EVERY DAY, MY LIST OF tasks was getting longer. When I’d first decided to do my show, all I needed was a script. Now, I not only had to fix Suresh’s singing, but also prep for Friday’s critiqued performance and take care of blocking, costumes, makeup, and scenery.
And if I wanted something done right, I had to do it myself.
Even though there was so little of me to spread around, I was determined to make Wicked stand up to Mary Pops In. The last thing I needed was for the agent to love Ilana’s show more than mine.
Tuesday morning I marched into the cafeteria and approached Cam, the guy playing Mr. Banks, with an offer he couldn’t refuse.
“Here’s twenty dollars,” I said, dropping some wrinkled bills on the table.
He glanced up, startled. “Did I miss something?”
“Sorry. Hi.” I smiled at him. “I need a job done, and I need it kept quiet. You in?”
Cam picked up one of the bills. “That depends, 1920s Gangster,” he said. “Who do I have to bump off?”
“Ha-ha. It’s not that kind of job.” I dropped into a chair and said in a low voice, “I need you to record two songs for my show. By Thursday.”
Cam lowered his voice to match mine. “Don’t you have an entire cast for that?”
I shook my head. “One of our lead guys can’t sing.”
“You mean Suresh?” Cam asked, eating a bite of cereal.
“Shhh!” I glanced around nervously. “And yes. How did you know?”
“He tortures songs during PE,” said Cam. “No matter how many dodgeballs we throw at him.”
I smoothed out the money I’d tossed on the table. “Could you please do it? I’ll even give you credit in the playbill.”
Cam chewed his cereal thoughtfully. “Is Suresh okay with this? I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”
“Trust me,” I said. “His feelings will be hurt way more if people jam pencils in their ears during the show.”
Cam laughed. “All right. Give me the lyrics and the music, and I’ll get it done.” He held out his hand and I placed the money in it.
“By Thursday,” I said.
“By Thursday,” he promised.
With that chore out of the way, I could focus on my next big dilemma: getting everyone else to sing loud, good, and in harmony. The day before, I thought we’d made tremendous progress from the start of rehearsal to the end. On, Tuesday, however, it felt like we’d taken two huge steps backward.
When I first walked into the theater, everyone was sitting around talking instead of prepping. Then the opening song, which was supposed to be joyful and upbeat, sounded sarcastic and catty.
“Good news,” they all sang. “She’s dead.”
I stopped them. “Guys, the Wicked Witch is dead. We should be happy!”
“I failed my math quiz!” Max mourned in a booming voice. “I can’t be happy.”
“And Mary Pops In got a chimney sweep from the original film to teach them dance moves,” said Wendy. “We’ll look like fools compared to them!”
Other people chimed in with complaints, and our practice quickly started to collapse.
“Guys,” I shouted above them all, “we have to focus. Now, come on. Happy!” I pulled my lips into a smile with my fingers and looked from person to person.
They all attempted to imitate me, but the end result was a lot of sneers and half smiles.
“Uh . . . okay, good enough,” I said. “Let’s take it from the top.”
But instead of singing, they all looked past me into the audience. I turned and almost fell off the stage in surprise.
Grandma was tottering down the aisle toward us.
She waved when she saw me. “Hello, Sunny!”
“Hey, Grandma!” I jumped off the stage and hurried over to her. In a quieter voice, I added, “What are you doing here?”
She rested her purse on a chair.
“I wonder how your show is going,” she said, “but I can’t ask your parents, so I find out myself.” She leaned past me to wave at the others. “Hello!”
They all mumbled hellos, except for Holly, who clapped her palms together and bowed at the waist.
Grandma glanced at me. “What is that?”
“Holly,” I said, as if it was enough explanation. I pointed to the chair beside Grandma’s purse. “Have a seat. We’re working on our opening song.”
“Oh, good!” She rubbed her hands together.
I clambered back onstage and whispered, “Guys, that is my grandma. She is our audience. If you can’t be happy for me, be happy for her.”
I started the music again and, to everyone’s credit, they tried, but the song was still lackluster. When it ended, everyone slumped as if it had taken all their energy.
I chanced a peek at Grandma and did a double take. She was now standing on the roof of the orchestra pit and leaning against the stage.
“I didn’t feel the song,” she said, looking up at me.
“Yeah, we didn’t bring it,” I said with an apologetic smile. I turned back to the others. “Let’s move on to—”
“Again,” said Grandma.
I took a steadying breath and counted to three. “Sorry, Grandma?” I asked with a bright smile.
“Do it again,” she said, shaking a finger at me. “You can’t practice badly once and move on!”
“We didn’t practice badly once,” Suresh spoke up. “We practiced badly twice.”
Grandma shook her head. “Then you try again.”
The group muttered and moaned.
“Nobody’s in the mood, Grandma,” I said.
