The Big Production #2

“Hold still,” said Charles, staring past Harrison’s face into the Green-Room mirror.

Harrison closed his eyes. He couldn’t look. His hair had too much gel and resembled a pile of soggy black spaghetti. “I look like hell. I can barely remember my lines, I never was a good dancer, and now my good looks are gone.”

“Modest as always,” Brianna remarked, putting on her curly brunette wig.

“You talk too much,” Charles said, struggling with Harrison’s hair. “You fart too much. And you move too much! Hold still and I’ll fix!”

“Who farts?” said Jamil, who was stretching on the floor. “I’ll smack him.”

“Can Peter Mansfield come in here?” Shara asked. “Would you guys mind if we had a short coaching session right now?”

“Mee-oh, mee-oh, mee-oh!” sang Reese, warming up. “Yuck. I sound terrible.”

“You sound great,” said Casey, who was posting the set change list onto the wall.

“Reese, there are more important things to think about right now, like Danny Zuko’s hair!” Charles said. “Uch, Harrison, go wash that mess. We’re going to start from scratch.”

“Does this look hot or tacky?” Brianna asked, scrutinizing herself in a mirror. She was wearing a tight black skirt with a sweater that clung to her bustier. Her blond hair had been tucked under the short dark wig, and she had drawn a beauty mark on her left cheek.

Chip, wearing thick horn-rim glasses, a checked shirt, and black-and-white saddle shoes, smiled at Casey. “You look beautiful.”

“Thanks,” Casey replied with a confused smile. “So do you.”

Dashiell peeked in from the hallway. “Has anyone seen Sammy? He did not sign in.”

“He was with Ms. Gunderson in the hallway,” Brianna said. “Crying. He’s getting cold feet. Doesn’t want to be in the show. He’s begging her to use a sub—anyone. Same old same old. He can talk fine, but for some reason he can’t sing. I told you we should have replaced him.”

“It’s psychological,” Dashiell said. “I’ll talk to him about mind-body connectivity.”

“That’ll really pull him in,” Reese said, pulling open her blouse just a couple of buttons too much.

“Oh, my heart—button up, this is Grease, not Flashdance!” Charles said, indignantly turning on the sink spigots.

“Break a leg, everyone!” Dashiell said. He gave Shara a quick kiss on the cheek and then left.

“Not me, I’m Sandra Dee,” Shara replied, her face turning red.

“Harrison, I said get that schmutz out of your hair!” Charles commanded.

“Yes, sir.” Harrison raced out of the Green Room, heading for the bathroom in a gale of laughter.

As Dashiell pulled back the mike, Casey covered her ears. Feedback was not cool. Ripley had had plenty of time to work that out.

“ . . . uh, gentlemen,” Dashiell continued. “I’m Dash Hawkins, and a hearty welcome from staff and thespians, to the annual Ridgeport High School Spring Musical!”

The track team. Which was basically most of the football team. Casey glanced among them for Kyle, but it was dark and she couldn’t quite make him out.

Reese smothered Casey in a hug. She was crying. “You’re the best stage manager ever and I love you!”

Casey gently buttoned Reese’s top shirt button. “You are hot. Frenchy is not.”

“ . . . Originally produced in Chicago in 1971,” Dashiell intoned, reading from prepared notes, “Grease was originally meant to be a Vietnam-era commentary on Eisenhower-year sensibilities, a fact which is sometimes lost on twenty-first-century theatergoers . . .”

Harrison was onstage now, hips thrust forward, combing his hair and confronting Dashiell.

“Pardon me, I happen to be the student director,” Dashiell said.

The crowd was giggling. Casey, too. This intro had been Harrison’s last-minute idea.

“And I . . . am duh student EJECTOR!” Harrison said, lifting Dashiell onto his shoulders.

From the back of the auditorium came a thunderous laugh. “HAAAAHAHAHAHA!”

Onstage, Dashiell feigned shock, Harrison gave him a noogy on the head, and they both turned to the audience, smiling. “Ladies and gentlemen, presenting . . . Grease!”

Casey’s heart felt like it was going to break through her chest. Her eyes began seeing spots. She felt as if she wanted to throw up. She didn’t think she could move. And she wasn’t even going onstage.

