Colors (15 page)

“But,” Kris says, “enough about the past. I just want to talk about now. How have you been?” There is a warming sparkle in the woman’s eye.

“Good.” It’s not like Aunt Jenny to give one-word answers. She’s from the South. They don’t know how to give one-word answers.

“And just who is this handsome guy? This can’t be Neil.”

Obviously, she’s known Aunt Jenny for a while. All the more reason why I want to know everything.

Flustered, Aunt Jenny spins around. “Neil, this is one of my dearest friends. Kristina, this is my son, Neil.”

Dearest friends? Is this true, or is she just covering her lack of manners earlier?

I offer my hand to this Kristina. She grabs it and pulls me into an enveloping hug. “None of this handshaking, Neil. We’re going to be good friends.”

I like her.

“Now,” she says, “give me a box of stuff, and I’ll tote it on up while you and Neil unload the rest. Better yet, give me a folding table. No, two. I’ll get ’em set up.”

Aunt Jenny loads Kristina up, and despite her perfect beauty, she’s strong as an ox. And has the energy of two oxen. She rushes away with the tables.

Aunt Jenny starts to pull the boxes of jewelry from the hatchback. “I bet you’re wondering who she is,” she says quietly, almost meekly.

I definitely want to know everything about Kristina, but right now, something else in on my mind.

“You introduced me as your son,” I say. No emotion. No question. No nothing. I just want a reaction.

Aunt Jenny first looks at me like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Then she says, “That’s what you are to me. So it’s about time I used the word. I never want to replace your parents. I loved my sister, and you are her flesh and blood. But I think by now I’m entitled to claim you as my own.”

She wipes a tear off her cheek. “Look here,” she scoffs. “This old crankcase is leaking.”

I laugh. “You certainly know how to defuse a sentimental moment.” I kiss her on the cheek. “Mom.”

I’ve never seen a more enormous grin in my life.

“Now,
son
”—she emphasizes the word—“take these boxes up.” She piles three in my arms. “Just look for Kristina. She’s tall as the Eiffel Tower. You can’t miss her, towering above the crowd.”

“One thing before I go: just who is this Auntie Kristina, Mommy?” I use my best toddler impression.

“An old, old friend. That’s enough for now. We gotta sell some jewelry. Now, skedaddle.”

T
HE
DRAMA
room is all set up for the auditions. A double classroom, there are about twenty student desks pushed together, piled to the right side of the room. On the left is a battered studio piano at which sits the choir accompanist. Rows of chairs for the auditioners flank the windows. Across from them is a table with two chairs. A tall man with glasses and a mustache sits at one of them.

This is the drama teacher. I’ve never met him, but I’ve tried to do my research. I’ve talked to every kid in drama I could find. And I’ve found out very little. He’s new, a first-year teacher, and apparently, his students are just getting to know him. They say he’s fair, but with every kid I talked to, I got a different impression of what he likes. I just hope Zane didn’t steer me wrong when he told me to use gestures. I don’t want to look like I’m overstepping here.

It’s very frustrating, not knowing anything. Never go into an audition blind if you can help it.

I survey the room, then sit in the back row. As the chairs fill, still no Zane. He’d promised to get here as soon as the final bell rang.

Ms. Walter breezes through the door. She examines the gathering group and smiles at me. I smile back. I wish the decision rested with her and her alone. If that were the case, I would definitely leave the auditions as Curly. And then it dawns on me what a hypocrite I am. I want her special attention in here, but in choir, I want her to lay off.

Ms. Walter walks to the table, where the drama teacher pulls out her chair and motions for her to sit. At least he’s a gentleman. That’s something.

He begins immediately to confer with her, shuffling what looks to me like the audition forms we were required to submit… deadline yesterday.

After several minutes, Ms. Walter’s partner looks at his watch, stands, goes to the door, closes it, then returns to the table.

A grumbling in my stomach, that queasy feeling I always get before an audition. Funny, performing doesn’t give me butterflies at all, but having to prove myself makes me jumpy as thunder. Where
is
Zane?

With that thought no sooner complete, he comes bounding through the doorway, the door slamming behind him, propelling him into the room. The auditioners laugh, but the drama teacher is not amused. Ms. Walter leans in, whispering something to him.

