Starry-Eyed (43 page)

The good news was that I got to avoid Stephanie entirely during the day; her other class was Voice, and her assigned musical was
Oklahoma!
Mine was
Oliver!
(Apparently exclamation points were as crucial to the theater arts as stunt fighting.)

“Whatever,” Stephanie snarled as she charged past me toward our closet. “I'm not going to let you ruin things for me, Ruthie.” Her menacing tone was somewhat undermined by the cheerful red circles on her cheeks.

The first night at camp, Stephanie had accused me of swiping her sleep mask and mocked me for not knowing what a “callback” was. After she'd commenced snoring, I'd sobbed into my pillow, feeling friendless and frightened.

Now, I still flinched at the sight of her, but I was beginning to understand that her fits of stress had little to do with me. This was Stephanie's second summer at Backstage. Many celebrities—movie and TV stars, winners of Tonys and Obies—had attended the camp, and she was determined to follow in their footsteps. She had an agent, had starred in a traveling production of
Annie
, and was on track, I supposed, to fame and fortune. This wasn't a fun getaway for her; this was a
job
. The fact that she had to room with me—an “amateur” (her word) who might have been from New York City but rarely went to Broadway shows—was clearly an insult from the theater gods.

Eager to escape Stephanie, I hurried into the pink-tiled bathroom. Hannah (of Theo-make-out-renown) and Tara were washing up at the sinks.

Hannah and Tara lived next door, and shared the bathroom with me and Stephanie. The two girls were kinder than Stephanie, though no less accomplished. Hannah was ridiculously beautiful, did modeling, and had the lead in
Oklahoma!
, which made Stephanie gnash her teeth. (Stephanie had been cast as the spinster-y Aunt Eller, and was wearing her clown makeup to rehearsals in some kind of twisted protest.) Tara was in my Dance class, and made my pirouettes and arabesques look like a clumsy toddler's first attempts at walking.

Tara and Hannah smiled at me as we exited Liza Minnelli together, the crisp, piney air of a Connecticut morning cool on our faces. But then the two of them linked arms and hurried ahead, no doubt whispering about their exciting professional futures.

What was I doing here? I wondered for the umpteenth time as I joined the masses streaming toward the cafeteria. I glanced around at the wooded campus that was dotted with other dorms, classroom buildings, and small theaters. No one had forced me to come. My parents were content with me spending the summer as I usually did—reading library books by the stack, scribbling stories in my bedroom, taking the crosstown bus to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I'd been the one to read an enticing article about Backstage in an issue of
Seventeen
. It had sounded glamorous: a performing arts camp built on the old grounds of a former resort hotel. I've always had a big imagination—a blessing and a curse—so I daydreamed about attending. I'd gazed longingly at the glossy photos of kids ranging in age from ten to fifteen, all laughing in the sunshine and wearing elaborate costumes onstage.

I was the opposite of outdoorsy, a city kid through and through. I couldn't swim or ride a bike, and nature seemed like an enemy to be conquered. So the idea of regular summer camp—hiking, building fires, encountering bugs—terrified me. But I was envious of all my friends
being away for the summer, maybe kissing boys, coming back with stories and suntans.

Camp Backstage seemed like the perfect solution. I fancied myself pretty artsy—I loved to write, dance, look at paintings, and yes, even act and sing. I'd starred in my elementary school's production of
Pinocchio
, belting out the showstopper: our drama teacher's original composition, “A Real Boy (And Not Just a Toy).” By God, I'd played a male puppet with a fake nose, and I'd gotten a standing ovation! I was going to take Backstage by storm.

I snorted at this memory while getting in the breakfast line. The cafeteria always smelled like old socks and microwaved soup. Today,
eau de processed cheese
was added into the mix. Everyone here complained about the food, as was surely the case at every camp, ever. But I was a scared, picky eater who refused to try new things. I lived off toast, juice, and the candy bars Tara would get in her illicit care packages from home.

A stony-faced counselor stood behind the glass partition, slopping curdled white mush that I assumed was mac and cheese onto plates. As I passed him my tray, I squeaked, “Do you have anything else?”

