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Authors: Alison Cherry
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flinches, even though he’s agreeing with her. “Name?”
“Pandora,” she says. I catch Zoe’s eye, and she raises her eyebrow like, Seriously?
“I’ve never heard it put better,” Marcus says, and the girl preens and blushes. “ Nothing can make you stop being you —not a missing prop or a coughing audience member or a siren going off down the block. Do you understand?” We all nod. “It is time to see if Brooklyn has what it takes to be a real actor.” Marcus turns to me. “What was your audition monologue?”
“Ophelia. ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown.’ ”
“You will do your monologue now,” he tells me. “You will become Ophelia. Your surroundings, your colleagues, and I will cease to exist for you. You will not stop, no matter what happens. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
He moves to stand next to his bag. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”
I close my eyes and try to let the willows, the summer breeze, the rustling of the other apprentices fade away. I try to forget that all my new friends are watching me, ready to assess how much acting skill I really have, and that I’m so nervous, the tips of my fingers are starting to lose feeling. You are Ophelia, I tell myself. You don’t know any of these people, and you don’t care that they’re watching you. You’re not nervous at all. You’re miserable and wretched, and you’ve watched the person you love crumble to pieces right in front of you. It actually helps me feel more grounded, and I start to think maybe there’s something to this “becoming your character” thing after all. Maybe this is something I can incorporate into my performances forever.
When I feel sufficiently Ophelia-esque, I open my eyes and begin, focusing slightly above the tops of the other apprentices’ heads. “ ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ ” I say. “ ‘The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword…’ ” Shakespearean language has never felt natural to me, and the words don’t roll effortlessly off my tongue the way they did for Marcus, but I’ve practiced them enough times that I sound reasonably good.
Marcus leans over and starts rummaging through the bag at his feet. Whatever’s in there makes a squeaking sound like Styrofoam rubbing together, but I try to ignore it. Where Ophelia is, there’s no squeaking sound. “ ‘The expectancy and rose of the fair state,’ ” I continue. “ ‘The glass of fashion and the mould of form…’ ”
Something crunches against my collarbone, and I let out a little shriek as cold liquid starts dripping into my cleavage. My hand flies to my chest, and it comes away sticky and wet, sprinkled with bits of something hard and white. And just like that, I’m not Ophelia anymore. I’m Brooklyn Shepard, standing on a lawn in her favorite jeans and purple flats, gaping at the man who’s throwing eggs at her.
“What are you doing?” Marcus shouts. “Why is Ophelia touching her chest? There’s nothing on Ophelia’s chest!”
I close my eyes and struggle to regain my composure, even though I can feel the egg soaking into the cup of my bra. “ ‘The observed — ’ Um, ‘the observed of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched—’ ”
Another egg explodes against my bare shoulder, and I pause to watch as the yolk slides all the way down my arm and drips off my fingers. Pandora giggles, and I begin to hate her with the fire of ten thousand suns.
“ Be Ophelia, or what’s the use of saying the words?” Marcus roars. “Act, dammit!” He throws another egg at me, and this one splatters across my thigh.
“And… ‘and I, of ladies most deject and—’ Um, and—wretched—” But the monologue is gone. “I’m sorry. Can I start over from—”
Marcus throws a fourth egg, and this one hits me on the side of the head. At least half the apprentice company is laughing
“Pandora,” she says. I catch Zoe’s eye, and she raises her eyebrow like, Seriously?
“I’ve never heard it put better,” Marcus says, and the girl preens and blushes. “ Nothing can make you stop being you —not a missing prop or a coughing audience member or a siren going off down the block. Do you understand?” We all nod. “It is time to see if Brooklyn has what it takes to be a real actor.” Marcus turns to me. “What was your audition monologue?”
“Ophelia. ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown.’ ”
“You will do your monologue now,” he tells me. “You will become Ophelia. Your surroundings, your colleagues, and I will cease to exist for you. You will not stop, no matter what happens. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
He moves to stand next to his bag. “Whenever you’re ready, then.”
I close my eyes and try to let the willows, the summer breeze, the rustling of the other apprentices fade away. I try to forget that all my new friends are watching me, ready to assess how much acting skill I really have, and that I’m so nervous, the tips of my fingers are starting to lose feeling. You are Ophelia, I tell myself. You don’t know any of these people, and you don’t care that they’re watching you. You’re not nervous at all. You’re miserable and wretched, and you’ve watched the person you love crumble to pieces right in front of you. It actually helps me feel more grounded, and I start to think maybe there’s something to this “becoming your character” thing after all. Maybe this is something I can incorporate into my performances forever.
When I feel sufficiently Ophelia-esque, I open my eyes and begin, focusing slightly above the tops of the other apprentices’ heads. “ ‘O, what a noble mind is here o’erthrown!’ ” I say. “ ‘The courtier’s, soldier’s, scholar’s, eye, tongue, sword…’ ” Shakespearean language has never felt natural to me, and the words don’t roll effortlessly off my tongue the way they did for Marcus, but I’ve practiced them enough times that I sound reasonably good.
Marcus leans over and starts rummaging through the bag at his feet. Whatever’s in there makes a squeaking sound like Styrofoam rubbing together, but I try to ignore it. Where Ophelia is, there’s no squeaking sound. “ ‘The expectancy and rose of the fair state,’ ” I continue. “ ‘The glass of fashion and the mould of form…’ ”
Something crunches against my collarbone, and I let out a little shriek as cold liquid starts dripping into my cleavage. My hand flies to my chest, and it comes away sticky and wet, sprinkled with bits of something hard and white. And just like that, I’m not Ophelia anymore. I’m Brooklyn Shepard, standing on a lawn in her favorite jeans and purple flats, gaping at the man who’s throwing eggs at her.
“What are you doing?” Marcus shouts. “Why is Ophelia touching her chest? There’s nothing on Ophelia’s chest!”
I close my eyes and struggle to regain my composure, even though I can feel the egg soaking into the cup of my bra. “ ‘The observed — ’ Um, ‘the observed of all observers, quite, quite down! And I, of ladies most deject and wretched—’ ”
Another egg explodes against my bare shoulder, and I pause to watch as the yolk slides all the way down my arm and drips off my fingers. Pandora giggles, and I begin to hate her with the fire of ten thousand suns.
“ Be Ophelia, or what’s the use of saying the words?” Marcus roars. “Act, dammit!” He throws another egg at me, and this one splatters across my thigh.
“And… ‘and I, of ladies most deject and—’ Um, and—wretched—” But the monologue is gone. “I’m sorry. Can I start over from—”
Marcus throws a fourth egg, and this one hits me on the side of the head. At least half the apprentice company is laughing
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