When we finished, some of the kids broke into applause. Walker didn't say a word, just went on to the next group. I had probably ticked him off. I wondered what Mike was thinking. I was careful not to look at him; hoping for his approval seemed too much like competing with Liza.
The audition went on with Walker trying different combinations of actors. He dismissed us at four o'clock, a half hour early, instructing us to read the play once again for tomorrow. The cast would be posted in the morning.
Brian showed the group the way down to the back exit and we filed out quietly. As I reached the grass outside, someone yanked on me from behind, pulling my arm so hard it hurt, forcing me to turn around.
"That role was mine," Paul said.
I could have insisted that I didn't want to play Puck, but he wouldn't have believed me, and if I explained why I had interrupted the scene, I'd embarrass Tomas.
"My name is Jenny," I told him. "If you want me, call my name, okay?"
"There's only one girl I ever wanted."
I could guess who.
"Since you're new around here, Jenny, I'm going to give you some advice." He gazed at my mouth, the only feature of mine that was like Liza's. "Watch your step. Don't play too many games with people. Don't cross Walker. Last summer there was a talented actress who did, and she ended up dead."
For a moment I could say nothing. "If you mean Liza Montgomery, I believe she was the victim of a serial killer."
"That's what people say," Paul replied, walking past me. "That's what people say."
Keri and Mike hurried after Paul and a stream of campers followed. Realizing that I had better straighten things out with Brian and that this would be a good time to catch him alone, I ducked back inside Stoddard. I found him walking down the ground floor hall, deep in thought, jangling a ring of keys.
"Can I talk to you?"
Brian turned around. "Sure. What's up, Jenny?"
"I want to apologize. I shouldn't have gotten you involved with my stage fright stuff."
"No problem," he assured me.
"And I want to explain about playing Puck."
Brian grinned. "I have to admit you had me very confused for a moment, then I figured you were rescuing the fat guy."
"Tomas," I said, wanting Brian to use his name.
"Tomas. Really, there's no need to apologize. It was worth it to see someone stand up to Walker. Most people don't."
"Why does Walker act the way he does?" I asked. "One moment he's nice, the next moment, obnoxious and insulting."
"It's how he keeps control," Brian replied. "Walker would say it's how he gets the best from us. Since we never know what's coming next, we stay on our toes."
"Why do you put up with him?"
"Good question." Brian leaned against the stairway railing and smiled that slow-breaking smile of his. "Basically, for the money and experience. I can't go to L.A. broke. I can't go there with nothing on my resume."
"You mean to do film?"
He nodded. "Of course, it annoys Walker that I'd choose film over stage. It shouldn't matter to him, since he's always telling me I can't act. But Walker has this loyalty thing. The way he sees it, everyone is either for him or against him, there's no in-between. He takes everything personally."
I could imagine how personally he took Liza's response to him. "That's a narrow way of looking at the world."
"It's a very egotistical way," Brian replied. "And stupid. I mean, in the end, everybody is out there for himself. Sometimes it makes a person seem for you. Sometimes it makes a person seem against you."
"That's a very cynical view!"
"Probably." He smiled at me, then continued down the hall.
I'd had enough of theater types, and when I exited the building, I turned away from Drama House, heading left on Ink Street, the road that separated the quad from the houses, then taking another left on Scarborough, walking toward the main street of town. I remembered from Liza's e-mails that there was a cafe called Tea Leaves with terrific pastries and cappuccino.
Wisteria had to be the most peaceful town I'd ever strolled through. You could almost hear the flowering vines climbing their trellises. Every house had a sitting porch, every shop a tinkling bell on its door. Pedestrians moved much more slowly than in New York, adding to the sense of a town not subject to time. At the end of the long street of sycamores, sun glittered off the river. I walked all the way down to the harbor, then retraced my steps back to Tea Leaves.
The cafe was like a great-aunt's kitchen, with painted wood furniture and a linoleum tile floor, everything scrubbed clean. I had just settled down at a table with a chocolate doughnut and a cappuccino when I saw Tomas across the room from me, sitting by the big window. He gave me a small, selfconscious wave. I smiled back at him but stayed where I was.
When I looked up again, he was gazing intently out the window. His hand was moving quickly, sketching on an open pad. For fifteen minutes he managed to ignore the decadent pastry on his plate, drawing like a person possessed. I finished my doughnut and carried my cappuccino over to his table, wondering what he was working on.
"Hi."
He looked up and flushed. "Hi."
"May I sit with you?"
"Oh, uh, sure," he stammered and tried to clear a space quickly, knocking his backpack on the floor. It landed with a heavy thud. "Oh, nooo!" His head disappeared beneath the table, there was a lot of rustling around, then he popped up again. "Sorry."
"Everything okay?"
"I hope so."
"What do you have in your pack?" I asked curiously.
"Stuff. Sketch pads. Pencils. Pens. Chalks. A camera-two of them-color film and black and white. Lenses. They're in padded cases, they're okay."
"That's an awful lot to carry around."
"I like to be ready," Tomas explained. "You never know what kinds of interesting things you're going to see.
"I guess not." I leaned closer, trying to see his sketchpad, but he was practiced at covering his work with his arms. "May I look at what you're sketching?"
He glanced down at his drawing, then passed it over.
It was a street scene showing the buildings across from the cafe, an old movie theater, a Victorian-looking hotel, a restaurant, and a large brick home.
"Wow, you're really good!"
"When I sketch buildings," he agreed. "I've always been better with things than people."
"May I look at the rest of the sketches?" I asked.
He nodded. "It's a new book. There's just a couple."
Two of them were of Drama House, one of a tree and patch of brick walk, another of Stoddard Theater from the outside. I admired the way Tomas used lighting to create drama and emotion.
"You know how to give buildings and objects feeling," I said. "I guess that's what makes you a good set designer."
"I love doing art," he replied happily. "People look at what you produce, rather than at you."
I imagined that both acting and athletics were miserable activities for him.
"Thanks for earlier this afternoon," he went on. "I know why you interrupted the scene."
"It was fun," I said, taking a sip of cappuccino. "Walker is lucky to have a real artist in his troupe. I hope he figures that out."
Tomas flushed again and studied his pastry. I began to talk about New York and gradually he relaxed with me. We compared notes on schools and friends and art exhibits we had seen in the city. Finishing our snacks, we walked up and down Wisteria's streets, poking around in shops. Time slipped away and we had to rush back to the meal hall. When we carried our food trays to the table area, everyone else was already seated.