“Sure,” he replied dryly. He was British, like the counselor on my hall, Julianne. But Julianne was lovely and soft-spoken, and she called me “angel drawers,” which made zero sense to me, but sounded very nice.

This counselor lifted the lid off a chafing dish to reveal undercooked pink strips of meat.

“For kids who're allergic to cheese,” he groused.

“What is it?” I asked, worried.

The counselor smirked. “Electrocuted cow!” he snapped, then burst out laughing. Tormenting children was probably how he livened up his day.

I backed away, horrified. “I'll—I'll just get some juice,” I stammered. My stomach growled as I pushed through the crowd, and his cackling echoed behind me.

There were two more weeks of camp to go. I wasn't sure I could make it.

2. I'd Do Anything

Post breakfast came rehearsal. The
Oliver!
group met in the Julie Andrews Theater, which was narrow, dimly lit, and perpetually dusty. I held back a sneeze as us cast members gathered onstage under the watchful eye of our director, Brad.

Brad was short, stocky, and stern. He seemed about my parents' age and had once acted in Shakespeare plays, which he mentioned regularly. He also liked to start off every day with a different warm-up ritual. Yesterday, we'd had to do jumping jacks and scream. Today, thankfully, it was just breathing exercises.

“In and out—
expand
your
diaphragm
!” Brad shouted, which made me want to laugh, since I knew the word also had a different meaning, but I didn't know what it was, exactly. Everyone around me was inhaling and exhaling with great seriousness.

The first day of camp, each camper had stood onstage in a different, bigger theater—the Judy Garland—and auditioned. Out in the blackness, the camp director, the voice teacher, and the dance teacher had sat at a table, judging us. I'd been nervous but uncharacteristically brave, singing “I Whistle a Happy Tune” from
The King and I
into the silent cavern. The next morning, cast lists had been posted in the cafeteria. We'd all been divided up into seven different musicals—
A Chorus Line, Cats, Pippin, Bye Bye Birdie, Oklahoma!, Oliver!
, and
The Fantasticks
. After much elbowing, I'd finally found my name on the
Oliver!
list. Under
CHORUS
.

Chorus! My spirits had plummeted. I was nothing special, one of the masses. What about my shining moment in
Pinocchio
? What about the fact that I adored watching movie musicals, and had memorized every line of
The Sound of Music, Fiddler on the Roof, Mary Poppins
, and
My Fair Lady
? I had even seen the movie version of
Oliver!
and knew the story well: a plucky orphan boy in a nineteenth-century London workhouse asks for more food and is cast out onto the streets, only to take up with a band of pickpockets.

Why hadn't I gotten a juicier role? I wasn't so arrogant as to assume I'd get Oliver himself. And the “grown-up” roles of saucy Nancy, scheming Fagin, and cruel Bill Sikes clearly went to older kids here. But couldn't I have been at least cast as Oliver's fun buddy, the pickpocket ringleader known as the Artful Dodger?

That role had gone to a pudgy, smug, redheaded boy named Josh, who had been in a
movie
! Or so the whispers went. On day one of rehearsals, I'd scowled at Josh as we sat in a circle and listened to Brad talk about the bleak Charles Dickens novel on which the musical was based. But later, when Josh performed “Consider Yourself,” a cold understanding had washed over me. He was good, very good—he sang with a pure, clear voice that could tremble or thunder as needed. He strutted across the stage, all confidence and bravado. I wanted to be his pickpocketing friend, too (even though I hated him).

It was then that I realized that Stephanie had been right: I
was
an amateur. And this camp was meant for stars. Anyone else was relegated to the chorus.

“Chorus!” Brad bellowed, jerking me out of my thoughts. “Places, please, for the opening number.”

I backed up and took my spot in the dusty far corner. Despite every-thing—my homesickness, my hunger—I felt a tingle of anticipation. It was still exciting, that beat before performing. Life onstage, however brief, was magical—the promise of people noticing your talent, applauding your efforts. There were no constraints of homework, school, or parental rules—just the pure opportunity to dazzle.

