The Absurdity of Fairy Tales

four

..

You're always there,

Waiting in the back of my mind,

The shadow (I) wish I could forget,

The part of me I (miss) in every cell.

And I just can't let (you) go.

..

A couple days after casting goes up, Cal texts Del and I and asks—nay, demands—that we meet her backstage to rehearse. Both of us agree with minimal complaining, because beneath her veneer of bubbling excitement, we know Cal's nervous as hell about getting the lead. It's crazy because everyone and their dog's long-lost second cousin knows she belongs on stage, but she's always been like that, afraid of messing up or failing or not making it or whatever else. What she doesn't realize is that she's her own harshest critic. God, even those Broadway critics who reduce starlets to tears on the front page of The New York Times can't be as shit to her as she is to herself.

So I say goodbye to Nick after History and follow Delilah down to the auditorium. But we've both forgotten how to navigate through the labyrinth of backstage over the summer, and by the time we find the right door to the right room, Cal's full-blown impatient.

"Took you long enough," she snaps as Del closes the door behind us, running a jerky hand over her hair. She's already in 'costume': a worn leather jacket from last year's production of Grease, smudged eyeliner, and some red lipstick that makes her feel 'super-duper foxy-awesome-hot' (quote-unquote). "Christ, guys, did you detour to China or something?"

I sit down across from her and give her a one-fingered salute. She responds with a glare and something that sounds a lot like 'fucking asshole' as I search around my bag for my script. "We got lost, Callaia," I tell her calmly when I finally find it, dog-eared and crumbled under my English binder.

I'm wading into dangerous waters; Cal goes by Cal and Cal only, and most of the time, you'll either get a) an insult, b) the bird, c) a punch in the face, or d) all of the above if you call her anything else. Nolan can attest to that; at a party in sophomore year, he called her Callaia over and over again until she punched him in the face. Sometimes, when Cal gets mad at him now, he jokes that his cheekbone is preemptively feeling pain.

Del snorts, idly thumbing through the pages of her own script. "Now, now, children," she says before Cal can work up to full Hulk Smash mode. "Let's not fight."

Cal gives Del a sour look, but Del, only too used to her best friend—she's been putting up with Cal since middle school—merely sighs and asks what we're rehearsing.

"I was thinking the bathroom scene," Cal answers, script already out and opened to the page. There's a rainbow of sticky notes sticking out from the pages, and her lines are marked off with blue highlighter. I purse my lips as I flip through my own script to find the scene. When Cal can't sleep, she goes over her script, pouring over lines and marking off areas she thinks she needs to practice more. And based on the bags under her eyes, she's had a lot of sleepless nights.

"Ready?" she asks when we've caught up to her. Del nods, watching Cal's face.

"Ready," I say, and we begin.

Cal clears her throat and lets her eyes flutter shut for one moment. When she opens them again, she's not Cal anymore—she's Lydia Mason.

It always amazes me to watch her acting. Everyone knows she's the best because she just is. She throws herself into a character completely, disappearing into it entirely and leaving no trace of herself behind. It's like you don't ever really see her when she's off the stage, like she's always just a little bit blurry and out of focus. But then she gets on stage and she's all you can see; she's sharpened and everyone else is a little duller, a little less bright, because of course you can't look away from her. Not when she's pouring every bit of herself into the role.