Is there anything more depressing than the end of March Break? Easter fell early this year so I don’t even have that to look forward to. Now it’s one big, long endless stretch until the Victoria Day weekend in May. These are the disturbing thoughts that run through my mind, waking me up at some ungodly early hour on a Saturday morning, my second-last day of freedom. I haul myself up on my elbows and listen for any signs of life, but it doesn’t sound like Mom is up yet. So why should I drag myself out of bed?

I turn over my pillow, punch it back into shape, and settle back down into the comforter. Before long I am happily on my way to sleep, daydreaming about giving an exclusive interview on my latest award-winning performance, when an alarm starts to go off. It’s distracting me and the perfectly styled reporter in front of me, who keeps looking over her shoulder.

“Clarissa! The phone!”

Why does the reporter sound exactly like my mother? And why won’t that ringing stop? Where is my personal assistant? Where is the producer of the show? What kind of TV show is this, anyway?

“Nobody I know would call at this hour.”

Mom again. And the ringing is getting louder. And then it dawns on me. There is no reporter, no interview. I’m dreaming. That awful noise is the phone. Talk about a rude awakening. Now that I know what the sound is, reality comes crashing around me and the dream that just seconds ago felt so real vanishes. I fling an arm out of the covers and fumble around for the phone, keeping my eyes closed, as if that will keep the last bit of the dream trapped in my head. Finally my hand connects with the phone.

“Yes?” I meant to say hello, but I’ve never been much of a morning person.

“Clarissa! Guess what?”

Of course. Benji. My own personal rooster. If I believed in things like past lives I would swear on my life Benji was one of those birds that starts squawking in the dark of the morning before the sun comes up.

“What time is it?”

“I don’t know, maybe eight-thirty? Were you asleep?”

“Benji, it’s Saturday. Most normal people are still asleep.”

“Oh, sorry.” For a moment Benji sounds guilty but he shakes it off quickly enough. “Can I tell you why I was calling?”

“Go ahead,” I mutter.

“I was reading the paper this morning and there’s something I think you should see on page four.”

That’s another thing about Benji. How many thirteen-year-olds do you know who read the paper? Even if it is only the local, sappy eight-page paper?

“Can’t you just tell me what it says?” I ask.

“No, I want you to read it. It’ll be more fun! Aren’t you even a little curious?”

I have to admit, I am just a little bit curious. Benji is an
early riser and everything but he knows better than to wake me up before I’m ready. Whatever he found on page four must be something big.

“I don’t even know if we get the paper,” I complain.

But Benji has the answer to that already. “Everyone gets the Saturday paper; it’s free. It’s probably still on your doorstep.”

“Fine.” I manage to pull myself up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. “I’m up.”

“Okay, go get it and call me right back. Call me before you open it.”

“Okay, okay. Bye, Benji.”

Mom is still in bed, reading, when I pass her room on the way to the front door. “Benji?” she asks, without looking up from her book, something cheesy about a housewife and a marine, probably supplied by Denise, her best friend and bearer of bad books and good cosmetics.

“Who else?” I reply.

Sure enough, just as Benji predicted, The Bugle is sitting on the welcome mat outside the front door. The Booger is more like it. I grab it and head for the kitchen table.

I guess I should be happy that I live in a small town with a paper full of local stories instead of pages and pages of war and crime. But I have to wonder, do the people of Toronto or Vancouver or New York City have to wake up and see a story on the front page of their papers about a woman who made it into the Guinness Book of World Records for having the largest collection of Precious Moments figurines? Probably not. When I’m famous, I wonder if they will print front-page articles about me. That’ll be a nice change for the people of this sad little town.

I turn to page four. At first I don’t see anything, just a
story about a sports team, a column about an alumni event at the high school, and a bunch of ads. Then I see it, a small notice buried in the advertisement section:

Think you’ve got what it takes to be a star?
The Gaslight Community Players are looking for actors between the ages of 12 to 18 for our youth presentation of the classic musical
The Wizard of Oz.
No prior experience necessary! Auditions on Saturday, 4 to 8 pm.

Fifteen minutes later Benji and I are sitting on the kitchen floor, staring up at the audition notice that is now on the fridge. I’d cut it out of the paper and rearranged the magnets so the only thing on the freezer is the notice; new hope on a clean slate. I keep re-reading the ad, just to be sure I’ve got all the details right. For as long as I can remember, I have loved
The Wizard of Oz
. I have also always felt that I was destined to be an actress. And here is an ad, telling me I can combine my love for the Wizard and my secret desire to be an actress? It’s almost too good to be true.