She narrowed her eyes at all of us. “Then you get in the mood.”
Before I could stop her, she’d hoisted her upper body onto the stage and lifted her right leg, attempting to swing the rest of her body over the edge.
“Grandma, there’re stairs,” I said as she struggled to bring her left leg up to join the right. “They’re probably quicker . . . ” Her skirt rode up a few inches. “And less embarrassing for your grandchild.”
Derek rushed forward. “Let me help you, ma’am.”
He bent to take Grandma’s arm, and Cole ran up to grab the other. It was the most awkward stage entrance I’d ever seen, but Grandma didn’t seem to notice.
The guys hauled her to her feet, and she thanked them, brushing off her clothes.
“Now,” she said, looking at me, “you do not understand the importance of emotion in song.”
I nodded. “I do. I told them they need to act happy when they sing a happy song.”
Grandma shook her head. “Music is different than theater.” She paced in front of us. “Theater is about being someone you are not, acting in a way you do not. Music reveals the truth!”
Several kids murmured in understanding.
“You are not feeling the music,” Grandma told us, pounding her fist in her palm for emphasis. “Except you!” she pointed at Holly. “You are happy. I can see that. I can hear that.”
“Thank you, your . . . your agedness.” Holly placed her palms together and bowed.
Grandma just stared at her. “Please get up.”
“As you wish,” said Holly, bowing again.
I nudged her. “Cool it.”
“Sorry.” She bowed toward me.
“Holly!”
“It’s hard to stop!” she said. I grabbed her by the midsection and straightened her out.
Grandma returned to her pacing. “You need to feel the emotions of the song so the audience feels that emotion. Think of something that makes you happy, and be happy.” She stomped one foot, threw her arms open and a huge smile flashed across her face. “Good neeeeews!” she chirped.
A couple people giggled and others clapped.
“You see?” said Grandma, straightening back up. “You laugh because you feel my happiness. Because I feel it.”
“But what if we’re not happy?” asked Janice.
“I failed my math quiz!” Max reminded us.
“Yeah, and one of my kittens is sick,” said Tim.
That made everyone forget their problems. We all glanced at Tim in surprise.
“You ha-have kittens?” asked Cole.
“Yes,” said Tim.
“Live ones?” asked Wendy.
Tim frowned. “Yes. How could Fig Mewton be sick if he wasn’t alive?”
A couple of the guys snickered.
“You named your kitten Fig Mewton?” asked Suresh.
Tim sighed. “Yes! Because he has a tan body and a brown stomach.”
“Awww!” said the girls.
“Can you bring him to practice?” asked Bree.
“Guys!” I lifted my hands above my head but Grandma pulled them down.
“Cat Boy,” she said to Tim. “What are the names of your other kittens?”
“Well, I have two,” he said. “Kitty Pryde . . . ” He got nothing but confused stares, so he explained, “I named her after the girl in X-Men who can run through walls.”
“You have a cat that can run through walls?” I asked.
“No, but she tries,” he said.
Everyone laughed.
“And the other one?” asked Grandma.
“Lotto,” said Tim. “Because he likes to be scratched.”
Groans and more laughter.
When everyone had calmed down, Grandma had them face the front in a long chorus line. I stood with her off to the side.
“Now,” she said, “try the first lines of your song again. Instead of saying ‘Good news!’ say ‘Good mews!’”
Everyone laughed harder, and when the music started up, people were still smiling as they belted, “Good meeeeews!”
And it truly sounded as if they had good mews . . . news . . . to share.
I hooted and clapped for the others, and Grandma leaned close to me.
“That is how you bring happiness to unhappy people,” she said.
I nodded. “What was your happy thought?”
Grandma put an arm around me. “My granddaughter, of course.”
She stayed for the rest of practice, and just her presence had a profound impact on the cast. They went through the emotions of every song and kept working to get each one right.
When practice ended, Grandma gave me a ride home, and we talked about the show all the way.
“Thanks for your help,” I told her. “It really made a difference.”
“You are more than welcome.” Grandma patted my leg. “Most of you are good singers,” she said, “except the Indian boy.”
“Yeah, I’m having someone else record his songs,” I said. “Luckily, he doesn’t mind.”
I’d told Suresh the plan at the end of practice. He’d been a little embarrassed but knew it was best for the show . . . and his acting career. I guess enough dodgeballs had finally knocked some sense into him.
“Do you think we’ll be able to impress Ms. Elliott this Friday?” I asked.
Grandma looked over at me. “What’s this Friday?”
I told her about the ultimatum we’d been given, and Grandma drummed her fingers thoughtfully on the steering wheel.
“The songs will be good,” she said. “But to really impress, you need a dance number.”
“What?!” I cried, causing Grandma to swerve the car. “We have three days! There’s no way we can learn a dance number in three days.”
