Look Both Ways(18)

“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 now, and white-hot fury flares up in me. I came here to learn how to act, not to be humiliated. I know I’m supposed to trust the process, trust the man who made this festival great. Everyone thinks he’s a genius. But honestly, this is ridiculous.



I look over at Marcus—it’s no use trying to pretend he’s not there now—and try to judge the trajectory of his next egg so I can dodge it. But he’s shaking his head sadly, like I’ve failed him. “Sit down, Brooklyn,” he says. “You’re done.”

I sit back down with the other apprentices and try to pull myself together, but I’m so angry, my entire body is shaking. Zoe reaches out and squeezes my hand, and it makes me feel a tiny bit better, but not much. I send the universe visions of me smashing an entire carton of eggs over Marcus Spooner’s smug head and watching the yolk drip off his stupid beard.

He doesn’t throw eggs at everyone. While Todd does his monologue from Twelfth Night, Marcus lobs water balloons at him. He shoots rubber bands at a tiny girl named Natasha, and she shrieks like she’s having her nails ripped out. During Jessa’s performance, he sets off an air horn. He stands about two inches from Kenji’s face, blocking him from the audience. He holds Pandora’s ponytail like reins and turns her head back and forth at random intervals. During Zoe’s monologue, he blasts the “I love you, you love me” song from Barney on an eighties-style boom box while performing interpretive dance moves. I half hope she’ll crack up so it’ll feel like we’re even, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t even raise her voice over the music; she just performs quietly for the people who are close enough to hear.



Maybe I could’ve done that, too, if I’d had more time to prepare. Probably not, though.

Only four people make it all the way through their monologues. When Marcus is done torturing everyone, he heaves a world-weary sigh and slowly packs up his canvas bag. Then he says, “You all know which of your colleagues are real actors now. Watch them and learn to be better.” I expect him to explain the next exercise, maybe one that’ll teach us about focus, but instead he picks up his bag and walks away.