“Mr. Jeffrey?” the man says.

Zane’s eyes widen, a
deer in the headlights
look. He gulps. I can’t tell if he is really alarmed or if this is a Zane move to get noticed. Which, of course, he has. Gotten noticed. The guy even knows Zane’s name, thanks to Ms. Walter. Score one for Zane.

“Yes, sir,” he mutters.

“I trust you are not always late. That simply won’t do at my rehearsals.”

“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.” Zane starts toward me and the seat I’ve saved. “That is, sir, if you cast me, sir.” He sits down. “And I certainly want to be cast, sir.” Zane looks at me, shooting me a sly wink. I don’t know how anyone could turn this to his advantage, but if anyone can, it’s Zane. “I was detained, sir, by unforeseen circumstances, sir, but I shall never let it happen again, sir.”

The group laughs at Zane again as the drama teacher just rolls his eyes, then smiles. And Zane, once again, has been noticed, remembered, and marked himself indelibly in the guy’s mind.

The duped personage stands.

“Well, now Mr. Jeffrey has pledged his undying devotion to our little project here, let me welcome you to tryouts for the Cawton County High School Thespians’s, in association with the Cawton County High School Show Choir and Orchestra, production of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s
Oklahoma!
. It’s a mouthful, but I think we have to give credit where credit is due. I’m the director of this shindig, Mr. Novak. Assisting me is our musical director, Ms. Walter. For those of you here today who are drama-only folks, Ms. Walter is our choir director at Cawton County. And for the choir members in attendance, I’m the drama teacher. There’s one more member of our production team, our drill team instructor, Ms. Moonie, who will choreograph the show, but she won’t join us until the third day of auditions, where she will test your movement skills. She has graciously allowed Ms. Walter and me to whittle down the list to callbacks until she decides whether you can do a two-step without falling all over your two left feet.”

Great. There will just be a few of us at dance auditions. I know I can ace those. And it will be much easier to impress if I don’t have to trip over a bunch of clumsy-ass dancer-posers.

“And have no fear, Ms. Moonie’s bringing along some of her dancers for the dream ballet. She promises the principal actors can fake the moves she’s designed—provided they can put one foot in front of the other without tripping. Hence the third day auditions.”

Everyone laughs at him.

I like this guy. Great sense of humor. That’s important in the theater.

“Now, give Ms. Walter and me a moment to collect our thoughts, and we will begin the talent portion of our pageant.”

The butterflies flutter. Zane leans in and whispers, “It’s showtime!”

Mr. Novak, who had sat back down next to Ms. Walter, looks up from his notes. “Shall we start with our Laureys? And ladies, if you recall, you have to sing for Laurey even if you only want to be considered for Aunt Eller. It speeds the process a bit.” He looks at the paper in front of him. “Missy? Will you be our first lamb to slaughter?” There’s that sense of humor again. He points to a spot near the piano for her to stand.

A beautiful redhead stands and walks—almost waltzes—to the designated spot. This girl knows her stuff. She must be drama. She’s certainly not choir, I know.

Missy nods to the accompanist, who begins the bouncy intro to “Many a New Day.” The girl sings the song with a lot of flare, although her top notes are a little flat. A pity.

She finishes, Mr. Novak thanks her, and she returns to her seat.

“Not bad, but I hope there are better choices,” Zane whispers. Almost a stage whisper. I look to see if anyone has heard him. “Where’s Melissa?” he continues.

“Sh-sh-sh.” I shut down Zane fast. I certainly don’t need Novak to come down on me, and Zane, with his spectacular entrance, doesn’t need any more attention either. Especially negative attention.

Another name is called, another girl sings, until all the Laureys have finished. There are six in all, but only one stands above the rest. She is a plain brunette with creamy skin and a lovely, ringing soprano. She joined choir this year as a sophomore, but I never knew she had such a beautiful voice.

As she finishes her tryout number, Zane says, this time his voice more under control, “With a little makeup, she’d be really pretty with her glowing skin. I think we have our Laurey here.” Ms. Walter looks up at him, frowning. He mouths
sorry
at her. She nods and smiles. All is forgiven. Zane has that way about him.

