Chapter 7 Annie

CHAPTER 7 ANNIE

1999

Bolton Landing

The fall of our senior year I went to see Mr. Riley, who ran the theater department. I didn’t tell Amanda. His office looked very much like how I imagined a Broadway theater office to be: small, just enough space for a half-sized desk and chair, black walls covered with photographs and theater posters.

“Anne Marie, what a surprise,” Mr. Riley said, looking up when I knocked on the black door, which I did even though it was open. He was a burly man with a well-kept salt-and-pepper beard and rarely seen without an ascot.

“I was hoping you’d have a minute to talk,” I said, noticing a folded metal chair leaning against the wall. Before he could answer, I was leaning toward it, the movement spurring him to action. “Oh, absolutely,” and then he was up and unfolding the chair and making room. “Should I find another chair for Amanda?”

“Just me,” I said, and the assumption I’d be with Amanda snipped a loose thread in my mind and I began pulling at it: Did he only think of me in proximity to Amanda? What did he think of me independent of her?

“Of course, of course.” He seemed flustered. This must not happen often, a student stopping by, I realized. After the flurry of movement, he landed back in his chair with a quick exhale as if to reset the energy. He slapped his hands on his knees and said, “All right, whatcha got for me?” His casual way of interacting with students, as if we were real people, had made me like him right from the beginning, starting way back at that first summer camp.

“Have you picked the play yet?”

“Nope, not decided,” he said, reaching to touch a stack of papers on his desk. “But don’t worry, I’m only considering plays with at least two strong lead roles, and who share the stage plenty.” He winked at me, adding, “I’m going to play to our strengths.”

“That’s actually why I’m here,” I said. “I was hoping you would consider doing something different this year.” My backpack was at my feet, and I unzipped it and pulled out a small paperback. Twelfth Night . I’d read it over the summer, and I wanted to play Viola, a young woman who is shipwrecked and disguises herself as a man, Cesario. Back then I told myself that I was just shaking things up. But now I see that I was putting a wedge between me and Amanda while asking the universe a question: Am I good enough?

I believed I was willing to accept the outcome.

Mr. Riley reached for the book. “A classic, and some fantastic roles in this,” he said, fanning the pages. He thumped the book once against his open palm. “Can I ask why?” His eyes met mine.

Hmmm, what to say.

“I think it’s about my comfort zone,” I said, “and wanting to get outside it.”

At this he nodded approvingly, as if I’d said something mature, which pleased me because that was my goal. I thought saying the precise truth, “I want to see who you’ll cast as Viola, me or Amanda,” would not be received as well.

“I think that’s really smart,” he said. “Thanks for bringing this to me.” Then he held up the copy of Twelfth Night and said, “Mind if I borrow this and reacquaint myself with the material?”

“No, yeah, keep it,” I said.

Our exchange hadn’t taken very long, certainly not long enough to warrant unfolding the chair, and so maybe to prolong the meeting and justify us both sitting in his office, Mr. Riley asked, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do after graduation? You have a lot of talent, shame to see it go to waste.”

That phrase, “go to waste,” conjured images of an oozing garbage can. I planned to let nothing I possessed, figuratively or otherwise, go to waste. I planned to maximize every drop.

“Not sure yet,” I said. “But once I do, I’ll let you know.”

This seemed to satisfy his desire to be seen as a mentor, help me be all I could be , or whatever, and he slapped his hands on his knees and popped himself to standing, signaling the end of our meeting.

“I know you haven’t always had it easy,” he said, now hovering in the doorway. I’d grabbed my backpack and had paused outside the office. This was the first time he’d ever, even opaquely, mentioned all the theater trips I couldn’t pay for. I gripped my bag tighter and smashed my lips together. Maybe he could read the energy shift; he quickly steered away: “Anyway, just wanted you to know it’s been lovely seeing you”—he opened his palm and gestured from my head to my toes—“come into your own.”

I thanked him and was gone.

Mr. Riley picked Twelfth Night as the fall play. Amanda was briefly distraught over the selection —“Now this pits us against each other!” —and was momentarily confused by my immediate acceptance and calm defense of his choice. “It’ll be good for us, no matter who gets the part of Viola,” I had said. But it was not, good for us.

The afternoon the roles were posted—computer paper thumbtacked to corkboard—I met Amanda and we looked together. Kids were streaming behind us. She ran her pointer finger down the list, taking it all in, pausing first by her name, then by mine. I was leaning in, following with my eyes, but I’d snuck a peek a few minutes earlier, then peeled off to use the restroom and gather myself before meeting Amanda to pretend to look for the first time.

Amanda was cast as Viola/Cesario; I was given Olivia. Both had plenty of stage time. Olivia was just far less interesting of a character to me. Did I think the casting was backward? Yes. Amanda was so what-you-see-is-what-you-get, and I didn’t believe her during auditions, dressed up as Cesario, a girl playing a girl playing a boy. She played it sloppy, for the laughs, but after the roles were announced, I realized maybe I’d gone too deep into the role, really embodying this gender switch in a way Viola might not have, and Shakespeare never intended.

Inside that restroom stall, I’d sat on the toilet and controlled the burning behind my eyes, swallowing the tears. I wondered where those tears went. Were they dripping down behind my cheekbones? Tears were meant to drip. I opened my eyes as wide as possible and let them dry out. I felt like my soul had been stabbed: I wasn’t as good as I thought, for sure, and maybe I wasn’t good at all.

Maybe Amanda had deemed me her sidekick out of pity because that was all she could imagine for me. Thoughts collided and blended, then separated, then blended again until they formed one long string: You’re not good, you’re a joke, this dream is absurd, you will crash and burn and end up cleaning rooms at the Chateau and living in a dirty one-bedroom and STOP STOP STOP. I’d stood, lifted my chin to the ceiling, and imagined the thoughts spilling out the back of my head along with the tears.

“My Olivia!” Amanda shrieked after she’d spotted both our names. She wrapped me in a hug. “The dynamic duo does it again.”

It struck me that she’d never considered I’d get Viola.