In Harmony(26)

“Martin likes to keep things open,” Isaac said.

“So I’ve heard. You’ve worked with him a lot, yes?”

He nodded.

I bit my lip. Under normal circumstances, his reticence would’ve chased me off. Tonight, my nerves jangled so hard they loosened my jaw, and I couldn’t stop talking.

“I saw you in Oedipus last month,” I said.

“Mm.”

“You probably hear this constantly, but you were incredible.”

His sigh sounded irritated, as if he’d expected better from me. “Thanks.”

“You do hear that a lot, I suppose,” I said. “One more compliment just bounces off of you, right?”

“I said thanks.”

He doesn’t want to hear it. Shut up.

“How about this?” I squared my shoulders to him. “Watching you act was like looking through a doorway into another world. A place where extraordinary things happen. I got to escape by watching you. So instead of a general compliment, I want to thank you for taking me somewhere else for a couple hours. I needed it.” I blinked hard. “Is that better?”

He looked down at me. I felt him in my cells. A connection. A piece of his power or magic or charisma directed entirely at me. As the moment held and wavered, I wondered what it would be like onstage with him, wrapped entirely in that energy. Going somewhere together.

Impossible, I thought and looked away, breaking the moment. He’s a genius. I’m less than an amateur.

Isaac’s deep voice cut into my thoughts. “Thank you.”

Two slow words. Nothing more. Yet they seem to say everything. Now when I looked up, his angular face had softened and the storm behind his gray-green eyes was calmer. I stared, trapped in his gaze once again, wrapped in that energy.

“You’re welcome,” I said.

Martin Ford called the group’s attention and asked everyone to find their seats. Without a word, Isaac and I pushed off the wall and moved toward the rows of worn, red velvet chairs. He stood in the aisle and gestured me in, as if he were holding a door open for me. I shrugged out of my jacket, and we sat side by side, his elbow resting on the armrest between us, his shoulder inches from mine. Unlike when Ted Bowers was in my space, I felt none of the suffocating tension being this close to Isaac. The scent of cigarette smoke and masculine shower soap wafted over me, and my rampaging nerves were calmed.

Martin Ford strode into a yellow circle of light on the stage, His gray hair stood up slightly in places, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows. His smile was friendly and reassuring, but his voice was all business.

“Thank you all for being here. I’m so pleased to see such a turnout. When I call your name, please step to the center of the stage, introduce yourself and tell us the monologue you’ll be performing. We’ll give no feedback tonight. Callbacks will be sent by email tomorrow morning. Anyone called back will be expected to be here tomorrow night, same time. If you can’t make it, you’ll forfeit any spot you might’ve had in the show. Similarly, if you cannot commit to the rehearsal schedule posted on the website, you won’t be considered for a role.” He clapped his hands together. “Enough with the boring technicalities. Let’s get started.”

I expected alphabetical order. Or perhaps a system of seniority with the veteran actors going first. Instead, names were called at random, with unknowns following people I’d seen in Oedipus. The woman who played Jocasta performed a riveting monologue from King Lear. Another man performed a piece from Midsummer Night’s Dream. A female college student auditioned with Juliet’s “What’s in a name?” speech from Romeo and Juliet.

I leaned in to Isaac. “Did I miss the memo that said we had to audition with Shakespeare?”

The barest flicker of a smile touched Isaac’s lips, but before he could answer, Martin Ford called his name.

The entire theatre craned to look back, like a spotlight trained on him the entire time it took him to stand and walk down to the stage. There, the actual light spilled over him, glinting gold in his brown hair. His hands were still in his jacket pockets and I wondered if he was going to act like that. A prizefighter tying one arm behind his back to give everyone else a chance.

“I’m Isaac Pearce.” He turned his head in my direction. “My monologue is from A Streetcar Named Desire.”

I let out a slow breath of relief.

Not Shakespeare. Thank you.

My inhaled relief reversed in a shocked gasp as Isaac tore his hands from his pockets. His face morphed from neutral to arrogant rage so quickly, I had to blink to remind my eyes they were seeing the same man. One of his hands balled into a fist, the other jabbed accusingly at the air above the audience’s head as he began his monologue.

I watched, riveted, as he stalked the stage like a predatory animal. He tore off his jacket and flung it to the ground as if it were holding him back. He wore nothing but a white wife-beater underneath and the sight of his body clothed in that tight scrap of cotton stirred something in me that I thought had been suffocated to death.

Light filled in the lines of his muscles. A tattoo darkened his right bicep. Another on the inside of his left forearm. Skin and bone and power, stripped bare under the stage lights. Isaac turned inside-out, acting from the depths of his soul, with every atom in his body, every muscle, every sinew. He thundered that he was the “King around here” and everyone in that damn audience, including me, believed him.