{"id":256963,"date":"2023-11-20T07:05:00","date_gmt":"2023-11-20T12:05:00","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/?p=256963"},"modified":"2024-01-02T13:31:49","modified_gmt":"2024-01-02T18:31:49","slug":"alice-sadie-celine-by-sarah-blakley-cartwright","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/alice-sadie-celine-by-sarah-blakley-cartwright\/","title":{"rendered":"Performing on Stage for an Audience of One"},"content":{"rendered":"\n<h4 class=\"wp-block-heading\">An excerpt from <em>Alice Sadie Celine<\/em> by Sarah Blakley-Cartwright<\/h4>\n\n\n\n<p><em>Check out the audiobook edition of this excerpt, read by award-winning actress Chlo\u00eb Sevigny, from Simon &amp; Schuster Audio.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<iframe width=\"100%\" height=\"166\" scrolling=\"no\" frameborder=\"no\" allow=\"autoplay\" src=https:\/\/w.soundcloud.com\/player\/?url=https%3A\/\/api.soundcloud.com\/tracks\/1658054601%3Fsecret_token%3Ds-4084Slg2Qd6&#038;color=%23ff5500&#038;auto_play=false&#038;hide_related=true&#038;show_comments=false&#038;show_user=true&#038;show_reposts=false&#038;show_teaser=false><\/iframe><div style=\"font-size: 10px; color: #cccccc;line-break: anywhere;word-break: normal;overflow: hidden;white-space: nowrap;text-overflow: ellipsis; font-family: Interstate,Lucida Grande,Lucida Sans Unicode,Lucida Sans,Garuda,Verdana,Tahoma,sans-serif;font-weight: 100;\"><a href=\"https:\/\/soundcloud.com\/simonschuster\" title=\"Simon &amp; Schuster Audio\" target=\"_blank\" style=\"color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;\" rel=\"noopener\">Simon &amp; Schuster Audio<\/a> \u00b7 <a href=\"https:\/\/soundcloud.com\/simonschuster\/alice-sadie-celine-audiobook-excerpt-chapter-1\/s-4084Slg2Qd6\" title=\"ALICE SADIE CELINE Audiobook Excerpt - Chapter 1\" target=\"_blank\" style=\"color: #cccccc; text-decoration: none;\" rel=\"noopener\">ALICE SADIE CELINE Audiobook Excerpt &#8211; Chapter 1<\/a><\/div>\n\n\n\n<p><em><strong>Alice<\/strong><\/em><br><strong>FRIDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Opening night and, as soon as they could get Leontes\u2019s detachable sleeves Velcroed on\u2014the adhesive tape was moist and mucky in the record June heat, not sticking to the tunic\u2014the show would begin. The sun had risen each day that week angry and blinking, baking the asphalt. Alice, sweltering, was tucked away backstage, hidden in the narrow wings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Sadie had once observed that Alice\u2019s favorite part of acting was disappearing. Alice couldn\u2019t deny this was true. This may have been <em>why<\/em> she loved coming in with clean hair and knowing someone else would take care of the rest. She would be provided the exact words to speak, down to the punctuation, and directed where to stand. Told which shoes to wear to become queen of Sicily. Alice liked to place herself in others\u2019 hands. She liked how easy it was to slip into another life.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>And slip into another life she had. A year and a half ago, ditching the Bay Area\u2014and her family, and her best friend\u2014for Hollywood, to pursue stardust dreams she was scarcely sure she had.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>It had all started in second grade, when Alice had auditioned for the school play, <em>Under the Sea<\/em>, and landed a role! She\u2019d played a cold-water sea urchin who lived in the Shallows, the underworld of King Neptune\u2019s marvelous kingdom. It was considered an undesirable bit part. Alice couldn\u2019t sit down or pee. All the classmates, mermaids and starfish, shunned the monstrous urchin. Alice had one line she did not understand, about being turned into uni. Still, having been <em>cast<\/em>, in a <em>role<\/em>, to her, life could not be improved upon.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Now, in LA, things were more complicated. Staring down the nothing, the zero, the black hole, the unmanifest, the 100-percent-pure potential, the no-thing. Submitting headshots online, not even landing auditions.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>But Alice\u2019s mind was peaceful. She was inclined toward the world, and liked participating with it, even if that meant auditioning for a role and being rejected. She had what she realized so many actors lacked. She believed she had a right to be in the room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Evenings, she worked at the lustrous lobby restaurant of a radiantly white beachside luxury hotel, where $500 a night meant rattan everything, soft-grid cotton blankets in organic shades, and buckets of seashells under museum lighting.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>She worked downstairs, in the more casual, beach-level dining hall\u2014Pico Boulevard sloped as it dropped to the shore. Elevators opened straight onto the dining room, out of which merry children poured with harassed nannies. The skinny silver flower vases were always tipping over, the paper teapot handle covers always slipping off. But the job supplied Alice with a chance to be her most refined self. She switched on the waitress role, maintaining a straight face as she logged infants\u2019 orders for Pellegrino, circling back to inquire apologetically whether Perrier would suffice. The nannies nodded, catching her eye. She was glad they did not know she, too, came from a modest dynasty.