Two more sing after the brown-haired girl, but they are definitely not contenders. One is plain as day—Laurey needs to be beautiful; maybe this girl could be Aunt Eller—and the other can’t carry a tune in a bucket. There is even a titter from a guy down the row from me as she sings, but I stare him down quickly. No one deserves to be laughed at when they try out.

“Wonderful, ladies,” Mr. Novak exclaims. “Now, shall we have us some Curlys?”

A gurgle in my gut, then the acid starts to rise. I hate auditions. I hate having to prove myself. I hate having to face the possibility that maybe I’m not the best for a role. But it is so seldom—try never—that someone knocks on your door at home and says, “Hey, you want to star in my show?” So I have to steel myself.

“We only have three of you guys. Who wants to go first?”

“Only three?” Zane mutters. “It’s in the bag, Neil.”

My eyes follow a tall, wheat-haired guy as he strides to the piano.

“Looks like we have our volunteer,” Mr. Novak says. “Name?”

“Sonny Broadnus, sir.”

“Well, Sonny, take it away.”

Not choir, not drama. An unknown.
Oh, please, please, please, don’t let him be good.

The pianist hits the single note that begins “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.”

A glorious baritone fills the room. Acid streams into my stomach and burns my esophagus. Who is this guy? I’ve never seen him before. He needs to be in choir. But not here, not now. Hot bile floods the back of my throat. The good thing is Novak didn’t know him. That plays in my favor. Equal chance, with Ms. Walter weighing heavily on me, I hope. I fight the indigestion plaguing me. Auditions are open to the entire student body. Surely this guy didn’t just walk in out of nowhere.
Breathe, Neil, breathe. Cool, fresh air.
That’s my only defense now against the stage fright. I’m doomed. This guy is perfect for the role. He’s everything any director could want for Curly.
Breathe, Neil, breathe.

When Sonny finishes, Mr. Novak thanks him and sings out, “Next.” Does his voice have a lilt in it that wasn’t there before this Sonny guy?

Another guy walks to the piano and I’m grateful. I need to get my shit together before I sing.

As the guy belts out still another version of “Beautiful Morning,” I close my eyes. Take myself out of the room mentally. A voice. Satine’s voice.
Grow a pair, Neil. Nobody here is half as good as you. Not a quarter as good. Kick ass, Neil.
Thanks, Satine. I needed that.

Luckily, the poor guy now giving it his all is completely wrong for the part, has only a serviceable singing voice, and has screwed up the words to the song, to boot.

“Thank you, Mark,” Ms. Walter says. “That was very nice.” She looks at me. “Neil, are you ready?”

I take the lifeline she’s throwing out with her eyes and stand. I can always count on her to champion me. And thank God we have a special language between us. No one else in the room sees the support in her eyes. It’s our special connection. Right now, I wish I hadn’t had all those bad thoughts about her when she favored me in choir. It feels great to see her confidence in me.

Zane grabs my hand and squeezes it. And that simple squeeze also bolsters my confidence. Amazing. I’m really feeling comfortable around Zane now.

I slowly and deliberately saunter to the piano, cowboy Curly filling me, his character strengthening me along the way.

“I guess you must be Neil Darrien?” Mr. Novak asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“And what will you sing for us, Neil Darrien?” Why did he repeat my full name? Is he prejudiced against me by something Ms. Walter has said? Was she too supportive?
Stop it, Neil.

“‘Surrey with the Fringe on Top,’ sir.”

“Well, take us for a ride, guy.”

I put everything I have into the song. The room seems to be humming with the electricity I pour into the song. I’m high when I finish, but I don’t have a clue if I’ve outsung Sonny Broadnus.

“Wonderful, guys—we’ve got three great choices for Curly, here. And remember, one of you may be cast as Carnes.”

Oh great. I come in for Curly and leave as Carnes. Oh, well, “The Farmer and the Cowman” is a great song.

After five Ado Annies, Mr. Novak says, “Let’s take five, shall we?” He pauses. “And I do mean five. We’ve still got to hear our Will Parkers, our peddlers, and our Juds.”

“W
ELL
, I’
M
screwed.” I’m out in the hallway with Zane.

“You’re not screwed,” Zane insists. “So what if that guy Sonny sang well. Singing’s not the whole audition. We’ve still got to read and dance. There is no guarantee he can act, and he could have two left feet.”