By opening curtain, Charles wanted to kill Gabe for adding a motor to the car, which went off all by itself as the cast were taking their places.

The wish for mass murder, he had come to realize, was healthy in the theater, as long as one refrained from the accomplishment thereof.

He stood calmly in front of the Green-Room door. No one allowed. By order of Dashiell and Mr. Levin.

“Charles, where’s my lead pipe?” Barry demanded, running back from stage left.

“Where I told you it was,” Charles replied, “where it has been since day one, if you had been listening. In the prop room, second to bottom shelf, left-hand side.”

Charles sighed. They take you for granted all through the rehearsals. They never listen. And then, during the show, when they’re supposed to know . . .

Now it was Reese’s turn. Adjusting her bright red Frenchy wig, she scurried up to him urgently. “Where is he?” Reese hissed.

“He? I’m not in charge of personnel, only inanimate objects,” Charles said, fixing her blouse, which had somehow once again become unbuttoned a bit too far.

She slapped his hand aside. “The next scene is ‘Beauty School Dropout’ and we have no Teen Angel! Where’s Sammy?”

“Our Teen Angel is preparing in the Green Room,” Charles replied calmly. “He requires a moment of rest. Have no fear. Places for Scene Two, toots.”

Knock, knock, knock. “Clear, please!” came a voice from behind the Green-Room door.

Out walked an outrageous-looking Elvis impersonator. His hair had been brushed into an impossible upsweep and he wore a white sequined outfit that had been inspired by Elvis, fitted to Sammy, and somehow taken out at least three sizes. Unlike Elvis, however, he used a crutch for walking.

“You look fabulous, Kyle,” Charles said, “and they will plotz when they see you. But you’re late. Now sit!”

Two Charlettes rolled a wheeled stool toward Kyle. “Mi-mi-mi,” Kyle sang, sitting on the stool and handing Charles the crutch. A huge smoke effect, wafting across the stage, began seeping slowly around the edges of the curtains.

He ran around into the wings to watch. In the midst of the smoke, as a cast of singing angels fluttered onto the stage, the Charlettes rolled Kyle on.

As the smoke cleared, revealing Kyle, the audience gasped. Then they broke into wild applause.

Charles watched Reese. She couldn’t have done a better double take if she’d been coached.

He glanced out into the audience. At the end of the first row, Sammy grinned and gave him a thumbs-up.

“You sneak,” Casey whispered in his ear. “Why didn’t you let us tell them?”

Kyle was amazing. With Sammy’s desperate encouragement over the last two days, Harrison had been trying to convince Kyle to do this part. It was only just before the show that Kyle had agreed.

It was a brilliant move. Kyle’s ovation was deafening. Even immobile, even sitting in a chair, he could bring the house down.

Waiting for his cue, he ran onstage. The lead-in to “Drive-In Movie.” The car scene.

He had the blocking in his blood. The laughs were there. Shara was perfect. Prim and virginal and shocked. As she ran out of the car, Harrison prepared for the slam. He had rehearsed it to death at home. He lunged after her.

The pain ripped through him. Harrison felt as if he’d lost his nose.

“NYAAHHOOOWWWW . . .” Harrison grabbed his nose and stood up. He looked at the audience, and let whatever was in his brain come out his mouth. “CCCHHHHTHHAAAACHHHH . . .”

He fell over the side of the car and slid down the trunk. He landed in a near split on the floor.

He checked the inside of his palm. No blood. Good. He cupped his hands over his nose in a prayer shape, hiding the nose completely. Then he dug his thumbnails, hidden by his hands, under his front teeth. Jerking his cupped hands to the right, he pulled his thumbnails forward so they made a snapping noise against his teeth.

It was a corny old trick. It sounded like he was breaking a bone in his nose—or setting it back in place. The body mike was a huge help—it sounded like he had cracked his skull.

He let go and forced a smile. “Dat’s bettuh!” he said. And then, as Harrison stood with a triumphant smile, they burst into applause. His dad, sitting in an aisle seat, looked totally bewildered. Concerned.

Mansfield was smiling. He would make the orchestra vamp until the audience stopped.

Harrison turned and gave them all a big wink. They cheered again. His dad was on his feet, beaming with pride.