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Though she didn\u2019t need to, Alice always had a job, whether or not she was suited for them. During school, she had worked retail, at a boutique first, then a cruelty-free \u201cskin hair and body formulations\u201d shop, but had been rightly suspected by the manager of extending most patrons her employee discount after failing to ring up every fourth item. What could Alice say? She was a giver. It was just her nature.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>And last month, she had put her waitress role on hold to return to the sweltering East Bay for rehearsals and for the show tonight\u2014to the Brackendale, a pocket-sized community playhouse. The theater was in the basement of a large, underused movieplex\u2014the kind that were vanishing everywhere, with the advent of streaming, on their last legs\u2014elaborate with elevators. Audience members occasionally overheard a burst of volume, the action upstairs, giving the quieter live plays downstairs the feeling of a second-tier show.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The theater was located, providentially, not ten minutes from the childhood home of her best friend, Sadie. And yet, stunningly, Sadie had bailed on attending, with the excuse of a pre-booked trip with her boyfriend. Alice felt sure she was being punished. Sadie had never forgiven Alice for moving to LA \u201cDoesn\u2019t it bother you, to be a make-believe person?\u201d she had inquired when Alice planned to pursue acting. Los Angeles was a place where Sadie, with all her managing, counseling, and advocating, wasn\u2019t. A place where Alice could reinvent herself. Not that she would. Just that she . . . could<em>.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Perhaps for the best Sadie wasn\u2019t here. Tonight\u2019s show was off to an unsound start\u2014Archidamus\u2019s microphone level was set to a higher input than Camillo\u2019s, so his voice thundered and boomed. Alice was aware of the sound operator taking penitent notes beside her; he\u2019d have to recalibrate the mics\u2019 volumes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Rehearsals were one thing, but it was different tonight, the proceedings activated by the presence of the audience. There were particulars Alice hadn\u2019t noticed before. The curtains were cheaply made: by no means velvet, not even velour. The sound operator had been munching Pringles before showtime and the can stood upright on the audio monitor beneath the call-board. His breath smelled of sour cream and onion. It was so hot the windows of the theater could fold and melt. Pity the audience. Alice hoped they\u2019d be able to forgive it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cPardon,\u201d a stagehand tech whispered, scooting past with a rack of polyester-fleece prop sheep.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Every mistake that night counted; any extension of the show\u2019s three-week run would be provisional. Truth be told, there were still eight or ten lines in the play that Alice did not understand. She did not have the Folger edition many of her castmates had fluffed up with sticky tags. The edition gave a synopsis of every scene. Alice did not want to look as if she needed footnotes to digest something so handily absorbed that the entire audience broke into merriment before Leontes was even through with the line.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Why Alice didn\u2019t just SparkNotes them she could not say. Hermione\u2019s lines of dialogue were straightforward enough. That was the benefit of playing an openhanded character. No machinations, no dissembling wordplay, no complex, conflicting motivations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Goodness was clear. Decency made sense.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice readied herself, positioning her velvet bodice with voluminous sleeves tight over her jeans. If the small details were sound, the rest would follow. She tried to summon regality. At her cue, she took a steadying breath and her place at center stage, beside her wrathful, insecure, and tyrannical husband. Hot, hot, the lights were. She felt her freckles flush. Her face, really: every inch was blanketed with them. Back one middle-school summer, at Fernwood summer camp, a hardy, indelicate girl\u2014probably sensing the effect Alice had already even then over the male gender in general and specifically the one male she coveted\u2014had accosted Alice in the dining hall, waving a napkin: \u201cOops. I thought you had mud on your face. I guess it\u2019s just your freckles.\u201d Mean, mean, girls were mean.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>As a teenager Alice\u2019s face had resolved into beauty\u2014like a camera brought into focus. And Alice\u2019s fate was set. Her fate: to be exquisite. Alice knew it, couldn\u2019t help knowing\u2014even as she knew it would have benefited her not to know. An innocence impossible to retain when she saw the facts plastered across the face of every person whose eyes she met.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>A handful of lines later, Alice moved downstage left, to lay her hand on Polixenes\u2019s elegant, ornamented arm, radiating heat under the embellishments. She squinted out at the shifting audience\u2014only forty people, though it looked like an ocean. She was scanning for her best friend\u2019s mother, who had come in her stead. Or who was supposed to have\u2014though Alice had comped her ticket, she knew she was liable not to show.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>As a renowned feminist, Celine was a woman who defined what women were. Gender was a construct, she alleged, smiling lopsidedly, daring someone to hold her to account. Bio-sex meant nothing. Simple as that.