Dramarama (9 page)

I lay there, my face still hot.

Then I got cold. The air-conditioning had been running for a while. I lifted up my head and looked at the clock. We lay there twenty minutes. Thirty. Forty.

Morales wasn’t there. The girl next to me was asleep, but other people were looking at their hands, or stretching a bit. I wanted my sweatshirt out of my bag, but I was too scared Morales would come back in and chastise the whole group because I was uncommitted enough to move out of position. So I lay still, staring at the clock and hoping that Singing (next period) would be better.

At ten fifteen, Morales reentered the room. “You may sit up,” he announced.

We did.

“I’m pleased to see you all still here, where I asked you to be,” Morales said, gazing down at us. “That’s a hopeful sign. A sign of trust and the beginning of our ensemble knitting together to make theater as a collective. See you again on Wednesday.”

And with that, he walked out again.

(shuffle, bang, click)

Sadye:
(in a whisper)
It’s June twenty-eighth, 11:35 p.m. After curfew on the first day of classes.

Demi:
(too loudly)
She’s in the boys’ dorm!

Sadye:
Quiet!

Demi:
(more quietly)
We’re in the laundry room, with the light off, so we won’t get caught by Farrell. Sadye climbed in like a ninja.

Sadye:
Your room is on the ground floor.

Demi:
Okay, I’m just giving you some credit. She ninja’d into my room and scared the pants off Steve and John.

Sadye:
Mark slept through the whole intrusion. He was literally snoring while I climbed in the window, and he never even moved. I was like right next to his head!

Demi:
Then we scurried down the hall and hid in here.

Sadye:
And why? For you, O posterity. We vowed at lunch to record the events of today, so important for documentary purposes, but then Demi forgot.

Demi:
I didn’t forget. Rehearsal went over.

Sadye:
We’re both in the ten-day wonder, but I had to go to the dance studio to learn “Bushel and a Peck,” while Demi did--what did you do?

Demi:
We read though the whole script and then the music director started work on “Luck Be a Lady.” Hey, did you have Advanced Dance? Sadye is an advanced dancer and is in the advanced-type dancing class.

Sadye:
No, it’s tomorrow. I had Singing.

Demi:
I had regular dance second period.

Sadye:
How was it?

Demi:
My buns are hurting. I’m not used to all those pliés and stuff.

Sadye:
Ha-ha!

Demi:
(loudly)
I’m serious! I have extremely sore buns.

Sadye:
Shh! Keep it down!

Demi:
(whispering)
Okay, it’s down. Now, for posterity, what was your elective, and what is your evaluation of it?

Sadye:
Restoration Comedy. We tried on corsets.

Demi:
On the first day?

Sadye:
Yeah. We put on corsets and then walked around, trying to get the flavor of movement in the Restoration era.

Demi:
What did the guys do?

Sadye:
There was just one. He watched our heaving bosoms with considerable interest. What was yours?

Demi:
I don’t have bosoms.

Sadye:
Your elective.

Demi:
Audition Prep, and we had to list our three most castable qualities.

Sadye:
What?

Demi:
Our most castable qualities.
So we can capitalize on them to
find the best songs. Like: Comic
Relief, Tough Guy, Ingenue, High Soprano, stuff like that.

Sadye:
And yours are?

Demi:
I said Joie de Vivre.

Sadye:
Good one.

Demi:
And Falsetto. But the instructor said that was too narrow. I could have an audition song with falsetto, she said, but I wouldn’t always want to use it.

Sadye:
And what was your last one?

Demi:
Not telling.

Sadye:
(pinching him)
What do you mean, not telling?

Demi:
Ow, ow!

Sadye:
Tell!

Demi:
Okay, it just sounds dumb. I
said Leading Man Quality.

Sadye:
And what did she say?

Demi:
(pausing)
She actually said that was fine, but I should replace Falsetto with Black.

Sadye:
Why?

Demi:
I’m black. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed!

Sadye:
What?

Demi:
I’m b-l-a-c-k, black.

Sadye:
That’s a mean thing to say.

Demi:
Well--

Sadye:
Why would you say that to me just now?

Demi:
--because you act like you never noticed.

Sadye:
What? You mean all the time?

Demi:
Basically.

Sadye:
How else am I supposed to act?

Demi:
(silence)

Sadye:
What, you want me to mention it every now and then, like, oh, you’re looking especially black today, Demi? Or what?

