The Score (Off-Campus #3)(60)

But it absolutely helps if your characters have a combative relationship. In that case, it’s easy to use the anger or irritation or just plain hatred and bring it to the performance.

Which is what I’m desperately trying to do at Thursday night’s rehearsal with the senior who’s playing my sister.

I’ve had classes with Mallory Richardson in the past, but this is the first time we’ve acted together on stage. Last week, we had our scripts on hand because it was the start of rehearsals.

This week, our student director wants us to perform sans script. Not the whole play, but a couple of script-free scenes to jumpstart the memorization process. I’m fine with that, because I’ve memorized half the play already.

Mallory? She can hardly string together a full sentence.

“Face it, Jeannette, you’re weak,” Mallory says flatly. “Why do you think Bobby left? Because he couldn’t—” She stops. “Line,” she calls to the front row, where our director and two student producers are seated.

There’s no mistaking Steven’s frustration. I don’t blame him. This past hour, I’ve heard Mallory shout “Line!” so many times that the word has lost all meaning.

“‘He couldn’t stomach your sniveling,’” Steven supplies, his baritone voice carrying through the cavernous room. “‘You’re pathetic. You—’”

Mallory interrupts. “Thanks, I know the rest. I tripped up on the sniveling part.”

Steven signals for us to start again.

“Face it, Jeannette, you’re weak. Why do you think Bobby left? Because he couldn’t stomach your sniveling. You’re pathetic. You fall apart… line!”

I resist the urge to lunge across the stage and tackle her to the ground. Maybe scream the words into her ear at top volume so they sink into her lazy brain.

Steven rattles off the next line.

We start again.

“I’m tired of being the one who has to hold your hand and wipe your tears and—”

“Bobby is dead!” I roar, staggering toward her. “If I want to cry about it, I’m damn well allowed to! And nobody asked you to hold my hand. I didn’t ask you to come here, Caroline.”

“I’m here because…”

I wait for it.

“Line!”

And on and on it goes.

Line.

Line.

Line.

We have the auditorium until ten-thirty, which leaves us another hour to rehearse. Normally Steven makes use of every available second. Tonight, he’s clearly had enough. He stands up and announces that rehearsal is over.

I’m surprised it took him this long.

“We’ll regroup tomorrow,” he says. “We’ve got the space from noon til three, so we can cover a lot more ground then. Read over the scenes a few more times, Mal. You really need to nail down your lines.”

“I’m so sorry, Steve,” Mallory moans. At least she has the decency to look embarrassed. “I didn’t get a chance to study the scene last night. I was preparing a monologue for Nigel’s class.” She sighs loudly. “I’m swamped right now.”

Welcome to college, I want to say, because come on, does she think she’s the only one with a heavy workload?

I’m taking a screenwriting course that requires me to write two scenes a week. My film theory prof assigns so many readings my eyes are starting to cross. For my audition workshop, we’re expected to prepare monologues every week; the seminar is designed to help student actors get comfortable and build confidence for the audition process, but apparently it’s too “easy” to let us use existing material to fake-audition with.

Needless to say, I’m equally swamped, but you don’t see me making excuses. Nope, I still find time to memorize a few measly pages of dialogue.

I’m happy that rehearsal is over, though. I’m too close to throttling Mallory, who doesn’t even say goodbye as she leaves the stage.

“We’ll do better tomorrow,” I assure Steven. I feel awful that we let him down today, because I know how serious he is about directing.

The first time we met, I teased him that he should be in front of the camera and not behind it. Seriously, the guy is gorgeous. Dark-chocolate skin, flawless features, mesmerizing eyes. He reminds me of Idris Elba minus the sexy British accent. But Steven isn’t interested in being an actor. He once told me that his goal is to win a Best Director Oscar by the time he’s forty.

“You’re not the one who needs to get better,” Steven replies. “You’re doing a terrific job.”

I tuck the compliment in my proverbial back pocket and exit the stage through the wings, digging into my bag as I walk. I find my phone, and my heart flips when I see a missed call from Ira. I’d called him last night for an update about the Cavanaugh play that I’m dying to audition for. I’m not certain it’s even happening or if it was just a rumor buzzing around Broadway, so I asked Ira to look into it.

I check the time. It’s nine-thirty, so that means six-thirty on the west coast. I know he’s still in LA because he texted earlier that he was “doing lunch” with the producer of the Fox pilot. I don’t know if I’m happy or disappointed that the producers let me send in a screen test. Luckily, I probably won’t hear back from them any time soon, since they aren’t officially casting until February.