Excerpt: EXIT STAGE LEFT by Gail Nall

Exit Stage Left
Gail Nall
ExitStageLeft_txt_ed2_CS6.indd 1 7/31/15 11:09 AM

To Eva, who is always center stage in my life.
Text copyright © 2015 by Gail Nall
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright

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ISBN 978-0-06-241006-1
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First Edition

Chapter One
I’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

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 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

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 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

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.”

“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 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 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.

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 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
10

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
11

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
12

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
13

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.
14

“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.
15

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
16

“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.
17

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
18

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
19

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
20

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 sniffle her way through the audi-
tion. I hope.
21

Chapter Four
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
22

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
23

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
24

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 fire 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.
25

“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
26

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.”
27

“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?
28

“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.
29

“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.
30

Chapter Five
I’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.
31

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.
32

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
33

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
34

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
35

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 muffled.
“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
36

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?
37

Chapter Six
This 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
38

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.
39

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
40

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
41

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,
42

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
43

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.
44

Chapter Seven
Amanda 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
45

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
46

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.
47

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
48

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
49

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
50

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
51

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
52

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.”
53

Chapter Eight
“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.
54

“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.
55

When Trevor finally arrives, Mrs. Reynolds yells up the stairs for
us.
“Hey, Amanda,” Trevor says when we appear at the bottom of the
stairs. He glances over and says, “Casey,” complete with sexy smile.
“Hi,” I say in my most not-interested, Friday-didn’t-happen voice.
“Ready to run lines?” Trevor asks Amanda.
“Sure. Want to go up—”
“You kids can stay in the living room or kitchen,” Amanda’s mom
shouts, from the kitchen this time.
I stifle a giggle. Amanda’s mom will probably float in and out
of the living room the whole time Trevor’s here. She likes to hover
that way. When she finally caved to Amanda’s begging for a boy-girl
party in eighth grade, I had to distract her with a made-up sprained
ankle emergency so that Amanda could finally get an orchestrated-
by-Casey moment with Joey Barnes, who she’d had a raging crush
on for a year and was the whole reason she’d even wanted a boy-girl
party to begin with.
Amanda rolls her eyes, flips her hair over her shoulder, and points
at the couch. “Well, let’s just sit here, I guess. Sorry. Maybe we can go
to your place next time. My mom’s a control freak.”
I snort. Trevor’s place wouldn’t be so bad if it weren’t inhabited by
the Grimaldi twins 90 percent of the time. Trevor looks at me with
eyes that clearly say, You can come to my place. I shift and act like I’m
deciding where to sit.
They take the couch. I grab a spot on the floor and lean against the
recliner, ignoring the space on the couch that Trevor creates for me.
56

Toby lies on my feet. Or, actually, he lies on the whole lower half of
my body. Good thing I’m not planning on going anywhere.
“Where do you want to start?” Trevor asks Amanda.
“Mmmm . . . how about the scene where Maria and the Captain
first meet?”
“Why don’t we start at the beginning?” I ask.
“Why the beginning?” Amanda frowns.
Because I have lines at the beginning, obviously. Instead, I sing a
line from the show: “Because it’s ‘a very good place to start.’”
“Well . . .” Trevor trails off as he pages through his script.
“Casey, I think Trevor wanted to run through the lines he has with
me, remember?” Amanda gives me a pointed look that reads, This is
not all about you.
I get that she’s trying to be professional. But this is going to be one
long day if I never get to run my own lines. Except . . . the faster they
get through their parts, the sooner this whole awkward thing will be
over. So I shrug. “Okay. No problem. I’ll fill in for the other parts.”
They start reading, and I distract myself by trying to get into the
different characters as best as I can.
“Case, you don’t have to do that,” Amanda says after I read Gretl’s
line with a little-girl voice.
“Why not? I’m making it more realistic.” Out of habit, I turn to
Trevor to get my back, but he’s looking at Amanda.
“Just read the lines, okay? Otherwise, we’ll be doing this all
night.”
Usually Amanda is super tolerant of my quirks. I chalk it up to
57

her being nervous about the role, and I read the lines in a dull mono-
tone. But is it a crime if I can’t help adding an accent when I do the
Baroness’s lines? It makes Trevor smile, as usual. At least someone
appreciates my talent, even if Ms. Sharp can’t see it.
“I’m trying to be happy for Amanda,” I say to Harrison as my locker

