7
“Voilà!”
Dashiell pointed a remote at the projection booth.
The stage, which had been bathed in white light, was now still bathed in white light.
“Okay . . . ” Brianna said tentatively. “And?”
“Wait.” Dashiell frowned. He took a step closer to the booth and pointed again. “Voilà!”
“What’s supposed to happen?” Harrison asked.
“A highly dramatic lighting change,” Dashiell said.
“Maybe the computer doesn’t understand French,” Charles remarked.
“Of course it does,” Dashiell muttered. “I thought I’d conquered the learning curve on this new console. Oh well, give me a second. I will return triumphant.”
“Wait—why do you need a remote?” Brianna called out. “During the show, you stay up in the booth the whole time!”
“What if there’s a fire, or a gas leak, or some other emergency?” Dashiell called over his shoulder.
“But—if there’s a fire—” Brianna sputtered.
But Dashiell was already heading up the aisle, mumbling technical details to himself.
“Let him be,” Mr. Levin said. “We were lucky to get funding for this new console. Even luckier, they allowed overnight shipping. It’s state-of-the-art. Only Broadway theaters have it better. You know Dashiell. He has to work out every last detail.”
Brianna nodded, tapping her pencil on her evaluation sheets. The wall clock read 4:08. Seven minutes till callbacks.
Thirty-two kids were pacing the hallway, waiting, complaining, jabbering nervously. It’s okay, she wanted to tell them. Life will go on. She knew what it was like. In her first audition, freshman year, she had been a nervous wreck. Which was so not like her. Until then nothing had scared her—sports, spiders, the dark, homework, Dad’s brainy professor pals, Mom’s rich Wall Street coworkers with their fright-mask face-lifts. Theater hadn’t been on her radar screen, but Reese had been her best friend back then—and if you were Reese’s friend, you auditioned. For the first time in her life, Brianna was petrified, ill with fear, convinced the Drama Club would throw her off the stage. To her utter shock, they cast her as Chava in Fiddler on the Roof. She actually cried. She was happy in a way she’d never felt before. Her parents’ reaction was weird: You’re so much better than the lead girl, they’d said. That role was taken from you. It took her a long time to realize that they were thinking about “her future.” Lead roles meant something to colleges. “Bit parts” didn’t. You might as well do community service or tutoring or SAT practice—all better college strategies.
Then came the New York Times article: “Long Island High School Breeds Broadway Babies,” front page of the Sunday Arts and Leisure section, complete with a photo of the RHS’s Fiddler on the Roof. It was instant national fame for the Drama Club—and that, in the eyes of the Glasers, was cool for colleges.
But Brianna never forgot the feeling. Playing Chava had rocked her world. Everything else in life was about nailing the things that “mattered”—grades, social life, extracurrics. About being perfect. Which she’d learned how to do, with equal parts time, work, and caffeine. But the Drama Club was different. It was a place her parents couldn’t touch. It was hers.
“Is Casey coming?” Harrison asked, dropping into the seat next to her.
“She wasn’t at her locker this morning,” Brianna replied. “I waved to her three different times in the hallway later on but didn’t get a chance to talk to her. I wish I understood that girl. I mean, we handed that job to her on a plate. People would kill for that offer.”
Harrison sighed. “It’s all my fault. Because of my big mouth.”
“You can’t help it, you’re Greek. You come from a long line of people who shout in diners.”
“I didn’t hear that ethnic slur,” Harrison said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, she’ll come around. Especially if she knows Kyle will be here.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Brianna asked.
“You know. She’s a chick. Chicks like Kyle.”
“Chicks,” Brianna said, restraining herself, “like corn. Chicks like the warmth of hens—”
“Okay, okay,” Harrison said with exasperation. “Girls.”
“Now, girls? They like to go to Greek diners, check out the owner’s son, and order the specialty of the house . . . ” A sly grin grew across her face as she balanced her clipboard shoulder height, like a waiter holding a tray.
At the sight of this transformation, Harrison bolted out of his seat. “Don’t, Brianna. You know I hate that . . . ”
Brianna puffed out her chest and let out a nasal taunt that had driven him crazy since age nine. “Tseeseborgertseeseborger-tseeseborger-tseeseborger!” she brayed, in the style of an old Saturday Night Live skit about Greek diners.
