D Is for Drama (2 page)

“Right,” I said. “My point is that the starring roles in
the spring production are never about talent; they're about who you know.”

“Thanks,” said Chase.

I grabbed his arm. “I didn't mean you. You have
plenty
of talent. Someday, they're going to rename the auditorium after you.”

“That's enough,” he said.

“I thought the whole point of Ilana being on the selection committee was to keep things fair,” said Bree.

I snapped my fingers. “And that's why I'm talking to Ms. Elliott. She may not be running
this
production, but as the drama coach, she should know what's up, right?”

Bree and Chase exchanged a look.

“What?” I asked.

Chase put his arm back around my shoulder and steered me in the opposite direction of Ms. Elliott's office. “Sunny . . . we've been friends a long time, right?” he asked.

I nodded. “Ten years. Since you moved in down the street.”

“Right.” Chase smiled. “And in ten years, I've seen the look in your eyes
right now
a dozen times.”

“What look?” I asked, standing a little taller. “Grim determination? Unfailing courage?”

“Insane madness,” he said.

“Hey!” I ducked out from under his arm.

“It's the same look you had at seven when you tried to jump off your roof in a cape,” said Chase.

I studied my reflection in a window. “There's no madness in these eyes.”

“
And
last year when you asked the caf to stop serving fish so your hair wouldn't smell,” he continued.

I crossed my arms. “The cute guy from my math class said I reeked like tuna.”

“He was a jerk,” said Chase. “You smell nice. You always have.”

I blinked in surprise. “Really?”

Chase blushed. “My point is that you look like you're about to charge off and do something dumb. Don't.”

Clearly, Chase didn't understand the gravity of the situation. I was meant to follow in my mom's theatrical footsteps.
Success
flowed through my veins, not the mediocrity of being The Eternal Extra.

“I
have
to take care of this,” I said. “I can't go back to my parents with another bit part. And what if I'm not auditioning correctly? I need to know.”

“I thought you paid that high school guy Steven to help with that,” said Chase.

“
Stefan
,” I corrected him. “He changed his name when he got back from Paris.”

Chase didn't look impressed. I placed a palm on his chest and pushed.

“
Go
,” I said. “If you're late, your dad's going to flip and lose the last patch of hair on his head.”

Chase grabbed my hand. “Just promise you won't make things worse.”

I snorted. “Yeah, it'd be tragic if I lost this part.”

Chase continued to stare at me.

“I promise,” I said.

I shooed him away and turned back toward Ms. Elliott's office, almost colliding with Bree.

“I'm coming with you,” she said.

“I
don't
need supervision.”

“Actually,” she said with an apologetic smile, “I'm coming to ask Ms. Elliott about
my
part.”

“Oh,” I said, leading the way. “Then let's go find out why we're not famous.”

TWO

D
ESPITE MY PROMISE TO CHASE
, my plan was still to storm into Ms. Elliott's office, but when Bree and I approached the door, we heard two people shouting.

In Shakespeare-speak.

“Why will you suffer her to flout me thus?” cried Ms. Elliott. “Let me come to her!”

A second voice that sounded a lot like Ilana's responded, “Get you gone, you dwarf! You minimus, of hindering knot-grass made!”

I glanced at Bree, who shrugged, and we both poked our heads in the doorway.

Ms. Elliott was reciting Shakespeare from her desk with
her eyes closed so Ilana could line them in kohl pencil. Ilana's long, brown hair was tucked under a baseball cap, and her gaze flitted from the script she was reading to her handiwork.

“Hello?” I called.

Ms. Elliott's eyes flew open, and she pushed away from the desk, giving an embarrassed cough. Ilana turned to us and smirked.

“Makeover?” she asked, waggling the eyeliner.

Ilana was always strapped for cash, and this was her latest money-making scheme. Every day, she strolled the halls with her cosmetic case, offering to turn girls into glamazons for the low, low price of ten bucks a sitting.

“You're getting
teachers
to pay you now?” I asked.