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice was surprised that someone who wrote about women\u2019s solidarity could have such a complicated relationship with her own daughter. Sadie had shrugged when first introducing Alice to her mother. \u201cSometimes moms have charisma and sometimes they don\u2019t.\u201d Alice hadn\u2019t known they could.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Tonight, Alice knew Celine would report back to Sadie. Sanford Meisner could be there, and his opinion would matter less.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice stammered, \u201cI had thought, sir, to have held my peace . . .\u201d But before her character could even get through her line, she was being hauled off for sins she had not committed. The play was a tragicomedy and Alice felt unsteadied by the shifts in tone, finding them difficult to track.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cAway with her!\u201d Leontes shouted, in the low growl he had cultivated over the prior week of rehearsals. He paused for audience reaction. The king, undone by his mania, exiles his one true ally: \u201cTo prison! He who shall speak for her is afar off guilty but that he speaks.\u201d This spoken more limply than in the prior four days of rehearsals, when he had still been full of freshly cast bravado, and before the heat wave had hit like an anvil.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice was always surprised at the ease with which acting came to her. She did not want to be a movie star. Really, she didn\u2019t. She just wanted to stretch her sense of self. She wanted to get to know other people, within the comfort of her own person. The only hiccup was that, as Alice understood it, genuine artistic expression required suffering. \u201cRaise the stakes,\u201d Alice\u2019s teacher had advised. This, Alice was not sure how to do. She had never, as a rule, sought out suffering, never been attracted to it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cYou gods,\u201d Alice pleaded, as Hermione. Pregnant and powerless, she is imprisoned for a crime she has not committed. Another actress might lose patience with the character\u2019s abiding, saintlike composure.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Before Alice knew it, her character had died of grief, then revived, and reunited with her daughter, her husband\u2019s allegations having been proven unfounded. Alice wondered if, out in the audience, Celine was thinking of Sadie. Alice hurtled through the final scene, then the stage lights bumped off, a zero-count fade to black. Then the lights were up again for curtain call.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Bowing blindly, Alice\u2019s eyes swept over the audience. There she was. Once you caught sight of her, it was hard to see anyone else. That slow, rebel grin, lopsided, kind of cowboy. Her effortless lean, inclining from her waist, still slender at forty-seven, her hair tightly curled and slightly ragged. Scowling and alone, she remained seated. In an unfriendly mood, then. Celine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>She was a big-league lesbian, a patron saint of the case for social construction. Celine was as close as a sex critic came to a household name. Rumor had it that she had once been piloting a one-seater plane when it crashed into Buchanan Field, and waltzed away from the wreckage without a scratch.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>As a child, Alice\u2019s favorite cartoon character was the Brain, a mouse scientist with a bulbous noggin to accommodate his outsized brain. That was what she thought smart looked like. Now she thought it looked like Celine. Celine looked like she had spent time at distant, clandestine coral-sand beaches, like she had just sauntered in from a day in the sun. She made it appear effortless, to change the world.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p>In the theater lobby, the king was encircled and laureled. Alice\u00a0struggled through the clamorous crowd, in heat so sultry it could burst a ripe fruit. The air wavered. There was the stage manager, Darius, who during rehearsals had begun steering Alice, only Alice, into position onstage with his arm encircling her waist. She knew he wanted something from her. If she had not relocated down to Los Angeles, she might have tried to figure out what.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice\u2019s eye found her. Celine loitered in the dim light of a portico under the exit sign, her hair aflame, perfectly backlit by the white LED signage. She was leaning casually against a column, her set brow keenly directed at the greenroom outlet, not knowing that Alice would come out the opposite side. Celine was leggy, five-eleven, with well-built shoulders. She struck Alice as solid, durable as a mountain. Mother and daughter bore little resemblance, except when they crossed swords. In those moments, you could mistake one voice for the other.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice waved like a windshield wiper, but Celine didn\u2019t see. Alice shouldered through the crowd, sidestepping a few well-wishers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>She cleared her throat to attract Celine\u2019s attention. She wiped her forehead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Celine turned left, straightened, and patted her pockets. She had a particularly masculine way of inhabiting a space. A demonic, flaring hank of orange hair tumbled over her forehead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Her words cut through the thickness of the air: \u201cThere you are, hey-hi.