“Marcela,” Mr. Shaw said. “You’re raw. Too raw, sometimes. You almost lost control on the last line.”
The door swung shut. The room felt emptier already.
Behind her came Ethel.
The tension broke like a snapped string. Clara actually clapped her hands together once. Mr. Shaw took off his glasses and cleaned them, even though they weren’t dirty. casting marcela 13 y ethel 15 y
Fifteen, taller by a head, with the quiet stillness of someone who had learned to take up very little space. Her hair was long and straight, tucked behind her ears. She carried a folded piece of paper, though she didn’t look at it. Her eyes moved across the room slowly, cataloging exits, lights, the faces behind the table.
“You said you’d tell them,” Marcela said, her voice suddenly tight, younger. “At breakfast. You put your hand on mine and you said, ‘After school, I’ll tell them.’ But you didn’t. You walked right past the car.”
Marcela entered first. She was small for thirteen, with dark curly hair pulled into a messy ponytail and scuffed sneakers that squeaked on the polished floor. Her hands were in her jacket pockets, but her chin was high. She didn’t look nervous—she looked like she was counting the distance to the stage in her head. “Marcela,” Mr
Marcela stepped closer. Her sneakers squeaked once, then stopped. “You’re all I have. If you leave, I’m just… there. With them. Alone.”
The Last Audition
Mr. Shaw put his glasses back on. He looked at Clara, then at Leo. Leo shrugged, but he was smiling now. Too raw, sometimes
Marcela took a breath. Then she turned to Ethel.
Marcela grabbed her script. Ethel picked hers up slowly, as if it might disappear.
Ethel didn’t flinch. She looked at the floor, then slowly lifted her gaze. “Because Mom was crying in the driveway, Marcela. What was I supposed to do? Walk up and say, ‘By the way, I’m not coming home next fall’?”
Marcela turned her back. Ethel didn’t move. And for three long seconds, no one behind the table breathed.