Dramarama (4 page)

“I’m here to rest,” she said. “I need time off to not be working, you know? But I’d miss the theater too much if I did anything this summer besides come here.”

“Do you go to school?” I asked as we took our trays into the cafeteria and sat down.

“Professional Children’s.”

“What’s that?”

“You never heard of it?”

“No.”

“The Professional Children’s School in New York. It’s for kids who work in the arts; they e-mail your homework to you and stuff, so you can keep up while you’re on tour.”

“Oh.”

“I’ve barely set foot in the place for like the past two years. It’s all been fax and e-mail. They give you a laptop.”

“Does your mom or dad go with you? On tour?”

“My dad used to. I have two sisters and a brother, so my mom couldn’t. But when I got
Night Music
, my younger sister Kylie had started getting commercials, so my dad had to stay home to manage her audition schedule. And my brother is on a soap, so my dad helps with that, too. But don’t worry”—Nanette laughed at my surprised face—“I had a host family to stay with. And on
Fiddler
my stage manager looked out for me. She’s the best. It’s like we’re sisters.” Nanette took a bite of a soggy-looking taco and put it down. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

I was startled by her change of topic, but I shook my head. “Boys in my hometown like the plain vanilla,” I said. “I think I’m more mint chocolate chip.”

“Ha!” Nanette barked her laugh. “Love it. This vanilla thing is causing you serious lack-of-boyfriend issues, then?”

I nodded. “I’m hoping to improve the situation this summer.”

“Mint chocolate chip is a good flavor. It’s sophisticated. And it’s green, which is unusual. I think I’m more of a . . . let me see. Toffee. Is that a flavor? Looks like vanilla but has crunchy bits mixed in. Almost a burned flavor.”

“What am I?” asked Candie.

Nanette looked at her appraisingly. “Let’s see. Do
you
have a boyfriend?”

“I used to.” Candie twirled a curl around her index finger. “But not anymore. I don’t think.”

“You don’t know?”

“He’s not my boyfriend anymore,” Candie said. “But he was for a while.”

“I think maybe you’re strawberry,” I offered.

“Why?”

“You wear pink. You’re like pink and white.”

Candie wrinkled her nose. “I don’t want to be strawberry,” she said. “I want to be something else.”

“I’m chocolate with chocolate fudge ripples,” announced Iz. “And before you ask, yes I do have a boyfriend.”

We all perked up, and Iz told us about her motorcycle-riding, already graduated boyfriend named Wolf, who was waiting for her all summer while she was away; who she’d been to third base with but not the full shebang; who worked in a record store and loved
Avenue Q
and Coldplay, both. “He knows everything about music,” she told us. “And when I graduate, we’re forming a band and I’m going to be lead singer.”

“Do you have a boyfriend, Nanette?” I wanted to know. Since she started the conversation.

She shook her head. “There were no guys my age in
Fiddler
. I haven’t even been around any decent boys for like years. It’s a hazard of my profession.” She looked around the cafeteria. “Half these guys are gay, I bet.”

“Yeah,” I said. “But you know what? The other half aren’t.”

“And maybe they like mint chocolate chip.” Nanette smiled.

“Or toffee.”

“Nobody likes strawberry,” moaned Candie. “Strawberry is a kid flavor.”

I felt bad about how mean I’d been to her earlier, on the beach. “You don’t have to be strawberry. You can be cherries jubilee.”

Candie smiled. “Okay, that’s good. Cherries jubilee.”

Iz stood up. “Speaking of—”

“What?”

“Hetero boys,” she said. “That guy over there is exactly a mint-chocolate-chip type of guy. I’m gonna go talk to him, see if I can get him to come by our room later to um . . . have a taste.”

“Gross!” yelled Nanette. “We have to stop this game now, if that’s where it’s leading.”

“Which one?” I wanted to know.

“The one in the green hoodie.”

I looked over at him. He was tall, with a round face and a big smile. Braces on his teeth. Rings on his fingers. Hair spiked up with gel.

“He played Kenickie in
Grease
,” said Iz, as if that was all I needed to know. “So I’ve already kissed him and can tell you, he’s good. His name is James.”

She bused her tray and crossed the cafeteria, calling out, “Greased Lightnin’!” at the top of her lungs.

Nanette ate a French fry and changed the subject. “I heard they were doing
Bye Bye Birdie
and
Little Shop of Horrors
this year.”

