The Fall Musical (7 page)

“We're so sorry, Casey Chang . . . ” sang Dashiell to the tune.

Casey scraped her fingernail on the windowpane. It hurt. That meant this was real. Didn't it?

Harrison, like a fussy orchestra conductor, waved his arms, stopped everyone from singing, and counted off: “One, two, ready, go!”

“For she's a jolly good fellow, okay, not really a fellow, but we can't rhyme too well, oh! Do we have some news for her!”

Casey winced. Charles was grinning proudly—the bad lyric had to be his idea.

Charles stepped forward with what looked like a scroll. He unraveled it to the ground, a ridiculous number of loose-leaf pages stapled end to end. “Whereas,” he announced, “we the Drama Club have put our feet in mouth one too many times without watching where we've stepped—”

“Charles, that's nauseating,” Reese said.

“Nobody edited this!” Brianna called out.

“And whereas,” Charles continued, “we have managed, without meaning to, to chase away one of the nicest, most talented, and clear-thinking human beings in our school . . . and whereas, she has, in world-record time, proven said talent beyond a doubt and better than anyone ever seen by the gathered members hereto—”

“Herewith,” Harrison corrected him.

“Herewhatever,” Charles said. “We do hereby offer outright, without competition and by acclamation, to Casey Chang the position of Stage Manager of the Drama Club of Ridgeport High.”

They fell silent and looked up at her with wide, tentative eyes.

One by one they dropped to their knees. “Please?” Harrison asked.

“It's the most important job in the club,” Charles said. “It's the person who runs everything.”

Begging. They were begging her to take this job with no experience. At
Ridgeport.
She wanted to put them on pause for a moment and think. She knew she had to say something. But to
say
something she had to
feel
something. Ecstasy, fury, amusement,
something.
She wasn't there yet. All of the thoughts raging around in her head and colliding, had somehow managed to cancel one another out.

“Thanks, guys,” she said, gripping the window sash. “I'll think about it.”

7

“
Voilà
!”

Dashiell pointed a remote at the projection booth.

The stage, which had been bathed in white light, was now still bathed in white light.

“Okay . . . ” Brianna said tentatively. “And?”

“Wait.” Dashiell frowned. He took a step closer to the booth and pointed again. “
Voilà!
”

“What's supposed to happen?” Harrison asked.

“A highly dramatic lighting change,” Dashiell said.

“Maybe the computer doesn't understand French,” Charles remarked.

“Of course it does,” Dashiell muttered. “I thought I'd conquered the learning curve on this new console. Oh well, give me a second. I will return triumphant.”

“Wait—why do you need a remote?” Brianna called out. “During the show, you stay up in the booth the whole time!”

“What if there's a fire, or a gas leak, or some other emergency?” Dashiell called over his shoulder.

“But—if there's a fire—” Brianna sputtered.

But Dashiell was already heading up the aisle, mumbling technical details to himself.

“Let him be,” Mr. Levin said. “We were lucky to get funding for this new console. Even luckier, they allowed overnight shipping. It's state-of-the-art. Only Broadway theaters have it better. You know Dashiell. He has to work out every last detail.”

Brianna nodded, tapping her pencil on her evaluation sheets. The wall clock read 4:08. Seven minutes till callbacks.

Thirty-two kids were pacing the hallway, waiting, complaining, jabbering nervously.
It's okay,
she wanted to tell them.
Life will go on.
She knew what it was like. In her first audition, freshman year, she had been a nervous wreck. Which was so not like her. Until then
nothing
had scared her—sports, spiders, the dark, homework, Dad's brainy professor pals, Mom's rich Wall Street coworkers with their fright-mask face-lifts. Theater hadn't been on her radar screen, but Reese had been her best friend back then—and if you were Reese's friend, you auditioned. For the first time in her life, Brianna was petrified, ill with fear,
convinced
the Drama Club would throw her off the stage. To her utter shock, they cast her as Chava in
Fiddler on the Roof
. She actually cried. She was happy in a way she'd never felt before. Her parents' reaction was weird:
You're so much better than the lead girl
, they'd said.
That role was taken from you.
It took her a long time to realize that they were thinking about “her future.” Lead roles
meant
something to colleges. “Bit parts” didn't. You might as well do community service or tutoring or SAT practice—all better college strategies.

Then came the
New York Times
article: “Long Island High School Breeds Broadway Babies,” front page of the Sunday Arts and Leisure section, complete with a photo of the RHS's
Fiddler on the Roof
. It was instant national fame for the Drama Club—and
that
, in the eyes of the Glasers, was cool for colleges.

But Brianna never forgot the feeling. Playing Chava had rocked her world. Everything else in life was about nailing the things that “mattered”—grades, social life, extracurrics. About being perfect. Which she'd learned how to do, with equal parts time, work, and caffeine. But the Drama Club was different. It was a place her parents couldn't touch. It was hers.

“Is Casey coming?” Harrison asked, dropping into the seat next to her.

“She wasn't at her locker this morning,” Brianna replied. “I waved to her three different times in the hallway later on but didn't get a chance to talk to her. I wish I understood that girl. I mean, we handed that job to her on a plate. People would kill for that offer.”

Harrison sighed. “It's all my fault. Because of my big mouth.”

“You can't help it, you're Greek. You come from a long line of people who shout in diners.”

“I didn't hear that ethnic slur,” Harrison said, raising an eyebrow. “Well, she'll come around. Especially if she knows Kyle will be here.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Brianna asked.

