The Fall Musical #1

When are you gonna be back on the buddy list? Are you getting these e-mails? Let me hear from you. How’s the new apartment? Papou and Yiayia can’t wrap their minds around the fact that you moved from Long Island to “Brooklee.” They think all moves are supposed to happen the other way around. I think they feel sorry for you.

Oh, guess what? I am playing Judas in Godspell. It’s the lead. He doubles with John the Baptist. The alpha and the omega. I love playing bad guys, mwah-ha-ha. It’s a much better role than Jesus.

I’ll send jpegs.

“Hold it right there!” Ms. Gunderson said. “Kyle, you have to sing while you do the soft-shoe. You can’t let Harrison do it all. This is a huge number, a showstopper.”

Kyle grimaced as he set down his rolled-up umbrella. He and Harrison were supposed to be using canes, but the canes hadn’t arrived yet from the supplier. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s the ankle.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Reese the Patient Choreographer asked. “Because we can change the number and make it easier.”

“Nah, I’ll get it,” Kyle replied. “I’m a football guy. Football is all about managing pain.”

“And knowing left from right,” Harrison added.

Kyle grinned. “Dude.”

“Okay, then,” Reese said, “now remember, swing the cane to the right first, then move your left leg. If you get it wrong, you will kick Harrison and knock him off the platform. And we don’t want to see either of you guys injured and bedridden. Well, injured.”

Backstage, Casey drummed her fingers on the wooden surface of the school lectern, where her laptop was set up. She fiddled with her IM settings, hoping Dashiell had finally figured out how to get his lighting-board computer onto the wireless network.

She loved watching the rehearsal from the wings. The best part was seeing Kyle sing. From the side, you didn’t have to worry about his noticing you watch him.

“ ‘All for the Best,’ from the top,” Ms. Gunderson said. “One, two, three, four . . . ”

Harrison and Kyle jumped into place on a narrow platform. They grabbed top hats like two vaudeville performers. Two rolled-up umbrellas materialized out of nowhere. Casey grinned.

“Now . . . kickline!” Reese cried out.

Harrison lifted his hat and kicked sharply, crisply to the right.

Kyle kicked to the left.

“Yeoowww!” Harrison fell to the stage, clutching his ankle.

“Crap!” Kyle said, throwing his hat to the floor in frustration. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem, I have another one,” Harrison said bravely.

“Break!” Ms. Gunderson called out. “Kyle, may I work with you alone, please?”

As the actors headed offstage, Harrison struggled to his feet, gave Kyle a supportive thumbs-up, and fell in step with Ethan. “Let us gather like sheep, not goats, fellow traveler!” he said, clapping his arm wearily around Ethan’s shoulder.

“Will you knock it off?” Ethan said.

Harrison was the kind of actor who liked to stay in character offstage. He also liked to give advice. Casey had seen him teaching Kyle to make gorilla noises and walk with his arms scraping the floor, insisting that this would help his acting skills. Casey wasn’t sure it really helped.

Now he was talking to Ethan. For all four days of rehearsal, Ethan had been lifeless, mumbling his line readings and songs. The two guys were speaking softly, until finally Ethan exploded: “Um, wait. Are you the student director? Huh? Are you? Levin and Brianna both know what I’m doing.” With that, he turned and walked offstage.

Brianna, noticing the commotion, had come backstage. She, Reese, and Harrison all converged at Casey’s station. “Hey, student director, can we replace that jerk?” Harrison said to Brianna.

Reese nodded. “I agree. You know what he tells me? He’s ‘marking.’ He says a good actor doesn’t go all out at the beginning. That’s ‘unprofessional.’ You have to rein it in. Explore the inner life of the character slowly . . . ”

“Slowly? He’s comatose!” Harrison said.

“Harrison,” Brianna said patiently, “you know you’re not allowed to direct and act in the same play. Don’t worry. We’re on him. We’ll talk to him again.”

They all turned to the stage as Kyle began singing “God Save the People,” and hitting a few clams until Ms. Gunderson stopped him. “Sweetie, your sound is amazing,” she said. “Just one teeny thing—the high note is an E-flat, remember? You’re singing the wrong note on the word save.”

“He’s having a rough day; let’s give him some props,” Brianna whispered. Then she called out to the stage, “You sound fantastic, Kyle! Beautiful tone.”

“Excellent!” Harrison agreed.

Kyle turned with a start, not used to hearing their voices from stage right. He smiled and gave a devil-may-care shrug. He didn’t look insecure, but he had to be feeling it.

As he began singing again, Reese sighed. “Can you believe the size of that thing?”