\u201d Her voice was scratchy over the rising noise and she smelled spicy, like men\u2019s red deodorant. Just like Sadie\u2019s, her skin glowed, lunar. \u201cDidn\u2019t see you come out.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>They moved together toward the dormant concession area. It smelled of the coffee that had been poured out after intermission.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cYou lived.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>That askew mouth, tilting when Celine smiled. \u201cIn Shakespeare, the women reliably\u2014\u201d And she made a casual noose gesture over her neck.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>A dark and glossy bouquet of exotic flowers, tied oddly with a raggedy ribbon, hung limp at her side, as though she were trying to keep it from Alice\u2019s line of sight. <em>Here\u2019s flowers for you<\/em> was a line in the play<em>. Hot lavender, mints, savory, marjoram, the marigold.<\/em> What was hot lavender? Alice liked the sound of it. Celine tucked the bouquet behind her further. \u201cSadie insisted I come.\u201d The words seemed prickly on her tongue.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice would not let this get to her. This was no slap in the face. It was just Celine, waiting for this little ceremony to run its course. Alice was habituated to Celine\u2019s oddity of manner. And yet, for her uniform lack of social grace, Celine felt uncomplicated to Alice. She was just the way she was. Alice vowed not to let this diminish her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>As a teenager, Alice had come across a feature spread promoting self-confidence in a monthly magazine. A sunny-haired girl perched on the front stoop of a brownstone, smiling hugely with her teeth.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>So unlike the mean models you usually saw, with drawn faces and drained bodies.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice had decided, in that moment, that happy people were beautiful. Much of her fate seemed to have been decided just then. She was grateful to have come across that photo, on what must have been an impressionable day.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignright\"><blockquote><p>Alice had decided, in that moment, that happy people were beautiful.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cRude of her not to come, you must be thinking,\u201d Celine said, with deadly accuracy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cThat\u2019s not true.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>What eyes Celine had. The better to eat you with. Celine\u2019s tank top was road sign orange. <em>Caution<\/em>, her jacket said. <em>Warning.<\/em> <em>Detour. <\/em>\u201cI\u2019m sorry, have I said too much? I have a terrible habit of that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice searched Celine\u2019s eyes to gauge which Alice she would prefer: the devotee or the disinterested. Alice suspected that her customary persona around Celine\u2014quiet ghost gone unseen, veering clear of the friction between mother and daughter; occasionally trying to curry favor with household deeds, scouring the cast-iron pot and toting in the grocery haul\u2014would not suit the occasion, that in this escalation of their proximity, something more was required of her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cNo, I\u2019m glad you\u2019re here.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Celine\u2019s eyes froze. Wrong, all wrong. In that family, they addressed one another with coolness and irony. \u201cBut I\u2019m sorry if you had other things to do tonight\u2014I mean, I\u2019m sure you did.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>A little under two years prior, Alice had audited Celine\u2019s Cal Berkeley class alongside Sadie\u2014after a persistent campaign, she had talked her friend into it; convinced her that someday she\u2019d regret not having seen what was said to be her mother\u2019s best quality.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>In the library, Alice had plucked Celine\u2019s book of lesbian-feminist theory off the shelf. Sadie had been righteously indignant: \u201cNo big deal, just some casual reading by your best friend\u2019s sworn enemy.\u201d Alice had smiled to herself: Sadie and her mother shared a sense of drama. Sadie dismissed the major feminist text summarily: \u201cIt\u2019s geurilla scholarship, derivative Paglia.\u201d Once, while Celine and Sadie were squabbling in the kitchen, Alice had peeked into Celine\u2019s office to admire the stack of pages on her desk, scrawled with handwriting black and perilous.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>It made Alice sad, how unconscious Sadie was of her mother\u2019s wonderful qualities of perception. Alice had been intoxicated by the book\u2014Celine coming across, as Alice devoured the stream of saturated prose, like a friend Alice wished she had, an antidote to Sadie, the friend she did. The only way she could describe it was that she wanted to turn the text on its side, fry the text up, and eat it like a hamburger patty. The chapter on mother-love, \u201cNurturance and Tyranny,\u201d was unapologetically about Sadie and managed to be, by turns, both razor-sharp and heartfelt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p><em>The archaic myth of sexuality<\/em>, Celine had written,<em> is not just a fa\u00e7ade but an overprotective armor against emancipation. A hard outer shell so that we feel the cold and the wind only in our private ocean, inside the conch shell in which we can hear the remote whisper of the self.