Ilana shook her head. “Just practicing. Business has been slow since the ‘natural look' came back”—she scowled—“so I'm adding stage makeup to my skills.”

Ms. Elliott nodded and held up a mirror to study the progress. “I'm auditioning for the city theater's
A Midsummer Night's Dream
,” she said. “And Ilana's helping me with lines.”

“Yep. Since I'm not in
Mary Pops In
, I have
loads
of spare time,” muttered Ilana. She flung the kohl pencil in her cosmetic case with more force than necessary.

I knew why. Ilana was a Chosen One like Chase, and
she loved to act. In fact, she'd been accepted into STARS, an exclusive summer theater program. But here at school, the selection committee wasn't allowed into the spring production; they could only be understudies or crew.

“What can I do for you girls?” Ms. Elliott smiled at us while Ilana brushed rouge across her cheeks.

Bree stepped closer. “We wanted to talk in private—”

“Why didn't you give me a better part?” I asked Ilana.

“But . . . uh . . . thought we'd blurt it out instead,” finished Bree with an embarrassed smile.

Ms. Elliott frowned and waved the makeup brush out of her face. “What's this about now?” she asked.

Ilana raised a halting hand. “I'll take care of it. You keep practicing your lines.”

Ms. Elliott thought for a moment, then nodded. “I suppose it is a student production,” she said. “Let me know if you need anything.”

Ilana nodded and smiled at us again, pointing at the hallway. “Let's talk outside.”

As soon as she'd shut the door, Ilana turned to me with her lower lip pouted.

“I'm
so
sorry!” she said in a whisper. “You were brilliant and I wanted you as Mary Poppins, but the others on the committee wanted Sara.”

Ilana's confession momentarily stunned me. It was sweet that she'd suggested me for the role (and nice to know I
wasn't
a complete failure), but I couldn't help feeling disappointed that nobody else saw it that way.

“Why didn't I at least get a better part than usual?” I asked.

She smiled. “You did! Villager Number Two.”

I clenched my teeth and took a calming breath. “I meant bigger than that. There has to be someone who—”

Ilana put a hand on my shoulder. “Sunny, the parts have been cast. I can't change the list.”

“Sure you can,” I said. “I'll even retype it for you.”

She raised her eyebrow. “Do you really think that's fair?”

“No,” I said with a sigh. “I guess not.”

Bree cleared her throat. “If you can't do anything for Sunny, then what about me?”

Ilana tilted her head sympathetically. “Sorry, Bree. My answer's the same.” She gave Bree a quick once-over. “But I can fit you in for a brow pluck tomorrow.”

Bree covered them protectively. “I'm good.”

Ilana nodded. “Then I should probably get inside. Ms. Elliott's makeup won't do itself!”

After blowing us kisses she slipped back into the office, and Bree and I stared at the closed door.

“So, that's it?” asked Bree. “She insults my facial hair, and it's over?”

“Not for me.” I shook my head. “I'm going to be in that spotlight, one way or another. Wait and see.”

WHEN I WALKED
home that afternoon, I was surprised to find Chase
not
at baseball practice but waiting at our usual spot, the massive oak tree on our street corner. He was tossing a foil-wrapped lump in the air and catching it behind his back. On one of his higher tosses, I snatched the bundle away.

“Lightning-fast reflexes!” I said. Then I tripped over a tree root.

Chase tried not to laugh as he offered me a hand up. “Maybe you should be a tumbler instead of an actress,” he said.

“I would if the unitards were cuter . . . and not called unitards,” I said, smoothing my hair and skirt. “What are you doing here?”

“Nice to see you too,” he said. “Practice was canceled after the coach threw up in the dugout.”

I looked down at the foil package in my hand. “I
really
hope this isn't a souvenir.”

Chase laughed. “Of course not!”

Then he peeled back the foil so I could see the delicious pastry inside. My best friend was the only person I knew who preferred the bottom half of bakery muffins and always saved the tops for me.