door clicks shut on Monday afternoon. “But I really can’t figure out
what Ms. Sharp was thinking.” And it’s turning me into a bad friend.
“I’m wondering if I’m meant to be an actor,” Harrison says.
“What?” I stare at him.
He’s leaning back against the lockers, his backpack hanging
loosely from his right hand, and he’s looking across the hall at noth-
ing in particular. “I wonder if I’m supposed to be an actor.”
“Of course you are. Isn’t theater all you’ve ever wanted to do?”
“Yeah, but I’m not so sure now.”
“Don’t you want to go to New York?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, but . . . I don’t know how I’ll get in now.” He
toes the floor. “My dad’s pushing me to go to Notre Dame. Legacy
and all, you know.”
“No way. You can’t do that,” I say, although I’m not really sure I
believe it myself. I start off down the hallway toward rehearsal. Har-
rison peels himself off the lockers and follows me.
“I remember rehearsals being fun last year,” I say to Harrison
after an hour of sitting in the theater. Only one of my scenes has been
called, and that was ages ago. I’ve mostly been entertaining myself
by watching Tim, the lighting designer, tap away on his tablet, and
58

imagining how he’s designing the light plot. Which is something I
know a little too much about, thanks to my dad, who does the same
thing professionally.
Harrison’s slumped in the seat next to me, glasses resting on his
chest. “It was fun because we were onstage so much last year.”
Someone shuffles down the aisle and sits down on my other side.
It’s Silent Hollywood Guy. Oliver, I correct myself.
“Hi,” I whisper.
He doesn’t say anything.
“Um, hi?” I say again.
“Hey. How’s it going?” he finally says.
“Fine. You?”
“Good, thanks.”
Well, this is a scintillating conversation. I flip the pages of my
script. Oliver doesn’t say anything else for several minutes. And I
can’t think of anything to say to him. Why did he sit here? There’s a
whole theater full of seats where he could’ve stuck his quiet self.
I go back to watching Tim and wondering if the desire to leave
your kids is a prerequisite for being a lighting designer.
Out of nowhere, Oliver says, “Your friend Amanda is a good
actor.”
“Yeah.” Apparently so, since she got the lead and I got the nun part
with no lines and an ugly costume, I want to add.
“That Blakeman guy’s not so bad, either,” Oliver continues.
Harrison gives an audible sigh, but Oliver doesn’t notice. Instead,
Oliver’s perched on the edge of his seat, his eyes following Amanda
59

and Trevor as they go through their scene.
I take the opportunity to get a good look at him since I’m tired of
imagining the light plot and thinking about Dad. I like to study people
and their habits and quirks. It’s good for the dramatic soul. Although
I learned early on to do it when they aren’t watching. People get kind
of weirded out when you stare at them too long.
Oliver is a puzzle. He’s gone from silent to kind of talkative. And
he definitely doesn’t look like he’s from Hollywood. His long legs
are covered in torn jeans. They jut out at angles, like they don’t com-
pletely fit in the small space between his seat and the seat in front of
him. His dark hair is pushed back so it’s sticking up. He’s wearing a
Nirvana T-shirt, which is like the third or fourth band shirt I’ve seen
him in. Musician, definitely. Guitar. I can spot a guitar player from a
mile away, thanks to having grown up with one. His shoes are an old,
worn pair of Vans, and the left one is untied.
It looks like he spends a half hour on his hair, but his clothes are a
disaster.
“Not bad, huh?” he says, turning toward me.
“Um . . . no . . . you’re not bad.” My cheeks flame. I add Big Ego to
my mental checklist of Things That Make Up Oliver.
He raises one eyebrow. Which I always thought was impossible. I
mean, I’ve practiced it in the mirror and could never get it. “Thanks,”
he says. “I meant Amanda and Trevor, though.”
Oops. “Oh. Yeah, they’re not bad. Sorry. I mean, I’m not sorry,
but I am.” Dammit, Casey. Just shut up before you make it even worse.
He runs a hand through his hair, like talking somehow made it
60

