D Is for Drama (13 page)

“Come on,” said Derek, guiding him toward the door.
“I'll drink a soda, and you can eat the can.”

While everyone left, I lingered behind with Bree. Our excuse was that we were checking the acoustics from various spots in the theater, and I made my way toward the control booth with Bree belting “Dancing Through Life” from the stage.

When the last cast member left, I sprinted the remaining distance to the control booth and slipped inside. The back of the booth had sound equipment and a door leading to the rear entrance of the theater. The front of the booth was floor-to-ceiling tinted glass, where I could see Bree dashing up the aisle toward me.

“I thought they'd never leave!” she said.

She closed the side door and shuffled forward. With the lights off and the windows tinted, it was pretty dark. I held out my hand and guided her to the control table where I was sitting. “This is so exciting!”

“I know!” she whispered back. “Like we're on stakeout!”

Bree settled into a chair, and I glanced at a digital clock on the table. Ten minutes until
Mary Pops In
took the stage.

“Hey, Sunny?” Bree nudged me. I couldn't see her in the darkness, but I turned to face her anyway.

“What's up?” I asked.

“I've been meaning to tell you . . . ” Her voice took on a
shy tone. “Thanks for letting me in your show. I know you wanted to be on your own—”

“It's better like this,” I interrupted. “By myself, I'd look like a dork. With others, I'll look like one of many dorks.”

Bree laughed. “I'm serious. Nobody else would have given me this chance, and maybe nobody will again.”

I felt for her arm in the dark. “Don't say that. You're good.”

“But not loud,” she said. “And that's what directors want.”

I snorted. “Uh . . . microphones were invented for a reason. If your only problem is that you can't bust someone's eardrums—and that
is
your only problem, by the way—you've got nothing to worry about.”

Bree shifted in her seat. “You're sweet to say that. Do you think the agent will notice?”

My skin prickled, and I was grateful Bree couldn't see the guilty look on my face.

“If you give it your very best, I don't see why not,” I said.

Thankfully, that answer seemed to satisfy Bree. A few moments later, the theater doors swung open, and Ilana burst in with several other actors on her heels.

“Here we go,” I whispered.

A small thrill went up my spine as I saw Chase walk in with a couple buddies, and I resisted the urge to knock on the glass and wave to him. Or rather . . . Bree made me resist the urge.

“Don't draw any attention,” she warned. “Ilana would eat us alive.”

I glanced at the stage. “You mean like those kids in the corner?”

Ilana had backed two chimney sweeps against a wall and was scolding them.

“I wish I could hear her,” said Bree.

“She's probably saying ‘If any of that dust gets on me, I'm gonna kick you in the chim-chimi-knee!'” I guessed.

Bree snickered. “And they're saying ‘Soot yourself!'”

I put my hand over my mouth to keep the laughter in. Luckily for the chimney sweeps, Ilana was intent on starting the rehearsal, and she darted about the stage snapping at people and herding them into the center.

“She's like a sheepdog,” said Bree.

“Except sheepdogs don't bite as hard,” I said.

Everyone gathered in a large circle, but instead of instructing like I expected, Ilana joined the circle too.

“What are they doing?” I asked.

Before Bree could answer, Chase stepped into the middle
of the circle and stopped with his arms outstretched.

“I am a telephone pole,” he said in a loud, booming voice.

Someone from the opposite side of the circle stepped in and held onto one of Chase's arms.

“I am a bird on a telephone pole,” she proclaimed.

“They must be doing a warm-up exercise,” I whispered. “That's a good idea.”

“Um . . . no,” said Bree. “I'm not hanging from someone's arm and making bird calls.”

A boy joined the two in the middle. “I am a man shooting a bird on a telephone pole,” he said.

“Not even if someone would put you out of your misery?” I asked Bree.

She giggled and whispered, “Shhh.”

The warm-up continued until Ilana was the last person to join. When she finished, everyone clapped and ran off stage.

Those who weren't in the opening scene sat in the audience, except for two guys who, to my horror, headed straight for the control booth.