Demi:
No.

Sadye:
Then what?

Demi:
Don’t get all huffy.

Sadye:
I don’t know what you’re saying to me.

Demi:
Other people mention it. Like they’re not afraid to have it come up.

Sadye:
Like who?

Demi:
Lyle. We had a whole conversation after M-TAP today. Or like Candie, who--

Sadye:
Candie’s ridiculous.

Demi:
Maybe so, but she came out
front and asked if I was gay,
didn’t she? And later she told
me she’d never had a black
friend. She’s being open about
where she’s coming from, even if
she’s clueless.

Sadye:
But I don’t notice that you’re black. I don’t.

Demi:
That’s what I’m saying. It’s
a huge part of me, and you don’t
notice.

Sadye:
But isn’t it good that I
don’t notice?

Demi:
It’s a fact. Hello, Sadye.

Sadye:
Okay, it’s a fact. And it’s
a fact I’m white. It’s a fact I’m tall.

Demi:
Not the same.

Sadye:
Why not?

Demi:
You can’t say it’s the same.
You have to know that.

Sadye:
(silence)

Demi:
Anyway.

Sadye:
Anyway.

Demi:
The teacher said that people
will consider casting me for certain parts because I’m black, and I should have a song in my repertoire that puts me in consideration for those roles.

Sadye:
Oh.

Demi:
Like a number from
Ragtime
.
Or
Porgy and Bess
.

Sadye:
Oh.

Demi:
Whatever. I wonder what
Brian Stokes Mitchell auditions
with.

Sadye:
Let’s talk about something
else.

Demi:
Acting class. We had it
together, with Mr. Morales.

Sadye:
Oh, that was awful.

Demi:
What?

Sadye:
Hello? I was like five
minutes late and he laid into me
in front of everybody.

Demi:
I thought you liked the man.
You liked him after orientation.

Sadye:
I do like him. That’s why
it was so bad. He’s like this
amazingly talented director, so
it makes it all worse.

Demi:
But why was it awful?

Sadye:
Couldn’t he cut me some
slack? I was recovering from the
Midsummer
horror. And we were all late for breakfast because of him putting up his cast list late. I would never have been late if I wasn’t waiting for him in the first place.

Demi:
For what it’s worth, I think
you were shafted with that Peter
Quince part.

Sadye:
Thank you. But what I’m
saying is, given that it’s the
first day and the cast lists
went up and it was like the
biggest drama for everyone,
not just me, so we were all
vulnerable, was it really
necessary for Morales to single
someone out for humiliation and
give us all a lecture?

Demi:
Well-

Sadye:
What?

Demi:
Don’t think I’m being mean,
but-

Sadye:
What?

Demi:
Yes, it was.

Sadye:
What do you mean?

Demi:
That was his whole point,
wasn’t it? That it doesn’t
matter if the cast lists went
up, or your landlord kicked you
out, or your wife left you, or
whatever; a professional actor
shows up on time and doesn’t
let personal life get in the
way.

Sadye:
Maybe. All right. But he
didn’t have to cancel the acting
exercise and force us to lie on
the floor for fifty-five
minutes.

Demi:
That was amazing. I had to
pee so bad, but it was still
amazing.

Sadye:
What?

Demi:
Nobody, not one single
teacher, ever made me just think
for an hour before. Really
think about what’s important.

Sadye:
I wanted to learn
something. Not lie on my back,
wondering, When is he coming
back, and did I ruin the class
for everybody?

Demi:
You didn’t ruin it. He would
have done that anyway, because
that was like his whole point.

Sadye:
What?

Demi:
Trust. You have to trust
your director, trust your acting
teacher. He’s the one who can
see the whole picture, who can
see how what you’re doing fits
into the scene, or the show. We
had to trust that he hadn’t
forgotten us. Keep doing what
he told us to do, even if it
seemed bizarre. He was showing
us we had to trust his
vision.

Sadye:
But he was probably outside
smoking cigarettes and reading
magazines while he was supposed
to be teaching us acting.

Demi:
He
was
teaching us acting.
That’s what I’m saying.

Sadye:
It was a waste of time.

Demi:
That’s because you didn’t do
it properly.

Sadye:
Why are you being so mean
to me today?

Demi:
What, are you still huffy?

Sadye:
You’re being mean.

Demi:
Me? I’m the one who should
be mad.
(There is a loud knock on the laundry room door. More like a bang.)

