The Fall Musical, Page 3

  Harrison blurted, “What the f—”

  “Watch your language in front of the Charlettes,” Charles interrupted. “We’re like a family back here.”

  “A dysfunctional family,” Reese said.

  “Darling,” Charles replied, “dysfunctional or not, the Charlettes are the power behind the stage. The costumes, the scenery, the makeup, the props. Now, due to circumstances beyond our control, there was a flood in the prop room. An act of God. Ha! That fits the play, doesn’t it? Godspell. Coincidence? Your call.”

  Vijay Rajput, the tallest and oldest Charlette at six feet three inches and eighteen, dumped a white wig on a pile of costumes. “What mishegas,” he said.

  “Which means . . . ?” Reese asked.

  “Craziness,” Vijay said, shaking his head.

  Reese gave her best sensitive-girl smile. “I love learning Indian words.”

  “It’s Yiddish,” Vijay told her.

  “Who’s going to clean this up?” Harrison demanded.

  “That job,” said Charles with exasperation, “belongs to the stage manager.”

  “We don’t have a stage manager!” Harrison said.

  “And whose fault is that, Mr. President?” Charles asked.

  Harrison stewed. It was a good question. The fall show had been his idea, but it was already September, and neither he nor Brianna had had the time to look for a good SM. Last year’s SM, Rachel Kolodzny, had done the job for four years with style, but she was now at Yale, and no one else had been trained. And Harrison’s younger cousin Stavros, who was dying to do the job, had moved to Brooklyn over the summer and was a freshman at a city high school. “We just can’t leave everything a mess, Charles. We have to do some of the work ourselves.”

  “You don’t mean the officers?” Reese asked, sounding alarmed.

  “Certainly not,” Charles assured her. “The president, VP, designer, tech guru, and choreographer—we are creative royalty. We do not clean up.”

  “Charles . . . ” Harrison said warningly.

  “Well, okay, maybe a tiny bit.”

  “Let’s begin the launch meeting,” Harrison said. “Where’s Dashiell?”

  Harrison stepped back, pulled aside the curtain, and looked out into the house. Students were still clustered near the sign-up desk, talking to Mr. Levin. Beyond them, way in the back, a large black-metal box with legs wobbled down the aisle.

  It was Dashiell, carrying a huge soundboard that covered him from waist to head. He picked up speed as he approached the side doors.

  The doors were in an alcove. One of them flew open, and a harried-looking Asian girl rushed in. Her face was furrowed with worry, her eyes fixed on the crowd of auditioners. From her vantage point, she could not see Dashiell barreling toward her.

  “Hey, you at the door!” Harrison shouted, waving his hands frantically. “Heads up!”

  The girl looked at him.

  And Dashiell, oblivious to it all, plowed right into her.

  With a sickening crash, the machine, Dashiell, and the new girl collapsed to the floor.

  3

  CASEY GASPED FOR BREATH. ABOVE HER, THE faces blurred in and out—and voices, a thrum of sound. Beyond them she saw the fractured edges of a metallic shape that was once intact. The scene began to fade, and in her mind she was somewhere else . . .

  A quiet spring day, rising from the sidewalk, floating through a sea of people, catching a glimpse of another metallic shape . . .

  No!

  She sat up quickly with a gasp, forcing herself to focus.

  The faces coalesced. These were Ridgeport High School students. It was audition night, in the Murray Klein Memorial Auditorium.

  A very tall, very skinny guy with chocolate skin and narrow glasses stood bent in shock, his hands flat to the side in a classic Macaulay Culkin pose. “You were in my trajectory . . . I—I created this blind spot . . . It wasn’t intentional . . . oh my God . . . ”

  He had hit her. A few feet away, a large black electronic unit with lots of dials lay diagonally against the aisle seats. It was huge and expensive-looking, not crushed but definitely broken. “Ouch. Sorry. Did I break your computer?” Casey asked.

  “It’s . . . a console. Analog. Technically not a computer. As for its brokenness, well, that’s complicated. We were about to examine it for defects . . . ”

  A smaller group led by a bearded, dark-eyed teacher and fretful-looking blond-haired woman, barged through the circle of students that surrounded Casey. The man spoke first. “I’m Greg Levin, the faculty adviser. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, thanks,” Casey replied.

