, completely dizzy and a little unsure

of what just happened.

He pushes my hair back and says, “I knew it was just about time.”

“Time?” My brain is taking its own sweet time at working again.

“It’s been about three months.” He’s still running a hand through

my hair as he studies my face.

Three months. Which means it’s time for us to get back together.

Except . . .

I shake my head. “That was for good, Trevor. I’m sorry. . . . I . . .”

I back away and push my own hair back behind my ears. “I have to

concentrate. Figure out what I’m doing, okay?”

“Figure out what?” he asks.

“I don’t know. My life? I just got theater-dumped. I . . . I need

more time.” This is weird. I’m feeling really out of control here, and I

don’t like it. “Isn’t Gabby waiting for you?”

Trevor shoves his hands into his pockets. He smiles, which means

he isn’t taking the bait. For like the first time ever. “Right. You sure

you don’t want a ride?”

I nod. “Thanks.”

He disappears through the mostly empty parking lot toward his

own car.

I open Eric’s unlocked door and throw myself in. I curl up in the


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front seat while I wait for him to finish rehearsing with his band. And

to drive Trevor out of my head, I entertain guilty daydreams of an

opening night when both Amanda and her understudy get sick, and

I’m the only possible replacement for Maria.

I spend Saturday at home, practicing the whole two lines I have in the

play. An exaggeration, but exaggeration is pretty much my bread and

butter. I catch Eric dozing off in the family room and make him read

the part of Maria and the other nuns I have scenes with. It’s so hilari-

ous that I threaten to get him a habit and find him a role in the chorus.

“A habit ! You’re going to have to wear a habit onstage.” Eric bursts

out laughing. “Now that’s something I can’t wait to see. Can I borrow

it to wear to Charlie’s Halloween party?”

I smack at him, but my hand just barely brushes his shaggy brown

hair. He ducks and runs laughing from the family room.

Oh. My. God. He’s right. I’m going to have the most hideous cos-

tume of all time. A nun costume is not going to exactly enhance my

assets. I might as well be dressed as a rock. For a moment, I wonder if

Trevor will notice, but then I throw my script aside. Even doing pre-

calc homework sounds like more fun right now. And it will make me

stop thinking about Trevor.

“But they’re children!” Amanda exclaims. She flings her hair over her

shoulder for even more emphasis.

I redo the line in my head the way it should be. I’m scoring massive

bonus points in the BFF department right now. I remind myself that


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I’m happy for her and I’m being a good friend, so . . . I suppose it could

be worse. I could be listening to Danielle or Gabby.

We’re lounging on the white-carpeted floor of her clean-freak

bedroom. I’m pretty sure she vacuums it every single day. If he

wasn’t lying on the bed, you’d never know she has a huge, hairy

sheepdog named Toby. I’ve never seen a stray dog hair on Amanda’s

floor—ever.

I recite the next line without consulting the script, then I sneak

a look at my phone for the time. Maybe I can distract Amanda from

reading lines. I could offer to listen to her new piano piece, but she’s

probably already gotten her day’s practice in. And I bet she’s finished

every little bit of homework.

Maybe I can pretend to faint. Or have a heart attack. Or go into

a diabetic coma. I wonder what the symptoms of Ebola are? I should

add hypochondriac to my weekly method acting.

But why bother doing that when my acting career is obviously

over?

“Casey? Hello.” Amanda slaps my knee with her script.

“Sorry. Where are we?”

“I say—” Her phone beeps. She fumbles under Toby, finds it, and

reads the text.

“Who is it?” I ask her.

She frowns. “Trevor.”


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Chapte Eigh“Trevor? What’s he want?” I ask Amanda.

Better question: Why is Trevor texting Amanda?

“I don’t know. . . .” Amanda taps away at her phone.

I drum my fingers on the carpet. I told her all about what happened

in the parking lot on Friday. She asked me what I really wanted, and

I repeated that I wasn’t getting back with him after I reminded myself

about a hundred times of how bad we are together. But after a while,

the words lose their meaning.

“He wants to run lines,” Amanda says.

“With you?”

“Of course with me. We have a lot of scenes together.” She pauses.

“What do you think?”

I shrug, like it’s no big deal that my ex-whatever-he-is wants to

hang out with my best friend.

“If it weirds you out, I’ll tell him we’re busy.” Amanda’s fingers

hover over her phone, waiting for me to say something.


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“No.” I sigh and call up all my professional bravery. It’s just lines.

They’re going to have to practice, and I’ll have to get over it. And not

think about how he felt like the only normal thing in my life on Friday.

“It’s fine. I don’t mind. Invite him over.”

“Right now? Are you sure?”

I nod and lie back on the carpet, arms over my face, while Amanda

texts Trevor.

“He’ll be here in an hour. It’s okay if you want to leave,” she says.

“It’s all right. I’ll stay. I would’ve had to deal with him if I’d got-

ten the role anyway.” I move my arms up over my head so I can see

Amanda, who’s looking super concerned. I sit up. “Really, it’s fine. I’ll

jump in during my parts. And read the other parts for you guys, too.”

“Okay.” Amanda bites her lip. “But if you suddenly remember that

you have to wash your hair while he’s trying to flirt with you again, I

promise I won’t mind.”

I flip through the pages of my script and don’t meet her eyes. I

feel like she’s telling me not to let him flirt with me, which is weird.

“Come on, let’s work some more before he gets here. You need to

practice sounding like you’re in love back here in Scene—”

Amanda thwacks me in the arm with her script.

“What?” I rub my arm and bite back a smile. “Just imagine you’re

going to the spring formal again with Ben Taylor. You were soooooo

in love with him—until he ran off to make out with Trista—”

Another thwack, but she’s laughing. Probably because I’d gone

out to the Alcove of Sin, bought a can of Diet Coke, shook it, and then

accidentally-on-purpose opened it toward Ben and Trista.


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When Trevor finally arrives, Mrs. Reynolds yells up the stairs for

us.

“Hey, Amanda,” Trevor says when we appear at the bottom of the

Documents

Excerpt: EXIT STAGE LEFT by Gail Nall