Free Jack & Louisa: Act 1 by Andrew Keenan-bolger, Kate Wetherhead

highlighted your lines, and I printed off directions for your parents.” I took the papers from her. She’d highlighted my lines in green.
    I could tell she was a desperate. “Well, thanks, I guess . . . ,” I said, looking down at the sides. A wave of nerves and excitement rumbled in my stomach, just like it always did before an audition or first rehearsal. The last time I felt it was in July, meeting my cast for the first time and feeling (stupidly) like I was a member of a new family.
    “But there’s another reason I can’t audition for your show,” I said, swallowing hard. “I don’t think I want to perform anymore.”
    A look of total disappointment washed over her face.
    “Getting fired from a show kinda put things in perspective, if you know what I mean. Like, when I first started doing musicals it was all about playing and having fun, but during
The Big Apple
I was suddenly scared to go to work. I’d stay up all night staring at the ceiling, wondering if tomorrow would be the day they’d tell me not to come back.” As the words came out of my mouth, I realized these were things I’d never shared with anyone. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much time you’ve spent learning your lines or how hard you’re trying to make everyone like you. If your best isn’t good enough, they can always find someone to replace you.”
    Louisa stood there in stunned silence.
    “And honestly, I don’t even know if I can sing anymore,” I mumbled. “So while I appreciate all your enthusiasm and everything, I just want . . . I
need
to find something else I’m good at.”
    I looked into her eyes. Her face bore a familiar look. It was the same one I’d gotten when I told her I was in
Mary Poppins
and then again when I performed the letters in “Supercal.”
    “Okay,” she said finally. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”
    “Yeah.” I shrugged.
    “Well, at least do me a favor.”
    Oh no
,
I thought, bracing for a ridiculous request.
    “At soccer tryouts,” she mumbled, “try to kick some butt.”
    • • •
    The rest of the day flew by. Before I knew it, I was cramming my textbooks into my locker and grabbing my duffel bag packed with soccer shorts, a jersey, a set of shiny white shin guards, and a pair of black cleats. It felt weird staying at school while the rest of the kids were hopping on the bus or piling in with their car pools. The parking lot had pretty much emptied out by the time I walked from the back entrance to the soccer field. As I got closer, I spied a dark green minivan parked by the fence with unmistakable New York State plates. I approached the car and knocked gently on the driver’s window.
    “Dad, what are you doing here?” I said through the glass.
    “Oh hey, Jack Sprat!” my dad said, enthusiastically rolling down his window.
    “You know the tryouts aren’t over till five thirty, right?”
    “Yeah, I know.” He nodded. “But your mom said that she might have forgotten to pack your water bottle, so I drove over to bring you one just in case.”
    I looked down at my duffel bag, the outline of a bottle clearly visible against the nylon fabric.
    “Nope, she definitely packed it.” I smiled.
    “Huh.” My dad shrugged. “Well, just in case you need a second one I’ve got it in the back.” He began fidgeting with his seatbelt. “I know how sometimes you get thirsty and—”
    “Dad,” I cut him off. “It’s okay if you just wanted to come and watch.”
    “Oh!” he said after a short silence. “Well, that might be nice. But I know you sometimes get weird about performing in front of us, so if it’s all right with you, I can just watch from the car.”
    “Sure, Dad.” I smiled. “That would be fine.”
    I looked over to the field, where a man was making his way to the guys trying out for soccer. I recognized him as Coach Wilson, the man in the tracksuit pushing the projector in the cafeteria on the first day of school.
    “Okay, I should probably go,” I