Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters (21 page)

“No, please, no! I’ll stop, I swear.” She blows a bubble, then quickly sucks it back in when a teacher comes around the corner.

Once the teacher is out of sight, Em asks, “So, do you think JoJo is ever going to, you know … say something to us? About being … ?”

“I don’t know!” Now this is something I
would
like to discuss. “I forgot to tell you, and it was forever ago now, but the night I broke my tooth and we were wasted, I thought maybe she was about to. I don’t know what to do—are we supposed to ask her about it? I don’t want to rush her, and we could be totally wrong. I mean, just because she’s made a couple of comments randomly—”

“Kels, it’s more than that. I can’t really explain it, but …”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” I lean back again the row of lockers. “Are we being bad friends? I want to handle this correctly! Don’t we have any other gay friends we could ask?”

“Um. Matt Klausner?”

“He’s gay?”

“Isn’t he?”

“This is a disaster.” I tap a pencil against my thigh. “What about …”

“You don’t think she thinks we wouldn’t understand, do you?” Em asks seriously. “I would feel so terrible if she did.”

“I know, me too.”

“So what do we do?”

“I think nothing. Right? I don’t know—wasn’t there anything about this in
The Secret for Teens
?”

“Nope. Although,” Em adds, brightening, “there was a fascinating chapter about power relationships that would really be helpful for you to read regarding your thoughts about guys right now. If you want to borrow—”

Just then, Cassidy comes dashing down the hall and sits beside me, clutching a bathroom pass in her hand. Since we made up the night of the party, things have been so much more fun, especially in play rehearsals. “Guys!” she says excitedly. “You’ll never guess what—I’m in Spanish class right now and this girl told me that Lori Soler dumped Jordan. Can you believe that?”

Em and I look at each other and then at Cass. “So?” I ask. “Don’t tell me you still like him!”

Cass pouts, sticking out her lower lip like Travis does when she’s not getting her way. “Well, I don’t know. I mean …”

“Cass, you deserve someone better than him,” Em interjects. “Right?”

“I guess.” Cass scrambles up to her feet. “Anyway, I gotta go. See you guys at rehearsal.” And she heads off down the hall.

Em peers at me, concerned. “Are you okay? I mean, is that weird for you guys to talk about Jordan now?”

I scoff. “Em, I am telling you—boys are the last thing I’m concerned with at the moment. Besides, I’d rather have Cass than stupid Jordan any day.”

“Yeah, he’s terrible. Ben, on the other hand …”

“
Nager
!” I say loudly, reading off a card.

Em sighs. “That is totally not how you pronounce that.”

33

On Monday, the day of the first dress rehearsal, I’m in the women’s dressing room trying to get ready without anyone seeing me. But the second I pull out my fat suit, it starts; by the time I get my stylish black sneakers on, everyone is laughing hysterically. Of course my friends all look normal with their long skirts and kerchiefs—not to mention makeup. JoJo practically chokes to death when I put on my lovely apron and hat, which sets everyone else off all over again, too. If she weren’t one of my dearest friends, I would have to strangle her with my beard.

I try to laugh it off, like, “You know, this is really helping me get into character, you guys, thanks. Oh, and by the way, I’ll be sure to remember this when I’m writing my will.”

I knew I should have quit this stupid play! I knew it, I knew it. I’m never not listening to myself again.

Despite everything, though … I’m sort of excited to see if we can pull this thing off.

.   .   .

The dress rehearsal actually goes smoothly—a couple of dropped cues, a minor problem with the scenery, and the one freshman guy in the cast let out a huge fart during the last number … but mostly it’s not bad for a school play. I felt really good about my part, too.

And I can’t believe how amazing JoJo is—her voice floats along during her big song like … well, something extremely floaty. She absolutely steals the show. I’ve never seen her look so innocent and sad and just sort of
into
anything before. I mean, she really becomes the character.

It’s so weird that we never knew she could sing and act like that, though pretty typical of JoJo to just one day decide to be an actress. Of course, I also won’t be surprised if after this she’s never in a play again because she’s taken up pottery instead. Or surfing. Or wild gamekeeping.

