Drama Queers! (27 page)

“Interlochen Arts Academy…You know it?”

“I thought Interlochen was a summer camp,” I admit, remembering some of the kids I met at Blue Lake mentioning they tried getting into Interlochen, but weren’t good enough.

Sounding like a Total Snob, he informs me, “It’s
also
a four-year performing arts high school with majors in Theatre Arts, Creative Writing, and Dance.”

Well, la-dee-dah!

“So where in Michigan are you from?” I wonder. Not that I give a shit now that I know he’s got an attitude.

Interlochen Boy replies, “My family’s from Connecticut…I just went to school in Michigan.”

I’m like, “Oh.”

Then he says, “Where do
you
go to school?”

I’m like, “Hazel Park,” throwing in “but I live in Ferndale,” for good measure. When this registers a blank stare, I add, “It’s a suburb of Detroit.”

Interlochen Boy says, “One of my best friends is from Bloomfield Hills.”

I’m like, “Bloomfield Hills is nice.”

And full of rich people!

Whatever…

I got more important things to worry about right now, like the fate of what I thought was going to be my profession totally going up in flames.

Inside the tiny practice room, we find a simple gray folding chair, and a black metal music stand. There’s also an upright piano. Thank God I won’t be doing any singing. I barely have a speaking voice after all the cigarettes I smoked last night…I
really
gotta quit!

“Need anything else?” my escort inquires before leaving me to my monologues.

I’m about to respond,
Not that I can think of, Dickface
. Then I change my mind.

“Can I ask you a question?” After talking to him, I figure this guy’s gotta know the answer. “Are there any gay guys here?”

IB closes the door behind us. For a second, I think he’s gonna make a move on me. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason…Just curious.”

He gives me a suspicious look, much like the one my mom does when she suspects I’m up to something. “You mean like teachers…or students?”

I answer, “I don’t know…Students, I guess.”

IB hesitates, chewing a manicured fingernail. “If there is,” he quietly informs me, “
I
don’t know any—and neither does anybody else.”

Whatever…

“Hello, my name is Bradley Dayton…My selection is from
Tea and Sympathy
by Robert Anderson, the character of Tom.”

Shit!

The last thing I wanna do is walk into my Juilliard audition with a
gay
monologue. I’ll never get in that way. I wish Mr. Dell’Olio would’ve warned me, like his friend Christopher did, before I spent the last two months wasting my time rehearsing and rehearsing (and rehearsing) this stupid selection.

Now what?

I think I’ll be fine with my classical (Romeo from
Romeo & Juliet
), but the contemporary has sooo gotta go! Unfortunately, the only other piece I got memorized is the Jane Seymour “Man of My Dreams” monologue from
Somewhere in Time
. It looks like I’m screwed either way.

“Good morning!”

From behind a folding table I’m greeted by three adjudicators. I’m sure I should know their names, but for the life of me can’t remember due to the nervous state I’m currently residing in. The men are both middle-aged and balding, while the woman looks to be about thirty with short dark hair, parted on the side, and matching tortoiseshell glasses.

“Hello.”

This is all I can manage to muster up.

Looking around the room, I gotta say, this isn’t exactly the place I envisioned myself auditioning for Juilliard in. I’m guessing this is a dance studio of some sort, with one entire wall covered in mirrors, and a wooden bar running across about waist high. I thought for sure I’d be in an actual Theatre. I mean, this is
the
(as in thee) best Drama School in the entire country, for chris’sakes, you know what I mean?

“You must be Bradley Dayton,” the woman says, when I continue standing there, mouth agape, looking like a Total Dork.

“Yes,” I nod and smile. “Thank you for having me.”

Something about the way the woman takes charge of the situation reminds me of Jessica Clark Putnam, though she looks more like Mr. Drysdale’s secretary on
The Beverly Hillbillies
, Miss Hathaway. I wonder if she’s a lesbian. I see no cluster of diamonds on her ring finger.

