Cut the Lights Read Free Page B

actor, including Ratna, with no luck. “I’m making the best of it. Anyway, Clayton isn’t in the same category as you. You have an expressive face and voice.”
    In the directors’ meeting, I couldn’t remember who Clayton was until Samuel described him. Clayton had read flat in audition, as if he didn’t care. Also, he was short, maybe five foot five, with brown skin, scruffy facial hair and cropped black curls. Not quite the Tinkerbell vision I was going for.
    I take Ratna by the shoulders and make her look me in the eyes. “Listen to me. You’ll be great. The bank teller is a small role—you don’t need to talk much.” When Ratna gets stage fright, her voice comes out in a squeak. “I know you can do this.”
    Ratna’s dark eyes are watery. “Okay. Let’s go.”
    We walk down the hall—past a swarm of dancers in bodysuits and a guy carrying a tuba case—and turn toward the cafeteria. Mr. Ty has reserved it for all Fringe Festival directors every day after school, if we need it. I’m hoping to book one of the smaller drama rooms for some of my rehearsals, but for the read-through, the cafeteria will do.
    â€œThe first reading is so important.” I grip my binder against my chest, feeling more jumpy with each step. “It’s the actors’ first impression of the play.”
    Ratna gives me a sympathetic look. “I know you can do this.” She’s repeating my words, even using the same tone of voice.
    I frown. “I just want them to feel inspired when they read Wish Upon a Star together for the first time. I want them to feel excited about my staging ideas.”
    â€œI could always help you with ideas, if you want.”
    â€œI’m fine,” I say, even though I’m tempted to tell her to back off. I’m the director and she’s the writer. Her ideas are already in the script. It’s my turn now. “Let’s just go do our read-throughs.”

    Whitlock cafeteria. A few minutes later. A row of windows overlooks a city street. The tables and benches have been pushed to one side. The doors to the kitchen are closed and locked.
    Mr. Ty is at a table, handing out copies of scripts. Directors, actors and stage managers gather in clumps, chatting excitedly.
    Ratna joins Lorna, Ashley and the rest of her cast, who are already reading from Please, Mr. Bank Manager, Save My Mother . Near the windows, Samuel’s actors laugh loudly at something he said.
    Meanwhile, Clayton slouches against a table, busy with his phone, his back to Mica. Sonata rushes in, still wearing her dance tights and bodysuit—she’s in the Whitlock Spring Dance Show next week. Mica gazes at Sonata like she’s a goddess. My assigned stage manager, George Kostas, is nowhere in sight.
    I should have guessed this would happen. George, whom I’ve known since grade six, has good intentions, but he’s easily distracted.
    I rush to collect copies of my script from Mr. Ty, which is supposed to be George’s job.
    When I tell Mr. Ty about George, he says, “You’ll need to keep a close eye on your stage manager.”
    I’m flustered and off-balance. This is not how I imagined my read-through.
    I gather my actors in a circle of chairs near the only unoccupied corner—beside the recycling and garbage bins. Voices echo off the tile floor. Sonata turns up her nose at the smell of rotting food.
    I straighten my glasses and then start with the welcome speech I practiced last night in my bedroom.
    â€œActing is a kind of magic,” I say. “It can make the audience laugh and cry. It can reveal the truth about the world.”
    Clayton yawns and examines his black high-tops. Sonata’s back is perfectly straight, her hands folded in her lap, her gaze intense. Mica edges his chair closer to her, his pudgy stomach pushing against his T-shirt.
    My speech sounded more inspiring last night.