Sadye:
Ah!

Demi:
Hide, hide!

Sadye:
Where?

Demi:
There’s nowhere--
Farrell, the hall counselor
:

(opening the door and flipping on the overhead light)
What have we here?

Demi:
It’s not what it looks like.

(shuffle, bang, click!)

F
ARRELL
barged in on us.

We made excuses.

He kept shaking his head. But fortunately, he was the assistant director on
Bye Bye Birdie
—so inclined to be lenient with Demi. He let us off with a warning and marched me back to my dorm room, promising that he wouldn’t report me for this first infraction.

* * *

D
EMI AND I
made up the next morning at breakfast. “Sorry I was such a pissant,” he said, hugging me from behind as I stood in line for pancakes.

“Sorry I was such a wench.”

“We okay?”

“Of course.”

“Good. Does that mean I can eat some of your pancakes?”

“Stand in line yourself!”

“Oh, don’t you want to give me a goodwill pancake? After we had our First Official Quarrel?”

“Okay, okay. But go get me some orange juice, all right?”

“Your wish is my command.”

And we were back to our usual selves—but still. It
was
our First Official Quarrel—and it wouldn’t be the last, it turned out.

T
HE NEXT
few days were a blur of scripts, rehearsals, new classes, sweat, music, and dance. So much dance my feet bled and our bathroom was draped in dripping leotards we had rinsed out by hand. So much energy expended we gobbled two or even three peanut-butter sandwiches at lunch.

In
Midsummer
rehearsals we weren’t spending much time with the script. We were bonding with trees.

Reanne’s concept for the show, she told us, was that
Midsummer
was the ultimate ensemble piece.

Our set would be a large, raked circle covered with brilliant green canvas, and together we would create the magical forest of Shakespeare’s imagination. In the story, two pairs of teenage lovers lose themselves in the wild woods, where mischievous fairies enchant them. A group of “rude mechanicals” (laborers) are also in the forest, led by a dorky fellow called Peter Quince (me). One of the mechanicals, Bottom (Lyle), gets turned into a donkey and is seduced by the fairy queen. A night of madness ensues. Love, fury, mistaken identities, magical spells.

Reanne explained that she envisioned us immersing ourselves in the fairy spirit of Shakespeare’s comedy, and that instead of having trees or rocks or bowers or whatever, we’d be making these set elements with our bodies, wrapping ourselves in the canvas and becoming the forest before the eyes of the audience. “The concept of the actors forming the stage environment with their bodies is always part of the way I work,” she explained. “It’s organic. It’s inherently theatrical. And it communicates with the audience on a deep level.”

The first couple days, we held rehearsal in the Shakespeare garden (full of all the herbs and plants ever mentioned in any of Shakespeare’s plays), in the woods at the back of campus, or by the lakeshore— communing with the spirit of nature. We held hands in a circle and closed our eyes, creating an ensemble as we passed a hand-squeeze from one person to another. We stood in the woods and smelled the earthy fragrances and listened to the soft sounds of the leaves in the wind. Then we ourselves “became” trees, reaching our arms skyward, trying to inhabit the wooden yet flexible quality of the forest. We sat on the edge of the water, each of us searching within ourselves for a gesture we felt would capture the beauty of the scenery around us—a gesture we could then bring to the rehearsal room to convey the presence of capricious, wonderfully alive Mother Nature that was such a big part of Shakespeare’s vision.

I liked the exercises. Reanne was warm and generous and full of enthusiasm. I liked focusing my thoughts, listening to her husky voice guiding us. One day we played tag in the woods, pretending to be fairies.

Stage Combat was my favorite elective. We learned how to fake-punch someone, listened to lectures about different kinds of fake-blood delivery systems, and fought with swords. It was a popular class with the straight boy contingent, including Theo (who was playing Lysander, one of the lovers) and a few of the rude mechanicals from
Midsummer
.

I was the only girl, and the teacher didn’t cut me any slack because of it. “Harder, Sadye!” he’d yell from the sidelines as I thrust my sword into someone’s side. “Fight like your life depends on it!” We practiced falling, shot off guns loaded with caps, and fake-slapped each other, over and over.

On the second day of class (day four of rehearsals) I got to slap Theo, whom I’d been ignoring as hard as I could ever since he hadn’t danced with me. The teacher assigned us to be partners.

Whack!
So you un-noticed me.