“And what will you be doing for us today?” asks Baldy #1.

Something about the glint is his eye makes me wonder if he, too, is gay.

Clearing my throat, I launch into my spiel. “Hello, my name is Bradley Dayton…”

Duh!

Before I can continue, I’m interrupted by Baldy #2. “Where are you visiting us from today, Bradley Dayton?” he wonders, in a voice reminiscent of Paul Lynde, who I adore as Uncle Arthur on
Bewitched
reruns.

“I live in Ferndale, Michigan.”

Jane Hathaway’s face lights up. “I love Michigan!” she cries, adding, “Are you at Interlochen?”

“I’m afraid I’m not,” I reply, trying
not
to let it show on my face how humiliated I am. “I go to school in Hazel Park.”

“And where is that?” Baldy #1 wonders.

Holding up my right hand, palm facing out, I point to the base of my thumb on my Michigan hand-map. “It’s a suburb of Detroit.”

“Ah, yes…Detroit.” Paul Lynde sighs. “I’ve got good friends who live in Bloomfield Hills.”

Of course you do!

“Well, welcome,” Jane Hathaway says warmly, concluding the small talk. “Whenever you’re ready…”

Now I’m totally thrown off!

Taking it from the top, I begin with, “Hello, my name is Bradley Dayton…My selection is—”

Fuck, I forgot there’s two!

“My selections
are
…Romeo from
Romeo & Juliet
.”

I never start with the classical!

Why I went there, I don’t know.

“And…”

Wanna know what I say next?

“Bob Cratchit from
A Christmas Carol
.”

From the expression on the judges’ faces, I get the impression they weren’t expecting that one to come outta my mouth—and neither was I. Especially since there isn’t the slightest thing resembling a monologue for Bob Cratchit in the entire play.

Now I’m gonna have to ab-lib—I mean,
ad-lib
.

I don’t know why, but in the moment, I kept hearing Christopher’s voice inside my head: “
Don’t be gay
.”

I mean, that’s not exactly what he said, but he implied it, didn’t he?

“If you’re a homo, you’ll never become a famous actor.”

Despite the fact I’m almost positive the three middle-aged folks sitting behind the brown metal table, holding the fate of my future in the palms of their hands, are
all
Friends of Dorothy (i.e., Judy Garland—Christopher explained it), I can’t take a risk by giving them the slightest indication that
I
might be, too.

“To thine ownself be true.”

Fuck that shit.

I suppose I don’t have to tell you why I dropped outta the film.

But I will.

Two days ago, I got back from New York, and immediately got Rakoff on the phone…

“I hate to break this to you,” I said casually. “I can’t do the movie.”

“You mean
Faded Flowers?
” he asked from the other end of the line, totally outta breath. I didn’t wanna think about what I might’ve interrupted…Bogue!

“No, Sherlock…
Doctor Who Meets Monty Python
.”

Rakoff scoffed. “Claire’s not gonna like thith.”

“Tough shit!” I responded, trying to sound like a Total Bad Ass.

I honestly didn’t mean to be a jerk. I just knew I had to get myself as far away from this fag-movie as I possibly could. Of course, I didn’t wanna admit the real reason why.

That’s exactly what Rakoff asked me about next.

“May I athk why you’re quitting?”

“I’m not
quitting
” I answered defensively. “I’m dropping out.”

“Forgive me for thaying tho,” Rakoff lisped, “but I don’t thee much of a differenth.”

“Well, there is!” I spat, sticking to my guns. “If you
must
know, Rakoff,” I continued, emphasizing the F’s, “some of us gotta work for a living. We can’t take time off just to shoot a stupid student film.”

What did he possibly know about anything? Rakoff’s an only child whose mommy gives him whatever he wants…Even if it is just a dumb old mayonnaise cake!

“Is it the thcript? I can rewrite it,” Rakoff volunteered. “I just want you to be happy.”