  “Dashiell, you nearly killed her,” Harrison said.

  “You instructed me in no uncertain terms to bring the console down!” Dashiell protested.

  “I meant—”

  “Guys, let’s give some help to . . . ?” Mr. Levin offered Casey his arm.

  “Casey,” she replied.

  All three guys reached down to help her, and Mr. Levin began making introductions. “This is Harrison, president of the Drama Club; Charles, our costume and set designer; and Dashiell, our tech guy, who does lighting and sound. And right behind them, that’s Reese, our choreographer, and Ms. Gunderson, our accompanist.”

  Casey stood, breathing steadily now. She was winded and bruised, but it could have been worse. As the crowd backed off, people started to clap. Casey forced a smile, but the attention was not what she’d had in mind.

  At the moment, going home seemed like a very good idea. A few minutes earlier she had been headed home. She’d chickened out, not wanting to subject the public to the same torture she’d faced all week practicing in front of a mirror. What brought her back to school was guilt. She had promised Brianna she would show up. And now that she had destroyed a machine and made a fool of herself in the grand Kara Chang Tradition of Being in the Utterly Wrong Place at the Utterly Wrong Time because of her desire to please Brianna Glaser, where was Brianna?

  Not here. Which meant Casey didn’t have to be here either. “Okay, well, I guess I’m too late to audition,” she said, edging toward the door.

  “Audition?” said Dashiell.

  “You still want to audition after that?” Charles asked.

  “No problem,” said Harrison. “We’ll add a slot.”

  “But—but—” Casey stammered.

  “Did you all hear that?” Mr. Levin said, turning to the crowd. “This young woman’s attitude, ladies and gentlemen, is called heart! Three cheers for Casey!”

  More applause. Casey cringed. Everyone had totally misunderstood her.

  Harrison held out the sign-up sheet, which had an empty line drawn across the bottom. Which meant not only did she have to stay, but she would be here until dinnertime. Swallowing hard, she signed her name and sank into an aisle seat. Mr. Levin, Ms. Gunderson, Harrison, Dashiell, and the other Drama Club members assembled by the edge of the stage.

  “Okay, now that our adventure is over, let’s start!” Mr. Levin announced. “To those of you who are new to the school, or to the audition process, this show is a bit different from our big spring production. The spring musical is about bigness, polish, and pizzazz, but the fall show is something new and exciting. A way to remind ourselves why we’re in the theater. A small, intimate cast, only ten people. We’ll really dig into the roles, experiment a little, without the pressure of massive crowd scenes and dances. There will be lots of creative input from students, from lead roles to directing to props. The score will be played by a small rock band.”

  “And don’t forget,” piped up one of the Drama Club officers, “even if your audition really sucks, there may be a bright future for you backstage in theater design with the award-winning Charlettes!”

  “Thank you, Charles,” Mr. Levin said. “Now, remember, this is not American Idol and we have no Simon Cowell—”

  “Hold the presses!” a familiar voice shouted from the back.

  Mr. Levin looked toward the doorway, where
Brianna was tromping in with a group of very large guys. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she called out, “I was convincing my boys to come, and they’re tough customers. Did I miss the launch meeting?”

  “We didn’t have it,” Harrison said from the stage. “There wasn’t enough time.”

  “Uh-oh, that’s bad luck,” Brianna said, walking straight up to Harrison. “But I’ll make up for it. The sign-up sheet, please.”

  “Sorry, we’re all filled up,” Harrison snapped. “And you know you’re not allowed to take a role.”

  “It’s not for me,” Brianna said.

  “Add more slots, Harrison,” Reese suggested. “You did it for Casey.”

  Brianna snatched the clipboard from Harrison’s hand. Immediately the guys behind her started hooting and shouting:

  “Boo-yah! Boo-yah!”

  “Where’s the karaoke mike?”

  “Mi-mi-mi-miiii! Hey, can I try out first?”

