Biff jumped up, ran to the stage, and began auditioning for the part of Lear, too.
“‘O, let me be not mad, not mad, sweet heaven!’” he bellowed, tearing at his hair and stumbling around the stage. He lurched downstage toward me and delivered the next line right in my face: “‘Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!’”
“Never, never, never, never, never,” muttered Matthew.
Clarissa walked to the edge of the stage, took Biff by the arm, and led him to the stairs at the side. “You have wonderful enthusiasm, Biff,” she said. Biff left the stage a happy boy.
I sank into my seat and avoided looking at the stage from then on. Clarissa found something nice to say about everyone, but Matthew’s comments on the performances grew more bitter as the auditions progressed. He exercised his most cutting sarcasm on anyone who tried out for the part of Lear. As the afternoon went on, Matthew’s gestures and his bitter laugh grew wilder and wilder, his hair flew out in all directions, his shirt came out of his pants. He seemed to be going nuts.
I occupied myself with writing furiously on a pad that Clarissa had put onto a clipboard for me, keeping my head down and maintaining, I hoped, the appearance of an intense concentration that should not be interrupted, while in fact I was just writing a description of my camera. Nearly everyone in the fourth grade must have tried out for at least one part, and Wilbur Carpenter, whose mother showed up to watch the auditions, tried out for six, including Kent, the Fool, Edmund the Bastard, and all three daughters. I had come to think of the auditions as an endless torture. I didn’t realize that they were over until Matthew shook me.
“Peter! Peter!” he said. “Everyone’s waiting to hear who you picked!”
I looked at him beseechingly, and thought of begging for more time, but Clarissa was on the stage and already beginning to speak in her tiny voice. “Peter is going to announce his choices for the various parts,” she said.
I stood and made my way to the stage. I faced the audience.
“Well—” I said.
I looked at my notes.
“Well—” I said, again. I just stood there for a while, hoping that we might have a fire drill.
“Well what?” Biff called out.
“Well—ahhhhhh—well done!” I said.
I looked at my clipboard and flipped through the pages. I said, “Um—you know—ah—while I was watching the auditions—I—uh—couldn’t help thinking that—that watching people try out for parts is—um—a lot like taking a roll of snapshots.
“You really can’t be sure which of your snapshots is the best one on the roll until you get the film back from the camera shop, isn’t that true?” Since they were disposed to agree with anything I said, there was a lot of enthusiasm for this idea. I thought of saying a few words about the intriguing X-ray machine down at the Buster Brown store, which let you see a picture of the bones in your feet right through your shoes, but I couldn’t come up with a way to tie it in, so I let it go, with some reluctance.
“What I’ve decided to do,” I said, pointing to my head, “is take this roll of film home and spend the weekend developing it to see which snapshots are the best.” There were a lot of puzzled looks at this. “In other words,” I said, speaking rapidly and starting for the stairs at the side of the stage, “I’ll go through the notes I took on your auditions and think about them very carefully and then announce my choices next week.” I began moving down the aisle as quickly as I could without actually running. I waved my clipboard at the crowd and said “Thanks for coming, everybody.” I let myself out the door, and then I did start running.
Mrs. Graham burst through the doors and called out to me. “Peter! Peter!” she called, in that voice full of pleasure and excitement that was beginning to send chills down my spine. “Oh, don’t run off, Peter, don’t run off. Come here to me.”
I stopped running and turned toward her.
“Oh, Peter, Peter,” she said. “Isn’t this exciting?”
“Oh, yeah,” I said.
“I noticed that you were taking lots of notes,” said Mrs. Graham. “Why don’t we look through those together?”
“Uh—well,” I said, squirming.
“Oh, you’re right,” she said. “We don’t have much time. Here: I made a list of everyone who auditioned. I’ll just read through my notes with you quickly.”
The bell rang, so Mrs. Graham had no time to read through her notes with me. She gathered her things quickly and followed me outside. She fumbled in her briefcase, spilling homework papers onto the driveway, and found the notes she had taken. She gave the notes to me, and I started off for home as quickly as I could. When I looked back over my shoulder to see if anyone was following me, I saw Mrs. Graham and several boys and girls running around gathering up the homework papers.
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🎧 147: Biff jumped up . . .