Sweet Sorrow Read online

  The thought of scholarships brings Eddie to the forefront of my mind, not that he’d been far from it to begin with. For Eddie, it must have been heartbreaking to lose a full ride athletic scholarship. And, almost as if the thought of Eddie summons him, there he is standing in front of me. Well, not in front of me, but in front of the double doors leading to the auditorium.

  A hush sweeps over the people gathering outside the doors as they realize the rumors are true—Eddie is trying out for the play. My gaze is fixed on him and I’m unable to tear it away no matter how hard I try. My attention is riveted on his face. Though he must realize everyone is staring at him, talking about him, speculating about his motives for auditioning, he stands perfectly still and relaxed. It might be the greatest acting job of his life. Or maybe he doesn’t care about what anyone thinks.

  The double doors open and Mr. Fredericks ushers everyone inside. “I want everyone to have a seat. I need to make a few announcements before we get started. Have a seat, have a seat,” he repeats periodically as more students enter the auditorium.

  I lose sight of Eddie briefly, but as I take my seat three rows away from the front of the stage, I see him. He’s in the first row, empty seats on either side of him. An outcast for the first time in his popular, football-playing life. Maybe he’s always been alone. A poor kid at a rich kids’ school. I know what it’s like. As the daughter of a low-paid football coach, I’ve never been able to afford what my friends have. I’ve never been able to wear a new outfit every day. I don’t have the latest phone. Or a car. Does Eddie have a car? Is he truly alone? Or does it only seem that way because I’ve listened to the latest gossip about him?

  “I’d like to welcome everyone,” Mr. Fredericks says, abruptly silencing the conversation, paper shuffling, and noisy guffaws. I feel Morgan ease into the seat next to me as Mr. Fredericks continues his speech. “Looks like we’ve got a great turnout here today. If there’s anyone who didn’t sign up already, please go to the back of the auditorium and add your name to the list.” No one stands up, so he resumes. “We’re going to try to get through our initial readings this afternoon. I’ll call you up one by one for a monologue. If you didn’t prepare a reading, I have several scripts you can choose from. Once everyone has had a chance to audition, we’ll make a decision about callbacks. My plan is to find a part for everyone. If you’re here and you’re willing to put in the work, I want you to be involved. Not everyone will have a speaking part, but there will be something for everyone. Any questions?”

  After a few typical questions, Mr. Fredericks asks those who are interested in non-acting parts to gather in the back of the auditorium so they can receive their assignments. An eclectic group of people rise from their seats and shimmy down the crowded rows. These two dozen students will take care of the set, lighting, sound, and other miscellaneous tasks essential to putting on a good play. Glancing around, I estimate there are about fifty people trying out for the play. I wonder how many are reading for the part of Juliet. I wonder if Eddie is reading for the part of Romeo.

  It takes Mr. Fredericks a few minutes to consult with his panel of judges: Mrs. Clarion, the choir teacher; Mr. Louden, the art teacher; Miss Betts, a senior at UCLA who is currently serving as a student-teacher under the direction of Mr. Fredericks.

  “Oh my God, I almost didn’t make it,” Morgan hisses in my ear. “My mom called and wanted me to come home to watch Jeremy. I guess he had an ear infection, so my mom had to pick him up from school early. She had to go back to work for a meeting and wanted me to take care of him.”

  “Who’s watching him?”

  “She got the housekeeper to stay late.” There’s relief in her voice, but an air of entitlement as well.

  I refrain from rolling my eyes, but just barely. Morgan’s my best friend and I love her, but she doesn’t realize how perfect her life is. Sometimes it makes me envious. Other times, it just hurts my feelings the way she takes for granted all the things I wish I had. How she gets pissed off if she has to endure the slightest inconvenience—her car being put in the shop for a day, running out of her one-hundred dollar a week allowance before the week is through, or a simple request to babysit her brother.

  Morgan reaches over and squeezes my hand. “You’ve got this, Row. Don’t be nervous.”

  Her faith in me almost makes me forget the annoyance that bubbled up inside me just seconds ago.