We leaned in close. “How do you know?” breathed Candie. “You just got here.”

“My agent knows Jake.” Nanette shrugged. “She called him and asked—and that’s what he told her.”

“Who’s Jake?”

“Jake Morales? Only the director of the program.”

“Oh, right.”

“We’re doing
Midsummer
, too, because they always have to do one straight play, something classical,” said Nanette.

“A Midsummer Night’s Dream?”
said Candie, her pink face going pale at the thought of Shakespeare.

“Hello? What other
Midsummer
is there?”

Candie looked down and took a bite of fruit salad.

“What else?” I asked. “Aren’t there five shows? Wait, no, five plus the ten-day wonder is six.”

“Ten-day wonder?”

Aha. Nanette didn’t know about the ten-day wonder, and Candie and I gleefully informed her, like we were old-timers.

“Jake said
Birdie
,
Midsummer
,
Little Shop
,
Show Boat
,
Guys and Dolls
, and . . . oh.
Cats
,” Nanette went on, counting shows on her fingers.

“
Cats
!” squealed Candie. “I love
Cats
!”

“Sweet pea,” said Nanette. “Keep your voice down. You are
not
supposed to love
Cats
.”

Iz had arrived back at our table. “Oh, no, not
Cats
!”

“Yes,” said Nanette, her voice animated with faux dread.
“Cats.”

“I saw it at the Winter Garden before it closed,” said Candie. “It was so amazing. Why don’t you like it?”

Okay. In case you haven’t heard of
Cats
—because it closed ages ago and Candie must have seen it when she was little—it was the longest running Broadway show
ever
, and involves people dressed up as kitty cats, dancing in feline fashion. There is one sad, aging alley cat who dies and goes to cat heaven, but the rest are happy and leap around singing about themselves.

Cats
is one of those shows that everyone thought was great when it came out, because it was based on these T. S. Eliot poems that are actually pretty funny and he’s like a famous poet. Then it became this hackneyed tourist trap that people would come to see because it was a famous spectacle, but not because it was art.

Even Demi and I, in the depths of Ohio, had figured out that it was embarrassing to like
Cats
. But Candie loved it.

“Never mind,” said Nanette dismissively, and filled Iz in on the shows for that year.

T
HEO WAS
standing near the exit when I left the cafeteria, talking with a group of Wilders (that’s what we were called). He’d changed his T-shirt, and his thick hair was still damp from the shower.

I was nervous, and part of me wanted to walk on with my roommates and not go after him, but then I thought—no. I’m here to try and get things I want. And that piano-playing boy is one of those things.

I should do something. Fall on my face if I have to.

“Theo,” I called, and he turned around. “Walk me to the dorm and I’ll tell you secrets.”

It worked. He ran over and jostled my shoulder playfully. “That’s a small price to pay, if the secrets are any good.”

“They’re good. I promise you.”

I wanted to touch him, so I put my hand on the back of his neck and whispered in his ear. “
Show Boat
.
Cats
.
Midsummer Night’s Dream
.
Bye Bye Birdie
.
Little Shop of Horrors
. Oh, and . . .
Guys and Dolls
.”

“You know for sure?” he asked.

I shook my head. “But one of my roommates has an inside line.”

“That’s my show,” he said as we walked down the path toward the dormitories. “That’s my show and that’s my part. Sky Masterson.”

“I know it.”

“You tell a good secret, Sadye,” said Theo. “You got any more like that?”

“Maybe,” I answered. “Let me see how good you are at walking me places first.”

“Oh, I’m fantastic at walking you places. Can’t you tell? Look at me, putting one foot in front of the other as if I’ve been doing it all my life.”

I laughed.

“You’ll see,” Theo went on. “I’ll walk you straight to your door. I may even come in for a moment, if that’ll get me extra secrets.”

He wanted to come in! Forget James/Kenickie. Theo the piano man was coming to my dorm room! “You’ll have to beware the
Jekyll & Hyde
poster,” I warned him. “It’s seriously disturbing.”

“Oh, I’ve survived worse already today,” he said. “One of my roommates put up a giant picture of Andrew Lloyd Webber.”

We were strolling past the boys’ dormitory when I spotted Demi sitting on the steps, eating a bag of peanut M&M’s—and glowing. “Sadye!” he yelled, jumping up and pulling me into a bear hug. “Oh, my darling, do I have stuff to tell you!”

