The drama wing is electrified. I’m still not sure I can go through with this. You can feel how nervous the drama geeks are. These kids are all trying so hard to be weird. I’m genuinely weird, so I can spot the effort a mile away. I’m always trying to be cool, but down here, weird is cool. So they, like, compete for who can say the craziest stuff or dress the most jacked up. Competition is stiff this afternoon. I’m sure I could be the man down here if I just started talking a whole bunch of nonsense or singing for no reason at all. But I think defense is my best offense in
the wing
. I sign up to audition for Nicely-Nicely Johnson, Benny Southstreet, and Liverlips Louie. I think those are the coolest names, and if I try for all three, I might just get a part.
They have three rooms set up for the auditions. One room is for dancing, and everybody has to go into it, and then, depending on what parts you sign up for, you go into different rooms to read for them. The little parts are in a classroom and the big parts are in the theater. It’s mostly older drama geeks that are trying out for the big parts. I think a drama nerd actually growled at me when I looked at the sign-in sheet for the Brando part. Kids are screaming in the halls, yelling, and just being really obnoxious. I think one guy has makeup on. Some kids look like they’re trying not to look nervous, but mostly, everybody looks freaked out. I’m numb.
I just came out of the classroom where I read for Benny Southstreet. I think it went pretty well. I don’t stutter when I say somebody else’s lines. They had me sing half of the Happy Birthday song and told me to go on to the dancing room.
What am I doing here? Why are all these kids being so loud? It’s like they’re looking for deaf kids to be in this play. I guess you have to be loud when you’re onstage, so they’re practicing? But I’ve been around some deaf people who speak, and they have no idea how loud they are, so they just go for it when they try to talk. That’s more what it seems like. Either that or they’re trying to intimidate me. I know I’m an outsider, and I’m getting looks that seem to confirm my status. They’re trying to ice me. And it’s working, because I’m terrified.
I go into the dance room with about ten other dudes. They call out my name and stick the number twenty-one on my chest. I see a piano and an old lady wearing a leotard. I’ve got to quit staring at her boobs, because now a guy is playing the piano all of a sudden, and she’s jumping around and counting to eight over and over again.
“Five, six, seven, eight and one, two, three, four,” she yells, and kind of step, hop, kicks, and wiggles around the room. “
Chassé, arabesque, pas de bourrée, chassé, grand battement, pas de bourrée
, ball change, and that’s it!” she says.
That’s what? It’s not English. Where the hell is Ms. McDougle? They didn’t talk or dance like that in the movie. Gangsters don’t wiggle! She does the moves a few more times, and the other guys seem to be getting it. I pretend like I’m getting it too, but I’m totally clueless.
“Okay, let’s break off into groups,” she yells.
Three guys to a group, and we’re supposed to remember the
pas de bourrée
stuff on our own. And then what steps go where with the counting. Brando didn’t
arabesque
! He just looked cool and kind of strutted around.
My group is called first (of course). The piano starts and the other dudes are
chassé
-ing and
pas de bourrée
-ing around pretty well. I’m just sort of jumping in place.
The music stops and the leotard lady yells, “Number twenty-one, you’re missing the
grand battement
!”
Oh? Am I missing the
grand battement
? Terribly sorry. I thought I was missing something. Uh, by the way, what the hell is a
grand battement
? Is that the wiggle, the kick, or the march?
The piano man starts going again, and we’re off. Leotard lady yells, “Five, six, seven, eight!”
I jump a few times and then start running around the room.
“No, no, NO! Twenty-one, you’re coming in on the half step. You’re missing the one count. Go again!” she barks. (I’m missing a hell of a lot more than the one count.) “Five, six, seven, eight,” she yells.
I march in place for a second then step, kick, wiggle.
“Nooo, Twenty-one! You’re not feeling the music,” she says, shaking her head in disgust.
I just glare at her. Who has time to “feel”? I’m too busy over here counting and wiggling to feel a thing. “What?” I ask, a little pissy.
“You’re missing the steps because you’re not feeling the music, young man. You’re being too timid!”
“I’m being ‘too timid’ because I can’t remember the damn steps and I don’t speak Japanese!” I bark back.