There was nothing Harrison hated more than being teased about his dad’s diner. He was in the aisle now, backing away. “Okay, okay, I’m sorry. I admit, I’m sexist, okay?”
“Did somebody say sex?” Reese’s voice, from the doorway, made them both turn.
Harrison whirled around. His mouth hung open.
“Oh. My. God,” Brianna muttered.
Reese sauntered in, swaying on high-heeled dance shoes and wearing an outfit that wasted very little fabric. Her hair, brushed to a mirror sheen, hung down to her shoulders. She tossed it back, surveying the auditorium. As she moved, her cleavage took on a life of its own, the main goal of which seemed to be escaping the confines of her formfitting push-up Danskin top. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”
Dashiell was walking down the aisle now, from the booth. “Um, is that allowed?” he asked.
“They allowed it on the cover of the July Maxim,” Harrison remarked.
“On that model, the titties weren’t real,” Charles said.
“Charles!” Brianna gasped.
Ms. Gunderson was rushing up the aisle, holding out a white crocheted cardigan. “Darling, put this on, please.”
“I don’t get it,” Brianna said as Ms. Gunderson led a sputtering Reese into the hallway. “That outfit—for Godspell?”
“It ain’t for Godspell, darlin’,” Charles said.
His eyes were fixed on the door. There was a twitter of conversation in the hallway, and then in walked Kyle, wearing a pair of denim overalls and a faded RHS football T-shirt. “Dudes,” he said in greeting.
“My day has begun,” Brianna murmured.
Harrison sighed. “Chicks . . . ”
“Kyle, you’re number three,” Brianna called out.
“Cool,” Kyle said, leaping over the back of a seat so that he landed perfectly on the cushion.
“That’s an interesting exercise in mechanics,” Dashiell murmured.
“Don’t try it,” Charles said. “We don’t have insurance.”
By now, the other auditioners were entering. It felt different from the first day of auditions. Everyone was nervous, but the nervousness felt quieter, less deer-in the-headlights and more focused somehow.
“People—sign in and take seats!” Charles shouted. “Step right up, don’t be shy! Remember, you’re at Ridgeport High—where just making it this far is winning! I am your temporary stage manager until we find another victim—volunteer!”
Dashiell scurried back to the projection booth. Harrison checked his copy of the audition roster. Reese stomped back into the auditorium with a cardigan over her outfit, followed by a relieved-looking Ms. Gunderson.
Brianna kept her eye on the door, hoping to see Casey.
“‘Amaaazing grace, how sweeeeeet the sound . . . ’” sang Lori, her voice filling the auditorium with a sound that was glorious and huge and warm. And totally wrong for the show.
“That sounded amazing, Lori,” Brianna said. “Now, please start from the beginning—only pretend that you’re speaking to me in a conversation. I mean, sing, but don’t think about singing. The notes will take care of themselves. Think of the words instead. Like they just popped into your head for the first time. From the heart. So, tell me—what’s so amazing about grace?”
Lori looked puzzled for a moment. “It’s a religious song. About, like, finding God and being saved? Isn’t Godspell religious?”
“Right. So, tell me about that sweet sound! What did it do to you? Talk to me.”
Lori swallowed. She looked a little scared. “It—it saved a wretch . . . like me,” she said, reciting the lyric. “Brianna, this is embarrassing.”
“Go on . . . ”
Lori closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Softly Ms. Gunderson started to play. Lori began to sing again, starting in a low, tentative voice full of wonder and tenderness. Her body tipped slightly forward as if in prayer, and her voice grew with emotion. Brianna listened, and this time, all she could think of was yes. She wasn’t hearing Big Voice. She was seeing a joyous girl saved from a life of suffering. The song wasn’t just words anymore. It was a story set to music.
When it was over, Ms. Gunderson had to wipe a tear from her cheek.
“Thank you, Lori,” Brianna said.
She stole a glance at Harrison. He smiled.
“Amazing,” Charles whispered. “Brianna Glaser. Actress. Singer. Inspiration to the Multitudes. Is there nothing she can’t do?”
Okay, the technique didn’t always work. Jason Riddick had a sweet voice—but when Brianna asked him to “speak,” he spoke. And then he sang out of tune.
Reese danced and sang like a star, which surprised no one. She also tore off her cardigan toward the end of her audition, which brought a huge round of applause. And also surprised no one.