  “Beth Ames.” Mr. Fredericks calls the first victim. Her audition is okay, but not great. She’s too stiff, probably from nerves.

  “Jenna Armstrong.”

  Jenna’s performance is a train wreck. I remove her from my mental checklist of possible competitors and immediately feel embarrassed on her behalf. Her words are garbled, mumbled, poorly modulated. It’s painful to watch someone screw up that badly. I pray Mr. Fredericks cuts her performance short since she’s chosen one of the longer monologues. I also pray I don’t mess up that badly. Not in front of Eddie.

  A few titters erupt behind me as Jenna drones on. At last, it comes to an end and she leaves the stage. Mr. Fredericks calls the next prospective actor, the first potential Romeo of the day. Michael Barnes has been in show choir since our sophomore year. He’s active in drama club, the yearbook club, and student council. Like me, he’s never landed a starring role, but he’s a good actor. Just not good enough to creep out from under the shadow of Blake Donovan. Michael’s audition is good and as he leaves the stage, I think he just might have a chance this year.

  Blake is only a few seconds into his audition before it’s obvious who’s going to earn the part of Romeo. His performance is spot-on, perfect. I scan the auditorium in search of competitors, but I can’t find anyone who could possibly compete against Blake. Then my gaze lands on Eddie. I’d seen nearly everyone in this theatre perform at one time or another, but not him. For the millionth time that day, I wonder if he’s a good actor. I wonder a lot of things about him and yearn to find answers to just a fraction of my questions.

  “Morgan Livingston.”

  Morgan shifts beside me and I blink in surprise. I’ve been so lost in thoughts of Eddie, I’ve lost entire patches of time. I can’t remember any of the auditions after Blake’s, but I can describe in detail the studious expression on Eddie’s face as he sizes up the competition. The way he narrows his eyes. The way his forehead wrinkles. The way he runs his hand across the stubble on his chin when he’s deep in thought.

  “Here I go,” Morgan whispers.

  “Break a leg,” I whisper back, still distracted by thoughts of Eddie.

  I concentrate on Morgan’s performance long enough to appreciate how amazing she is. How professional she looks when she takes the stage. How she commands an audience’s attention. But within seconds, I’m back to pondering the mysteries of the universe—or at least the mystery surrounding my raging crush on Eddie. Why Eddie? There are other hot guys in our school. Why him?

  Morgan strides toward me and I give her the thumbs up, hoping she doesn’t realize I’d zoned out from almost the beginning of her monologue. All the air is sucked from my body when Mr. Fredericks says, “Eduardo Velasquez.”

  He stands and my insides melt. I’m barely aware of Morgan whispering something beside me—of everyone in the auditorium whispering. It doesn’t matter. Nothing could tear my attention away from Eddie. At about six-foot-two, he towers over the other guys in the auditorium who tend to be slight in build with physiques better suited for artistic endeavors rather than athletic ones. With Eddie’s broad shoulders and chest, there’s no doubt his sculpted body is ready for any physical activity. My cheeks heat at the thought of the types of physical activity he might be suited for. I imagine how his chest would look shirtless—brown skin, maybe a thin strip of dark hair trailing from between his pecs down to his six-pack abs. His legs ripple with muscle as he climbs the steps to the stage.

  Eddie has come to the stage empty-handed; no script in sight, not even a note card to prompt him. Mr. Frederick’s offers him a script, b
ut Eddie waves it away. So he’s prepared after all. I can envision him standing in front of a mirror at home, reading and re-reading his monologue, practicing until every word is memorized.

  For the first time since auditions started, I begin to pray. Not for myself, but for Eddie. After all the gossip, all the criticism, all the scorn, I want to see him succeed.

  He’s standing in the center of the stage right in front of the panel of judges. The auditorium is silent. Not a whisper or a shuffle or even a wayward cough. Silence. I continue to stare at Eddie. My fingernails dig into the sides of my legs through my jeans. I can’t draw a full breath.