  Harrison’s jaw went slack in disbelief. Reese was cracking up. Charles had his head in his hands. Ms. Gunderson’s smile had frozen tight. And Mr. Levin looked like he couldn’t decide whether to laugh or throw them all out.

  Casey’s nervousness suddenly subsided. The pain in her side, too. Mainly because one of the guys was Kyle. Her eyes followed him as he headed for the hallway, surrounded by the jumping, hand-pumping throng of football guys.

  “What the hell was that all about?” Harrison asked.

  Brianna smiled. “This will be so worth it, guys. You’ll see.”

  “It better be,” Harrison grumbled.

  Casey, for one, didn’t mind a bit. All the auditioners would have to wait in the hall. And as long as Kyle was there, the view would be just fine.

  4

  “COME WITH ME.”

  Casey wasn’t expecting to be pulled by the hand like a child. But she couldn’t do much but follow as Brianna yanked her up the sloping aisle, across the row that divided the front and back sections, not stopping until they’d nestled into the last row of the auditorium, hidden in the shadows.

  “God, is he pissed at me,” Brianna said.

  “Who?” Casey asked, nervously eyeing the door through which the other auditioners were obediently filing.

  “Dark Eyes. Harrison. Okay, I was late. I am usually all about being on time, but I had a reason. A good one. Unfortunately, Harrison hates it when things aren’t just exactly right. He’s a control freak. And no one ever tells him off, because he’s not only Mr. Smart, Talented, Perfect, but also Most Likely to Win a Tony for Best Actor.”

  The door to the lobby thumped shut. The auditioners had left except for Royce, who was pacing on the stage. Harrison, Ms. Gunderson, and Mr. Levin huddled around the piano. Dashiell, Reese, and Charles were sitting in the seats, chatting, waiting.

  Only the Drama Club officers were supposed to be watching the auditions, Casey realized. “Shouldn’t I be outside . . .?” she began.

  “Brianna?” Harrison called over his shoulder. “Are you joining us?”

  “Just listening from the back to hear how the singers project!” Brianna called back, pulling from her backpack a clipboard with a stack of preprinted evaluation sheets. She lowered her voice. “I hope you don’t mind, Casey. I mean, you’re fine sitting here with me. I’m nervous. I have to talk to you. I had a religious experience last night. It was like Michelangelo seeing the soul in the human form. Or Einstein seeing . . . whatever . . . the relative in relativity.”

  Mr. Levin called out from the stage: “Royce? Singing ‘Some Enchanted Evening’ from South Pacific? We’re ready for you. So sorry for the delay. Take it away, Royce!”

  Brianna sighed. “ Introducing Royce of No Voice.”

  “ ‘Some enCHANTed eeeeveniiiiiiing . . . ’” Royce’s singing sounded like a cross between a car horn and a blown nose.

  “Please, Casey,” Brianna said, “do not judge Royce by his audition. In real life, we adore him. And he tries so hard . . . ”

  On the evaluation sheet Brianna quickly wrote Royce’s name and then, in the space allotted for Musicianship, Presence, Dramatic Movement, etc., drew a quick sketch:

  Casey swallowed hard. She wondered what Brianna did to people she didn’t adore.

  “Okay, so the other night I went to a party at Scott Borland’s,” Brianna said, tucking her toilet into her stack of papers. “This is something I never do because Scott and his friends are proof of evolution, being clearly descended from baboons. But his house is awesome in a stupid-rich way, so worth the trip sociologically. Anyway, after about forty minutes Scott reveals this karaoke setup. He starts to sing, totally drunk, and before things can get uglier, I’m out of there. But as I run through the house, suddenly I hear the same song—only it’s amazing. Like Justin Timberlake sexy. Someone in the den, playing video games, singing along with Scott, thinking no one is listening. So I sneak closer, just outside the door, and I peek in . . . ”

  “‘Then fly to her siiiide . . . and make her your oooOOORK!’” Royce’s voice cracked painfully.

  “Thanks, Royce, that was great,” Mr. Levin said. “Callbacks will be posted tomorrow. On your way out, can you ask Kathy Marshall to come in?”