go flat. Then he swallows as if he was going to say something but
changed his mind. He moves to another row without a word.
I slump back into my seat, in the same position as Harrison. “I
don’t get him,” I whisper to Harrison.
Harrison shrugs, and the corners of his mouth turn up just a little.
“He’s not so bad.”
At first, I think he’s finally admitting his status as last year’s
Christmas sweater. Until I realize he’s just making fun of me. I elbow
him hard in the ribs.
Late that night, I lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Something Har-
rison said earlier in the day is bothering me.
I wonder if I’m supposed to be an actor.
All I’ve wanted, ever since I was a little kid watching the actors
run around in the productions Dad worked for, is to be onstage. And
I thought I was good at it. I always got great parts—until this year.
But maybe I’m not as talented as I thought. There’s no way I’ll be able
to convince NYCPA to give me an audition with just one of the two
required recommendations. Not when they’ve got thousands of other
hopeful students with two glowing recommendations.
Theater has turned me into a depressed, grumpy person, too self-
ish to be a real friend to Amanda and too confused to remember my
pride when it comes to Trevor. I don’t like myself right now, and I’ve
never felt that way before.
I roll over and punch my pillow. Something has to change. My
grades aren’t good enough for a state school. But even in community
61

college, I’d need a major. And it can’t be theater.
So, if I’m not supposed to be an actor, then what? What if I was
meant to be something else all along? Something I don’t even know
I can do yet.
I mean, think of all the things I’ve never even tried, but I could have
some natural talent at. Like baking. Or skydiving. Or synchronized
swimming. I was so into theater, even when I was really young, that
I never played soccer or took gymnastics like the other kids. Maybe
one of those things is my true passion, and acting is just a hobby. Well,
probably not soccer. That’s pretty much a lost cause where I’m con-
cerned. But what if I lived my whole life and never found the one thing
I’m great at? How depressing is that?
It’s time for me to completely shed my old life. No more Broadway
dreams. Definitely no more Trevor. I’ll be a completely new Casey. I
just have to find out what kind of Casey I’m going to be, which means
I need to find my real talent.
62

Chapter Nine
I spend most of Physics thinking about what my new purpose in life
might be. By lunch, I have a long list of new things to try. And by music
theory, I’ve chopped the list down to five possibilities. I’m feeling pretty
good for a change when my phone buzzes with a text from Amanda.
Hellllooooo 2 C . . . what r u doing?
I peer across the room to where she sits, her long hair hiding her
face and her phone. But I’m distracted by Johnny Grimaldi, who’s sit-
ting right behind her and is looking at me. Okay, that’s not creepy at
all. I give him a good hard look, and he turns away.
With Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony blaring through the classroom,
I finally type back, Nothing. U? I don’t want to share my life-changing
list with Amanda—not just yet. I need Harrison’s opinion first, since
he’s going to be my comrade-in-arms. Besides, Amanda has enough
to worry about with her part in the show.
U’ve been writing all morning.
Homewk, I lie. What r u doing aft school?
63

Nothing. Gng home. Lrning lines.
Me 2, I lie again. Not like I have any lines to learn.
Want a ride? she asks.
Nah, will catch one with Eric. Thx.
The bell rings, and I stuff my phone into my pocket. I grab The
List, my purse, and my bag before I meet Amanda at the door.
“I don’t think I can make it through Pre-calc.” Amanda runs her
fingers through her hair, working out the world’s tiniest tangle.
I nod and hand her a brush from the front pocket of my backpack
as we walk the whole five feet to class. I’m dying to show Harrison
The List.
“Wait!” Amanda stops dead in the hallway and whirls around to
face me.
“Oh my God, what?” I feel my hair for a giant spider. Nothing’s
there. “What?”
Amanda’s pointing at me with the brush. “I figured it out. You’re
Quiet Girl this week, aren’t you? Inspired by Silent Hollywood Guy?”
I blink at her.
“That’s it, right? I mean, you’ve barely said anything yesterday
or today, except in texts or during rehearsal.” Amanda grins like she’s
won a game show or something.
“Um, yeah. You guessed it!” I force myself to smile. The truth is,
I said more to Oliver yesterday than I have to Amanda all week. I’ve
just been really preoccupied. “Quiet as a mouse. That’s me.”
“See, I’ve known you too long.” Amanda lifts her chin in victory
as we sit at our desks.
64

