Twenty minutes later—I knew because there was a crooked wall clock in the lobby—Mr. Campbell came out of the theater, his scarf trailing behind him. He smiled when he saw me, then grabbed the folding chair next to me, turning it around to sit backward in it. “The work of a director is never done,” he said with a chuckle, and I laughed—not because it was funny but because, I realized, I was supposed to.
“I actually can’t stay too long,” I said, starting to edge off my seat. “This was just—so fun, but it’s getting late, and I have to get a train—”
“But I haven’t even heard what you thought of the play! I’d love to get your review.” He gave me a smile and folded his arms, nodding for me to commence.
I took a deep breath—I knew exactly what I was supposed to do here. Like it was a character I was playing, I knew what was expected. For me to be gushing and over-the-top; complimentary and awed. Wide-eyed and dazzled.
It was like I could practically see the script flashing in front of me, and there was only one option as to how to play this. It was the same thing, I realized, when he was directing us. You could state an opinion, maybe argue a point or two, but in the end, you were going to play the role how he wanted you to play it. And if you fought against it, you didn’t get cast next time. Everyone knew it without anyone having to spell it out.
But tonight, this was a gear that I couldn’t quite find. The play had been so bad, and seeing it had made me miss getting to Stevie. And in light of those things, I couldn’t be the Kat who would have lied through her teeth and gushed over it. She suddenly felt like a whole other person. But the longer I wrestled with this, the longer my silence stretched on, which I knew was only making things worse. “It, um,” I said, trying desperately to think of something that wouldn’t involve me either telling the truth or lying, which was—not surprisingly—a difficult needle to thread. “It reminded me of that really old movie? The Big Chill? Have you seen it?”
“I’ve seen The Big Chill,” he said, starting to sound annoyed. “And I’m not sure I’d call it really old, but…” He stopped and shook his head.
The theater door opened and one of the actresses stuck her head out. “Are we cut?” she asked. “Bob needs to get his ferry.”
“In a minute!” Mr. Campbell snapped. She rolled her eyes before disappearing and letting the door swing closed. He turned to me, his smile looking very fixed, and I had the distinct feeling that I was suddenly on thin ice. “Kat,” he said, raising an eyebrow and folding his arms again. “Did you have any thoughts about the play—about my work—that you want to share?” He looked at me expectantly.
I nodded, trying to prepare myself to do this, to tell him what he wanted to hear. But all at once, the line from King Lear—the one that I’d loved right from the very first read—flashed into my head. I cannot heave my heart into my mouth. Cordelia couldn’t fawn on cue. And neither, it seemed, when it came down to it, could I.
“I just…,” I started. I didn’t want to be cruel—there was no need to be. But I also wasn’t going to lie. And suddenly, in that moment, I was very aware that I shouldn’t be asked to. “Maybe it just wasn’t for me,” I finally said, and Mr. Campbell flushed red, all the way up to his hairline. “Since it’s really about adult themes,” I continued, trying to stick to the facts as much as possible. “I’m probably not the audience for it.”
Mr. Campbell just looked at me for a moment, then shook his head. “No, you’re probably not,” he said, his voice colder than he’d ever used with me. “There’s a reason I don’t tell you kids about this.”
“Right,” I said, giving him a quick smile and preparing to go. “So I should—”
“I mean,” he said, with a short laugh, “why am I even asking your opinion anyway? Like you know anything about theater? You’re a child. And I’m sorry if it wasn’t up to your lofty standards, Katrina. But I should have known better than to ask.”