I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes with a dreamy sigh. “Chocolate Monkey.” My favorite flavor: banana nut with chocolate chips.

Chase leaned against the oak. “I thought you could use it.”

“You are so, so wise.” I took a huge bite of muffin, drawing comfort from the moist, cakey goodness.

Maybe Villager Number Two could eat Chocolate Monkeys as part of the character. Then I might not mind having such a lame part. Especially if I could pelt Mary Poppins with the chocolate chips.

“How'd the talk with Ms. Elliott go?” asked Chase.

“Perfect,” I said, taking a big swallow of muffin. “She got me a job in Hollywood doing a movie with Jaden Smith. I don't even need Mary Poppins anymore.”

“Oh, good,” said Chase. “Then I
didn't
miss your mental breakdown.”

“Ha ha.” I kicked at the tree. “Ms. Elliott's too wrapped up in her personal life to help, and Ilana told me I didn't get the part because some other people voted against me.”

Chase wrinkled his forehead. “I thought you were good. Are you sure?”

“That's what Ilana said.” I buried my face in the aluminum foil and scarfed more Monkey. When I came up for air, I mumbled, “The whole thing's rigged.”

Chase stared at me, looking pensive. “What are you going to tell your parents?”

“What
can
I tell them? I didn't get the part,” I said, picking the last crumbs out of the foil.

Chase shook his head. “You can't just blurt it like that, though. You've gotta put spin on it.”

I snorted. “Wonder where you got
that
from.”

Chase's dad was a smooth-talking politician, and his speeches were filled with vague statements that people could interpret dozens of ways.

“I'm serious,” said Chase. “You need to break the news in a different way.”

I thought a moment. “How about—‘Mom, Dad, once again I've embarrassed the family.'”

Chase rolled his eyes. “A different,
positive
way.”

“Hey, Mom and Dad, you know how you were worried about
success
going to my head? I've got great news!” I threw in a thumbs-up.

“Maybe less sarcasm?” suggested Chase.

“I can't.” I balled up the foil and tossed it to him. “My bitterness is too fresh.” Setting my backpack under the tree, I dropped down to lean against it. Chase joined me.

“Maybe they'll forget about the auditions,” he said. “Isn't your dad in the middle of a project?”

Dad composed music for film scores. That was how my parents met, while he was working on the sound track for one of Mom's movies.

I snorted. “Sure, but there's no way my
mom
would forget. She's probably been massaging her tear ducts to get ready for disappointment.”

Chase bumped my shoulder with his. “Don't be so hard on yourself. If your parents aren't happy with it, so what?”

I raised an eyebrow. “Says the guy who jumps through hoops for his dad.”

“Flaming hoops,” he added. “And my situation's different.”

“How?” I challenged him.

“My dad's way stricter than your folks,” said Chase. “If I screw up, he probably has Understudy Chase waiting in the wings.”

I leaned my head on his shoulder. “Yeah, well,
nobody
can replace you, so joke's on him,” I said.

Chase rested his head on mine. “Thanks.”

We sat in silence, listening to barking dogs and the whir of a lawnmower until I knew it was time to head home.

“I don't suppose the politician's son came up with something I could tell my parents?” I finally asked.

Chase stretched and said, “How about . . . the committee loved your audition and gave you the biggest supporting role you've
ever
had.”

My lips slid into a grin. “Ooh. That's brilliant!”

“Thanks.” He helped me to my feet. “Just don't tell my dad or he'll make me run for class president.”

I fished in my backpack for a pen and notepad. “Say that whole thing again.”

Chase recited as I wrote, and I practiced on him a few times while we walked toward my house.

“One last tip,” he said when we reached my driveway. “If all else fails, use big positive words to describe your situation. Inspiring . . . a tour de force . . . stuff like that.”

“Inspiring,” I repeated. “A Tour de France.”

“Tour de force,” he corrected. “Tour de France is a bike race.”

I wrinkled my forehead, trying to remember it all. “Why did my mom have to be an actress? Why couldn't she have been a lunch lady?”