Page 25 of Intermission
Does my church do things on Wednesday nights? If they do, I don’t know about it. The Prescott family darkens the door on Christmas and Easter and maybe one or two other times throughout the year.
“Do you want to go through it again?” Noah’s question snaps me out of my church wonderings. I follow his lead, and we change keys and repeat the exercise two times before we mount the granite steps of the Leopold Opera House.
Once inside, I wait by the ticket booth as Noah sheds his coat andhangs it on a rack. The muffled sound of a piano filters beneath the auditorium door.
“Are we late?”
Noah checks his phone, which I could have done instead of asking him. Between dinner with a fellow musical theatre nerd—who happens to be hella cute—and the callback, I guess I’m a little distracted.
“We’re still a couple of minutes early,” he says, then tosses me another melty wink as he opens the auditorium door. “Break a leg.”
“Right back atcha.”
A triangle of light creeps into the auditorium ahead of us, widening to let us in.
“Where is everyone?” I whisper, but my voice must carry—thank you, wonderful acoustics—because the woman sharing the piano bench with Dr. Hitchings turns her head and stands.
Dr. Hitchings rises as well. “Ah, Mr. Spencer. Miss Prescott.” His reddish-white beard crimps the edges of his smile. “Excellent.” His eyes move back and forth between Noah and me as we follow the aisle to the front.
He casts a gaze at the woman I now recognize as the accompanist from the initial tryouts.
She nods. “Yes. Excellent.”
Dr. Hitchings’s grin widens.
“Dr. Hitchings.” Noah reaches a hand forward.
The director gives it a firm shake. “Call me Jeremiah.” He offers his hand to me, and I match his grip. “This is my wife, Nancy. She’s taking charge of choreography for the show. Nancy, this young man is Noah Spencer, and this charming young lady is Madeleine Prescott.”
Nancy Hitchings shakes our hands. “Very nice to meet you both.”
Dr. Hitchings hands each of us a music book and directs us to the correct page. “Shall we warm up a bit?”
I glance at Noah before saying, “We did some vocal warm ups on the way here.”
“Good, good. But to soothe me, we’ll do few little scales, eh?”
Dr. Hitchings sits down at the piano and guides Noah and me through a series of “La-la-la” and “Do-re-mi” scales.
“Good. Now let’s try the song.”
After one time through the duet “Sixteen Going on Seventeen,” he sends us to the stage and describes what he has in mind for the basic blocking of the scene and then retreats, taking the center seat in the front row. “Let’s take the scene from the top and lead right into the song.”
Blocking is always awkward. With no costumes, scenery, or props, my character is not as easy to grasp. I close my eyes and inhale, giving myself a moment to find her.
I am Liesl von Trapp. I am innocent, but not quite as innocent as everyone thinks. I am a naïve little flirt longing for my first romance. I am sixteen... going on seventeen.
I open my eyes.I can do this.
We read the scene once through, take a few directorial suggestions from Dr. Hitchings, and run it again.
“I believe it.” Nancy Hitchings’s comment fills the silence after the last note is struck.
“My thoughts exactly.” Her husband stands. “What do you say, Noah? Madeleine? Are you ready to join the cast?”
We exchange a glance. “Don’t you have other callbacks?” I ask.
“Done. Political formality.” Dr. Hitchings waves a dismissive hand. “I’d already made my decision. And now I know I was right. But just so you know,” he pauses, giving us a big smile, “if you two were a few years older, you’d be my Maria and my Captain Von Trapp, no contest.”
