The Fall Musical (10 page)

Casey sat. “Well, I don't like to talk behind people's backs . . . ”

“Darlin', backstage is made for gossip,” Charles replied. “Either you start now or I will have to train you.”

“Okay. Um, well . . . ” Casey furrowed her brow thoughtfully, as if in the middle of an exam. “Kyle's doing push-ups. Corbin seems troubled. Reese's clothes are falling off. Ethan seems to be in slow motion. And Harrison's on the verge of a heart attack.”

“Ha! You're
good
at this!” Charles cried out, clapping his hands. “Okay, these are good signs. They mean the show will be fantastic. Bad rehearsal, great show—the old saying. But no matter what, remember, the Charlettes will make sure it all looks fabulous.”

Casey glanced at a sheet of paper on the table, where Charles had drawn a sketch of the Jesus character, dressed in a Superman T-shirt and bound by red ribbons to a chain-link fence. “What's this?” Casey asked.

“The crucifixion scene,” Charles replied. “Jesus on the fence. I'm thinking lots of red, flowing ribbons, bright and symbolic without being gory . . . ”

“Do we have a fence?”

“The Charlettes will paint a backdrop.”

Casey thought a moment then smiled. “I have an idea. Can I show you?”

“I am your acolyte,” Charles said.

She stood and led Charles into the hallway. They hurried down a corridor to the school's rear exit, which led outside to a dark, fenced-in area where the trash was stored in three large Dumpsters. Construction debris was piled against the wall, casting ominous shadows.

“If you want to make out with me, Casey,” Charles said, “I can think of a few sexier spots. Like behind the steam tables in the cafeteria.”

Casey blushed. Turning away from him, she leaned over a pile of bricks and rattled a chain-link fence. It was enormous, at least ten feet high. “I was thinking . . . maybe this is a dumb idea . . . do you think we can get this into the wings?”

Charles glanced from the fence to the small school entrance door. “Uh . . . no, it's not a dumb idea. In fact, I thought of it myself. I even talked to Mr. Ippolito about it, but he didn't like the idea. And I think he was right. I took a closer look and I was like, ‘Gah, what are you
thinking
?' (A) It's filthy and rusty, and (B) it would stain the costumes, and (C) I doubt the school has insurance against gangrene, and (D) it would never fit through the door, and (F) it weighs a ton.”

“You skipped E.”

“I'll think of something.”

“Look, we could clean off the rust,” Casey said. “There are products for that. And it would look perfect . . . . ”

“You want to try Mr. Ippolito again? Be my guest. But take some NoDoz before you go. Unless you're dying to hear about his experience as the Tree in
The Wizard of Oz
in 1492. Look, doll, the Charlettes have great artistic abilities. At least I hope they do.”

“They do,” Casey agreed. “But the fence would be more realistic.”

“No offense—ha, that's a pun—but don't get grandiose. It can backfire on you. Personally, I like that in a girl. You remind me of me, which is one of the reasons I see Dr. Fink. He specializes in grandiose teenagers. Now I have to get back. You do what you need to do.”

“Okay,” Casey said, a little baffled. Sometimes she wasn't sure what Charles was talking about. “See you in the auditorium.”

 

Mr. Ippolito, the janitor, leaned back, putting his feet on the cracked Formica desk. “Yeah, Chasey, you're gonna love it here.”

“Casey,” Casey said gently.

“I used to be an actor in this high school, too, y'know. Yep.” He leaned forward meaningfully, as if to give his words proper weight. “I played the role of Cord Elam. In
Oklahoma!
I
owned
Cord Elam. You know the role?”

Casey nodded. She'd never heard of it. “That's so great. So you really
understand
us. The custodian in my old school? He wouldn't let us use a stepladder in
Carousel
—”

Mr. Ippolito sat bolt upright. “For the Starkeeper? You
gotta
have a ladder for that scene.”

“He banned plastic retractable knives for
West Side Story
.”

“Awww, no!” Mr. Ippolito groaned. “What'd he expect the actors to do, slap each other to death?”

“I'm glad we didn't do
Godspell
there . . . ” Casey's heart was fluttering so hard, she was sure he could tell. She wasn't used to doing this kind of thing, but gentle prodding was not nearly as bad as lying, and she had been doing a lot of that lately. If she could get Mr. Ippolito invested in the idea of
the best possible play
. . . “He would never have let us build realistic scenes. Like in the crucifixion . . . ”

“That's a
great
scene! The movie, with the cop cars in the background, Judas selling him out . . . ”

Casey swallowed hard. “I know Charles has already asked you about the fence outside?”

“In the back? Yeah, but he didn't mention what it was for.”

“It's an amazing scene . . . ”

“Very dramatic,” Mr. Ippolito said, tapping his fingers on the desk. “The climax, if you will.”

“I think if we fixed it up a bit, got rid of the rust . . . ”

Mr. Ippolito sat back, mulling it over. For a long time he didn't say a word. “I wanted them to use a real surrey in
Oklahoma!
, and a real horse. I knew where to get them. A real show horse, one that wouldn't mess up the stage or freak out. But they wouldn't let me do it. They used that stupid cardboard . . . ”

His voice trailed off, and he suddenly sat forward. “You know something, Kathy? I'm going to go to bat for you on this one. Let me take a look at it and figure out the best strategy . . . ”

He leaped from his chair and opened the door for Casey.

As she walked out, she spotted Charles. He had been standing just outside the door, and he must have been listening in, because his face showed utter disbelief.

10

 

“Hold it right there!” Ms. Gunderson said. “Kyle, you have to sing while you do the soft-shoe. You can't let Harrison do it all. This is a huge number, a showstopper.”