“Crap!” I whispered. “Abort mission, Bree!”

“What do we do?!” she squeaked.

“Out the back!”

We ran for the exit. I turned the knob, but the door wouldn't budge. “It's locked from the inside!”

“Sunny,” said Bree, “
we're
on the inside.”

“Oh. Right!” I ran my hand up and down the frame, feeling for a deadbolt. I unlatched it and pushed with all my might. Nothing.

“Sunny, they're almost here!” Bree warned.

“It's stuck!” I hissed at her.

“Too late!” Bree tugged me away from the door and back to the table. “Hide!”

We cowered underneath and formed our bodies into the tiniest balls possible. The light from the outside hallway revealed two pairs of feet advancing on us. I squeezed Bree's hand, but thankfully, the owners of the feet just dropped into chairs.

“I am
so
done with this theater crap,” one of the guys said. “Wait, that's not right. I'm so done with
Ilana's
crap.”

“No joke,” said the other guy. “Control freak to the extreme.”

I wished they'd shut up so I could hear what was happening onstage. Chase was the first to appear, and the guys at the table cued his music.

Chase sang well, but there was no arrogance in his voice, which was what I needed for Fiyero. The rest of the
villagers crowded around to listen to Chase singing poetry in the park while playing a bongo drum.

The intro song ended, and he and the villagers left. The scene changed to Mrs. Banks and her followers, the Soul Sister Suffragettes, vying for gender equality. They sang:

We're clearly soldiers in flashy tights.

Dauntless crusaders for womens' rights

I bit my hand to keep a giggle from escaping, especially when they got to the chorus.

Our daughters' daughters will applaud us

Saying “Y'all are just the hottest!”

You rock, Soul Sister Suffragette!

Bree shifted beside me, and I heard her let out a soft whimper of laughter.

But then something strange happened. The longer I watched, the more I noticed how professional and put-together the cast was. They moved seamlessly from song to song, and their voices blended in harmony. Forget needing a week's worth of practice; they were ready to go.

Bree nudged me as a guy named Cam stepped onstage and started singing. He was playing Mr. Banks, so parts of his lines were spoken, but the rest he warbled in a throaty voice that had just a hint of conceit.

Cam's pipes were perfect for Fiyero.

All I needed was to coax him into recording Suresh's singing parts and then practice like mad with the others to get their numbers nailed down by Friday.

But that would have to wait until I tackled a bigger, more immediate problem.

The guys manning the control booth were getting bored. And when guys get bored, disgusting things happen.

“Hey,” one of them said, “guess what I ate for lunch.”

The other one chuckled. “What?”

In answer, his friend farted long and loud.

Both guys cracked up.

“Ugh, dude, I'm guessing you ate spoiled eggs!” the non-farter said.

Bree stiffened beside me, and I tried to maintain my cool. Maybe farts worked on the same principle as hot air. Maybe they rose into the atmosphere, and we'd be safe under the table.

“Dude. Check this out,” said the non-farter. And then he quickly lost
that
title, releasing his own.

I was wrong. I was ever so wrong! Farts didn't work like hot air. Farts worked like sprinklers, hitting everything in a twelve-foot radius. I clamped my hand over my
nose and got as close to the floor as possible, hoping the worst was over.

But
everything
was a contest with guys.

“Oh yeah?” said the one who'd first let fly. “How about—”

“Stop!” I popped my head out from under the table, and both guys screamed. One of them fell out of his chair entirely. “It's like a gas chamber in here!”

“Yeah,” said Bree, popping out to join me. The guys screamed again. “Why don't you clip an air freshener to the back of your pants?”

“What . . . what are you doing here?” one of them asked, flipping on the light. Bree and I looked at each other.

“We were . . . taking a nap,” I said. “Until you disturbed us.”

Bree shook her head. “Looks like we'll have to find someplace else to go.” She brushed past the boys and pulled open the door on the back wall.

“Oh, it's a
pull
,” I said.

