Exit Stage Left

Chapter One

I’m warming up with my raisin face when Trevor appears in the doorway. 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. Scrunching 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 arranging 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 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 quiet. Brianna—gorgeous voice, but not enough range. Rose—can belt out a number like no one’s business, but not so good at acting. 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 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.

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

Rainbows and ponies? More like practicing your Tony acceptance 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 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 fortune-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 flirting back.

Vegetarian, I say to my notebook. So, characters. I think I’ll test-drive my Hollywood Diva next week.

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 coming 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 flirt, 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 ending 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.

Chapter Two

As 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 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 flicks her hair over her shoulder. 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 classroom. 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 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 Gatorade 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 walking 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 discussion 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 disappear into my mouth.

Don’t call me that. He digs one of those stain-remover pens 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 especially 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 production 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 effing huge protest in defense of her Winnie-the-Pooh idea) and is now 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 Harrison doesn’t. He’s a senior, he has the right look (which I am not 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 falling 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.

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 recognize 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.

Chapter Three

After 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 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 burrito. 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.

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, running 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 the back of his black bomber jacket as he stomps off toward the basement 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,