The Fall Musical #1

“IT IS OKAY, HARALAMBOS. YESTERDAY I THINK we will have good business because of Election Day, but I buy too much food,” said Mr. Michaels as he jumped out of the Kostas Korner van, decorated with its famous dancing half men, half goats (which had been scrubbed clear off in certain places where obscene drawings had appeared). He was a man on the go, and he hurried to the back of the van, flinging the doors open. “So . . . I give to your skinny friends.”

“Dad,” said Harrison, looking over the familiar plastic-covered platters, “this is great. Really. But we have work to do. We can’t really stop everything for a big banquet.”

You could cut the air in rehearsals with a cleaver. The last month had been awful. Dances were lackluster and unimaginative, the singing dull. Casey and Brianna were at each other’s throat, and each of them was snippy to everybody else. Dashiell seemed depressed; no one was talking to Reese; Lori seemed nervous; and Charles was on the verge of divorce with the Charlettes. Even Mr. Levin and Ms. Gunderson seemed to be entering a cooling-off period.

It was so the wrong time, the wrong place, for an unexpected and unwanted shipment of Greek food.

“Banquet? What banquet?” Mr. Michaels shrugged, his smile transforming into a look of deep hurt—and Harrison was reminded for the thousandth time where the theatrical gene in his family had come from. “Is just a little moussaka and yogurt and sliced lamb and taramosalata—”

“I love it, you know that! But it’s too much. This is a rehearsal, Dad. If they eat all this, it’ll turn into nap time!”

“Naps is good!” Mr. Michaels bellowed with laughter as he began stacking platters on his forearms. “Show me where to go.”

A crowd was forming around the van now. “Niiiiice,” said a blond girl Harrison vaguely knew.

“It’s not for you,” Harrison muttered, reaching in reluctantly to grab another platter.

“Plenty for everyone, especially the pretty girls!” Mr. Michaels called over his shoulder, managing to throw a hammy wink to Harrison. “Ooh-la-la! God bless America and don’t forget the Greeks!”

“Never saw that man before in my life,” Harrison said, thrusting an enormous platter into her arms.

He followed his dad into the auditorium. Mr. Levin was chewing out Vijay about a lost prop. Brianna was buried in her homework. Reese and Kyle were off in the shadows doing God knew what. Casey was running around, replacing masking-tape markers on the stage floor.

Casey straightened up. “We need Jesus and Judas for the tap dance!” she called out, reading from her schedule. “And then we go straight to the junkyard for the crucifixion!”

Harrison could see his dad flinch. This was not what they’d taught in the Saint Demetrios Greek Orthodox Church Sunday School. He knew he would hear about this later. Christos DANCING? Tsk tsk tsk . . . model U.N. . . . politics . . . Intel science . . . THIS is what you should be doing.

“GOD BLESS AMERICA AND DON’T FORGET THE GREEKS!” Mr. Michaels’s booming voice stopped all the other noise.

Harrison cringed. It was his dad’s trademark saying, the words hanging in different forms all over the restaurant—stitched into samplers, framed, emblazoned on T-shirts. Everyone in town knew it, but if Harrison heard it one more time, he was going to throw a plate of baklava at the wall.

As his dad headed for the grand piano, Ms. Gunderson sprinted ahead of him. “Um . . . sorry, no food or drink on the piano, please!” she said, nearly prostrating herself on top of it.

“No problem!” said Mr. Michaels, who then made a great ceremony of lining the edge of the stage with Kostas Korner platters.

The auditorium fell silent. Reese stared down at the food with a disbelieving sneer. Casey sidled forward distractedly. Brianna looked up and then back down into her homework. Ethan and Corbin came forward, running lines and improvising jokes.

Mr. Levin hopped down from the stage and smiled graciously. “This is . . . uh, very generous of you. Drama Club—how do we show our gratitude?”

Ms. Gunderson began playing “For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow,” and one by one, everyone joined in. Lori wailed on a high C at the end, which made Mr. Michaels shout “Bravo!” and let out an earsplitting whistle of appreciation.

Soon everyone was thronging around the food. Harrison looked at the clock and watched two hours of rehearsal go up in smoke with just over a week left until opening.

Harrison ducked into the hallway before he could hear the words God bless America . . . one more time.