Oops, I just yelled at the leotard lady. She seemed to like it, though, because she says, “Don’t even concern yourself with the steps; just feel it, and come in when you’re ready. The steps will follow. Why don’t you go by yourself this time? I think the other boys are negatively affecting you,” she says
Yeah, they’re the ones “negatively affecting” me.
I ask her, “So, feeling is more important than the steps, here?”
“Yes, feeling is everything in dance. Passion is paramount in the theater. The steps are just steps, the words are just words, everything is nothing without emotion!” she says.
This lady is pissing me off. Why the hell did she teach us all the march, step, wiggle crap if it doesn’t mean anything? Was all that
chassé
crap just busywork? I got your feeling, bitch!
I yell out, “Play the damn thing, piano man! Five, six, seven, eight,” and the piano goes. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I’ll just wait until I feel it. I’ve got to block out this whole room. I’ve just got to imagine those dancing gangsters in the movie and let them flow into my body. Those dudes could dance . . . and so can I!
I feel something, so I step out with some flair and stomp, march, step, kick, wiggle. I kick out my leg and jump around in a circle. The piano doesn’t stop, so neither do I. I toss my head around and spread my fingers out really wide and shake them. March, step, wiggle, waggle! I gyrate my hips and bust a squat move I’ve seen on MTV.
That’s probably the wrong feeling, but it’s a feeling, and “feeling is everything in dance”! So I go for it! This is way better than that old march, step, kick, wiggle (and way more fun). I swirl my arms around in a circle and spin around again. I sprint across the room and try to slide on my knees. But I more just slam my knees into the floor and stop cold. I throw my hands out like that was my big finish. Then the piano stops and I turn to the leotard lady.
She’s staring at me in disbelief. So is everybody else. Maybe I felt too much. She breaks the silence. “Okay, I think we’ve seen enough. Number twenty-one, you are free to go. Next group . . . please!”
Dang it! I walk out shaking my head. Man, that was embarrassing. Thank God none of my friends saw. But actually it’s kind of nice. To make a complete ass of yourself and not have anybody dog you for it. You can’t be too much of a geek in the drama wing. In fact, I may have just out-geeked the biggest geeks in the school.
I feel her before I see her. The right side of my head gets really hot, and I look over to see where the tractor beam is coming from and who’s shooting it at me . . . ABBY!
“What are you doing here, Carter?” she seethes.
“Uh, Ms. McDougle asked me to try out for the spring—”
“For what part?” Abby demands.
“Uh, the fat guy,” I say, because I can’t remember any of the characters’ names I signed up for. She’s really jacking me up with that stare!
“You’re not fat,” she barks.
“Oh, thanks. Neither are you,” I say.
She glares at me and shakes her head. Maybe she didn’t catch that as the compliment I was throwing.
“You don’t need to worry about it, Abby.” I laugh. “I just got kicked out of the dance room, so . . .”
“Why would . . . What did you do, Carter?” she asks.
“Nothin’. I was just feeling the music, like the lady told me to. I may have freestyled a bit. Busted some jumps and spin moves that she wasn’t ready to handle,” I say.
Abby laughs. I made her laugh again!
“I don’t think I’ll get to be in the play is my point. I might sign up for the lights or building the sets or something,” I say, all cool, like a guy who has a tool belt in his truck. Chicks love that. But if she ever sees me hammer my thumb into a board and cry like a bitch, it’ll ruin it. She almost smiles, but then she pulls back and gives me the usual scowl.
“I heard about you and Christy Schauper,” she says.
“Who?” I ask.
She shakes her head and clarifies. “The Chopper, you jerk!”
“Jerk? I saved that chick’s life. She would’ve frozen to death in that shed if I hadn’t carried her big ass into the house,” I reply.
“Oooh, only after you were . . . Uhh, Carter! You are unbelievable!” she bellows.
“What? W-w-what do you want from me? I’m doing the best I can! I screw everything up, yes. But I never try to. I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault if a chick throws herself at me,” I say.
She stomps away in a huff, and fumes, “Stupid jerk, I can’t believe I ever . . .”
Dang it. I can’t win with that girl. Well, I believe I’ve had enough embarrassment for one day and walk toward the doors. For a guy with rejection issues, I seem to set myself up for it an awful lot.