Cass is so mad watching JoJo’s solo from the wings with me and Em that her lips turn white from pursing them. She’s a very good sport, though. I mean, she doesn’t light the stage on fire or anything. Watching Cassidy watch JoJo is the most entertaining part of the play, to be honest. It’s so enthralling, in fact, that I almost forget about my costume.

Almost.

Then, in a flash, it’s opening night—with my family and everyone they’ve ever met out in the audience, not to mention half the school. And peeking out from behind the curtains at all those people out there, I have to admit I feel really nervous. Nervous—but ready.

But first we must endure an “Energy Circle of Love,” as directed by the illustrious Ned. Mr. Zinner gives a long speech about the theater gods who give us our creative spirit, then we have to do this thing I remember from Brownie camp where you “pass the pulse” around the circle by squeezing the hand of the person next to you. Ned, Jill, Cassidy—even JoJo—seem to be taking it very seriously, but I think it’s extremely silly. Only focusing on my tragic patch-covered vest (and giant pants) keeps me from laughing out loud.

Being onstage, however—actually
doing
the show—
is out-of-control exciting in a way I never anticipated. The lights all working finally, the audience out there in the dark clapping or coughing or laughing, the energy on the stage, everyone getting the harmonies right in the opening song—I mean, it’s really happening!

When the time comes for my lines, I feel surreal saying them, like someone else is talking through me. I briefly get really scared I’ll forget my next line even while I’m saying it, but I don’t make a single mistake. Who knew that the dull rehearsals, the weeks of remembering which was stage right and which was stage left, the going over and over the steps for the finale would end up being worth it and actually … fun?

The show goes off pretty much without a hitch two nights in a row. Mr. Zinner is really proud of us. Ned is
extremely
proud of himself. My parents—and their friends—beamed all over the place and brought me a huge bouquet of roses. Travis said I looked like a real man and that my play was almost as good as hers. Also quite touching. (Thankfully, Jed the Agent stayed home, so he didn’t have an opinion.)

And then, it’s the last performance day—a Saturday, so we have two shows, one in the afternoon and one at night. We’ve just gotten through the matinee, had a dinner break, and are raring to go for the evening performance. I’m feeling a little sad—I mean, all that work and in two hours it’ll all be over. I don’t know how professional actors deal with it. No wonder so many of them are depressed and have substance abuse problems.

Once the curtain goes up, everything goes along as usual—in fact, the opening number gets the biggest applause yet and Motel the Tailor makes it through his song without mixing up any of the words.

Then we get to Mr. Zinner’s innovative dream sequence, the one with the two beds onstage. And it’s at this point that, without warning, everything falls apart.

Ned is saying his opening lines about his grandmother and I feel Pearl squeezing my arm, the signal for me to hook the wire—hidden in the bed—to her harness. The stage crew’s cue comes … and up she goes!

The audience gasps, surprised, like they’re supposed to. But Pearl does something she
isn’t
supposed to: she sort of throws in a new hand gesture as she’s going up into the air. It wouldn’t be a big deal except the gesture catches me in the side of the head, and her bracelet gets hooked into my beard. And suddenly my dreadful, heinous beard (somewhat deteriorated anyway from being glued on and removed over and over) starts to detach from my face.

Crap! Do I grab the beard? Help, God, oh, please—this is a Jewish play, you should be doing something to save me!

I grab the beard, but too late; most of it goes up in the air dangling from Fruma Sarah’s wrist, and the other sad blob of it falls off in my hand.

The audience totally loses it—and, really, who can blame them? There’s a weird ghost lady hanging in midair from a totally visible wire, balling a fake beard into her sleeve, while her “husband” is suddenly exposed as a girl with a face covered in patchy glue bits. They laugh so loudly I can’t even hear Ned singing anymore.

I decide to improvise—I pull the bedsheet up over my face and pretend to be cowering in fear. This gives me the chance to realize that my entire face is on fire: sudden beard removal plus spirit gum equals
unbelievable pain
. I think I may have lost an entire layer of skin.

Above me, Pearl, in a last mad effort to fix the situation, throws her half of the beard in my direction as the wire pulls her across the stage. Unfortunately, beards are very lightweight generally, and it floats through the air for what seems like forever until it finally lands on the stage next to the bed. The audience roars.