  Brianna wrote Kathy’s name on the evaluation sheet. “Of course he stops when he sees me. He blushes and says he only sings in the shower—which, come to think of it, would be an interesting place to hold his audition—but then, just like that, he stands up, bows, takes my hand, and dances with me . . . while singing ‘On the Street Where You Live.’ From My Fair Lady? How does he even know that song? He says his mom listens to show tunes. Everyone in his house sings; they don’t make a big deal out of it. My heart is thumping. My brain is turning to ramen noodles. But I’m also thinking: Do we actually have a leading man for the show?”

  “I thought you said Harrison was a future Tony winner,” Casey said.

  Suddenly Kathy Marshall’s voice called out from the stage: “My song will be ‘I Dreamed a Dream’ from Les Misérables.”

  “Harrison is an actor,” Brianna replied. “He can do anything—old men, little kids, bad guys, comic roles, accents. You want a guy like him for the most difficult role, the role no one else can do. For a leading man, you need charm, sex, great shoulders, hair. Eye candy. If you get a voice, too—well, hallelujah!”

  “Who is this guy?” Casey asked.

  “You’ll see.” Brianna looked longingly at the stage. “I can’t believe I’m not auditioning,” she said, almost under her breath. “You are so lucky. But hey, I made the choice. Sometimes you have to take new paths. Colleges like that.”

  Kathy’s singing voice was every bit as sweet as Royce’s was terrible. It was the kind of voice that reached out and caressed you. Casey was disappointed when she was stopped in the middle of the song.

  Next to her, Brianna was already busy writing:

  Voice 6, Looks 5, Acting 4.

  Not bad. Not great. Forgettable.

  “I thought she was good,” Casey said.

  “You haven’t been to a Ridgeport audition before,” Brianna replied.

  The next auditioner, Lori, sang a religious song that bounced off the walls, filling the auditorium. Then, while everyone just stared in awe, she sang a few bars of some Italian opera song.

  Voice 9, Looks 1, Acting 5.

  Fabulous legit singing. (Too bad Godspell is not an opera.)

  Call back.

  Next was Corbin Smythe, who cracked everybody up with Gaston’s song from Beauty and the Beast and went on to sing an incredibly sweet “Loch Lomond” in a Scottish accent.

  Decent comedic skills.

  Okay voice.

  Possible keep.

  Casey swallowed hard. She had always thought of herself as picky, but not like this.

  “Casey? . . . Casey Chang?”

  It took a moment for Casey to realize that Harrison was calling her name.

  “That’s you, girl,” Brianna reminded her.

  “Can’t be,” Casey said. “I signed up
way at the bottom.”

  “Damn, forgot to tell you.” Brianna slapped her forehead. “I saw your name all the way down there when Harrison gave me the sheet. There was a cross-out near the top, so I moved you up. I just figured you’d get it over earlier. That was okay, no?”

  “No!” Casey cried out.

  “Casey?” Harrison called out. “Is that you?”

  “Yes,” Casey squeaked. She rose from her seat on shaky legs. She felt like she wanted to throw up.

  “Hey, want me to ask Harrison to change the slot?” Brianna offered.

  Casey almost said yes, until she realized it would mean experiencing this awful feeling twice. Best to get it over with now. “It’s . . . okay,” she said.

  Brianna smiled and hugged her. “You go, girl. ‘You’ll be swell . . . you’ll be great.’ Quick, what musical is that from?”

  “I . . . don’t have a photographic memory like you,” Casey replied numbly, staggering into the aisle.

  As she slumped toward the stage, clutching her sheet music, Ms. Gunderson chirped, “What will you be singing for us?”

  Casey had to read the song title to remind herself. “‘The Colors of the Wind’? From Pocohantas?”

  Ms. Gunderson immediately began playing it . . . without the music. By heart. She knew it already. As Casey wobbled past the piano toward the stage, Ms. Gunderson was getting to the part in the music where Casey was supposed to start singing.

  Right . . . now.

  Crap. The song had begun, and Casey hadn’t even reached the stairs to the stage. What was she supposed to do—sing as she was climbing them? Get up there—move, any way you can! her brain screamed.

  She lurched to the left and ran for the stairs. Her right foot caught on the bottom step, causing her left foot to thump down loudly on the second step.