As I pass the door to the theater, I hear screaming and yelling, so I stop to check it out. It sounds like an episode of
Cops
is being filmed in there. A girl is screeching like somebody is beating her trailer-park style. So I cut through the drama classroom and sneak in the back way, to peek through the curtains. A drama geek girl and a drama dork guy are holding papers and yelling at each other . . . as loud as they possibly can!
He yells, “‘I’ll make you a proposition!’” all stiff.
Oh, I know this. He’s yelling the Brando lines, but not nearly cool enough.
“‘And what’s my end of the bargain?’” she says like a piece of wood with a megaphone.
This is the scene in the movie where Brando is trying to get the Goody Two-shoes to go to Cuba with him. They fight a little more, and then a piano kicks in and they start singing. The girl must be nervous, because her voice is all crackly and off-key. The dude doesn’t sing anything like Brando.
Ms. McDougle is writing stuff down. I bet she’s writing “These kids SUCK!” and “Kill me now!” but they finish screwing up the song, and she says, “Hey, guys, that was awesome! Thanks so much for coming. We’ll post the cast list after school tomorrow. Really great job.”
What? Is this some alternate universe where “great” means “crap”? Because those two knuckleheads missed the whole point of the song! Wait a minute! She said I was one of her best students the other day in the parking lot. She must just throw those compliments around, because I got the boot from the leotard lady in five seconds. And, homework or not, you wouldn’t give your “best student” a D!
She pulls the same “That was great” line with a bunch of other kids. I’d call them a lot of things, but “great” wouldn’t make my list. It seems like nobody has seen the movie. The guys aren’t tough enough, and the dolls aren’t mean enough to the guys. The girl is supposed to hate this guy at first because he’s a real player in her eyes. And she’s a hater. She thinks he’s a no-good sinner! He gets her with his charm in the end, but that doesn’t happen for an hour or so. Plus, nobody is singing the song right. It’s not about singing pretty, it’s about being smooth! These auditions are like great reality TV, though. I can’t not watch. It’s interesting to see how so many people can say the same lines so totally different. And totally wrong! They’re all so nervous.
Even upperclassmen you’d think of as supreme drama geek royalty, like Jeremy (the guy my sister used to be friends with), are screwing it up. He’s been in every show since he was a freshman, so he walks in like he owns the joint. His clothes look expensive and his hair is perfect, but his mouth is so dry, his top lip keeps sticking to his teeth and jacking up the way he talks. He sings really well, but almost too well, like he’s showing off.
I had no idea how many drama geeks there were. More than a hundred kids must have come to screw up tonight. The hottie who works at Blockbuster walks in, and I thought she’d be great. She has to have seen the movie, right? Wrong! I want to yell “Booo!” when she starts to sing. I wish I had one of those old-timey hooks to pull the stinkers offstage and save Ms. McDougle the trouble of lying. “That was really terrific! Thanks so much for coming.” I know why she’s such an awesome drama teacher now: she’s a great actress. It may be eating her up on the inside, but it doesn’t show one bit. It’s after ten o’clock, and that notebook has got to be full of “This idiot is even worse than the last!” or “Crappy . . . but not too crappy.”
The helper girl comes in looking really tired and finally says, “Okay, we have Abby and Trevor. The last pair of the evening.”
Abby walks in looking really pretty. She’s wearing her black dress. I guess she keeps that thing in her locker. She looks hot but nervous. I want to run out there and tell her, “Relax; all the other kids suck!” Her partner, Trevor, looks like no exception to the rule. He may top all others, though, because he looks like he might puke. Awesome!
He’s auditioning for Sky, and has the first line. He’s supposed to say, “I will need a lot of personal help from you.” But this kid is doing everything he can to hold down his dinner, and he isn’t letting the line come up, either.
Abby waits for a second and then jumps in with her dialogue. “‘I think not, Mr. Masterson. Tell me, why are you here?’”
Oh, Abby is good! Good and sassy. But the green goblin standing across from her isn’t saying a word. His line is supposed to be, “I told you. I’m a sinner.” But I think he’s stopped breathing. I know he’s not dead, because his hands are shaking the pages together, making a flapping noise. He looks around like he’s in a dream. He might be, like, one of those serious method actors Ms. McDougle talked about in class. Maybe he’s really deep into the character and he’s digging up the emotion. Nope, he’s digging up his lunch! He covers his mouth and runs out of the theater. YES!