“Are you going to audition?” I ask.

Benji shrugs. “I don’t know, I was thinking maybe I could help with costumes.” Benji loves
The Wizard of Oz
almost as much as I do. If only he wasn’t so shy.

“You should audition,” I urge him.

“I don’t know if I can sing in front of people,” he says.

“You sing in front of me,” I point out.

“That’s different,” he protests. “These are strangers. Plus they’ll be listening to people all day long who are ten times better than me.”

“I think you have a nice voice.”

“Thanks,” says Benji. “I’ll have to think about it. What would I sing?”

“Whatever you want … Maybe not ‘Over the Rainbow,’ that’s a girl song.”

Benji thinks about it for a minute. I can tell because he’s chewing his lip. He always chews his lip when he thinks. “I could sing ‘O Canada’,” he says. “At least I know all the words to that.”

“Perfect! Let’s practise.” I jump up but Benji stays put, staring at the fridge.

“Maybe I’ll just stick with costumes. I like costumes.”

“I think you should go and if you chicken out you can just sign up for costumes.”

Benji frowns. “I’m not chicken,” he says.

I grin. “Then prove it.”

Wait

“This is so exciting! I’m so proud of you guys, auditioning for a big musical! Wow, there sure are a lot of people here! Are you nervous? Don’t be nervous.”

The only reason I invited Mattie Cohen was to keep Benji’s spirits up while I was inside auditioning. I practically had to drag him out of the house and I know that if left to his own devices he would worry himself into a state and never go through with the audition. So Mattie agreed to come along to keep him distracted. Only now she’s getting on my nerves.

“I think it’s smart to wear your hair in braids, it makes it easier for the audition panel to imagine you as Dorothy. Oh, Clarissa, you’d be a great Dorothy!” Mattie squeezes my hand. It’s amazing what a strong grip she has.

“Okay, okay, calm down,” I mutter. “People are staring.”

I’m surprised how many people are here. A lot of them look older, like high school students. They’ve probably done all sorts of musicals before. I try not to think about that.

Benji is looking a little pale.

“Are you okay?” I ask. He nods, but doesn’t say anything. Instead, he starts riffling through the portfolio of costumes he’s created to present in case all else fails and his voice or nerves give out.

“Okay, so it looks like we have to go sign up at that desk over there and then wait to be called,” Mattie says. “Come on, let’s go.”

Mattie marches up to the desk and offers her hand to the woman working behind it. “Hello, my friends here would like to sign up for an audition.”

“And will you be auditioning as well?” the woman asks. She’s wearing earrings in the shape of drama masks.

Mattie titters. “Oh, no. I’m just the fan club.”

Now they both laugh. The woman’s drama masks jiggle. “I wish
I
had a fan club! My name is Carol. I’m on the board for the Gaslight Community Players. Have either of you auditioned for us before?”

I shake my head, no. Benji appears to be unable to move.

Carol hands us each a form. “Well then, I’ll need you to fill these out and bring them back to me. We have a bit of a backlog at the moment but I can fit you in at seven-ten and seven-twenty. How does that sound?”

“Perfect!” Mattie chirps. “Thank you, Carol.”

It’s only six-thirty. I’m not sure I can handle sitting around for that long with nothing to do but worry. Mattie finds us a corner and we all sit down and look over the forms. Past shows? Dance experience? Vocal range? The butterflies in my stomach are migrating toward my throat, which can’t be a good thing, considering I have to sing in less than an hour.

Benji looks even worse than I feel. “What does vocal range mean?” he whispers.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Maybe they want to know what kind of songs you can sing?”

Benji frowns. “That doesn’t sound right.”

“Maybe put down average? You can’t go wrong with average.” So we both write “average” under vocal range.

“What are you going to put for dance experience?” Benji asks.

“Have you ever taken dance classes?” Mattie says.

“No, well, just that time we did line dancing in gym class. But I don’t think it counts.”

“Everything counts!” Mattie insists. “Write it down! What about past shows?”

“I was in a play in grade three,” Benji says. “We both were, Clarissa. Remember?”

“Do you mean the one where we dressed up as pioneers?”

“I remember that!” Mattie cries. “‘Yonder Years’!”

How does she remember this stuff?

“You could put down the radio show, Clarissa,” Mattie suggests.

“I don’t know, that’s not the same thing as acting in a play.”

Mattie shrugs. “At least you won’t have to leave it blank,” she points out.

So I write “host of exciting radio program.” That’s not exactly a lie.

