Can a Canary Get Fired, Too?

Chapter 2: The New Singer

I was halfway through sorting audition forms when Grant brought Celia Voss into the rehearsal room.

Celia had a clear soprano, a neat black bob, and the kind of stage presence that made the room go quiet before she sang. She had auditioned the day before. I remembered her because she had asked to hear the orchestra track twice before her callback.

"Celia wants to check the sound system," Grant said. "Can you make time?"

"I can give her ten minutes after the callbacks."

"She only needs the booth."

I glanced at the schedule. "The booth is being used for the second round."

"Then move the second round."

It was the kind of request I used to accept without question. I had been production coordinator at Bellwether for six years. I knew where the cables were, which doors stuck in wet weather, and how long it took to reset the stage between performances. Grant had been artistic director for eleven months and spoke as if every logistical problem could be solved by saying it was not a problem.

I moved the callbacks to the greenroom and gave Celia the booth.

She sang through two bars of the audition piece, then stopped. "The high notes sound thin in here."

"That's the speaker, not you."

"I'd love to hear it from the house."

"After the callbacks."

Grant rested a hand on the booth door. "She's already been selected for the role."

I looked up from my clipboard. "The casting decision isn't final."

"It's practically final."

The casting committee hadn't met. The theater had rules about that, especially for the lead in the spring musical. But Grant was the director, and pushing back in front of a candidate would make me look territorial.

I took Celia into the house and played the track from the sound desk. She sang two phrases. Her voice carried beautifully through the old room.

"That's better," she said.

I took a note about the monitor levels and returned to the callbacks.

At lunch, I checked the messages on my phone. The property manager had responded to my pet request. The building allowed birds if I agreed to a small cleaning deposit and kept the cage away from the shared hallway.

I signed the form on my break.

When I returned, Mel was entering audition information into the shared drive. She glanced at my phone.

"Canary all settled?"

"Mostly. I need to pick up a wider perch."

"Does your canary sing?"

"Constantly."

Mel looked down at the keyboard, but I caught the corner of her smile.

"What?"

"Nothing. I'm glad things are going well."

The sentence was so carefully delivered that I paused.

"Things are going well with the bird?"

"Sure."

The rehearsal room door opened. Grant came out with Celia. He had a printed copy of the callback schedule in his hand.

"I see you've moved the morning auditions," he said.

"To give Celia booth time."

"And you gave her the house speakers."

"She needed to check her sound."

"That's generous."

"I gave her ten minutes."

Grant looked at me, then toward Celia. "We need to be careful about access. I don't want anyone thinking the process is being tilted."

I felt my face warm. "I haven't tilted anything."

"I didn't say you had."

Celia collected her bag. "I appreciate the help, Nora."

"Of course."

She left. Grant followed her into the corridor.

Mel turned her chair toward me. "You know what this looks like, right?"

"I know it looks like I'm keeping the schedule."

"That's not what I meant."

I wanted to ask what she did mean. Instead, a singer walked in asking where to wait, and I pointed her toward the greenroom.

The rest of the afternoon passed in lists, questions, and corrections. I told myself Grant's comment had been about procedure. I told myself Mel's odd smile was none of my business.

At home, Caper hopped from one perch to another, then bit the finger I offered through the bars.

"I'm starting to see a pattern," I told him.

He sang at full volume until after midnight.