Whack!
So you don’t think I’m pretty enough to dance with.

Whack!
So you forgot I even asked you.

Whack!
So you want someone Kristinish like Bec.

It felt good, I have to say. Even though I was hitting my own hand, I got to look in his handsome face, think about how bad he’d made me feel, haul my arm back to hit him, then watch him contort in simulated pain.

Whack!
So you think it was all right for Morales to humiliate me.

Whack!
So you’re mad I don’t care that you’re black.

Whack!
So you’re running off with Blake.

Whack!
So you’re more talented than I am.

By the time my turn ended my head was muddled—I almost didn’t know if it was Theo or Demi in front of me, and why was I thinking about Demi at all? I wasn’t even mad at him anymore, was I? The teacher told us to switch roles, but I barely listened. Just stood there feeling this mix of fury and confusion.

It was Theo’s turn to slap me. We went through the scenario three or four times without trouble, but then his hand slipped and he walloped me across the cheek, hard and loud.

I stumbled back, my face stinging and my breath ragged.

“I hit you for real!” Theo cried, putting his hand over his mouth in shock. “Are you okay? Are you okay?”

I stumbled to a chair and sat down.

“It’s turning red. Are you okay?”

I couldn’t speak.

“I’m so sorry. Can I get you an ice pack or something?”

“No, no,” I finally answered. “Just let me sit for a second. I’m not a delicate flower or anything.”

Theo looked at me. Hard. “I know you’re not a delicate flower,” he said. “That’s what I like about you.”

“You know, I think I
will
take an ice pack,” I told him.

Theo scurried off to get me one and tell the teacher, and I sat with my head between my knees.

I felt like I was melting.

After that, Theo and I went back to talking. The two of us became partners whenever we sparred in Stage Combat, and joked around together in
Midsummer
rehearsals. He liked my company—that was pretty certain. But I don’t think he had re-noticed me as a girl— because he didn’t pounce. And I didn’t either. Because, why wasn’t
he
pouncing? There were so many girls at Wildewood, lolling about in tights and leotards, asking him to play piano on lunch break while they practiced their songs, calling to him across the quad. Was Theo the guy who really preferred vanilla and only flirted with mint chocolate chip when there was no vanilla in sight?

S
OMETHING BECAME
clear to me during
Midsummer
rehearsals in the days that followed: the end result of Reanne’s ensemble process was that some of us were going to play trees.

It was also easy to see that the people playing Puck, Bottom, Titania, and the lovers were not going to have time. So the people with little parts were going to be treeing it up.

Meaning me.

Once we started working with the script, Reanne was so committed to her ensemble fairy spirit vision— the idea that we were all collectively creating the play at every moment, no matter who was speaking lines and who was being a tree—that she had us stand there with our arms held out while the actors playing the lovers rehearsed their speeches.

I don’t know if you’ve ever stood still with your arms out for half an hour, but it is fantastically uncomfortable.

To give her credit, Reanne was appreciative. She gave notes to the trees, and talked to us about the kinds of tree shapes we needed to make in order to create the ambiance for a particular scene. Sometimes I was a menacing tree, sometimes protective, sometimes jolly or wild.

But let’s face it. For a serious portion of my rehearsal time, I was a tree.

One day, while the lovers and royalty were working on the start of the play (which takes place in a palace, not the enchanted forest), the mechanicals had been assigned to stroll once again through the campus woods and improvise in character, “forging bonds and developing the nuances of the characters’ interpersonal relationships,” said Reanne.

So we walked. Me, Lyle, and four character-actor guys: one pale and femmy (Flute), one hatchet-faced (Starveling), one horse-faced (Snout), and one seriously short (Snug).

“You wanna know something?” asked Lyle as we stepped into the cool of the woods.

“You’re gonna tell us anyway,” I said.

“I wouldn’t care if I never saw another tree in my life.”

“Ha!”

“I am treed-out already, my friend. And it’s only six days in.”

“Seriously,” said the femmy fifteen-year-old playing Flute, the bellows-mender. “And you don’t even have to
be
a tree, do you, Bottom? I have to be a tree for like hours while Oberon and Titania quarrel.”

“Me too,” complained Starveling.

“Are they talking in character right now?” whispered Snout. “Because Reanne said to.”

“Not sure,” said Snug. “Are you?”

“Not sure,” answered Snout, and cracked up.