Someone is singing scales in the stairwell. She sounds really good, especially on the high notes. Her voice gets even stronger as she gets higher. My high notes get more and more wobbly as I go up. My throat is starting to feel dry. Good thing Mattie told us to bring water bottles. I down half the bottle, a little too quickly, spilling water down my chin and across the front of my shirt. Wonderful.

Benji is starting to get fidgety. It’s making
me
fidgety. If I don’t find a way to distract him, both of our auditions will suffer and this year will be the same as any other boring
year and I will have lost my chance at stardom. I’ve pictured myself on stage for so long, and here I am with the perfect opportunity. And in
The Wizard of Oz
, no less — my all-time favourite book, movie, and now musical!

“Hey, Benji, why don’t you show Mattie your sketches?”

Mattie beams. “Oooh, yes please! I’d love to see them!”

Mattie bounces over and squeezes herself between us. Normally I’d be annoyed but it’s good to have a whole other person between me and the bundle of nerves that my best friend has become. Benji relaxes as he explains each of his costume designs. Mattie asks all sorts of questions and makes just the right kind of noises.

Every five minutes, a woman with a clipboard and a bad perm steps into the hallway and calls a name. The chatter freezes and everyone watches as someone gathers their belongings and heads into the gym. Then there’s the muffled sound of a piano and people go back to what they were doing. Even though I know it’s not helping, I can’t stop checking my watch. Six-forty, six-forty-five, six-fifty. How can things be moving so slowly?

“Charity Smith-Jones?”

Someone gasps and Mattie clutches the sleeve of my nicely pressed Dorothy-esque blouse in her hand. “What did she just say?” she hisses in my ear.

I don’t have to respond, because the woman clears her throat and says a little bit louder, “Charity Smith-Jones? Is Charity here?”

Just then the door to the stairwell swings open, narrowly missing Benji, and the girl with the great high notes strolls out. She has the most beautiful long, red hair I have ever seen, just like Ariel’s from
The Little Mermaid
. It’s long and full and spills over her shoulders in the kind of loose
waves that can only be achieved by high-quality hot rollers. My mom’s best friend Denise would be so jealous. She has been dyeing her hair red for years.

“Sorry, Bev, I was practising,” Charity trills.

The woman (Bev, apparently) looks absolutely charmed. “Don’t worry, Charity, we’re just happy to see you here. We thought after those commercials we’d lost you for good.”

Charity laughs. Even I am enchanted. “Oh, Bev! You know I could never leave the theatre!”

Mattie lets out a great gush of air as the door shuts behind Charity and Bev. “Do you know who that was?” she asks breathlessly. “Charity Smith-Jones!”

“Yes, I heard, Mattie.”

“But do you know who she
is
? She’s in grade ten at Sir John A. and has been the lead in every musical, even when she was in grade nine. She also does commercials. She’s the girl from the Tim Hortons commercial — you know, the Roll Up the Rim one?”

Benji gasps. “I know the one you mean! The one with the girl in the pink earmuffs! She uses her allowance to buy her mom a coffee and it ends up being a million dollar cup! SHE’S THE GIRL IN THE PINK EAR MUFFS!”

Leave it to Benji to remember her ear muffs.

“Do you remember it, Clarissa?”

Of course I remember it. Everyone knows that commercial. It plays every single commercial break. Charity Smith-Jones must be a millionaire by now.

“Do you think she’s going for Dorothy?” Mattie asks.

I shake my head. “No way, her hair is too distinctive. Dorothy has brown hair.”

“But what if they have wigs?” Benji says.

I shoot him a look. Benji cringes. “On second thought,
it’s just a community show, they probably can’t afford wigs,” he says.

I won’t believe it, I can’t. This is my part. I will not give it up to a red-haired TV star. I remind them that in the movie Glinda has red hair. Benji and Mattie nod.

“You’re so right!”

“She’d be the perfect Glinda!”

“You know who else she could play?” Benji says. “Not in this show, but in another one?”

Mattie and Benji look at each other and blurt out at the exact same time, “Anne of Green Gables!”

Mattie sighs wistfully. “She’d be the perfect Anne.” She adds, catching my eye, “And Clarissa would be a divine Diana.”

“Diana’s hair is black,” Benji points out.

“Maybe they have wigs!” I say, perhaps a bit too savagely.

Bev reappears in the doorway. “Clarissa Louise Delaney?”

This is it. I manage to get to my feet and make it to the door, clutching my form. Charity breezes past me, all smiles and dimples and perfect hair.

“Break a leg,” she says.

Easy for her to say.

BOOK: Love is a Four-Letter Word