I tap my foot on the ancient, pea-green linoleum as I wait for
Pre-calc to start. Before Holland became the regional school for per-
forming and visual arts in South Central Indiana, it was plain old
Holland High School. The linoleum is probably vintage HHS.
Harrison sits across the room from Amanda and me, but I’m not
about to text him with something as important and life-changing as
The List. When the bell finally rings, I grab my stuff, say good-bye
to Amanda, and run after Harrison.
“Hey,” I say when I catch up to him at his locker. “What’s up?”
“Nothing. Life still sucks. You?” He throws his Spanish book into
the locker so hard the metal wall rattles. His picture with Anthony
Rapp, who totally made the role of Mark in Rent, flutters to the floor.
It lands tape side down. I pick it up and restick it to the locker door.
The Harrison in the photo looks like the normal Harrison I know—
happy. We’d stood outside a stage door in Indy years ago, in the
freezing cold for an hour, just so he could get that picture. Maybe my
great idea will make him look that way again.
“I have a surprise,” I say.
“What?”
“Not here.” I look side to side. I don’t want anyone else to hear my
plan before Harrison. Gabby’s a few lockers over, talking to Jill from
the stage crew. Which is a nice change from seeing her chasing after
Trevor like usual these days. And I know there’s a group of set design
guys behind us. As big as this school is, the theater people always
seem to be drawn together, like gossip-loving magnets.
“Why? What’s so top secret that you can’t talk about it in the
65

hallway?”
“Don’t ask questions. Just meet me after school.”
The rest of the day drags by. I barely make it through a splatter
paint project in Expressions of Art. When the bell rings, I grab Harri-
son and pull him outside. I lead the way down the front steps through
clumps of students.
“Casey! Harrison!” Kelly waves at us from where she’s standing
with Chris, Tim, and some other drama people.
I wave back. “See you later.” The List can’t wait. Now that I’m
determined to find my true passion in life, I don’t want to waste
another second. Kelly gives us a funny look and turns back to the
others.
We weave through the parked buses out front and the parents lined
up for carpool. I don’t stop until we reach the small park across the
street, where I plop onto a bench. Harrison stands in front me.
“So, what’s all this about? Did Ms. Sharp change her mind?”
“No. Better than that.”
“What, then?” He drops his backpack on the ground and sits next
to me. “I’ve got to get to the elementary school by four.” Once a week,
Harrison volunteers to help little kids learn about theater. It’s insanely
cute, and he’s great with the kids. I’d do it too, but I decided a long
time ago that I couldn’t let anything interfere with my dedication to
my art. No volunteering, no job (much to Mom’s annoyance), no
unrelated extracurriculars. Only theater, dance class, and voice les-
sons. And, well, Trevor.
I might be regretting all that now.
66

“Remember yesterday, when you said you didn’t know if you’re
supposed to be an actor?” I say.
Harrison nods. “If I was, then I would’ve gotten the lead, right?”
“Right. Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and I feel the same
way. About me, that is. What if I wasn’t ever meant to be in theater?
What if I’m really supposed to be . . . I don’t know . . . a botanist or
something?”
“A botanist?”
“That’s not the important part. The point is, how will we ever
know what our real passion is if we don’t look for it? Just think of how
many things you could be a genius at, but don’t even know you can
do.” I wait for Harrison’s reaction.
He thinks for a moment. “Okay. That makes sense, in some kind
of odd philosophical way. So how do we look for it?”
With a flourish, I pull The List out of the front pocket of my back-
pack. The paper flutters in the warm breeze. “This is The List.”
“The what?”
“The List,” I say impatiently. “The List of How We Find Our
Passion.”
“Oh. Okay. So, what’s on it?” He peers over the edge of the paper.
I clear my throat and pull the paper toward my chest so he can’t see
it. “I’ll read it to you.” I pause for dramatic effect. “Number One: Art.
Since drama is an art, maybe we’d be good at regular art, like drawing
or something.”
“I can barely draw a stick figure. And did you see my splatter paint
thing just now?”
67

“But have you tried? I mean, really, really tried? Taken a seri-
ous class—not Expressions of Art? Read a book about it? Studied
technique?”
“No, I guess not. Okay, what’s next?”
“Number Two: Horseback Riding.”
“I’ve only been on a horse one time,” Harrison says.
“So? I’ve never been on one. We can learn. It can’t be that hard. I
mean, people used to ride horses all the time before there were cars.”
Maybe I should’ve added lawyer to The List. I’m pretty good at this
persuasive argument thing.
“But what would we do with that?”
“Show them. Like, in the Olympics. Be a veterinarian. Or buy a
horse farm and breed thoroughbreds for like a gazillion dollars each.
Or work on a dude ranch out west. Buy a stable and give lessons to
little kids. Be stunt doubles in the movies. Or—”
He holds up a hand. “Okay, I get it.”
“All right, Number Three.” I pause again because this is definitely
the most exciting thing on The List.
Harrison checks his phone. “Spit it out already.”
“You’re ruining the moment,” I inform him.
“I’m going to be late.”
“All right, fine. Flying a plane. That’s Number Three.”
Harrison’s eyes go round behind his glasses. “Seriously? Like a
real plane? In the sky?”
“No, in the ocean. Of course, in the sky. We can learn to be pilots!
Can you believe something that awesome is an actual job? Greater
68