“You know. She's a chick. Chicks
like
Kyle.”

“Chicks,” Brianna said, restraining herself, “like
corn
. Chicks like the warmth of hens—”

“Okay, okay,” Harrison said with exasperation. “
Girls
.”

“Now,
girls
? They like to go to Greek diners, check out the owner's son, and order the specialty of the house . . . ” A sly grin grew across her face as she balanced her clipboard shoulder height, like a waiter holding a tray.

At the sight of this transformation, Harrison bolted out of his seat. “Don't, Brianna. You know I hate that . . . ”

Brianna puffed out her chest and let out a nasal taunt that had driven him crazy since age nine. “Tseeseborgertseeseborger-tseeseborger-tseeseborger!” she brayed, in the style of an old
Saturday Night Live
skit about Greek diners.

There was nothing Harrison hated more than being teased about his dad's diner. He was in the aisle now, backing away. “Okay, okay, I'm sorry. I admit, I'm sexist, okay?”

“Did somebody say sex?” Reese's voice, from the doorway, made them both turn.

Harrison whirled around. His mouth hung open.

“Oh. My. God,” Brianna muttered.

Reese sauntered in, swaying on high-heeled dance shoes and wearing an outfit that wasted very little fabric. Her hair, brushed to a mirror sheen, hung down to her shoulders. She tossed it back, surveying the auditorium. As she moved, her cleavage took on a life of its own, the main goal of which seemed to be escaping the confines of her formfitting push-up Danskin top. “I'm ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

Dashiell was walking down the aisle now, from the booth. “Um, is that
allowed
?” he asked.

“They allowed it on the cover of the July
Maxim
,” Harrison remarked.

“On that model, the titties weren't real,” Charles said.

“
Charles!
” Brianna gasped.

Ms. Gunderson was rushing up the aisle, holding out a white crocheted cardigan. “Darling, put this on, please.”

“I don't get it,” Brianna said as Ms. Gunderson led a sputtering Reese into the hallway. “That outfit—for
Godspell
?”

“It ain't for
Godspell
, darlin',” Charles said.

His eyes were fixed on the door. There was a twitter of conversation in the hallway, and then in walked Kyle, wearing a pair of denim overalls and a faded RHS football T-shirt. “Dudes,” he said in greeting.

“My day has begun,” Brianna murmured.

Harrison sighed. “Chicks . . . ”

“Kyle, you're number three,” Brianna called out.

“Cool,” Kyle said, leaping over the back of a seat so that he landed perfectly on the cushion.

“That's an interesting exercise in mechanics,” Dashiell murmured.

“Don't try it,” Charles said. “We don't have insurance.”

By now, the other auditioners were entering. It felt different from the first day of auditions. Everyone was nervous, but the nervousness felt quieter, less deer-in the-headlights and more
focused
somehow.

“People—sign in and take seats!” Charles shouted. “Step right up, don't be shy! Remember, you're at Ridgeport High—where just making it this far is winning! I am your temporary stage manager until we find another victim—
volunteer
!”

Dashiell scurried back to the projection booth. Harrison checked his copy of the audition roster. Reese stomped back into the auditorium with a cardigan over her outfit, followed by a relieved-looking Ms. Gunderson.

Brianna kept her eye on the door, hoping to see Casey.

 

“‘Amaaazing grace, how sweeeeeet the sound . . . '” sang Lori, her voice filling the auditorium with a sound that was glorious and huge and warm. And totally wrong for the show.

“That sounded amazing, Lori,” Brianna said. “Now, please start from the beginning—only pretend that you're speaking to me in a conversation. I mean, sing, but don't
think
about singing. The notes will take care of themselves. Think of the words instead. Like they just popped into your head for the first time. From the heart. So, tell me—what's so amazing about grace?”

Lori looked puzzled for a moment. “It's a religious song. About, like, finding God and being saved? Isn't
Godspell
religious?”

“Right. So, tell me about that sweet sound! What did it do to you? Talk to me.”

Lori swallowed. She looked a little scared. “It—it saved a wretch . . . like me,” she said, reciting the lyric. “Brianna, this is embarrassing.”

“Go on . . . ”

Lori closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Softly Ms. Gunderson started to play. Lori began to sing again, starting in a low, tentative voice full of wonder and tenderness. Her body tipped slightly forward as if in prayer, and her voice grew with emotion. Brianna listened, and this time, all she could think of was
yes.
She wasn't hearing Big Voice. She was seeing a joyous girl saved from a life of suffering. The song wasn't just words anymore. It was a story set to music.

When it was over, Ms. Gunderson had to wipe a tear from her cheek.

“Thank you, Lori,” Brianna said.

She stole a glance at Harrison. He smiled.

“Amazing,” Charles whispered. “Brianna Glaser. Actress. Singer. Inspiration to the Multitudes. Is there nothing she can't do?”

Okay, the technique didn't always work. Jason Riddick had a sweet voice—but when Brianna asked him to “speak,” he spoke. And then he sang out of tune.

Reese danced and sang like a star, which surprised no one. She also tore off her cardigan toward the end of her audition, which brought a huge round of applause. And also surprised no one.

Corbin, who was one of the school's best singers, looked scared and small onstage—until Harrison called up Ethan to join him. A double audition was completely against the rules, Brianna pointed out. But the two guys were incredible together, singing “Anything You Can Do, I Can Do Better” while doing magic tricks onstage. One point for Harrison.

When Kyle's name was called, the auditorium fell dead silent. They all waited, but no one came through the door.