Chapter 27 – Not Ready to Make Nice

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The first lesson of the Arts Block after the Final Callback list was inked and finalised was very different from the anticipation of the openings, the fatigue of the middle weeks, and finally, the anxiety of the last two weeks.

 

Now that the roles were chosen, some students fell into their assigned positions with gusto, while others resigned themselves to defeat. Facing deflating morale, Costello had to double down on the significance of each and every role within a theatrical company, while downplaying the obvious significance of the chosen “few”.

 

For the latter, he chose to focus the rehearsals on the technical aspects of the performance, rather than on the individual performances of Eppie, Chloe and James.

 

The black box theatre was thus stripped bare, leaving only the centre stage and the lighting.

 

James Jules, the student who had won the role of Creon, stood six feet at fifteen with a shocking head of blonde hair in a style popular in the mid 2000s. He had trained with a dance company in his youth, and thus carried himself with a regal poise that few other students could match.

 

He sat on a box, miming the work of a man surrounded by paperwork.

 

On cue, Atkinson conjured the ambient sound of a press conference through Kimberly.

5000K daylight, akin to the cold, clinical white of a TV studio, or simply ‘a hard, daylight-white spotlight. controlled by Min-jun, thrusts the Secretary of State into the spotlight.

 

“Captain Polyneices has been removed from the board because he has chosen to make himself a threat. A threat to our theatre of operations in the region. A threat to his comrades in arms, and a threat to the reputation of the United States as an uncompromising source of stability. By communicating with you, Antigone, who has released unredacted logs of his final communication, your brother has made YOU a danger to the safety of the state.”

 

Eppie’s body was shaking. In her own pool of weak light, she looked more vulnerable than ever. When she gazed upward at Creon, however, the atmosphere around her changed into one of righteous retribution. “My brother wasn’t a traitor.”

 

Her voice was low and controlled, a vibrato that seemed like a whisper, and yet was audible to her audience.

 

“He was a true American. He followed his orders, but couldn’t live with his conscience. Your own Marine manuals explicitly state the duties of a soldier, not even an officer, in their own doctrines of war…”

Each take of Antigone abridged lasted about five to ten minutes, with Costello remarking upon the performance, and Atkinson delivering his verdicts and adjustments. Even with the actors giving it their all, there was still much more to do before the play was polished. From the Chorus’ murmurs to Kimberly’s live-tuning of atmospheric ambience.

 

At the end of the session, Costello called out for her, asking her to remain.

 

“Sir?” Eppie had thirty minutes before she met with Zara.

 

“Fontaine,” Dr Craig Costello waited until the room was cleared before he spoke again. “Is everything alright?”

 

“Alright, sir?” Eppie asked, studying her instructor’s face.

 

A masterful actor himself, the man genuinely looked concerned.

 

“You had a moment with Miss Sanders,” Costello pushed up his glasses. “I am wondering if you are carrying some of that emotion into your playing of Antigone. You, a young woman of immense pride, and Valorie, whose father is partially responsible for… our new rooms and equipment. It’s a difficult parallel to ignore.”

 

An interesting icebreaker… Eppie smiled and made herself smaller. “Miss Sanders has some disagreements with me outside of school. I sold a few songs to Sony and received a few accolades that displeased Miss Sanders. In all honesty, I have no idea what I should do.”

 

“Yes, I am aware of your extracurricular activities,” Costello took off his glasses and held them with one hand. With a more serious expression, he looked up at her. The middle-aged American-Italian was a good-looking guy, Eppie noted. Like Superman, the glasses were a part of his scholarly act to appear wiser and less attractive to the very impressionable students. “I listened to your song. It’s an excellent song, Miss Fontaine. Thank you for creating it.”

 

“You’re welcome,” she performed a little curtsey.

 

“Now, on the matter of Miss Sanders,” Costello pointed toward the room, meaning the school and its architecture. “I want to give you some perspective, as I had done for a predecessor. Since its inception under Dr Laurent, LAPA had scraped by, free from politics, free from donations, free from contractors. Then, we acquired fame and accolades, and prestige, and ironically, pressure from our alumni. The same year the Berlin Wall fell, Principal Burton was outvoted by the PA, and LAPA began its glorious foray into the 2000s as a hybrid institution. Principal Burton attempted to balance the student body with skill-based, needs-based, and customer-based students, and by the loss of what was once a full head of hair, he had succeeded.”

 

Eppie listened to the old man’s yarn with a sympathetic face. It certainly helped that she could imagine herself conversing with Dr Doug Ross. For an old bird like herself, prime Clooney was simply—chef kiss.