“I’m not a tree,” admitted Lyle, “but you know what I’m gonna be now, in the scenes before the mechanicals go on? Reanne just told me.”

“What?”

“A rock. I’m gonna ball myself up and be a rock. Hermia is gonna sit on me.”

“Poor Lyle.” I patted his arm.

“Not as poor as you, darling. I saw you treeing it up behind me yesterday. You looked like you were gonna faint.”

“
I
almost did faint,” moaned Starveling.

“Reanne does this every year,” said Lyle. “There’s no stopping her. Last year she directed
Oedipus Rex
and had the members of the chorus be the furniture. It was laughable. People were totally being tables, and everyone was dressed in white bed sheets.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, YES.”

“Lyle is definitely not in character,” muttered Snout.

“I can’t tell anymore,” said Snug.

“Or maybe he is?” said Snout.

“But Reanne’s way too nice for anyone to say anything,” Lyle went on. “And she does all the organization stuff for Morales, keeps it off his back so he can be the star director.”

“Aha.”

“Her approach is founded on some interesting theories about drama, actually,” said Lyle. “They made us take theater history last year, and Andre Gregory, I think it was, did this famous
Alice in Wonderland
with the Manhattan Project in like 1970 that used people’s bodies to create the wonderland. It was really cool. We saw pictures.”

“You know what we should do?” I said. “I mean, complaining is one of my favorite things, I’m not knocking it. But shouldn’t we stop complaining and try to make it better? It’s early days for this show. It doesn’t have to be
Bedsheet Oedipus
.”

“But how?” piped up Flute.

“Talk to her. We should make suggestions.”

“That’s not an actor’s job,” said Lyle.

“But isn’t she talking about the ensemble all the time? Don’t you think she knows
Bedsheet Oedipus
was bad?”

Lyle shook his head. “Maybe she does and maybe she doesn’t. But it’s not our position to talk to her about it. The actor’s job is to realize the director’s vision. If her vision is bedsheets, her vision is bedsheets. It’s not a situation where challenging authority does any good.”

“But if it’s an ensemble, we should have a voice. Each of us should have a say.”

Lyle pushed his glasses back up his nose. “I don’t think so, Sadye. The only thing we can do is talk about it behind her back.”

C
ONTRARY
TO being in
Midsummer
, being in the ten-day wonder—even in a small part like mine—was like being a member of royalty. I got pulled out of Singing for a costume fitting on only the second day, and felt a glow of specialness as I ducked out the door and headed for wardrobe. Once there, I stood along with the other Hot Box Girls being pinned into evening gowns with Velcro closures for “Take Back Your Mink,” and tried on yellow-feathered dresses for “Bushel and a Peck.” The costume mistress and her assistants fitted us for gold high heels, checked our stocking sizes, brought out piles of fake furs for us to slink around in—brown for us, and white for Nanette.

We were all due at rehearsal by 7:30 p.m.—an hour before anyone not in the ten-day wonder had to be at evening recreation, so we rushed through dinner, ran back to change clothes, bandaged our feet, and grabbed our scripts—and hurried out of the dorms on the way to the studios as everyone else trickled back from the cafeteria.

Then we worked. Sweated. Usually the Hot Box Girls danced nonstop for two hours. For “Bushel and a Peck” we all carried rakes. We tapped them on the floor in rhythm, swung them around, jumped over them, used them like canes, leaned on them as we jumped. For “Take Back Your Mink,” we did a synchronized semi-striptease, followed by a complicated tap routine. It wasn’t easy for me—though I’d had years of tap lessons—and Nanette, who wasn’t much of a tapper to start with, wolfed down her food every night and ran off to the dance studio to get in an extra half hour on the routine.

But here’s the thing about Nanette Watson: by the fifth day of rehearsal, when Morales was coming to see the dance routines, she had it nailed and was doing it better than I was.

The director, who had been spending his afternoons and evenings rehearsing the principals and gangsters, waddled into the dance studio, waved hello without saying a word, and sat down on a bench to watch the dances.

You could tell Tamar was nervous. Even though she was his girlfriend. She put us through both numbers, calling out during “Mink” to explain what we were doing with our imaginary clothes. The music director, sitting behind the piano playing accompaniment, didn’t say a word.

When we finished, Morales was silent for a moment. Then he said: “If you think you’ll get a rise in anyone’s pants doing it that way, you’re mistaken. Do you
want
the audience to fall asleep, here? Do you?
Do you?
”