Cut the Lights

CUT
THE
LIGHTS

Karen Krossing

Copyright © 2013 Karen Krossing

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical,
including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and
retrieval system now known or to be invented, without permission in
writing from the publisher.

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Krossing, Karen, 1965-
Cut the lights [electronic resource] / Karen Krossing.

(Orca limelights)

Electronic monograph.
Issued also in print format.
ISBN
978-1-4598-0414-2 (
PDF
).--
ISBN
978-1-4598-0415-9 (
EPUB
)

I. Title. II. Series: Orca limelights (Online)
PS
8571.
R
776
C
87 2013      j
C
813'.6      
C
2013-901912-
X

First published in the United States, 2013
Library of Congress Control Number: 2013935386

Summary:
Briar has been chosen to direct a one-act play at her
performing arts high school, but she learns there's more to it than imposing
her vision on the cast and crew.

Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for
its publishing programs provided by the following agencies:
the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund and the
Canada Council for the Arts, and the Province of British Columbia
through the BC Arts Council and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

Design by Teresa Bubela
Cover photography by Getty Images

www.orcabook.com

16   15   14   13   •   4   3   2   1

For Paige and Tess, who shared their stories.

Contents

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Acknowledgments

One

A tidy kitchen. Early morning. A vase of lilies sits on the granite countertop
.

My parents chew their oatmeal without talking. Dad stares steadily out the window at the lilac blooms. Mom reads the newspaper folded beside her bowl. Upstairs, Mom's much younger sister, Darla, thumps from room to room, hollering about a lost nose ring, threatening to bring her chaos downstairs.

I slip on my new glasses—red cat's-eye frames, no lenses—and position myself near the sink so I can see the table and hall.

“Glasses?” My mother looks puzzled. “But your eyes are fine, Briar.”

“Yup. They have no lenses, so I can see clearly.” I poke my fingers out through the eyeholes and wiggle them around. “It's symbolic.”

“Why are you wearing them?” Her nose wrinkles.

“Is this a trend at that school of yours?” Dad lowers his spoon.

“Trends are for followers,” I explain, even though it's pointless. “These glasses remind me to think like a theater director—they frame the scene.”

Mom pinches her lips together.

“You're still talking about directing?” Dad's tone of voice says he hopes I'll outgrow it.

“Yup.” I pour myself a glass of mango juice, imagining a rosy future where my parents accept my dreams as more than whimsy. Impossible, I know, but before you judge them, try to understand. Dad is a bookkeeper. Not a useless profession; even theater directors need to track budgets and maybe even ticket sales. Mom's job is more baffling—she's an office manager at a sock company. The place is painfully practical—unless you make sock puppets and put on a show. I got in trouble for doing that on “Take Your Kid to Work” day.

“Where would you get a job as a director?” Dad asks.

I'm ready with numbers—it helps to speak his language. “Did you know that last year there were 227 productions in this city?” I down my juice and pocket a granola bar for later.

“Really.” Dad frowns.

“That includes 187 professional companies with 62 venues and over 38,000 seats, not including outdoor venues, theaters with less than 400 seats or comedy clubs.”

“You seem to know what you're talking about.” Dad raises his eyebrows.

“Yup.” I smile, just as my aunt Darla clomps down the stairs in her high-heeled boots. I adjust my glasses, ready to view the full impact of the upcoming drama.

“Morning.” Darla twists her nose ring into place.

Dad grimaces and Mom nods. I wave hello, admiring how the sunlight cuts between Darla and my parents, dividing the kitchen in two. As Darla turns to the coffeemaker, her oversized fair-trade bag from Nepal knocks over the vase on the island.

“Darla!” Mom leaps to catch the vase. She ends up with her blouse drenched and lilies spilling down her front, but she catches the vase before it shatters.

Darla swings around, wide-eyed. “Did I do that?”

If this were a stage, I'd put a mic over the island to capture the dialogue.

Dad sighs and rubs his eyes.

Mom grabs a clean dishtowel and starts mopping up water, her forehead creased.

“Let me help.” Darla plucks lilies off the floor, setting them in the vase at bizarre angles. “I've got a job interview with Finders Keepers this morning—they find odd props for
TV
commercials. Maybe this time I'll get lucky!” Darla calls herself an actress, although she hardly ever gets called for auditions anymore. Now she's trying to get a behind-the-scenes job.

“Maybe this time you'll keep a job for more than two weeks,” Dad mutters. He hates it when Darla is out of work because she always moves in with us. She's been here two months this time—long enough to set him on edge.

Mom rearranges the jumbled flowers while giving Darla a disapproving look. “Why can't you get an ordinary job like everyone else?”

I consider reblocking the scene—turning Darla's body toward the audience, and moving Dad so Mom's not masking him.

“Why would I want to do that?” Darla plants her hands on her hips.

I leave for school, promising myself I'll be anything but ordinary.

A school hallway buzzes with students. Ten minutes to first class.

Sonata, the best actor in the school, waltzes past in a white minidress with strategic rips in all the right places. A guy dressed like Alfred Hitchcock films a kid with a purple mohawk. Two grade-twelve girls sing
Phantom of the Opera
songs at full volume. Like Principal Racier says at every assembly, “You can be anything you want at Whitlock School of the Arts.”

Ratna waits by my locker, fidgeting. She's petite, fine-boned, a brilliant playwright and my best friend.

“Nice glasses.” She tucks her black, bobbed hair behind her ears.

“Thanks. They're my director frames.”

Ratna shoots me a sideways look, but it's brief. My glasses may seem radical compared to my plain jeans and
Stage Crew
T-shirt, but I'm not that weird for Whitlock. Last year, I joined the stage crew so I'd know enough about lighting and sound to direct a play this year.

“I'm hoping my glasses bring me good luck today.” I cross my fingers and toes. “Is the list up?” Mr. Ty, the lead drama teacher, promised to post the list of student-written plays and student directors selected for this year's Whitlock Fringe Festival “at first light on April third”—his exact words.

“Not yet.” Ratna chews a fingernail. “But we should look again.”

“Definitely.”

As we link arms and march toward the drama office, I swallow hard.
Wish Upon a Star
, written by Ratna and to be directed by me, just has to be listed. It would be my directorial debut, apart from short skits in drama classes. It's only a one-act play, but I know I can still create a masterpiece of sound, lights, set and performance.

“I want to cast Sonata for the lead,” I say, to distract myself from the idea that we might not get listed.

“Every director will want her, Briar. You'll never get her.”

“I will when she reads the lines you wrote.” I elbow her.

Ratna smiles at the compliment. “But she always works with Lorna.”

“Hey, seniors aren't the only talent in this school,” I say, even though Lorna's an awesome director.

“I know.” Ratna shrugs.

We walk in silence.

“If we don't get picked, will you audition?” she asks.

“Never.” I make a face. “I hate acting.” I don't mention that acting makes me nervous.

“But you take drama!”

“Only because I want to direct. Directing has more…” I pause to find the right words. “Artistic control. With
Wish Upon a Star
, I was thinking—” I break off as we round the corner and see a crowd gathered outside Mr. Ty's office.

“The list!” Ratna grabs my hand.

“Only seven plays selected.”

“More than thirty submitted.”

I frown. “Let's get it over with.”

As we get closer, my stomach lurches and my canvas Toms shoes feel like lead. I wish everyone would vanish—I won't be able to bear the humiliation if Ratna and I aren't listed.