Both the best and worst thing about being in chorus was that you were onstage constantly. This was especially true in
Oliver!
, a show with lots of nameless kids—orphans, pickpockets—always singing in a group. But it was grueling work, hovering in the background. You had to be careful not to sing too loud or too low. The word
solo
had to be banished from your mind as you toiled under the hot stage lights.

Two days ago, I'd gotten carried away during “Be Back Soon,” a
number performed by Fagin and the pickpockets. I'd imagined myself in
Pinocchio
, and had let my voice soar and my arms open in a dramatic V.

Until Brad frowned at me and barked, “Keep your pitches even!” So I'd resolved to button my lip.

Today, though, on National Cheese Day, Brad threw us amateurs a bone.

“I've been thinking,” he said, pacing back and forth, “about giving a brief speaking role to
someone
in the chorus.” He peered intently at us.

We all caught our breaths. All except Hayden, the boy who played Oliver. He was only hidden in our midst for this number, and then he could shine all he wanted. For the rest of us, a speaking role meant a shot at glory. It meant that when the production of
Oliver!
went up on the final weekend of camp, with our parents and a few tantalizing “theater professionals” (as Brad put it) in the audience, we'd be
seen
.

I didn't care about some talent scout discovering me (although, if that happened, I wouldn't protest). I only wanted to experience the warm rush of pride I'd felt back in my
Pinocchio
days. I wanted confirmation of my specialness. That was all.

“First, though,” Brad said, snapping his fingers and hopping off the stage. “Let me see your ‘Food, Glorious Food.'”

Another audition of sorts, then. I exchanged glances with my chorus mates. A slouching girl named Meredith stood taller, and Andy, who was asthmatic, tried to cover up an anxious wheeze. It could be that this was just Brad's ploy to get us to up our games, but we weren't taking any chances.

I cleared my throat, preparing to sing. By now, I knew every song in the show by heart. They were all catchy earworms that stayed with me all day and during restless nights in my bunk. “Where is Love?,” “Consider Yourself,” “I'd Do Anything” . . . Unwittingly, I had made
Oliver!
the soundtrack to my life here at camp.

But “Food, Glorious Food” was my favorite song, and one I now related to with a kind of fierceness.

I opened my mouth and joined my fellow chorus-orphans. We sang,
mostly in unison, about eating the same old awful gruel. I pictured the mac and cheese and the electrocuted cow, and it was easy to call up an expression of true misery.

In lockstep, we shuffle-marched across the stage, holding out invisible bowls. Some of the other camp musicals had already received their props and costumes, but we were still waiting on ours. Not that my costume would be one to write home about: a raggedy brown shirt and brown pants. I wondered if I'd been placed in
Oliver!
because I already had the waify, pale, big-eyed look down pat. No stage makeup required.

I tried to look as waiflike as possible as we sang about imagining “food, glorious food.” Brad nodded in the first row, his expression unreadable.
Pick me pick me!
I wanted to shout, but I tried to keep my focus on the choreography. Step, step, turn, turn, pretend to set down invisible bowl.

I could feel dread building in my chest; we were coming up to my most hated part of this number. Of any number in the show. When we sang about peaches and cream being piled six feet high, four of us chorus members were to physically
lift
the three others onto our shoulders. This little maneuver was Brad's brainchild, and he couldn't have been prouder of it. I, of course, a master at shirking my duties, had complained of a shoulder injury the past few rehearsals so I'd get a breather from hoisting Meredith skyward. I'd simply stand there, singing, while three other weaklings struggled to bear the weights.

Today, though, I sensed there could be no shirking. I was going to do this, all the way. I gritted my teeth and let Meredith position her dirty sneaker on my shoulder. She stood, and I held on to her ankle, and my arm trembled like crazy and I remembered the camp director saying, “You'll need your strength for rehearsals!” over the loudspeaker. And I felt vaguely like this was torture, that if government regulators knew what was happening here, they'd send in cops to raid the place. But I bit my lip until I tasted blood and kept Meredith up until that particular lyric ended. I would never enjoy peaches again.