D Is for Drama (12 page)

I shook my head. “Sorry he's such a jerk.”

“He's not
all
bad,” said Chase. “It's just . . . after my mom died, he lost touch with anything creative. I think her cancer made him take everything too seriously.”

I reached for Chase's hand and held it. He didn't talk about his mom much, even though she'd been the one who got him into acting.

“Sorry,” I said again.

“It was fun while it lasted,” Chase said with a shrug. “But I suppose I have to grow up sometime.”

“Don't say that,” I said. “I don't want to date an old man.”

Chase grinned. “I should probably go. It's getting late . . . and your parents are watching us from the living room.”

“What?” I spun around in time to see the window blinds snap closed.

I rolled my eyes at Chase. “Sorry
again
.”

“Me too,” he said.

We both sat there awkwardly for a second, knowing what came next. The good night kiss.

“So . . . ,” said Chase, rubbing his hands over his knees.

“Don't take this the wrong way,” I said. “But I'm not ready.”

“Oh, good.” His whole body relaxed. “Me neither.” Chase lifted my hand and kissed the back of it. “But thank you for an awesome evening.”

I couldn't help giggling. “You're welcome.”

He hopped off the swing and took the porch steps two at a time.

“Bye!” I called down. “Have a good night!”

“Already there,” he said with a grin.

SATURDAY'S READ-THROUGH AT
the park was way less eventful than Thursday's, with the only trouble when we first arrived at the picnic tables. I'd reserved a special section but was surprised to see a folded, handwritten place card waiting at every seat.

“These are nice,” said Bree, picking hers up.

“No, they aren't,” said Anne Marie. “Read what's inside.” She held hers up for my inspection.

“Why was the elephant covered in barbecue sauce?” I read. “Because Anne Marie couldn't find ketchup.”

The rest of us flipped ours open, and the muttering and yelling began. Mine said, “How are Sunny and fortune cookies the same? They're both Asian and full of useless information.”

“Who would write all these mean things?” asked Holly.

I glanced at Derek. He put his place card behind his back, but not before I noticed it was blank inside.

“Throw them away,” I told the others, “and let's get to work.”

That night, I went with my parents and Grandma to the latest theater production in town. They saw it as a reward for me landing a stellar role, but I saw it as research. Granted, I felt a little guilty taking advantage of their confusion about what play I was in, but I was doing this for the team.

My eyes never left the actors during the performance, and when Dad asked if I wanted to stretch my legs at intermission, I declined. Instead I spent the downtime eyeing the lights and jotting notes in my playbill about things I'd seen onstage.

“Don't forget scene transitions,” Grandma said in a low voice.

I nodded and continued to scribble furiously.

Mom, who sat on Grandma's other side, leaned over.

“Are you enjoying the show or working?” she asked.

I glanced up and smiled. “Both. Monday we start music number rehearsals.”

“Ooh. Wonderful!” Mom rubbed her hands together. “Professional orchestra or student?”

“Huh?” I furrowed my brow.

“Who's performing your songs?” she asked.

My pencil lead snapped against the page. I'd completely forgotten to think about who'd actually provide the music.

“It's a student orchestra,” Grandma spoke up, giving
me a meaningful look. “They've got a nice pianist.”

Mom nodded. “Jesse, right?”

“Why . . . yes.” Grandma nodded. “Such a pretty—”

“Jesse's a boy,” I whispered.

“Pair of hands he has,” Grandma finished.

Mom gave her a funny look. “Yes, I suppose so.”

Grandma smiled indulgently at Mom before giving me a double eyebrow raise.

“I know, I know,” I mumbled, jotting two words on my playbill.

Get orchestra.

Monday morning I was at school bright and early again. My hope was to find somebody, anybody, in the music room who I could coax into being part of my orchestra for the show. As luck would have it, I found
several
students tuning their instruments when I walked in.

“Hey, sounding good!” I said.

A guy with a cello regarded me suspiciously. “Do you really know or are you just saying that?”

“I know the important stuff,” I said with a confident smile. “Do-Re-Mi. La-Ti-Do.” My mind went blank. “
I
before
E
except after
C
.”

The guy didn't look impressed. “Why are you gracing us with your musical talent?”

“Oh! Well, I was wondering if you might be free to play a show in a few weeks,” I said, crossing my fingers.

“You mean
Mary Pops In
?” An Asian girl with a violin strolled over. Her features were more pronounced than mine, and I wondered if anyone ever made slant eyes at her. “Why do you think we're practicing?”

My face fell. “You're playing the spring show?”

“Of course,” said the girl. “What were
you
talking about?”

I shook my head. “Is there anyone in the music department who
isn't
?”

“Sorry,” said the girl. “We're all booked up.”

“I don't suppose you'd consider performing for two shows . . . ,” I said hopefully. “Mine goes on right before.”

The cello player leaned over his music stand and showed me a piece of paper. “This is the song list we have to perform. What do you think?”

My shoulders drooped. “Well, thanks anyway.” I paused and looked at the Asian violinist. “Can I ask you something personal? Do you ever get left out of concerts because you're . . .” I gestured to her face. “You know.”

“Not wearing makeup?” she asked.

“No.” I leaned in and whispered, “Asian. Like, do they ever pick another kid to play instead of you?”

The violin player looked at the cello player and they both laughed.

“Are you joking?” asked the cello player. “She's every orchestra's dream. That automatically puts her in first chair.”

I stared at him, perplexed. “Why?”

“Because I'm an Asian violinist,” said the girl. “Everyone wants one.”

I continued to draw a blank. “Again, why?”

“They're musically gifted,” the cello player said simply.

That
was the logic?

Ilana wouldn't pick an Asian girl for an acting role because of her race, but the orchestra would favor an Asian girl for the same reason. I'd never considered the possibility that discrimination could go both ways.