At the end of the scene, I run for my life. Mrs. Graves is backstage, totally freaking out, because the section of beard I still have is all gummed up and unusable, the other half is on the stage, and the crusty glue on my face makes me look like I have a bad case of leprosy. Mrs. Graves goes rummaging around in her costume box, but the only other beard she has is a long fluffy white one.

“You can’t go out with nothing, hon! Just wing it!” she cries, slapping some glue on the beard and jamming it on my chin. Before I can protest, she shoves me onstage for the wedding scene.

Now I look like an out-of-work Santa Claus who just woke up in an alley after a three-day booze binge. In an apron.

I run over to where Ned is and try to say my lines about a gift of chickens for the wedding, but the girls playing the daughters—including JoJo—are standing behind him and turning bright red trying not to laugh at my new facial accessory. One of them finally lets out a little snort of laughter, which sets off the others. Ned’s face is like a thundercloud; the audience, however, is having a grand old time.

I try to salvage the situation by ad-libbing. “Shalom, Tevye,” I say in an extra-deep voice. “I brought you these chickens! But I’m so upset about not being able to marry Tzeitel myself that my beard has turned white!”

Apparently, ad-libbing is even worse than losing a beard in a freak gesture accident, especially if you can’t back it up. I suddenly realize that in the rush to get a new beard, I forgot to grab my big prop: a crate of fake chickens. Ned looks more furious than ever. I try again to repair the damage with, “Um, I mean,
those
chickens. The ones outside, in the, er, barn!” Then I point to stage left.

Ned starts to respond, but at that moment the worst thing of all happens. The stage crew is supposed to turn on a fan to blow red and yellow flower petals onto the stage—another terrific symbolic inspiration of Mr. Zinner’s—during the song “Sunrise, Sunset.” But I guess the crew got confused or something, because the fan goes on way too early. Instead of blowing petals, the gust of air blasts my discarded original beard right off the floor. It flies up and sort of hangs in midair, held up by the breeze. And … it happens to be hanging in exactly the direction where I’m pointing (the barn, ostensibly). Then someone backstage makes a really loud “BACAW!” chicken noise, and that’s pretty much the end of the end.

The audience is screaming with laughter, especially when the fan gets turned off and the damned beard/chicken lands on the bride’s veil. She ends up holding it along with her bouquet for the duration of the scene, which no one hears anyway because of the laughing.

It is very, very bad.

34

Luckily, pretty much everyone I know came on opening night. So as I’m slinking out once the show finally staggers to a halt, I figure I can escape without seeing anyone.

Wrong, as usual.

The first person I see is Julie Nelson, who looks even more pissed off than Ned, if that’s possible. She clomps over to me and shrieks, “How
could
you? You
destroyed
Ned’s closing performance! You little … aauuuugggh! Trust me, Finkelstein, you’ll never be in another show again!”

Oh, no. What a heartbreaker. Believe me, the second the beard landed on Tzeitel, I started weighing Astronomy Club versus Lit Mag as next year’s spring activity. For once, Julie’s threats don’t scare me at all.

Her eyebrows still do, though. And yet …

“Wow, Julie. I had no idea you had so much pull with the theater department. Have you also considered running for mayor of New York?”

Holy crap. Did I just say that out loud?

From the look of outrage on Julie’s face, it’s apparent that I did.
Is she going to kick me in the head?
Nope. She just starts sputtering unintelligibly and then spins on her heel and leaves in a huff.

Amazing! I feel like a million bucks!

As Julie storms off, Lexi comes running up. “Wow, Kelsey, that was—well, it was different than the Broadway version. Way to make the part your own. Nice beard, uh, thing.”

And now I’m back to three bucks. Oh, well.

“Thanks, Lex. Thanks a ton.”

“At least you won’t have to worry about that happening in real life. I mean, unless you develop a hormonal problem. Or move to a farm. Ha.”

I’m about to throw myself down a hole and pull the dirt in after me when suddenly the image of what the beard flying around must have looked like to the audience comes to me … and I burst out laughing. Lexi starts laughing. Soon we’re both practically crying, leaning against the wall. Through peals of laughter, Lexi gasps, “When it flew up … the chickens … the chickens …”