Holland Airport has flying lessons. I’ve seen it on that big sign they
have by the road out on Highway 57.”
“I am so up for that. I’ve never even been in a plane.”
“That’s because your family’s idea of a vacation is a football game
in the snow at Notre Dame.”
He rolls his eyes. “I think I still have frostbite from that. Okay, so
what’s the fourth thing?”
“Number Four: Join a Band.”
“Like a rock band?”
“Yup, or any kind of band really. I mean, if Eric can do it, why
can’t we? It just has to be something totally different from theater. So
like, no Broadway covers.”
“I hate to break it to you, Case,” Harrison says. “But the only
instrument I play is the kazoo. You remember that awful two weeks
Dad made me take sax, right?”
I shudder. “We can be co-lead singers or something. Maybe you
can be the drummer too. All you have to do is keep rhythm. And think
of how hot that would make you look.”
He pushes his lips together, like he’s considering it, and then he
starts tapping out some rhythm on the bench. He’s really getting
into it, bobbing his head, and I try really hard not to laugh. I mean,
he’s shorter than me and wears glasses and has regular-guy hair. He
doesn’t look like a rock star.
I interrupt his drum solo. “Want to hear Number Five?”
He sits back down, grinning. It’s the first time I’ve seen him smile
since the cast list was announced.
69

I clear my throat. “Number Five: Figure Skating.”
“Figure skating?” he says in a tone as if he doesn’t believe what I
just said.
“Figure skating is drama on ice,” I inform him. “They have
classes. We could do pairs!”
He raises his eyebrows even higher. I’m afraid they’ll disappear
into his hair. “No,” he says. “No way.”
“But why?”
“Because I’m really not coordinated enough for that. Everyone
would laugh at me. And you have to wear those tight clothes. And I
think you have to start that kind of thing when you’re like four to be
any good at it.”
I hate to admit that he’s probably right. I’ve been ice skating twice,
and I spent most of the time clinging to the wall and wishing that ice
were softer. “Okay, then. We need a new Number Five.”
We sit in silence for a minute.
“Botany?” I suggest.
Harrison rolls his eyes and checks his phone again. He stands up.
“You can’t leave until we have a new Number Five!”
“How about poker?” he says.
“Really?” I picture fat men with cigars in a dark room tossing
cards on a table and grunting things like, “One-eyed jacks are wild.”
“Yes, poker. C’mon, Casey. You picked everything else. I demand
poker. And just think of how rich you can get if you’re really good
and go to Vegas to be a poker shark. You wouldn’t even have to go to
college then.” Harrison crosses his arms.
70

I wouldn’t have to go to college. I hadn’t even thought of that. I
know plenty of people don’t go to college, but I’d never even consid-
ered it. Mom assumes that both Eric and I will get degrees. But why
waste her money if I know my talents lie elsewhere?
“Okay, poker it is.” I cross out Figure Skating and write Poker
Shark next to the number five. Then I fold The List and return it to
my backpack.
“So, when do we start?” Harrison asks as he leads the way back
toward school.
“Tomorrow. Art is up first.”
“You know what? We should talk to Alexa James and her friends.”
The Bohemian Brigade. Perfect. “Good idea. Hey, can you drop
me at home?”
“Casey, I have to get to the school!”
“It’s on your way. Sort of. Please don’t make me hang out here and
listen to Eric’s band.” I fold my hands in a prayer.
“Fine,” he says with a huff. “I think you should add Get a License
to that list.”
“Why? So I can become a race car driver? No thanks.”
We’ve just crossed the street when I stop in my tracks.
No way. I did not just see what I thought I did. I close my eyes and
open them again. It’s still there.
Harrison stops when he realizes I’m not behind him. “What?
What’s going on? You’re making me late.”
I can’t speak. I just point.
At them.
71

Excerpt: EXIT STAGE LEFT by Gail Nall

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Exit Stage Left

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Text copyright © 2015 by Gail Nall

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

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Holland Performing and Visual Arts High School’s Production of

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Captain von Trapp: Trevor Blakeman

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

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