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice should not have pointed out to her friend, the subject of the chapter, that it was like nothing else she had ever read. Sadie would not engage with the grist of the content, retorting only that Alice was impressed purely because it was the <em>only <\/em>book Alice had read that school year, focusing instead on having fun. It was not precisely true that Alice did not read. It was that she read the same books over the years, for comfort. She had an inclination for nice stories with nice endings. Pretty books with good morals: Louisa May Alcott and Laura Ingalls Wilder; stories of women facing a certain hardship and pulling through with aplomb. Each time she revisited, she saw something new.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Sadie read biographies and was interested in life in its most material terms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Celine had come from Ohio, from nothing, her appetites propelling her like an engine. She was a hip, interesting person who had made her own way. Alice\u2019s family was nothing like this. For the millionth time, Alice was struck by the dissimilitude. Alice had grown up in the upscale valley town of Moraga, where corn grew bearded with long blue silk. Though it was only twenty minutes by car, it was a different world. Alice felt a cramp of guilt at the thought. She had never been nearby without telling her mother, Hadley.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Seeming to decide something, Celine thrust her flowers at Alice, gripping the stalk far south, like the hilt of a sword. \u201cHere.\u201d Alice presumed she was meant to take them.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cThese are from Sadie. Anthuriums. You\u2019re supposed to snip the stems.\u201d Celine rubbed the scar on her inner forearm. Alice nodded gamely. The flowers were scary: black-brown, plasticky vinyl,\u00a0rubbery, with assaulting stamens. \u201cOtherwise, they won\u2019t drink.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Darius\u2019s eyes rippled in their direction, through the congested lobby, from the nucleus of his crowded circle. Alice knew he was holding out hope, one of these days, either during rehearsal or the run, for her to consent to an after-show drink. For once, she wished he would come over, spread his entourage\u2019s chatter, and relieve Celine of her. If he\u2019d asked for a drink right then, Alice would have said yes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cThat was nice of her.\u201d Alice was a sucker for flowers. She had grown up with them. They did not seem frivolous to her, but essential. She breathed in deeply, the bloomy scent hitting deep in her belly. They probably <em>were<\/em> from Sadie. That would be like her, to go to the shop, select the flowers, wrap them, tie the ribbon, and drop them at Celine\u2019s.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cIs your mother here?\u201d Celine asked, a little sour. She had always been suspicious of Alice\u2019s mother, mistrustful of Sadie\u2019s open interest in her. Alice had vowed to invite her mother next week when the show\u2019s kinks were ironed out. She suspected that Hadley thought, behind her fa\u00e7ade, that her daughter was a nonstarter, like bread that wouldn\u2019t rise. Not that Hadley, brisk and clarifying as sea air, inevitably halfway out the door before Alice could get a word in, would be idling, awaiting an invitation. She was used to hearing little from Alice.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cShe doesn\u2019t leave the house in this heat.\u201d Alice tidied the scruffy ribbon on the bouquet. \u201cIt would be a whole situation.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>They stood there. Celine\u2019s smell had softened. It was nice, actually, like spiced cloves mixed with sunny morning. When she still lived at home, Sadie had always hung both their sets of washed clothing outside to dry. She said it made the clothes last longer and made them smell of sunshine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The bright light radiated from the popcorn vitrine and, in the clotted room, their two shadows merged into one. Alice was just wondering how to resuscitate the conversation when Celine shifted foot-to-foot. \u201cYou were really good.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice gloated. She didn\u2019t like approval. She loved it. She couldn\u2019t live without it. It was why she lived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Sidelong, Celine seemed to suppress something. \u201cI mean that.\u201d Her voice was shaky, not unkind.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cThere was a prop flop. Did you notice?\u201d Celine stared at Alice so that she had no recourse but to keep talking. \u201cWhen the goatherd tripped on the tablecloth? And the whole feast came crashing down and Perdita stepped on a prop chicken, and it squeaked because it was a dog toy?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cFine, just a hiccup.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cWas it all right, really?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Together, they were gaining no ground, spinning wheels in gravel.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cI already said it was.\u201d Celine hooked her jacket on her finger. \u201cSayonara.