No amount of rewriting could save that piece of shit
.

I came this close to saying that, but knew I couldn’t. Talk about bogue! In fact, just thinking it, I felt so ashamed I had to turn away from myself in the mirror.

“The script is fine,” I said sincerely. “It’s a great opportunity for an actor to show off his talents…But that actor isn’t me.”

“Well, I’m thorry you feel thith way,” Rakoff replied, disappointed.

“Yeah…Me, too.”

After I hung up, I went in my room where I found a note on my bed.

Welcome Home!
Love, Mom
PS—Call Richie

Normally, I’d pick up the phone and be over the Tylers’ faster than a sorority girl can spread her legs, but I knew that just wasn’t possible. Not anymore, at least.

All the way back to Detroit on the plane, I dreaded the conversation me and Richie were bound to have once I got home. So I conveniently forgot about Mom’s note, and opted for a night over Janelle and Ted’s watching the Super Bowl (Redskins vs. Broncos), followed by the premiere of some new TV show called
The Wonder Years
.

Set in the suburbs during 1968, the story focuses on 12-year-old Kevin Arnold, played by some kid I never heard of, Fred Savage. It totally made me think of being that age, growing up with Max and Jack, doing all the things we did together: playing Pac-Man at the party store, ordering pizza from Randazzo’s, looking at
Playboy
. Five years later, we’re not even friends anymore…Why does growing up suck so bad?

You can bet Audrey was pissed when she got the news.

What do you mean you’re quitting the movie?

The next morning during 2
^nd
hour Consumer Ec she slipped me a note.

I wrote:
Can’t do it
. Then I folded up the piece of notebook paper and passed it back.

Because my last name starts with
D
and Audrey’s with
W
, and Mrs. Ireland makes us sit in alphabetical order, this wasn’t an easy feat as there are three rows of desks between us. We had to use several go-betweens, namely Marie Sperling, Fay Keating, and Tom Fulton.

Audrey wrote:
Why the fuck not?

I wasn’t about to get into this via a note that could possibly be intercepted at any moment by one of my asshole classmates or our crazy teacher. So I wrote back:
We’ll talk about it later
.

Just when I thought the discussion had ended, I felt another tap on my shoulder.

“Dude…From Ostrich.”

Tom Fulton passed the note my way. I can’t believe he was even taking part in my scheme, let alone talking to me. And how did he know Audrey’s nickname from back in kinny-garden—I mean,
kindergarten?
My guess was Jack told him since he’s the one who told me.

I read the note:
When?

Hunching over my desk, I scrawled out my response:
Lunch?

Tom waited to make his next move. Despite hating me since we were in elementary school, he seemed to be enjoying himself. Anything to put one over on a teacher, I’m sure.

Audrey wrote back:
Going to BK with Rob
.

Not my problem.

If she wanted to know why I dropped out from the movie, she needed to make the effort, you know what I mean? Not that I was gonna tell her the real reason I quit is because I can’t be “tempted by the fruit of another” (man) anymore.

Unfortunately, I knew I couldn’t avoid Richie forever. Sure enough, Monday night when I got home from work, I found another note on my bed.

Richie called.
Love, Mom

Again, I ignored it.

The next morning before Wind Ensemble is when I find Richie’s letter stuck inside the slats of my locker. Thank God he’s only a Sophomore. I don’t have to deal with having him in
any
of my classes.

By the time I get to the Band room, all the Band Fags have already started warming up. Luckily, the bell rings just as I’m slipping safely thru the double doors. But that doesn’t stop Mr. Klan from crying out, “Mr. Dayton…You’re late!”

“Kiss it.”

This I mumble from the storage room, matching his tone. The last thing I need this early on a day like today is Mr. Klan’s shit. This is why I take my sweet old time locating my trombone case in its place on the designated shelf.

The tinny tap of Mr. Klan’s wood baton against metal music stand emanates from the Band room proper, and all the Band Fags suddenly fall silent.