Brianna nodded. “It’s a major voice.”

“Unless you were referring to something else,” Harrison said.

“You have a one-track mind,” Reese replied.

“I do? Why don’t you just go up there and grab him?” Harrison asked. “Maybe then he’d reach the high notes.”

Reese raised an eyebrow. “Honey, you are just jealous, because the biggest basket in your life is filled with bread. Yia soo, Greek boy.”

Harrison turned away. “It’s Be Snarky to Harrison Day,” he said over his shoulder.

Casey noticed some movement on her laptop. A message from Dashiell.

Let_there_be_light: zzzup sistah

Nice. Finally! Casey quickly typed a response:

changchangchang: you did it!!! the wifi works! geeks rule!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

“Woo-hoo!” came Dashiell’s voice from the lighting booth, distracting everybody.

changchangchang: ssshhhhhhh

Let_there_be_light: sorry

Casey shut her laptop and stood by the edge of the stage. To her left, behind the curtains, Corbin and Ethan were playing a card game while reciting lines. Onstage, Mr. Levin had finished giving Kyle “notes”—criticisms—on his singing. Casey quickly checked her rehearsal sheet and said, “Cast! Listen up! Everyone onstage for ‘Day by Day’!”

“I was going to give a few more notes,” Mr. Levin said with a patient smile.

Casey checked her watch. “Can you do it afterward? We’re off schedule.”

What are you doing? screamed Casey’s brain. Talking back to the director is not kosher. Not not not. Ease up. It’s happening. That old feeling—you can do anything, nothing touches you. That feeling you paid for last year by screwing up everything.

But Mr. Levin didn’t seem mad, just amused. “Sure, Casey,” he said. “You’re right, actually.”

Now Charles came popping out of the wings. “Okay, kids, imagine a junkyard—a colorful Disneyworld of cool props you can use to act out the gospel lessons—umbrellas, baby carriages, a scooter, a wagon . . . ”

Casey watched, letting her brain cool down. The scene unfolded, soon leading into the song “Day by Day,” Lori’s solo. Casey’s IM chime interrupted the mood. Stepping back, she glanced at the screen.

Let_there_be_light: links done. wanna try Cue 57A & see if it works?

She typed back

changchangchang: sure

Accessing the site, she quickly entered her user name and password. All the cues were lined up in numerical order with descriptions. Casey clicked on “57A: Day by Day 1.”

In an instant the stage went dark except for a circle of light focused only on Kyle and Lori. They seemed suspended in a perfect white globe. Casey shot a thumbs-up to Dashiell, who was dancing in the booth.

Then she braced herself for the song. That phrase—day by day—still cut to the bone. After the hospital, that’s what they had told her: take it day by day, and things would get better. Of course, it wasn’t true. When she got home, when she found out what had really happened, she knew that it could never get better. Not day by day, not as long as she lived.

Lori’s voice soared as she sang “these things I pray,” and Casey’s memories faded as she imagined trading places, so she would be touching Kyle’s fingers, one by one.

“Pssst!” From the rear exit, out past the costume/prop room, Charles waved Casey toward him. She ran to the door. It was open, and loud angry voices filtered in. One of them was Mr. Ippolito’s.

Casey peeked out to see him standing face-to-face with the principal of the school, Ms. Hecksher. “If in my judgment this were unsafe,” Mr. Ippolito was saying, “you can be sure I would not do it!”

“The issues here are not only safety,” Ms. Hecksher snapped, “but cleanliness, protection of property, and respect for process! And beyond that, Mr. Ippolito, there are guidelines. Unless your job description and union affiliation have changed drastically since I last checked, you are not the faculty adviser to the Drama Club!”

Casey looked past Ms. Hecksher and saw what she was upset about. At the end of the hallway, cushioned by thick rags, the enormous rust-covered chain-link fence leaned against the wall.

Charles came up behind Casey. “We have to do something!” he whispered.

Before she could say a word, Mr. Levin came toward them. “Is there a problem?”

Mr. Ippolito began explaining that because he was a huge Godspell fan, he had come up with the idea to bring in the fence for the junkyard scenes.

He was taking the fall. Putting his job on the line. Not even mentioning that it hadn’t been his idea.

“Um . . . ” Casey said. “I . . . it was my . . . ”

Nobody was listening. A crowd was gathering around her, curious actors and the Charlettes. Mr. Levin turned to them wearily and said, “People, let’s take a fifteen-minute break.”

“Mr. Levin,” Casey pressed on, “I was the one who wanted the fence.”

