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College is a safe place, just like my home was a safe place growing up. But not knowing what I’m going to do after I graduate leaves a gap where there used to be a sense of security, like a deep crevasse on a mountainside. So far, I’ve avoided looking down into the crevasse, but now, John’s dragged me to the edge and is asking me to stare right into its endless darkness.
I struggle to swallow around the lump in my throat and wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. “Well. Um. I’m considering a couple paths, truth be told. Maybe grad school for lighting design, or maybe just diving into the ‘real’ world and designingwherever the doors open up. I know technical theater isn’t a very . . . lucrative career. I don’t have any loans, and I don’t need to make a ton of money—obviously I got into the wrong field if that was my goal—but I also don’t have a trust fund to fall back on. Is there something in the field with more security?”
“Teaching is always an option.” John gestures around his office with a wave of his hand.
I press my lips together in a smile. Teaching isn’t exactly what I was hoping to do with my life, but he’s right. There is some security in it. Not just a steady paycheck, but health insurance too.
John leans back in his chair, arms crossed comfortably over his chest. “You could always try to get in with a local theater. They may not have an in-house designer position alone, but they would need a technical director, and that would include lighting design as well as set design, among other things. Actually, I just saw a position open up recently, not too far from here.” He wiggles his mouse to wake up the screen of his computer and clicks around a few times.
Whatever he clicks wakes up his behemoth of a printer from the early 2000s, which struggles as it spits out a sheet of paper. He hands it across the desk to me, and I scan the page. It’s a job listing for a technical theater director at a playhouse.
But I already know about this job.
Red Barn Playhouse is my hometown theater—the one I got my start in as a kid. The artistic director, Robert Wiggham, emailed me personally not two weeks ago to ask if I was interested in the job after graduating. The email has been burning a hole in my inbox, and the mounting pressure to respond is causing me more stress than it should.
It’s not my dream job, but I’m not sure how picky I’m allowed to be. It’s a stable job in the theater world, with benefits. Not to mention taking the job would mean I could live at home, save upsome money to live on my own eventually. My parents would be thrilled to have me stay with them, and I wouldn’t mind being at home.
“Yeah, that’s my hometown theater.”
Despite the security and the obvious benefits associated with this job, I’m finding it hard to muster the kind of enthusiasm the job listing warrants.
“Would you look at that!” John says. “For what it’s worth, I think you’d be amazing at this.”
It’s worth a lot. John Chappell’s opinion holds a lot of weight in my book. If he thinks I can do the job, I believe him. Everything I know I learned from him, and I have no doubt that if I ever need anything after graduating, he’ll always answer my calls.
“Thank you. I’ll definitely consider it,” I say, slipping the job description into my backpack.
“Let me give you this too before you go,” John says. He pauses to rummage around on his desk. When he finds what he’s looking for, he holds it out to me.
A thin stack of papers stapled together.
“This is a list—although not comprehensive—of theaters across the country who’ll be hiring crew of various kinds come next summer. It includes known summer stock opportunities former students here have taken, but some of the jobs are also internships, apprenticeships, and some are longer-term gigs. It’s obviously a bit early to be applying anywhere, but I wanted to give you time to explore options and consider all the possibilities.”
“Wow . . . thank you,” I mutter, flipping through the pages of theaters across the country listed on the front and back of each sheet. It’s almost overwhelming enough to make me pass this packet back across the desk and call Robert at Red Barn immediately.
“Take your time thinking about it. This is just the start of the conversation. You’ve got quite a few things to focus on this year, but I don’t want us to take our eyes off the future. My door is always open if you need to talk.”
“Thank you, John,” I say and tuck the packet into my backpack.
My mind spins with all the options as I leave the theater building in search of lunch. I don’t even know where to start sorting this out.
The ding of a text message pulls me out of my mental spiral.
Hey Ian, this is Anastasia, your director! First rehearsal is Thursday at 8 p.m. Can you confirm if that works for you?
I send her back a thumbs-up, but I don’t feel very “thumbs up.” In fact, the thought of facing my first rehearsal in three days sends my postgrad worries packing.
Forget planning for my future—I have to survive this one-act first.
3
JADE
“. . . and here’s a marvellous convenient place for our rehearsal.”Act III, Scene I
I’ve been itching for a week to find out who Ian Davidson is.
An extensive social media search came up empty, so I asked around the theater department as subtly as I could about my mysterious scene partner, but all I could get from people was “He’s that tech theater kid.”