“What’s up? Why weren’t you at dinner?”

“I have stuff to tell you!”

“I heard. Demi, this is Theo. Theo, Demi. My friend from home.”

“Hi, hi, nice to meet you,” Demi said, waving. “But I have to steal Sadye now. I’m sorry, it’s a drama, it’s like stuff is happening in my life and I need that Sadye consult!”

“Oh. Um. Okay.” Theo shrugged.

“Okay, bye!”

“Sorry!” I called as Demi grabbed my arm and yanked me into the boys’ dorm, leaving Theo out on the quad.

“S’okay!” he called back.

“Wait!” I said to Demi as soon as we were out of earshot. “Tell me what you think. Is he cute, or what?”

“Very cute. A little short for you.”

“I think he might like me. We met in the dance studio.”

“Later, all right?”

“He was walking me to my dorm. You dragged me away! At least let me dish!”

“But this is important!”

“Hey, I know what shows we’re doing.”

“Come back to my room so I can tell you. Why are you lollygagging? Oh, wait.” Demi was halfway down the hall, dragging me by the hand. “What?”

“I know what shows we’re doing.”

“What are they?”

“No, tell me your stuff. Now that you dragged me away.”

“No, tell me the shows!”

“No, now I want to know the stuff !”

We went into his room, which was identical to mine, except sadly undecorated. (Boys.)

“I kissed someone.” Demi wiggled around in excitement.

“What?”

“I did already. The guy down the hall!”

“You did not.”

“I did. Blake from Boston. Blond Blake from Boston.”

Not only had Demi never had a boyfriend, I honestly don’t think he had ever kissed anybody before—though I wasn’t sure. A guy with his ego would never admit to seventeen and never-been-kissed. But Demi had been a picked-on, beat-up underclassman in Detroit—and so invisible he never had an opportunity in Brenton. At least, not an opportunity that he could find.

“How did it happen?” I asked.

“Everyone went to dinner, but I felt gross so I wanted to take a shower, and when I got out, Blake poked his head in the door and said his name, and asked did I know where the cafeteria was.”

“Were you naked?”

“What? No! What kind of boy do you think I am?”

“From the shower.”

“No, I had already gotten dressed.”

“Okay, so Blake comes in and asks you where the cafeteria is, and . . .”

“And he comes in, and we were chatting, la la la, about whatever, how he was in
Oklahoma!
at school this spring, and I was sitting on my bottom bunk and he just came and sat next to me, and the next I knew, he kissed me!”

“That’s so European.”

“I
know
.”

“A blond boy came in and made out with you for no reason.”

“Yes!”

“And that’s why you missed dinner?”

“Yes!”

“Are you going to go out with him?”

“I have no idea!” Demi seemed unconcerned. He was so immersed in the idea that he’d had a kissing adventure.

“Wait, I have to see him!” I jumped up and headed for the door.

“No, you can’t!” Demi grabbed my arm, laughing. “You can’t go looking, he’ll know I sent you!”

“No, he won’t. He’ll think I’m some random girl.”

“Sadye, I can’t believe you! Don’t! Okay, be subtle,” he yelled as I wrenched my hand out of his and opened the door. “Oh, no! Wait!” Demi called after me down the hall. “Back up! It’s the other way!”

I reversed direction and walked until I saw a door with the name Blake on it. I knocked and pushed my head in. A semispherical white boy with black-rimmed glasses, wearing a checked shirt and vintage pants, was reading on one of the beds. “I’m looking for Blake,” I said.

“Isn’t everybody?” he said, his voice nasal.

“Is everybody?”

“He’s kind of a god,” said the boy. Then he waved a funny little wave as if to say that he, too, appreciated the sexual appeal of Blond Blake from Boston. “I’m Lyle. Who are you?”

“Sadye.”

“Blake is not floating in your direction, Sadye, if you know what I mean.”

“Oh, I know. I know.” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “I just wanted to get a look at him. Like a reconnaissance mission for a friend.”

Lyle nodded.

“I love your pants,” I said. And I did. They were sharkskin, dusky blue with a silvery shine.

“Thanks,” he said. And actually blushed. Like girls didn’t give him compliments often. “You’ll see Blake at the Meat Market, day after tomorrow, anyway. Everyone will,” he told me.

“The Meat Market?”

“Auditions. You know, we all sit and watch each other.”