The Big Production #2

“LET’S GO, GUYS!” CASEY CALLED OUT FROM behind the curtain stage left. “Come on, we haven’t even rerun the ‘Beauty School Dropout’ scene after that first time. Let’s do it—now!”

She crossed her fingers. It was only Tuesday, first rehearsal of the week, but the number had been a disaster. Sammy Wilkens, playing Teen Angel, had come down with a sore throat the week before. Even though he’d had the weekend to rest, he wasn’t any better.

As the cast gathered on the stage, she heard a sickening thump from backstage. “Is everything okay?” she asked.

Charles and the Charlettes were gathered around a replica of a fifties-style convertible hot rod. Painted a metallic red, with the words GREASED LIGHTNING along the side and long fins extending from the back, it was just big enough for two people to climb into.

“Everything is dandy,” Charles said, “except that our motor fell out. See, someone had the bright idea that the car should move by remote control. Hence we have a motor.”

Gabe Hirsch, one of the Charlettes, lifted a large mechanical contraption from inside the car’s hood. “We just have to strengthen the support. The axles are holding steady and the driveshaft didn’t get damaged. It’s really easy to do, Charles.”

Charles gave Casey a look. “Robotics Club,” he said. “They think anything’s easy.”

Casey peeked out. The rear door of the auditorium opened and Sammy Wilkens rushed in. He ran to the stage and pointed to his neck, which was wrapped in a thick acrylic scarf. “It’s still not better,” he croaked.

“That’s okay,” Ms. Gunderson said. “Sing softly. Peter will use the damper pedal.”

Peter was playing the piano so lightly his fingers were barely touching the keys.

Within a few bars Sammy had stopped singing entirely and was just going through the motions Reese had taught him. Casey felt for him. There wasn’t much you could do about laryngitis.

“Does anyone have a suggestion for how to fit the car through the door?” Gabe asked.

“Gentlemen, ladies, and Charlettes,” Dashiell said. “Please keep the noise level to a dull roar.”

As the actors took their marks Brianna paced. “Casey, I’m worried. We have to call a meeting and replace Sammy.”

“It’s not laryngitis. It’s technique. He makes himself hoarse. He needs a voice teacher.”

“You have to be tougher, Casey,” Brianna insisted. “You won’t hurt his feelings—look at him, he’s asking to be let off the hook. And we don’t have the time to waste. Better to replace him now than have to train somebody at the last minute. We can get Harrison to do the dirty work. He knows how to fire people without making them feel bad. Where is Harrison anyway?”

“He said he had to go shopping for a suit,” Casey said. “But he should be here any minute.”

“A suit?” Brianna said. “He didn’t tell me that. Why can’t he do that on the weekend, instead of Tuesday?”

“He has to go to Chicago on the weekend,” Casey replied. “Maybe he needs to leave it for alterations.”

“Enough with the Yiddish! You are not Jewish, Vijay!” Brianna said, storming off the stage. “What is with you—all of you! This is a play. It’s serious business!”

“Egos make the world go ’round, boys and girls,” Charles said. “Work now. Discussion later.”

As the Charlettes went back to the hot rod, Charles leaned closer to Casey. “Um, any ideas what turned on the diva switch?”

“Charlettes, hurry and fix that thing, will you, so you can drive me home?”

Casey looked out into the auditorium. Brianna was off to the side, scowling, her cell phone pressed to her ear.

She was worried about Brianna. Brianna hadn’t looked well lately. Like she was fighting the flu, or mono. This morning at her locker she had barely said a word.

It was the pressure. From homework, from the college process, from her personal life. Too much pressure lowered your body’s resistance. Casey knew the feeling.

“OOOOOHH . . . OOOHHHH . . . ” came the sound of the chorus of “Beauty School Dropout.” It was strange without the soloist singing.

Poor Sammy was sitting off to the side, watching. He did look miserable. Maybe Brianna was right. He might be happy to leave the show.

As the number ended, Casey checked her clipboard. “Summer Lovin’” was next on the schedule. “Okay, I need Sandy and Danny!” she called out.

Shara was already onstage in the “Beauty School” number. But Harrison was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s probably in one of the practice rooms,” said Jamil, one of the Burger Palace Boys. “I’ll go look.”

“Tell him to hurry,” Casey said. She checked her watch. Everything was behind schedule. The karma of this whole rehearsal was off. Charles was arguing with the Charlettes, Brianna was arguing with Dashiell, Shara was defending Dashiell.

Her cell phone began to vibrate in her pocket. Probably Ripley in the projection booth.

As Casey reached into her pocket, a motor coughed to life backstage. Charles screamed.

The stage left curtain began to bulge. From under the curtain came Greased Lightning. It was moving slowly, but part of its chrome trim caught the edge of the fabric. With a loud rip, a chunk of curtain came loose, which draped over the top of the car as it emerged onto the stage, followed by five Charlettes.

The car rolled across the stage, picking up speed. It knocked aside Sammy’s stool, swerving upstage and taking out a prop table and the wooden frame for the soda counter of the Burger Shop.

As Mr. Levin moved toward it, Gabe leaped into the car headfirst. It crashed through the canvas of a half-painted flat and plunged into a rack of costumes.

Buffered by the fabric, it hit the back wall of the stage and stopped, its engine whining as Gabe struggled to sit upright and flick the switch off.

Gabe turned. He shook loose a fake mink fur that had landed on his head. He was beaming. “It works, Mr. Levin. It works!”

Casey plopped down into a seat. She buried her face in her hands. Her heart was pumping overtime.

They would need a new flat. A new curtain. Massive repairs on the costumes. Maybe a rebuilt car. If they were lucky and the school didn’t close the show for liability issues. She knew of a school in Connecticut where that had happened.

“Fine,” she replied, forcing a smile. “Did you get Harrison from the practice room?”

She thought back. No. He wasn’t just here. She realized she hadn’t seen him at all during this rehearsal.

Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out her cell phone: 1 MISSED CALL showed on the screen.