Exit Stage Left Read Free

thing to her.
    “You never answered my question,” I say to Harrison.
    He gives up on the stain, which is now this damp blob. “I don’t know. I can’t go wrong with Les Mis , right?”
    “Hmm.” I study him for a moment. He’s one of my oldest friends, and there’s no way I want to do this show without him. Which means he needs to nail his audition. “What about Sweeney Todd ?”
    “Really? Me?” Harrison gives me this look, like What about me says murderous barber?
    “You should totally do Sweeney Todd ,” Kelly says, her red curls bouncing as she nibbles a fry. Holland Community Theater did a production of Annie when we were in sixth grade. No one dared try out for the title role once we found out Kelly had signed up. She’s like a real-life Annie, minus the rich adoptive dad. And orphanage.
    “I just don’t want to be stuck in the chorus again. I’d like an actual role,” Amanda says from behind Harrison.
    “The chorus is where actors go to die,” I say as I glance up front. Ms. Monroe has finally finished talking to Alexa (who put up one effing huge protest in defense of her Winnie-the-Pooh idea) and is nowtrying to pull everything together to actually start class. “No offense.”
    “I didn’t exactly die last year,” Amanda says.
    “I would have.”
    “You’d live through it. Not that it’s anything you even have to worry about.”
    Even as she says that, I feel hot and my clothes seem too tight and I just want to go outside and breathe. Nervousness, I guess. And that’s insane, because I know I’m meant to be an actor. Ever since I was cast as the apple in my kindergarten production of The Food Pyramid , I’ve known acting was my passion. My whole entire reason for living. Lead roles don’t just fall into my lap. I work hard for them, and they mean everything to me.
    “So, Case, what are you going to do when Trevor gets the male lead?” Kelly’s pretty good at asking the world’s most uncomfortable questions.
    “Thanks for assuming that the rest of us don’t stand a chance,” Harrison says.
    Kelly shrugs and sneaks him the fries back under his desk. Or fry, because there’s only one left. Harrison gives it a sad look before grumpily eating it.
    “You have a chance,” Amanda says in her best encouraging voice.
    “Yeah, I guess,” Kelly says. “You’re a better actor, at least.”
    Harrison looks at her, as if he’s trying to figure out whether she’s giving him a compliment or insulting his voice.
    The thing is that Trevor has a lot going for him that Harrison doesn’t. He’s a senior, he has the right look (which I am notthinking about, at all). He’s somewhere over six feet tall and creates this presence on the stage that you can’t look away from. And—most important—he has a to-die-for voice. To. Die. For. As in, he could sing “Jingle Bells” and it would sound ten times better than anyone else singing . . . well, anything.
    I silently congratulate myself on admitting all this without feeling one ounce of nostalgia for our relationship. Or relationship-like thing. Mostly. I’ll get through the show, starring opposite him, without falling for him again. I am a professional, after all.
    “Casey?”
    I snap my head up from my desk later the next morning. Ms. Thomasetti is standing right in front of me, a dry-erase marker in her hand. I blink.
    “Are you awake now?”
    “Um, yes. Sorry.” I can’t help it. Music theory is the most boring class ever. And I mean, ever . I love music. I just don’t like the theory of it so much.
    “Good,” Ms. Thomasetti says. “Then perhaps you can tell the class which chord we just heard.” She pauses. “Are you feeling well?”
    Thank you, Ms. Thomasetti.
    “No. I think I ate a bad veggie omelet for breakfast. My stomach hurts.” I clutch my hands to my abdomen and put on a pained—but not overdone—expression. I am way too sick to name any chords today.
    Across the room, Amanda starts to laugh but turns it into