Alexander exhaled a stream of smoke and flicked his spliff away. “Lucky you,” he said, and shoved Richard off the dock.
He hit the water with a monstrous splash, which sent water crashing over all of us. The girls squealed and threw their arms over their heads, while James and I yelped in surprise. A moment later we were all sopping wet, laughing and applauding Alexander, too loud to hear Richard swearing when his head burst through the surface again.
We lingered by the water for another hour before, one by one, we began the slow climb back to the Castle. I was the last man standing on the dock. I didn’t believe in God, but I asked whoever was listening not to let Richard’s prediction jinx us. A good year was all I wanted.
SCENE 5
Eight in the morning was far too early for Gwendolyn.
We sat in a ragged circle, legs folded like storybook Indians, yawning and clutching mugs of coffee from the refectory. Studio Five—Gwendolyn’s lair, festooned with colorful tapestries and cluttered with scented candles—was on the second floor of the Hall. There was no furniture to speak of, but instead a generous collection of floor pillows, which only increased the temptation to stretch out and sleep.
Gwendolyn arrived her usual quarter after the hour (“fashionably late,” she always told us), swathed in a spangled shawl, gold rings thick as knuckle dusters gleaming on her fingers. She was brighter than the pale morning sun outside and almost painful to look at.
“Good morning, darlings,” she trilled. Alexander grunted half a greeting, but nobody else replied. She stopped, standing over us, hands on her bony hips. “Well, this is just shameful. It’s your first day of class—you ought to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.” We stared at her until she flung her hands up and said, “On your feet! Let’s go!”
The next half hour was devoted to a series of painful yoga positions. Gwendolyn, for a woman in her sixties, was disturbingly limber. As the minute hand inched toward the nine, she straightened up from her King Pigeon Pose with an ecstatic sigh that must have made someone besides me uncomfortable.
“Isn’t that better?” she said. Alexander grunted at her again. “I’m sure you’ve all missed me over the summer,” she continued, “but we’ll have plenty of time to catch up after convocation, so I’d like to dive right in and let you know that things are going to work a little differently this year.”
For the first time, the class (besides Alexander) showed signs of life. We shifted, sat up straighter, and began to really listen.
“So far, you’ve been in the safe zone,” Gwendolyn said. “And I feel it’s only fair to warn you that those days are no more.”
I looked sideways at James, who frowned. I couldn’t tell if she was being her usual dramatic self or if she really meant to make a change.
“You know me by now,” she said. “You know how I work. Frederick will coax and cajole you all day long, but I’m a pusher. I’ve pushed you and pushed you, but”—she held up one finger—“never too far.” I didn’t entirely agree. Gwendolyn’s teaching methods were merciless, and it wasn’t unusual for students to leave her class in tears. (Actors were like oysters, she explained when anyone wanted justification for this emotional brutality. You had to crack their shells and break them open to find the precious pearls inside.) She plowed ahead. “This is your last year and I’m going to push you as far as I have to. I know what you’re capable of, and I’ll be damned if I don’t drag it out of you by the time you leave this place.”
I shared another nervous look, this time with Filippa.
Gwendolyn adjusted her shawl, smoothed her hair, and said, “Now, who can tell me—what is our biggest impediment to good performance?”
“Fear,” Wren said. It was one of Gwendolyn’s many mantras: On the stage, you must be fearless.
“Yes. Fear of what?”
“Vulnerability,” Richard said.
“Precisely,” Gwendolyn said. “We’re only ever playing fifty percent of a character. The rest is us, and we’re afraid to show people who we really are. We’re afraid of looking foolish if we reveal the full force of our emotions. But in Shakespeare’s world, passion is irresistible, not embarrassing. So!” She clapped her hands and the sound made half of us jump. “We banish the fear, beginning today. You can’t do good work if you’re hiding, so we’re going to get all of the ugliness out in the open. Who’s first?”
We sat in surprised silence for a few seconds before Meredith said, “I’ll go.”
“Perfect,” Gwendolyn said. “Stand up.”
I eyed Meredith uneasily as she climbed to her feet. She stood in the middle of our little circle, shifting her weight from foot to foot until she found her balance, tucking her hair out of the way behind her ears—her usual method of centering herself. We all had one, but few of us could make it look so effortless.
“Meredith,” Gwendolyn said, smiling up at her. “Our guinea pig. Breathe.”
Meredith swayed on the spot, as if at the push and pull of a breeze, eyes closed, lips slightly parted. It was strangely relaxing to watch (and, at the same time, strangely sensual).
“There,” Gwendolyn said. “Are you ready?”
Meredith nodded and opened her eyes.
“Lovely. Let’s start with something easy. What is your greatest strength as a performer?”
Meredith, normally so confident, hesitated.
Gwendolyn: “Your greatest strength.”
Meredith: “I guess—”
Gwendolyn: “No guessing. What is your greatest strength?”
Meredith: “I think—”
Gwendolyn: “I don’t want to hear what you think, I want to hear what you know. I don’t care if you sound stuck up, I care what you’re good at, and as a performer you need to be able to tell me. What is your greatest strength?”