 

“So…” Costello did not like how her eyes glowed. “Sanders isn’t going to be the last of her kind you’ll meet in showbiz. You can’t fight their kind, Eppie. There’s no end to their resources. Even asymmetrically, you’ll expend so much of your time and effort just trying to stay on your own two feet that everything else will suffer. Your music, your theatre, your mental health— we romanticise about Antigone, but the reality far favours Creon.”

 

At least the man’s honest. Eppie nodded with sympathy. Costello needn’t worry, however, as when things take on mass, they are bound to acquire a quality all on their own. In the world of their present Information Age, fame and reputations were as Archimedes’ famous fulcrum, that “Give me a lever long enough…. and I shall move the world.”

 

“Sir, I absolutely understand what you are saying,” she replied with resonant respect. “But before I take your advice, could I ask an intrusive question?”

 

“You may,” her instructor looked unfazed.

 

“Did you also tell this to Luciana Mio?”

 

Her instructor was now fazed.

 

“Can you tell me about Luciana?” Eppie struck while the iron was hot. “From one Antigone to another.”

 

They regarded one another.

 

“I think I walked into that one,” Costello broke character with a tired, weary laugh. “I guess it makes more sense for you to be interested in your predecessor than not. What would you like to know?”

 

“Well, did Luciana stand up to Miss Sanders?”

 

“She did,” Costello’s voice grew tense. “She never let up in class, nor in the auditions. Dr Cooper had placed immense hope on Luciana. She was, in a sense, the living proof that talent and personality trumped privilege.”

 

“Then she quit.”

 

“Mio never actually withdrew,” Costello informed her of a detail that surprised Eppie. “She applied for a sabbatical, then never came back. We could not contact her or her emergency contact. Dr Cooper and I even went to her family’s restaurant and home address, but alas…”

 

Her instructor’s blue-grey eyes grew gradually serious and very arresting. “… You’re an exceptional student, Eppie. I don’t think you need me to go into explicit details to understand why we’re having this conversation. I am ashamed to say that there isn’t much more I or the faculty can do for you. Even if we help you fend off Miss Sanders, there’s still your Junior and Senior year. There will be a new intake of students. A few will be special admissions, and a great deal more will be fee-paying admissions. Their parents will own agencies, studios, production houses, or be famous industry insiders. Will you fight every Creon you come across? Antigone doesn’t have nine lives.”

 

I am not trapped in here with them, they’re trapped in here with me—was the truth that Eppie wanted to tell her instructor. With her knowledge of economics, trends and the wealth of her old world, the only thing saving those people was ironically, the [System].

 

“I think I understand,” she smiled at her teacher. “I’ll take the utmost care when dealing with Miss Sanders.”

 

Costello’s body moved from bound flow to free flow via a bittersweet smile and an affirming nod, yielding to gravity. “Good girl. Look. You live on campus. If things get rough, you’re welcome to find Dr Cooper and me in the staff rooms. We’re old dogs, but we still have a few tricks up our sleeve, so long as Miss Sanders is a student of LAPA. Outside of the school, though—I fear, that’s Creon’s world.”

 

When she finally arrived at the basement of the Old Music Building ten minutes late, Zara was waiting for her.

 

Her Senior and mentor sat on a stool, her guitar slung across her knee, her face in deep thought.

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“Eppie! Oh, thank God, I was worried,” the girl played a note to emphasise her worry. “I heard you had a whole thing with Sanders this morning? You’re the talk of the town.”

 

“I ain’t dead yet,” Eppie flashed one of her disarming smiles. “My God, is there anyone who doesn’t know I had a spiff with Valorie Sanders?”

 

“It’s not the spiff that matters,” Zara’s smile was wan. “According to the rumours, you destroyed her, Eppie. She stood there like an idiot after her accusation failed, while you school her like a toddler. At least that’s what they say.”

 

“Fuck—” Eppie felt a headache come on. “So that’s how I die, with thunderous applause.”

 

“Haha…” Zara’s laugh had more nerves than any other emotion.

 

“Don’t worry.” Eppie picked up her guitar, then began playing with the tuning pegs. Unlike before her ascension, the rising pitch now had an audible texture, something like a coloured, textured synaesthesia that made pinpointing the exact sound as easy as identifying hues. “I got something to put your mind at ease.”

 

After working through the frets, she placed her fingers delicately over the 5th and 7th, then strummed up a shimmering note that seemed to linger through the air.

Across from her, Zara watched with growing suspicion as Eppie tuned the guitar in under thirty seconds.

 

Eppie looked up at her friend. “Ready?”

 

“Ready for what?”

 

Eppie delivered a secret smile, then plucked a pure, perfect C6 out of the air.