In Harmony(13)

Lorraine Embry, the forty-year-old school teacher who played Jocasta, pulled me in for a long hug. Tears stood out in her eyes when she pulled away.

“Every night,” she said, her hands holding my face. “How do you give so much every night?”

I shrugged. “Just doing my job.”

We headed to the dressing rooms to change and wipe off stage makeup and, in my case, fake blood. Changing into street clothes, the guys shot the shit and talked up the show, lamenting how we had only one more performance. They waved goodbyes and headed out to greet friends and relatives who’d come to see them. As usual, I felt a fleeting curiosity if Pops was among the crowd in the lobby. As usual, I shot it dead.

Only if every ticket came with a bottle of Old Crow.

The dressing room was now empty except for me, Martin and Len Hostetler, who played the role of Creon.

“You guys want to grab a beer?” he asked. Then he laughed. “Shit, Pearce, I keep forgetting you’re only eighteen, O king, instead of thirty.”

Martin, a slender man with a shock of graying hair and wide blue eyes, beamed. “Actually, today is—”

I shot him a warning glance through the mirror, shaking my head slightly.

“—not a good time,” he finished. “Thanks, Len.”

Len saluted. “What’s the play after this, Herr Direktor? You make your decision?”

“Yes, I’ve decided it’s going to be Hamlet,” Martin said, meeting my stare in the mirror.

“Good choice,” Len said. “It begs the question, what came first—the play or the actor you had in mind for it?” He laughed and chucked me on the shoulder. “I kid, kiddo. You were brilliant. As usual.” He turned to Martin. “We gotta use this guy’s talents before Hollywood or Broadway snatches him up, am I right?”

“My thoughts exactly,” Martin said.

“Have a good one, fellas.”

The door shut and Martin and I were alone.

“The entire cast would throw you a birthday party if you’d let them,” he said, tying his shoes.

“We have a party,” I said. “A cast party. Tomorrow night after closing.”

“That’s not the same—”

“It’s not a big deal,” I said. “Turning nineteen and still being in high school is fucking pathetic.”

Martin’s face folded into concern and I immediately wished I’d kept my damn mouth shut.

“It’s not your fault,” he said, holding my gaze in the mirror. “You got the wind knocked out of you, kid. They held you back so you could catch your breath. You shouldn’t be ashamed of that.”

As usual, I didn’t have a decent reply, so I changed the subject.

“Hamlet?” I said. “I thought you were leaning toward Glass Menagerie.”

Martin held up his hands. “Len’s right. I have to use the talent I have and you need to be on bigger stages. Hamlet is the ultimate role and it’s going to get you noticed professionally.”

“Maybe.”

“Not maybe. Guaranteed. I’ve been reaching out to a few talent agencies. A couple of bigwigs from New York, one from Los Angeles. The LA guy has already committed to seeing you this spring.”

I sat back in the chair. “Are you shitting me?”

He put his hand on my shoulder. “I hate to lose you, Isaac, but I’m kicking you out of Harmony with this one. I want Hamlet to be your grand finale.”

I stared. Martin knew the score with me and my old man. He knew I was saving up to get the fuck out of town. Our scrapyard and gas station didn’t make shit. Between minimum wage to clean up the theater as Martin’s unofficial handyman, and pulling $30 per show to perform in it, it’d be another nineteen years before I had enough. Never mind that the idea of leaving Pops to drink himself into a stupor in that shitty trailer always soured my getaway plans with guilt.

“You have to take care of yourself, Isaac,” Martin said. “You’re meant for something bigger and better than what you have now. And I know this is the part you don’t believe, but you deserve something better.”

I looked away to the mirror and wiped the last streaks of dried blood from under my eyes. “I have to audition first,” I said, my voice tight in my throat.

Martin swatted me between the shoulder blades. “Yeah, you do. Don’t blow it.”

I made a noncommittal sound and slid out from under his hand on my shoulder to pull on my boots.

“Heading home?” he asked. “Or a hot date with one of your women?”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m going to work.”

“No chance,” he said. “You have the night off.”

“I can’t afford to take the night off.”

“You think I’m going to dock your pay? On your birthday?”

Martin hauled his bulky, scratched up leather bag onto the dressing table. He dug around and came up with a thick red envelope. “Happy Birthday, kid.”

I stared for a moment, then took it from his hand. It was gift-card heavy. Probably for the clothing store in Braxton. My heart sank in my chest under the weight of everything Martin had given me tonight. Not just the card.

Hamlet, the role of a lifetime.

The talent agents.

A real shot at getting out of here.