“Um, if you’re looking for martyrs, add little old moi,” Charles piped up. “I planted the stupid idea—”

“Casey, Charles, please, you are not employees of the school,” Mr. Levin replied. “Let Ms. Hecksher deal with this.”

“B-but—” Casey stammered.

The crowd was pushing her back to the door as Mr. Levin, Ms. Hecksher, and Mr. Ippolito walked briskly away, disappearing around the corner.

When Mr. Levin called the break, Kyle headed straight for the empty hallway leading to the football field, wanting some time alone with his throbbing ankle. Next to a row of lockers, he could see through a window to the field. The varsity squad was out there practicing, and the new guy at wide receiver—Kyle’s old position—was pretty good. Pete Newman, it looked like.

He turned as he heard footsteps pounding on the tile floor.

“Oh!” Casey Chang stopped short as she came into view, surprised to see him. “I’m sorry. I . . . I just . . . want to get to my locker . . . I’m sorry . . . ”

“Hi, Sorry,” Kyle said, “I’m Grateful.” His dad’s favorite stupid joke.

She walked swiftly past him, her hair falling in front of her eyes, and opened her locker. “You were good today.”

“Right,” Kyle said, trying to sound grateful. “Thanks.”

“You were,” Casey insisted.

Kyle shrugged. “Hey. Whatever.”

“You don’t sound convinced.”

Kyle shrugged. “Well . . . I am, I guess. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. Maybe not. I don’t know. It’s just that, well, here’s the thing . . . . ” He shifted, and a brief stabbing pain shot upward through his leg. “Okay, everybody tells me I’m great. Even when I screw up, sing flat, bump into people, make the wrong entrances, fart onstage—they still say I’m great.”

“So?” Casey said.

“So . . . I know I’m not. I can’t be that good. It’s like when I drop a pass or screw up on the field, my coaches and teammates tell me I suck. They really let me have it. But not the Drama Club. And yo, I’ve been sucking a lot lately.”

Casey’s locker door thumped shut. She walked over to him tentatively. She was eating something that looked like a candy bar. “They do mean it,” she said between chews. “You don’t have to be perfect to be good. Everybody makes mistakes and sings out of tune during the early rehearsals. You just need practice. Look, you practice catching and running, right? It’s the same with music.”

“I know.” Kyle rubbed the back of his neck. “But getting a chance to practice isn’t that easy. Ms. Gunderson’s always too busy. And I don’t read music.”

“If you want, I can play through the melodies for you on a piano,” Casey suggested. “I’m not very good, but I can do that.”

“Thanks.” Kyle shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of this. He shifted uncomfortably, distracted by the shouts from outside. Someone had just made a first down, but it was on a broken-pass play with the downfield receiver in the clear by the goal line. He knew he would never have missed that opportunity. “You’re a theater person,” he said quietly. “In the theater, how do you know you got it right?”

“What do you mean?” Casey asked.

“Like, in sports for example,” Kyle went on, “you know what to do. You learn plays, practice them, try them in a game—and then they either work or they don’t. And the game just goes on like that until someone wins. With the theater it’s different. You sing a song only once in a show, you do each scene once, and that’s it. You can’t do it over. How do you know if you got it right?”

“Well, I—I guess you never really do . . . ”

“I thought so.” Kyle let out a deep sigh.

“God, this doesn’t sound like you,” Casey said. “You’re always like, Mr. Confident.”

“I’m not me. I’m my twin brother, Duke.” Kyle smiled. “Yo, do you ever have the feeling you’re somewhere you don’t belong?”

Casey looked at him cautiously, and he went on.

“Like, something bad happens to you, like your ankle—and suddenly you find a place where you can escape, where you can be someone else? And for a while you think, yo, a new life! Like a fantasy game. And then after a while, things get hard . . . and you realize you’re just the same person you always were?” Kyle stopped, laughing at the sound of his own voice. If there was one thing he didn’t have, it was a way with words. “God, that’s stupid. Forget I said it.”

“No, it’s not,” Casey replied. “I do know how you feel.”

“You do? ’Cause to tell the truth, sometimes I feel kind of like a phony around you guys. Not always. Just like when I can’t tell my right leg from my left in a dance. Have you ever felt that way? Like a phony and you just want to run away?”

He glanced at her, but she was reaching into her shoulder bag, pulling out a cell phone. “It’s Charles,” she said. “We’re supposed to come back. See you there.”

Funny. He hadn’t heard the phone ring or buzz or anything.

She turned and ran around the corner, back toward the auditorium. But not before he got a good look at her face. She was crying.