  At last, he speaks. His voice is loud and clear. Perfect for the stage. I focus on his words and the raw emotion they evoke. Is it only me who can feel the yearning in the speech he has chosen, or is it my yearning for Eddie that causes such a reaction in me?

  'Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here,

  Where Juliet lives; and every cat and dog

  And little mouse, every unworthy thing,

  Live here in heaven and may look on her

  Flawless. His audition is flawless and over all too soon. There’s a smattering of applause, whispers of surprise, and Mr. Fredericks’ assertion that Eddie’s monologue was “simply wonderful.”

  And then it’s my turn. Eddie is walking off the stage as my name is called. I can’t move for a second, but then Morgan pats my hand and that propels me into motion. I stand up and move toward the end of my row. I reach the front row and meet Eddie coming the other way. We’re inches from each other. I glance up and meet his eyes. His expression is unreadable.

  “Break a leg,” he murmurs before he side-steps me and moves down the row toward his seat.

  His words reverberate in my mind. It’s a simple statement, something anyone would say. It means nothing. But for just a second, it means the world to me. My face is scalding. I can’t catch my breath as I move up the five steps to the stage. On autopilot, I walk to the center of the stage and stand before the judges.

  My carefully prepared speech flees my mind. It’s gone. I can’t summon even a word. I open my mouth and close it again, fumbling and desperate to find a fragment of my monologue. Thees and thous bounce around in my mind, meaningless. I’d practiced a less well-known monologue for weeks out of a desire to stand out from the crowd. I don’t want to perform the typical “’Tis but thy name that is my enemy” speech that everyone memorized when we studied Romeo and Juliet in junior English, but that is the only speech that comes to mind. Each time I try to remember the monologue I’d intended to perform, that which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet intrudes, pushing out every other thought from my mind.

  “Take your time,” Mr. Fredericks says kindly.

  I glance around at the audience. A sea of faces stare back, some of which are secretly hoping I’ll bomb so I’ll be eliminated from the competition. Some, like Morgan’s, are rooting for me, praying I’ll find my bearings. Eddie’s staring directly at me, expectantly.

  My monologue is still elusive. I’m running out of time. I have to say something before the vicious titters begin, before I run from the stage in embarrassment, before the rushing in my head drives away the monologue I do remember.

  I open my mouth and to my surprise, my voice is clear. The words spill forth and confidence overtakes me as the speech I know by heart flows from my mind to my tongue:

  'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;

  Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.

  What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,

  Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part

  Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!

  What's in a name? that which we call a rose

  By any other name would smell as sweet;

  It’s over. It wasn’t the monologue I’d planned, but I survived the audition without puking or giggling or stuttering. I don’t know if I impressed anyone, but I didn’t make a total fool of myself either. It’s hard to judge my own performance unless someone records it for me and I watch it later. I’m sure I got all the words right, though, and for now, that’s enough for me. Even if I don’t land the role of Juliet—or even a speaking part—I know I did my best under the circumstances. I might hate myself later for blowing the audition, but right now, I’m just glad to leave the stage and escape the audience’s scrutiny.

  “Nice job,” Mr. Fredericks says as I leave the stage. His voice doesn’t hold the same enthusiasm as it did when he’d praised Eddie’s performance, but he seems genuine.

  I concentrate on not falling down the stairs or tripping over my own feet as I make my way back to my seat. A whoosh of breath escapes my lips as I sink down next to Morgan.

  “You did great,” she whispers. “I thought you were…”

  “I spaced,” I say, interrupting her.

  “It was good.”

  “Good enough.”

  I enjoy the remaining readings, knowing my audition is behind me, at least for today. I think I have a fairly good chance at being called back tomorrow. I also enjoy sneaking glances at Eddie. He definitely earned a callback unless Mr. Fredericks is as biased as my dad is after what happened. I wonder if my dad liked Eddie before the incident, if Eddie had ever been one of his favorites. I can’t ask him, but I wish I could. I could learn so much. Not an option. Dad would freak out if he thought I showed the slightest interest in Eddie. That much I know.