Grandma was right;
everyone
judged.

My brain was starting to hurt from so many deep thoughts, and I was no closer to having my music. At lunchtime, I confided my dilemma in Bree, but she didn't share my concern.

“If we don't have an orchestra, we don't have it,” she said with a shrug. “An iPod is cheesy, but we'll make it work.”

“But I don't even know if most of these kids can sing!” I said.

Bree grabbed a carton of milk. “I've got choral group with Holly, Anne Marie, Tim, and Max, so I know they're pretty good,” she said. “The ones that aren't, we'll ask to sing solo.”

I raised my eyebrow. “Solo?”

“Yeah. ‘So low' we can't hear them.”

We both snickered.

But it wasn't as funny at rehearsal that afternoon.

On Saturday I'd told everyone to listen to the six songs we were going to do and practice them over the weekend. On Monday it sounded like everyone had listened to the sound of cats fighting and practiced that instead.

I tried not to wince as we got through the first verse of the opening song. But on a particularly high note my eye started twitching and I had to cut off the iPod.

“Okay,” I said. “We have work to do.”

“Already?” asked Anne Marie. “We've only been singing for two minutes.”

“Two minutes longer than we should have,” said Suresh. “I agree with Sunny. We suck.”

Some people booed but others nodded.

“Let's take it in smaller groups,” I said. “Everyone that sings soprano on this side of the stage, tenors over there.” I pointed to the other side.

Most of the boys migrated across the stage and I had the remaining sopranos stand in a line.

“Let's take it from the top,” I said, pressing play on the iPod.

They belted out the lyrics, sounding only half as off-key. Then again, there were only half as many of them. But someone was still killing the high notes.

I walked from person to person, listening as they sang. When I reached Derek, I stopped.

“Good neeeews!” he trilled like a whistle.

I turned off the iPod. “Derek, that's really impressive, but it's also
really
high.”

He puffed out his chest as if I'd given him a compliment. “I was in falsetto choir at church.”

“Back when you were a little girl?” asked Suresh.

Derek sneered at him. “Who could still beat you at arm wrestling.”

“You wanna go?” Suresh started forward, but I stopped him.

“Derek, falsetto choir is impressive, but the good news we're singing about has to do with the Wicked Witch, not Jesus,” I said. “Why don't we lower it an octave?” I suggested.

Derek tried again. The other sopranos joined in and
this time the voices blended much better. I switched to the tenors.

“Show me what you've got,” I said.

For a voice range that came closer to natural conversation, I thought the guys would have nailed it. But the end result was all over the place.

“Try this pitch,” I said, lowering my voice. “Ahhh.”

A few of them were spot-on and the rest were only slightly below or above. But there was something missing . . . a voice that hadn't joined in.

I walked around the group again, stopping at Suresh. When he realized I was watching, his throat muscles moved, and forced out the worst sound known to man.

“Aughhh!”

My eyes involuntarily widened, but I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the other voices had affected his.

“Let me hear just Suresh,” I said.

“Aughhh!” he sang, like a tortured man in a haunted house.

I looked to Bree and she just rubbed her forehead.

The other guys tried to help Suresh, but he still sounded as if a guy with a hook hand was chasing him.

“Aughhh!”

I clapped my hands. “Let's work on that later. Suresh, for now, just . . . go back to what you were doing,” I said.

He blushed and disappeared into the back of the group.

“Sopranos, sing high,” I continued, “but not too high, and tenors sing lower.”

I started the music, and this time our group created a tolerable sound. If we practiced hard, we wouldn't embarrass ourselves in front of Ms. Elliott. Although Suresh might be a different case.

When everyone took a break to get water, I pulled Bree aside.

“So, your boyfriend,” I said, trying to think of a tactful way to approach the issue. “He takes singing to an entirely different place.”

“Does he?” asked Bree, looking everywhere but at me. “I never noticed. I guess love makes you blind.”

“Yeah,
blind
. Not deaf,” I said. “You can't tell me you don't hear that. A knife scraping a plate sounds better.”

“All right, he's awful!” Bree said, running a hand through her hair. “But since he's such a good dancer, we figured that would make up for it.”

“Not unless he's in space, where no one can hear him scream!” I said. “Bree, we have an agent to impress!”

I couldn't sing opposite Suresh's screeching. The agent
would have her fingers in her ears, and she'd never hear
my
voice.

Bree wrung her hands together. “What can we do?”

“I don't know. How's he gotten by all this time?” I asked.

Bree gazed sadly at Suresh. “Usually, he sings softly in the background. And at parties, people have him just mouth the lyrics to ‘Happy Birthday.'”

“Well, he's the male lead so he can't mouth the lyrics,” I said.

No sooner had I said it than a thought struck me. From the way Bree's eyes brightened, I could tell she had the same idea.

“Or can he?” I whispered. “We can pull a
Singin' in the Rain
. We'll record someone else singing and use
that
while Suresh lip-synchs along!”

“But who would do his vocals?” she asked.

“Someone in the
Mary Pops In
cast,” I said. “We'll just have to sit in on a practice and pick the best one.”

“How?” asked Bree. “Their practices are only open to the stars.”

I pointed overhead to the control booth.

“We'll listen from in there. Tomorrow afternoon, we commence with Operation Golden Voice,” I said.

TWELVE

S
PYING ON THE
MARY POPS IN
cast wasn't just a good idea for Operation Golden Voice; it was a great way to see what a real rehearsal looked like from beginning to end.

I continued our music practice as planned but sent everyone home ten minutes early.

“Great job on those letters to your characters,” I said. “For tonight's exercise, I want you to eat like your character.”

Everyone liked that idea . . . except Max.

“My character's a goat!” he cried.