She silenced me with a look, and we walked with quiet dignity out the exit. Once we were in the hallway, though, we burst into giggles.

“That was
nasty
!” I said, doing a shudder dance.

“They could definitely take Ammo in a battle of the butts,” said Bree.

We fell against the wall, laughing, until we heard footsteps clomping down the hall, swift and determined.

Bree paled and her eyes widened. “The principal?”

I set my lips in a tight line, recognizing the footfalls. “Someone even worse,” I said. “Chase's dad.”

A tall, red-haired man in a snappy black suit and tie came around the corner. He smiled broadly when he saw us.

“Good evening, ladies! Sunny, have you seen Chase?” He stuck out his arm and tapped his watch. “He's a little late for baseball practice.”

I peeked into the auditorium. “He's onstage, Mr. O'Malley. Doing the chimney sweep waltz.”

Mr. O'Malley's eyebrows lifted. “He's a chimney sweep . . . and a dancer?
Those
sound like promising career paths.”

He smiled again, but his neck muscles were tight.

“It's just a play, sir,” I said. “I'm sure he's got big dreams for his future. Big . . .
responsible
dreams.”

“Well, he's not going to see them come true if he's dancing with brooms.” Mr. O'Malley bent to eye level with me. “Be a doll and fetch him, won't you?”

I stepped back and held the door open. “Parents are allowed in, sir.”

“Yes, well, I'd rather not be sucked into”—he waved his arm in front of him—“that nonsense.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone, punching unseen keys on its surface.

“I'll go,” said Bree, slipping past me into the theater. She could probably feel the tension building between me and Mr. O'Malley.

“Sir,” I said, leaning against the wall, “if you're so against this, why do you even let Chase stay at CAA?”

Mr. O'Malley shifted his eyes to look at me without lifting his head.

“His mother wished it, and I'm not one to dishonor her memory,” he said. He went back to looking at his phone. “Besides, his education here's almost over. When he reaches high school, he'll put theater behind him.”

“But what if he doesn't want to?” I asked.

Mr. O'Malley winked at me. “He wants to.”

I pressed my lips together, wondering how much further I could push it. “He seems to be really good at it.”

“Oh, I know he is,” Mr. O'Malley admitted. “In fact, I don't think there's anything that boy of mine
can't
do well.” He puffed out his chest a bit.

Chase was right. He wasn't all bad.

“You should see his trophy collection,” his dad continued.
“His mother made me promise to keep every one. Even his Best Supporting Goat ribbon for
Three Billy Goats
Gruff
.” His shoulders shifted as he chuckled to himself.

“Really?” I asked with a smile.

He nodded. “She wanted him to remember that life rewards you for working hard.” His face softened a little. “She was a smart woman.”

The theater doors opened, and Bree appeared with Chase in tow.

“Ah, here we are!” said Mr. O'Malley, all business again. “Son, you must have forgotten about baseball today! I received a call from your coach.”

The flush in Chase's cheeks and the frown lines in his forehead made it very clear that he hadn't forgotten, but Chase simply nodded.

“Must have, sir,” he said.

“Well, grab your things and let's go,” said Mr. O'Malley. “We should make it there right after the seventh-inning stretch!”

Chase's shoulders slouched, but he held up the bag in his hand. “Ready, sir,” he said.

“Always thinking ahead. That's my boy!” Mr. O'Malley clapped him on the shoulder. Then he turned to me and Bree. “Ladies, do you need a ride home?”

“No, thank you,” said Bree.

Chase's eyes darted to mine.

“I could use a ride,” I said. “If you don't mind.”

“Not at all!” Mr. O'Malley gestured for us to follow him down the hall, his high spirits returned.

We reached the car, and Chase sat up front with his dad while I climbed in back.

“So, Sunny, did Chase tell you about the no-hitter he pitched in his last game?” asked his dad.

“No, sir,” I said. Then, looking over the seat at Chase, I added, “Very nice!”

Chase's gloomy expression lightened a bit. “It was no big deal.”