“You’ll do that, too,” said Coach.
After he got dressed, Thomas went over to Bradley Hall, to the theater.
He was expecting a bunch of people there, but the only ones present were Mr. Farnham, Landon Hopkins, and Nathan Somerville. The cast had had an early practice, too, and everyone else was gone.
The seats in Bradley Hall were in six sections. They were divided into thirds longitudinally by two aisles extending from the stage all the way to the back of the auditorium. They were also divided in half horizontally by another aisle that stretched from one side of the room to the other. Thomas stood at the intersection of the two aisles closest to the lobby door and watched Nathan read from the white covered Signet paperback. Landon read along with him. Mr. Farnham watched. All three were on the stage.
“But we have reason to cool our raging motions, our carnal stings or unbitted lusts, whereof I take this that you call love to be a sect or scion,” said Nathan.
“Si-on,” said Mr. Farnham. “The ‘c’ is silent.”
“Scion,” said Nathan correctly.
“It cannot be,” said Landon, reading.
“It is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will,” said Nathan. “Come, be a man! Drown thyself? Drown cats and blind puppies!” He stopped and lowered his book.
“That’s good,” said Mr. Farnham. “Why stop?”
“He’s here,” said Nathan, and he pointed his book outward toward Thomas.
“Terrific. Come on up here, Thomas.”
Mr. Farnham was wearing his usual white shirt and tie, but he had switched from loafers into Adidas running shoes. Nathan had on an Izod under a button-down shirt—the layered look. You weren’t required to wear a tie between the end of class and dinner, and after dinner you could also remove your tie. Nathan gave Thomas a grin as he walked up the side stairs onto the stage. It made Thomas feel better. He had been in this room a million times, but he’d never stood up here on the stage before. The room looked a lot smaller, the seats closer to the stage. He felt a little scared. But he also felt more important.
“You recognize where we are?” said Mr. Farnham.
Thomas did not.
“You mean you haven’t memorized the whole play yet?” said Nathan. He grinned again. Unlike his grandfather, Nathan had a real Southern drawl. Today he was not wearing his contacts, but some round wire-rims, like Richard’s, only bigger.
“I’m not even sure I’ll get a part,” said Thomas. But he’d spoken words up on the stage, and that was enough to relax him. Mr. Farnham explained that they were reading one of the scenes between Roderigo and Iago, where Iago is reducing love to mere lust.
“It’s a perfect example of the corruption of reason by passion,” said Mr. Farnham.
“I remember now,” said Thomas. “We did it in class. It’s that place where Iago talks about our bodies being like gardens.”
“Yes, yes, exactly,” Mr. Farnham said. He laughed gleefully as he said it. Mr. Farnham was odd. He was so damn moody. Everything was either a total crisis or the greatest event in history.
Landon handed Thomas the paperback and showed him what page they were on. Mr. Farnham said he didn’t want to do that scene for the audition.
“Roderigo doesn’t have many lines there,” he said. “Let’s do the opening scene instead.”
Thomas turned to Act I, Scene 1 and realized that Roderigo had the very first lines of the play. If he got the part, he would be the first person in the whole cast to speak.
“Just stand there,” said Mr. Farnham. “Turn out a little. I’m going to go out into the seats to listen and to watch.” He hopped down from the stage and moved out to the middle of the house. “Whenever you’re ready. Landon, read Brabantio. Use my book. Plenty of volume, Thomas.”
“Tush! Never tell me; I take it much unkindly/ That thou, Iago . . .” Thomas began to read the lines. At first it was awkward, but then he started to enjoy it.
“’Sblood, but you’ll not hear me,” responded Nathan as Iago. “If ever I did dream of such a matter,/ Abhor me.”
“Thou told me thou didst hold him in thy hate,” said Thomas, and he felt a rush of frustration, doubt, and petulance—but not, he realized at once, as himself. He was becoming Roderigo. He understood these lines. They read up to the part where Brabantio calls for torches.
“Good,” said Mr. Farnham from the seats. “Now read the last scene for Roderigo. One we haven’t gone over in class. The one where Iago kills him.”
It was Act V, Scene I.
Nathan was scary in that scene. It was as though he had decided to reveal some cruelty that he had kept hidden away for as long as Thomas had known him. He had a power about him, an evil determination that built Thomas’s own dread and anguish. When Thomas read his last lines—”O damn’d Iago! O inhuman dog!”—he found a loathing and a recognition and a horror in his voice. It was absolutely exhilarating.
Mr. Farnham geeked a little by jumping out of his seat and applauding wildly, but it was okay. Thomas and Nathan knew it had clicked. Even Landon was awed.
“That was really good,” said Landon. He sounded astonished.
“That was marvelous,” said Mr. Farnham. He climbed the stairs and joined them on the stage.
It was more than marvelous for Thomas. It was fun.
“Could I have the part?” he asked. “I’d really like to do it.”
Mr. Farnham said of course he could have the part. The question was only a matter of when he could rehearse.
“Tomorrow’s bad,” said Thomas. “We’ve got a game and a mixer.”
“What about Sunday?”
Nathan said Sunday was okay with him.
“Sunday at 3:00, then,” said Mr. Farnham. “We can rehearse the bits with Iago and Roderigo, and figure something out about the crowd scenes later on. This is going to be a memorable production.”
He was standing between Nathan and Thomas on the stage. With one hand he gently pinched the back
