Page 16 of Intermission

“What’s this about you trying out for a role inMacbeth?” Dad already has the paper open and is perusing the financial section.

“NotMacbeth.The Sound of Music. The Leopold Community Theatre is putting it on this winter, and I’m trying out for the part of Liesl.”

“What’s that got to do withMacbeth?”

“Nothing, dear. Read your paper.” Mom grants me a silent smile. “So, did you eat a good breakfast?”

“Yep.”

“Protein?”

“Um, I guess. I’d have to check the box.”

“Faith, protein is brain food. You need protein in the morning. How about I whip up a couple of egg white omelets?”

“But it’sSaturday.”

“So?” Mom arches an eyebrow.

“I don’t use as much of my brain on Saturday. Besides, egg white omelets are gross.”

“Hear, hear!” Dad raises his mug.

“You should practice what you preach,DoctorPrescott.” Mom points a finger at her husband. “What would your patients say if they knew what you—”

“Janet, I really don’t think it will kill me if I have a yolk in my omelet on Saturday morning.” He sets his paper down. “Besides...”

Like clockwork, the regular Saturday morning argument begins. Regardless of his title of cardiologist, I’m pretty sure Dad would go for donuts and frothy cappuccinos on the weekends if he could get away with it, but Mom doesn’t believe in varying nutritional content based on the day of the week.

I see my opportunity to escape and take it. My parents will likely debate weekend nutrition for the next fifteen minutes at least, and by the time they’re finished, Dad will be choking down three spears of asparagus wrapped in a tasteless, unsalted white omelet, just like Mom. Neither will notice that their youngest child has left the table.

Once upstairs, I finish drying my hair and brush my teeth. After a quick but careful application of blush, mascara, and ice-pink lip gloss, I dock my phone and soak inThe Sound of Musicsoundtrack until it’s time to go.

It’s about a seven-minute drive from Parre Hills to Kanton and another fifteen or so minutes to the slightly larger small town of Leopold. The Opera House, located off the town square, is easy to find. Nearby parking, however, is not. On my fourth time around the square, I finally spot someone’s reverse lights in front of a small pharmacy.

I can see my breath as I cross the square and mount the granite steps of the Opera House. Once inside the large building, I’m greeted by a middle-aged man who directs me to a table to collect a questionnaire card and a practice schedule.

Pulling a pen from my purse, I inscribe my contact information on the card, wondering if my address alone will disqualify me from serious consideration. Leopold’s community theatre has a reputation for casting hometown leads for every production, often leads who also contribute generously to the theatre fund. It’s unlikely a sixteen-year-old girl from the rival school will be cast in a role larger than “chorus,” if she’s cast at all.

But it doesn’t hurt to try.

I hand the completed card to the smiling, gray-haired lady sitting behind the table. The woman scans the information and then looks up at me with a raised eyebrow—and a cooler smile than before.

“You’re from Kanton, I see.”

I hold in my sigh. “Yes.”

“And you’re trying out for the part of Liesl.”

“Yes.”

The woman sniffs and sets the card in a stack. “They’ll call your name when it’s your turn. You’ll be asked to read with Dr. Hitchings, and then you’ll be asked to sing.”

“Dr. Hitchings?”

“Our new director. He’s not from Leopold.” The woman’s frown suggests that to originate from anywhere but Leopold is the eighth deadly sin. “We certainly miss Mrs. Arbuckle. Francine Arbuckle, our old director. Twenty-two years she directed our little theatre. She was born and raised in Leopold, you know. Spent her whole life here.” The woman shakes her head. “But her health forced her to move in with her daughter this past winter. In Arizona.”

“Oh.”