\u201d And then, inexplicably, she paused, as if there were something more she wanted. She even leaned in for a brief, exhilarating moment before seeming to conclude the space between them was a gulf she would not breach. And then she turned heel, not offering so much as a handshake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p><strong>SATURDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Entering the relative cool of the theater the next afternoon, Alice could not help thinking about Celine\u2019s awkward departure of the preceding night, and what it might mean. It drew Alice\u2019s uneasy attention to the thing she hated most: upsetting others.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>It was impossible to find a moment to call Sadie. Alice ducked into the scene dock, where the theater group kept set pieces\u2014the cardboard pillars of the Sicilian court and the stuffed \u201cexit-pursued-by-a-bear\u201d bear\u2014to call Sadie and ascertain how dismal Celine\u2019s report had been. But as soon as she had settled in among the oversized chicken-wire-and-spray-foam enchanted oaks that signified pastoral Bohemia, she was called to makeup, where soft hands would layer foundation over the existing foundation Alice had not succeeded in removing the night before, and then Darius called her to the stage to rework a flawed bit of blocking.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The two best friends had not spoken since the week before, when Sadie had phoned just as Alice was leaving rehearsal, enlivened by an eccentric prospect. \u201cGet ready for this,\u201d Alice had said. \u201cSomeone in the show has a contact at Anaheim Disney. They\u2019re casting for a new Cinderella. I\u2019d ride in the parade, stroll around Fantasyland in PVC slippers, and sit at a banquet at the Royal Table. I don\u2019t know if they actually serve dinner. What if it was actually fun, meeting kids and blowing kisses and strutting around in a sparkly hoop dress?\u201d Sadie was deadpan. \u201cCinderella\u2019s a blonde.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cShe wears a wig.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cGet real, Alice. These are the things that ruin a career.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Sadie saw the world with unclouded eyes, joyless but calm and cool as a lake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cNatalie Portman was discovered at a pizza joint!\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cStop shouting.\u201d Alice could feel Sadie\u2019s smile of veiled knowing, of always knowing better. \u201cDon\u2019t delude yourself. This is where your career and your substance of character go to die.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice groaned inwardly. Anything less than Euripides or Ibsen was, according to both Sadie and Alice\u2019s mothers, beneath a person of substance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Sadie spoke drily. \u201cBrain scans show actors have decreased brain activity in the regions that form a sense of self.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cWhat is it about my acting that grates on you?\u201d Alice asked, clicking her key fob and settling into her hatchback\u2019s driver\u2019s seat. Though her two-hour parking was up, she did not insert the key into the ignition. \u201cYou\u2019re very hard on me.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice tapped the steering wheel, ostensibly to the beat of the bubblegum pop song playing over her car stereo but really, she knew, to fill the silence. To the question <em>What do you want to do? <\/em>Alice had always wanted to reply, <em>Can\u2019t I just be?<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cListen.\u201d Sadie sighed, softening slightly. \u201cI think you\u2019d make a great Cinderella. You\u2019re so good with kids, you\u2019re patient, and you\u2019re beautiful, and it would be very like you to fall out of a shoe and leave it at an epic party. But not at a theme park. You\u2019re better than that.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The truth of Sadie\u2019s tough counsel surfaced. She had softened, so Alice could, too. \u201cYou\u2019re right. It would probably be depressing, and career suicide. How\u2019s it going with Cormac?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cOh, god, horrible. I mean, <em>he\u2019s<\/em> great. But I\u2019m a nightmare.\u201d \u201cClamshelling again? We should talk about why. Why you can\u2019t be open with him.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cNo mystery there. It\u2019s Mama\u2019s prurient interest. PTSD much?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice made a noise of acknowledgment. \u201cYou know, we did emotional recall in rehearsal today\u2014dredging up our own pain to access a character\u2019s.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cDig up any bodies?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cMaybe.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p><em>Maybe<\/em> was an understatement. Once Alice started on her insecurities it was like <em>Night of the Living Dead.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Exhumed: Alice\u2019s feeling that she was blank and passive, bare and undeveloped.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Disinterred: Alice was a shadow person, a raw hunk of clay waiting to be shaped, a canvas on which others could express themselves, a coloring-book page.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Resurrected: Alice was a perfectly acceptable outline who required another person\u2014whoever she happened to come across\u2014to add the substance.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<figure class=\"wp-block-pullquote alignleft\"><blockquote><p>Alice was a perfectly acceptable outline who required another person\u2014whoever she happened to come across\u2014to add the substance.