“Not a long dance,” said Grandma, holding up a finger. “A couple minutes. To add pizzazz.”
“Pizzazz?” I stared out the window thoughtfully. “There’s an instrumental section in ‘Dancing Through Life,’” I said.
“Perfect!” said Grandma. “You could do a waltz.”
“I don’t know how,” I said, working through options in my brain. “But I’ll bet I know someone who does.”
I took out my phone and pulled up Stefan’s number. When he answered, I heard classical music playing in the background.
“Stefan?” I asked. “Did you teach the parrot to play a violin?”
“No,” he whispered. “I’m at Pride and Prejudice rehearsals, waiting for my next part. What’s up?”
“This is going to sound weird, but . . . can you waltz?” I asked.
“I’m a counselor at the STARS program,” he scoffed. “Of course I can waltz.”
I flashed a thumbs-up at Grandma.
“Next question,” I told Stefan. “Can you teach the kids in my show to waltz?”
“Ohhh, that’s a tough one,” he said. “I guess I could manage an hour to show you the basic moves. When are you thinking? Next week? The week after?”
I grimaced. “Uh . . . tomorrow?”
Stefan got quiet.
“Pretty pretty please?” I begged. “I can’t lose this show. There are so many kids depending on it.”
Stefan growled at me. “Sunny.”
“I’ll owe you so big,” I said. “I’ll buy fifty tickets to your show!”
“They’re ten bucks apiece,” he said.
I swallowed hard. “I’ll buy one ticket to your show!”
Stefan sighed deeply. “Since it’s for you, I’ll come by tomorrow at lunch,” he said. “And everyone better be on time and ready to learn.”
“Yes! Yes!” I bounced in my seat, feeling a bit like Holly. “Thank you!”
“Gotta go,” he said. “My part’s coming up.”
We hung up, and I beamed at Grandma.
“Problem solved,” I said.
She smiled back, but there was a worried look in her eyes. “Good. Now handle that one.”
She stopped at the entrance to our neighborhood and pointed at the big oak tree.
Chase was sitting beneath it with his arms wrapped around his legs, head hanging as low as it would go.
“He should be at rehearsal,” I said, frowning.
I hugged Grandma and jumped out of the car. Chase didn’t look up as I sprinted toward the tree. Not even when I sat down beside him.
“Chase?” I said softly.
He finally glanced over at me, and his eyes were rimmed with red, like he’d been crying. He didn’t speak; he just stared.
I touched his arm. “Did something happen with the show?”
Chase’s nostrils flared and his eyes watered, but he still wouldn’t say anything. I placed a hand on his shoulder and felt his muscles tense up.
“He promised I could have this year,” said Chase. “Before he ‘turned me into a man.’” He puffed himself up and swaggered his upper body.
“He did promise,” I agreed.
“But then,” Chase’s voice came out in a squeak, “I told him I’d have to skip a ballgame next week, and he freaked out.” He clamped his mouth shut and pounded the back of his head against the tree. I heard bits of bark crackle and fall.
“I’m sorry” was all I could think to say.
He pounded against the tree again, harder this time, and my hands flew up to protect his head.
“Stop! A concussion won’t help,” I said.
“It might not hurt either.” He clenched his teeth and threw his head back.
Of course, this time, my fingers were in the way.
“Ow!” I shrieked as he crushed them against the tree. “It does hurt, dummy!” I pushed him forward and clutched my hand to me.
Instantly, the old Chase was back. “Sorry! Are you okay?” He gingerly took my hand and drew it forward where we could both inspect it.
There were a few light scratches and puncture marks but no blood.
“You’re lucky,” I told him. “You almost broke my autographing hand. Thousands of adoring fans would have been devastated.”
He smiled ruefully. “At least you still have a chance at adoring fans.”
“So do you,” I said, flexing my fingers. “People like baseball a lot . . . for some reason.”
“You’d know if you ever watched one of my games,” he said.
“I’ll be at the next one,” I promised. “Sitting right at midcourt.”
“That’s basketball,” he said.
“Midfield.”
“Football,” he said.
“Center ice?” I suggested.
We smiled at each other, and I leaned forward to hug him. When I pulled away, his arms held me an extra second so that our faces were inches apart. Chase’s eyes studied mine, and I suddenly felt self-conscious.
“I’m sorry about Mary Pops In,” I said, scooting back a few feet. “I wish your dad could see how much work goes into theater,” I said. “Maybe if we asked Ms. Elliott . . . ”
Chase wiped the moisture from his eyes. “It won’t matter. My dad’s never going to change.”
He got to his feet and held out a hand to help me up. I wanted to say more but nothing came to mind. I always figured I’d have it made once my name was at the top of the casting sheet.
But I was starting to realize that not even the Chosen Ones had it easy.