Kyle grimaced as he set down his rolled-up umbrella. He and Harrison were supposed to be using canes, but the canes hadn't arrived yet from the supplier. “Yeah. Sorry. It's the ankle.”

“Are you going to be okay?” Reese the Patient Choreographer asked. “Because we can change the number and make it easier.”

“Nah, I'll get it,” Kyle replied. “I'm a football guy. Football is all about managing pain.”

“And knowing left from right,” Harrison added.

Kyle grinned. “Dude.”

“Okay, then,” Reese said, “now remember, swing the cane to the right first,
then
move your left leg. If you get it wrong, you will kick Harrison and knock him off the platform. And we don't want to see
either
of you guys injured and bedridden. Well, injured.”

Backstage, Casey drummed her fingers on the wooden surface of the school lectern, where her laptop was set up. She fiddled with her IM settings, hoping Dashiell had finally figured out how to get his lighting-board computer onto the wireless network.

She loved watching the rehearsal from the wings. The best part was seeing Kyle sing. From the side, you didn't have to worry about his noticing you watch him.

“ ‘All for the Best,' from the top,” Ms. Gunderson said. “One, two, three, four . . . ”

Harrison and Kyle jumped into place on a narrow platform. They grabbed top hats like two vaudeville performers. Two rolled-up umbrellas materialized out of nowhere. Casey grinned.

“Now . . . kickline!” Reese cried out.

Harrison lifted his hat and kicked sharply, crisply to the right.

Kyle kicked to the left.

“Yeoowww!” Harrison fell to the stage, clutching his ankle.

“Crap!” Kyle said, throwing his hat to the floor in frustration. “Sorry about that.”

“No problem, I have another one,” Harrison said bravely.

“Break!” Ms. Gunderson called out. “Kyle, may I work with you alone, please?”

As the actors headed offstage, Harrison struggled to his feet, gave Kyle a supportive thumbs-up, and fell in step with Ethan. “Let us gather like sheep, not goats, fellow traveler!” he said, clapping his arm wearily around Ethan's shoulder.

“Will you knock it off?” Ethan said.

Harrison was the kind of actor who liked to stay in character offstage. He also liked to give advice. Casey had seen him teaching Kyle to make gorilla noises and walk with his arms scraping the floor, insisting that this would help his acting skills. Casey wasn't sure it really helped.

Now he was talking to Ethan. For all four days of rehearsal, Ethan had been lifeless, mumbling his line readings and songs. The two guys were speaking softly, until finally Ethan exploded: “Um, wait. Are
you
the student director? Huh? Are you? Levin and Brianna
both
know what I'm doing.” With that, he turned and walked offstage.

Brianna, noticing the commotion, had come backstage. She, Reese, and Harrison all converged at Casey's station. “Hey, student director, can we replace that jerk?” Harrison said to Brianna.

Reese nodded. “I agree. You know what he tells me? He's ‘marking.' He says a good actor doesn't go all out at the beginning. That's ‘unprofessional.' You have to rein it in. Explore the inner life of the character slowly . . . ”

“Slowly? He's comatose!” Harrison said.

“Harrison,” Brianna said patiently, “you know you're not allowed to direct and act in the same play. Don't worry. We're on him. We'll talk to him again.”

They all turned to the stage as Kyle began singing “God Save the People,” and hitting a few clams until Ms. Gunderson stopped him. “Sweetie, your sound is amazing,” she said. “Just one teeny thing—the high note is an E-flat, remember? You're singing the wrong note on the word
save
.”

“He's having a rough day; let's give him some props,” Brianna whispered. Then she called out to the stage, “You sound fantastic, Kyle! Beautiful tone.”

“Excellent!” Harrison agreed.

Kyle turned with a start, not used to hearing their voices from stage right. He smiled and gave a devil-may-care shrug. He didn't look insecure, but he had to be feeling it.

As he began singing again, Reese sighed. “Can you believe the size of that thing?”

Brianna nodded. “It's a major voice.”

“Unless you were referring to something else,” Harrison said.

“You have a one-track mind,” Reese replied.

“
I
do? Why don't you just go up there and grab him?” Harrison asked. “Maybe
then
he'd reach the high notes.”

Reese raised an eyebrow. “Honey, you are just jealous, because the biggest basket in
your
life is filled with bread.
Yia soo
, Greek boy.”

Harrison turned away. “It's Be Snarky to Harrison Day,” he said over his shoulder.

Casey noticed some movement on her laptop. A message from Dashiell.

 

“Woo-hoo!” came Dashiell's voice from the lighting booth, distracting everybody.

 

Casey shut her laptop and stood by the edge of the stage. To her left, behind the curtains, Corbin and Ethan were playing a card game while reciting lines. Onstage, Mr. Levin had finished giving Kyle “notes”—criticisms—on his singing. Casey quickly checked her rehearsal sheet and said, “
Cast! Listen up!
Everyone onstage for ‘Day by Day'!”

“I was going to give a few more notes,” Mr. Levin said with a patient smile.

Casey checked her watch. “Can you do it afterward? We're off schedule.”

What are you doing?
screamed Casey's brain.
Talking back to the director is not kosher. Not not not. Ease up. It's happening. That old feeling—you can do anything, nothing touches you. That feeling you paid for last year by screwing up everything.

But Mr. Levin didn't seem mad, just amused. “Sure, Casey,” he said. “You're right, actually.”

Now Charles came popping out of the wings. “Okay, kids, imagine a junkyard—a colorful Disneyworld of cool props you can use to act out the gospel lessons—umbrellas, baby carriages, a scooter, a wagon . . . ”