<\/p><\/blockquote><\/figure>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cHas anyone studied the psychological effects of all this?\u201d Sadie asked.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Maybe this was why Alice allowed so many men access to her. Each one, substituting the prior, represented a chance at self-actualization, of shading her into completion. No wonder Celine had balked the night before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>These thoughts consumed Alice, back in the playhouse, and before she knew it, the show was on, and soon enough Camillo was saying, \u201cCome, sir, away.\u201d Lights out on Act II, ushering in the forty-minute stretch she was offstage, \u201cimprisoned\u201d by Leontes, possessed of a jealous rage, then dead.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Like a lizard into a wall, Alice slipped into the wings. Concealed for sixteen stage-years, Alice vowed to stay in character. She watched the mechanisms of the scene changes without seeing them, as if with a glass eye. Raise the front cloth, lower the tab. She peeked out at the blue-lit house.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Startled, she checked again.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Celine was in a similar seat as last night, if not the same one, shifting her weight in the cushioned folding chair, even wearing the same clothes, rumpled like she\u2019d never gone home the night before. One could only imagine.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice hurtled through her performance, eyes fixed on Celine, herself transfixed among the assembled crowd. All the light was strange under the blue-white gels. Finally, Alice, as Hermione\u2019s stock-still statue, thoroughly vindicated after enduring wrongful accusal, blinked into waking life, and the second act was concluded. Applause at curtain rolled over Alice like a wave. She raced offstage and bustled out of her costume, snagging it sidewise onto the hanger.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Turning from the rack, she saw that Darius had followed her into the clogged dressing room and was gawking, looking appalled as she swiped off her lashes. \u201cI thought those were real!\u201d He seemed wounded, as if she had deliberately misled him.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The costume designer snorted in Alice\u2019s direction. \u201cIsn\u2019t that just like men?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice, who did not like to generalize, swept around, gathering her belongings. Darius cornered her near the whirring fan. \u201cWho was that woman last night?\u201d he asked, bemused voice chirred by the blades. \u201cMy brother was seated next to her. He said she was rustling around the whole time, making noise fidgeting and slurping a soda.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice had the sudden thought that perhaps Celine had come again because she felt bad about being rude the night before.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d Alice did not bother to remove her makeup. Her face, still contoured for the stage, was tight with a batter of foundation. She patted Darius\u2019s arm on the way out. \u201cPromise I\u2019ll tell you later.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice twitched. She had been watched, again, by Celine. She thought of texting Sadie to tell her that Celine came twice. Instead, she chased through the swarm of the exiting audience. Around her, the lobby erupted, but Celine wasn\u2019t there.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p><strong>SUNDAY<\/strong><\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>By the third night, Alice knew where to direct her attention. She fastened hot, agitated, steady eyes on Celine, who was present in the audience just the same as before, rooted in the same seat. From Alice\u2019s marble pedestal, still as stone, something stirred inside her.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>She focused on Celine the concentration of her performance. It was surely ill-considered and irresponsible. Celine had every right to rubberneck Alice\u2014she was paying audience\u2014but what right had Alice to return the thrill? Though she did not understand it, the charge of electricity was already ignited and, like a current, traveling a wire.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Around Alice, the stage lights deepened. She offered her performance to one single person. She even directed a condemnatory finger at Celine at, \u201cNot guilty.\u201d Alice\u2019s costar, the king of the stage, attempted to regain her attention with an emphatic, effectless wheeze. No: tonight, the self-denying Hermione had a new focal point. Tonight, Hermione was having her fun.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>After the bow, before house lights had a chance to rise and before Alice could wonder what she had done, she flew past her cast members, following the weak glow tape offstage into the wings.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The heat had risen, making Friday\u2019s low nineties seem moderate in comparison.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The nominal back changing room was hot, despite the timeworn AC unit, and heavy with the scent of pickles and onions. \u201cThat was a penetrating performance,\u201d a stagehand remarked, a little fearful. Alice felt a pinch in her stomach. \u201cAnyone have a Tylenol?\u201d No one did.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Her ardent performance had to have disconcerted the audience.