“Sweetheart,” Mr. Klan says to Ava Reese. “Would you give us a B-flat, please?”

Sliding my slide into place while Ava does her 1
^st
chair clarinet duty, I sneak into my seat in the middle of the third row of risers, next to Will Isaacs.

“You trying out for
Grease
next week?” he whispers.

“You bet I am.”

After months and months of begging, me and Audrey convinced Dell to let us put on the musical of
our
choice for once. Tuesday Gunderson pushed for
South Pacific
, but we pretty much convinced her she’ll never get cast as Nellie Forbush. Besides, there’s a perfect part for her in
Grease
as Jan, the Twinkie-eating Pink Lady.

“Quiet, please!” Klan sings, not looking at me and Will, but we both know he’s barking at us. Then he concludes, “A hair flat,” with regards to Ava’s pitch being monitored by the trusty tuning machine poised on the trapezoid table behind his podium.

“I disagree,” Will sniggers, eyes focused on Ava where she sits beside Carrie Johnson in the row beneath us. “Nice sweater.”

Ava gives it another go, holding her note (rock) steady.

This time, Mr. Klan practically wets himself. “That’s it! Now everyone all together…” He gives a wave of his magic wand, uniting each and every Band Fag in the quest for the perfect B-flat concert note.

Fifty-five minutes later, the bell finally rings…

Quickly, I spring to my feet, beating a hasty retreat back to the storage room where I toss my T-bone in its case and fly thru the double doors like a bat outta hell.

“See ya!”

Knowing that Richie is now on his way to 2
^nd
hour Sophomore Symphony, sax in tow, I’m hoping to avoid any confrontation that might occur in the hallowed halls of Hillbilly High. Instead, I plan to write him a note during Consumer Ec, which I will ask Audrey to slip into his locker on her way to Mr. Thomas’ 3
^rd
hour Chemistry. Only because it’s right there in the exact same hall.

“You can’t avoid The Sophomore forever,” Aud warns, ever the voice of reason.

“I know…”

We move down the front hall past the library, where I feel the slap of harsh reality at the handiwork of Shellee Findlay once again on display, taped to the doors outside Principal Messinger’s office.

Don’t forget to buy your tickets!
VALENTINE’S DAY DANCE
February 12, 1988
7:30 PM

The original plan was for me and Richie to go together, a trial run for the filming of the Prom scene in
Faded Flowers
. Chances are we’d get our asses kicked. Or at least made fun of, but it would all be for the sake of Art.

“I can’t believe it…”

Rounding the corner by the junk-food stand, the roll-up metal window pulled down and padlocked till lunch, Audrey continues with her train of thought.

“What can’t you believe?” I wonder, clutching my books tight against my chest. The second I see some Total Jock coming our way, they find their proper place at my side, resting against my hip.

“Oh nothing…”

We pass by locker #1427. I almost forget to think of Jack, it’s been so long. I don’t know why I even care, but I pray he’s not falling for Tom Fulton the way he did Joey Palladino once upon a time.

Tom, I can’t speak for, but Joey, I still suspect is gay. Especially now that he enthusiastically agreed to take over my role in
Faded Flowers
.

Wanna know how that whole thing came about?

Basically what happened was…Once I quit the movie, Rakoff and Moody got it in their heads to ask Joey to play my part. I guess he’s in their 5th hour Mass Media class this semester, and he mentioned he did some acting when he was going to school out in Clarkston. The last thing I want is Joey Palladino kissing Richie Tyler during those hot and heavy love scenes. Too bad there’s nothing I can do about it.

Hello, Mr. Body Builder!

We stop at Audrey’s locker to pick up her Chemistry book.

Despite my state of irritation, I notice she’s added a couple new pictures to her Chippendales collection. I’m not too sure about the earring on the dark-haired guy (too faggy), but the blond with the hi-lights is definitely a babe!