Corbin, who was one of the school’s best singers, looked scared and small onstage—until Harrison called up Ethan to join him. A double audition was completely against the rules, Brianna pointed out. But the two guys were incredible together, singing “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better” while doing magic tricks onstage. One point for Harrison.
When Kyle’s name was called, the auditorium fell dead silent. They all waited, but no one came through the door.
“Kyle?” Harrison repeated. “Hello?”
“He’s not here,” someone called from the hallway.
Brianna sprang out of her seat. “What do you mean, not here?”
She ran into the hallway, asked where Kyle was. Nothing but shrugs, duh-filled eyes. No one knew where he was. She ran out the school door, sprinted around the building and onto the playing field.
Kyle was limping quickly across the grass, looking up and over his shoulder—and heading straight for the fence. A football was bulleting toward him. “KYLE!” Brianna called out.
He glanced at her. The football hit him in the shoulder. As he tried to avoid the fence, his ankle buckled beneath him. He lurched forward, hit the fence, and fell.
Brianna ran toward him. “Are you okay?”
“I’m cool,” he said, struggling to his feet. “Did the tryout start already? Damn. I thought I had some time. Yo, yo, dudes! I gotta go! Be back later!”
He put an arm around her shoulder and hobbled back into the school, letting go of her only when they got to the auditorium. Apologizing to everyone, he limped down the aisle and climbed onstage. His overalls were caked with mud. He had a cut on one cheek.
Brianna took a seat next to Charles. “The soiled look is all over the Paris runways this season,” he said.
“Shut up and listen,” Brianna said.
“Hello, Kyle,” Ms. Gunderson asked. “May I have your music?”
“Music?” Kyle’s face fell. “Crap, it’s outside.”
“We don’t have time for this,” Harrison grumbled. “If he knew he was supposed to sing—”
Brianna ran to the piano and leafed through the stack of Ms. Gunderson’s music. She read off a list of songs, tunes she knew Kyle could handle: “Sit Down, You’re Rocking the Boat” from Guys and Dolls, “Almost Like Being in Love” from Brigadoon, “Bring Him Home” from Les Misérables.
He didn’t know any of them.
“I thought your mom listened to show tunes,” Brianna said.
Kyle smiled. “Doesn’t mean I know them all. Most of them kind of suck, you gotta admit.”
“What do you know?” Brianna asked.
“‘Danny Boy’?” he said sheepishly. “My dad sings that, like, seventeen times a day.”
Immediately Ms. Gunderson began playing the intro. Brianna crossed her fingers.
“‘O Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are falling . . .’” he began.
The correct word was calling. But it didn’t matter. Kyle sang the song with style. And no mistakes. And he made Charles cry.
They gave him “sides”—sections of the play’s dialogue. He read them without any preparation. He was a natural actor, Brianna noticed. Funny, warm, comfortable in his body. And he could sense wherever Dashiell’s spotlight was. It was something not every person could do—half the time kids would just walk into a shadow and not know it. But Kyle had that ability to “find the heat.” Wherever the light was, there was his face.
Damn. Damn. Damn. It was at times like this that she regretted deciding to be student director. If she had been allowed to audition, she would be playing opposite him. The possibilities would have been endless.
“I can’t take my eyes off him,” Brianna whispered to Charles.
“You’re not the only one,” he replied, gesturing toward stage right.
Reese, her cardigan abandoned, was walking onstage. With a big smile, she sidled up close to Kyle. “If y’all don’t mind, I’d like to put him through a simple dance routine.”
“Uh, ‘y’all’?” Charles said. “Since when did we become Southern?”
“Look at her body language,” Harrison said with disgust. “She might as well thrust them in his face.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Reese said. “Now, Kyle, can you do this? Sidestep, kick-step-kick.” She demonstrated a dance step that was all chest thrusts and hip wiggles, ending up right next to Kyle with her chest positioned so that his eyes could not help but go south.
When Kyle tried the dance step, with the same thrusts and wiggles, the whole auditorium burst into hysterics.
Kyle grinned at Reese. Reese scowled.
Yes, he was a keeper.
Brianna’s only regret was that she couldn’t be onstage, acting and singing next to him. That hurt.
Then again, she’d be able to tell him what to do. There were some definite advantages to that.