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The heavy-chested costume designer was installed at the vanity mirror, at work on the hoagie sandwich she opened toward the conclusion of every performance. \u201cThis is delicious,\u201d she said over the wax paper, \u201cand profoundly hard to eat.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice could not listen, kindled with the current that for the moment had no outlet. Her adhesive mink eyelashes stuck to her fingers. She wrangled with them, finally managing to flick them onto the vanity counter, coiled like dying caterpillars, rather than into their diminutive plastic case. The falsity of them dogged Alice\u00a0suddenly, arousing in her a scorching antipathy. Why the ruse? Celine would never allow anyone to amend her. Why should Alice? Feeling emboldened, she flung her costume headlong over the hanging rack.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>The costume designer swallowed hard. \u201cReally?\u201d She set down her sandwich. \u201cYou\u2019re not going to hang that up?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cI\u2019m sorry.\u201d Alice stepped into her street clothes, a fragile vintage housedress the color of a pale winter peach. Sadie said that Alice\u2019s clothes always looked like they were about to fall off her body. Her heart sped along as she zipped up the side of the brittle, delicate dress. \u201cIn a rush.\u201d She scooped up the mink lashes with a swipe of her finger and scraped them straight into the costume designer\u2019s vinegary hands. Alice had taken such good care of them so far. She had been so meticulous. The costume designer looked up at her, aghast. Alice wished fleetingly that there were two of her. Sadie called it the Disease to Please; Alice hated to disappoint people.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<hr class=\"wp-block-separator has-alpha-channel-opacity\"\/>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice emerged into the still, languid heat and found Celine waiting at the front of the playhouse. She looked uncharacteristically small in her oversized white T-shirt, her button-down balled up in her hand. She leaned to one side, her smile wonky. She was wearing an edgy pair of high-top sneakers this time, kumquat and lime. She was lit by the adjacent street-level storefront, the crowd dispersing around her. Greeting Alice, Celine tugged at her earlobe. She mumbled something inaudible. Alice noticed her small breasts, all but nothing really, curved against her T-shirt.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cSome people are going out,\u201d Alice said, her breath thin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>A car honked from the street, a ride anticipating its rider. Alice felt the world of concessions, the smells of coffee and popcorn, the anxieties of the play she was not sure she understood, fade.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Alice had begun to sweat. She pressed her fingers to her hot, doughy cheeks. Celine\u2019s olive-colored eyes watched Alice\u2019s fingers imprint her flushed skin.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cDon\u2019t go,\u201d Celine said, her smile off-center. Her eyes met Alice\u2019s with a look that brought a warmth to the base of her stomach, a trailing, emptying feeling, like a drain. Alice felt something shift within her, substantial as Earth\u2019s plates.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cAll right.\u201d Two words, easy enough to say. Then two more: \u201cI won\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Celine\u2019s eyes brightened, lifted, then lowered with a forbidding finality. There seemed to be something they each wanted to say. The urge whispered through Alice. The lobby air was stifling, hot as a furnace. Five-blade ceiling fans spun pointlessly, far away at the room\u2019s upper limits.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>\u201cYour place or mine,\u201d Celine blurted out. It wasn\u2019t a question; it was a certainty. The words evidently shocked Celine as she spoke them, the pull of a gun\u2019s trigger disarming its operator.<\/p>\n\n\n\n<p>Beneath Alice, the sun-warmed concrete seemed to slant upward. Sadie did not live, anymore, with Celine. Nonetheless, the place would be full of her. The answer came to Alice crisply. It was easy enough. Her Airbnb\u2014attached to nothing, familiar to no one\u2014was the only option. The street rippled. Feverish heat lifted from the asphalt. A police siren blipped, turning a corner. \u201cMine.\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>An excerpt from Alice Sadie Celine by Sarah Blakley-Cartwright Check out the audiobook edition of this excerpt, read by award-winning actress Chlo\u00eb Sevigny, from Simon &amp; Schuster Audio. Simon &amp; Schuster Audio \u00b7 ALICE SADIE CELINE Audiobook Excerpt &#8211; Chapter 1 AliceFRIDAY Opening night and, as soon as they could get Leontes\u2019s detachable sleeves Velcroed [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":6267,"featured_media":257033,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[5557,63],"tags":[178,92,82,94],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v20.8 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>Performing on Stage for an Audience of One - Electric Literature<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"An excerpt from ALICE SADIE CELINE by Sarah Blakley-Cartwright, recommended by Sana\u00eb Lemoine\" \/>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/electricliterature.com\/alice-sadie-celine-by-sarah-blakley-cartwright\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Performing on Stage for an Audience of One - 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