  Mr. Fredericks stands up and commands the attention of everyone in the room. “Thanks, everyone. I’m so impressed by all the amazing talent I’ve seen here today. We certainly have a lot to discuss before tomorrow,” he says, gesturing to his panel of judges. “Like I said earlier, everyone will have a part in the play. I won’t need to see everyone for callbacks, though, so if your name is not on the list, rest assured you will be included in some way. I’ll post a list on the auditorium doors before 7:00 AM tomorrow morning. If your name is on the list, it’s essential that you are here for callbacks at 3:00. Anyone who has tried out for the play is welcome to come tomorrow to watch the auditions, whether you’re on the callback list or not.”

  Mr. Fredericks dismisses us. Students leave in clusters, talking, laughing, probably speculating about who might make the callback list. Morgan and I are among the last to leave.

  “What did you think of Eddie’s audition?” she asks as I climb into the passenger seat of her car.

  He was amazing, gorgeous, incredible, I want to say. But I say none of this. “He was good,” I say as she backs out of the parking space.

  “He really was. He surprised me. I think he surprised a lot of people. He’s got a good chance of being cast as Romeo. Or, if not that, at least a major role.”

  “Yeah, he does,” I agree, happy I didn’t totally imagine his talent. I can’t trust myself where Eddie’s concerned. I’m not thinking clearly.

  “You want me to pick you up early tomorrow? I want to be standing by the door when Mr. Fredericks posts the list.”

  “Yeah, definitely. I’m really nervous.” Now that the initial relief that the audition is over has passed, my nerves are jangling. Not only am I mentally kicking myself for forgetting the monologue I’d practiced for so long, I’m also freaking out about tomorrow. What if I’m not on the callback list? I’ll be heartbroken. But if I am? Then I’ll be ill with anxiety the rest of the day. Either way, I’ll be a mess.

  It occurs to me that I might have to read with Eddie at callbacks, assuming we’re both on the callback list. If I froze up today, how badly will I space on my lines if I’m reading with Eddie? The idea of being Juliet to his Romeo—even if it’s just for a brief audition—is utterly terrifying. But it’s exhilarating too. And, suddenly, there’s nothing I want more.

  Chapter Four

  Dad pours half the pot of steaming coffee into his metal thermos. “Do you still have that thing after school?” he asks.

  “What thing? You mean callbacks? Yeah, I hope so,” I reply. I put my empty bowl back
in the cabinet, suddenly too nervous to eat.

  “I’m sure you’re on the list, Honey.” Mom is standing at the sink, washing Dad’s dirty breakfast dishes.

  “I don’t know…” I’m cut off before I can finish my sentence.

  “If you finish early, stop by my office,” Dad says before turning to Mom. “Can you stop by the hardware store today? We need another key made to the shed. Also, can you pick up more mint cookies and pretzels? My snack stash is getting low.”

  “Sure,” Mom says agreeably, as if the stockpile of junk food Dad keeps in his desk at work is the single most important thing she has to do today. As if she doesn’t have a day job too. As if he didn’t just interrupt her conversation with me.

  I ignore my dad’s request. He can handle his own football equipment, or paperwork, or whatever it is he wants me to do. Ordinarily, I don’t mind helping him. Well, not too much. During football season, he works a ridiculous amount of hours. Like seventy a week. Mom and I try to lighten his load. Too bad he continues to demand our total obedience even when football season is over. He treats us like his players. Typical coach, I guess.

  It’s only two weeks until Christmas break and once we return to school after the holiday break, play rehearsals will begin. Regardless of whether or not I’m on the callback list, I’ll still be part of the play in some capacity. It’ll be a busy final semester of my senior year, but I’m looking forward to it. It’s the first time I’ve looked forward to anything since last spring. I push away thoughts of parties and the smell of alcohol. My nerves are already stretched too thin.

  My cell phone vibrates in my pocket. Morgan is here. In minutes, I’ll know whether or not I’ve made the list.

  “Love you, Row,” Mom calls as I scurry out the door.