The Fall Musical Read online

  K

  “Lori has the flu?” Casey said softly into her cell-phone headset, hoping none of the teachers would see her using it. The last bell had just rung, and she was making her way through the school’s crowded hallways. “Wow. She didn’t look sick yesterday.”

  “She didn’t look sick this morning in math, either,” Harrison’s voice replied. “She called me during eighth period. It must have happened suddenly. She says she’ll be back tomorrow.”

  Casey rounded the corner, heading toward the auditorium. She took the pretzel from a bag she had just bought from the snack machine. The wall of photos loomed up on her right—as always, surrounded by a group of students. One of them had “found” herself among the images. You could always tell. “With the flu? How can Lori be so sure?”

  “Good question,” Harrison replied. “Can we set up an emergency audition if we have to?”

  “Of course. I’ll call a meeting.”

  “How soon can you get here?”

  “I’m in the lobby. But there are, like, seven hundred parents. See you as soon as I can.”

  She flipped the phone shut, zigzagging through the lobby. Today was make-up day for moms and dads who hadn’t been able to attend the recent parent-teacher conferences. From the looks of it, the conferences must have been a bust. It was amazing how much space parents occupied compared to kids. Or maybe they just enjoyed standing still in the middle of the hallway, like cows grazing in a field.

  As Casey walked, she began riffling through her script. Lori’s absence made things complicated. After lunch Mr. Levin had asked Casey if she would run the parable scene while he and Brianna worked on Harrison and Kyle’s duet in “All for the Best.” Which meant Casey would have to direct plus read the missing parts. Naturally, she had spent the entire school day preparing for this fifteen-minute mini-rehearsal. During math class she had memorized Kyle’s and Harrison’s lines, risking a nuclear attack by Mr. Brotman, who was not very understanding about the Drama Club. Now, after all that, she would have to learn Lori’s part as well.

  “Excuse me,” she said, making her way around the grown-ups clogging the flight paths. “Excuse me!” As she took a detour around a large group discussing SAT scores, she caught a glimpse of a line outside the principal’s office.

  Lori’s mom was there. And she was chatting with her daughter. Who seemed to have made the world’s most miraculous instant recovery from the flu.

  Casey walked toward her. “Lori?” she called out.

  Lori’s eyes darted toward Casey. Her smile tightened. She glanced tentatively in the direction of her mom, who was now talking to someone else. With a small but firm gesture, palms down and slicing the air, she made it clear that she couldn’t talk.

  Casey took another step forward but thought better of it. She turned and hightailed it to the auditorium, nearly colliding with a dad eating Cheetos.

  She found Harrison and Charles just inside the door.

  “Lori’s out there, with her parents,” Casey said as the auditorium door closed behind her.

  “What?” Harrison said. “I knew they were strict, but they’re making her do conferences when she’s sick?”

  “She doesn’t look sick at all,” Casey said. “Why would she lie to us?”

  “Uh, excuse me, Nancy Drew and Frank Hardy,” Charles said. “This is the oldest trick in the book. Lori is keeping her alibi straight.”

  “Alibi for what?” Casey asked.

  “For avoiding the parent-teacher conference,” Charles said. “My older brother used to pull this kind of thing. See, if you miss this conference, you’ve got a free pass till next semester—very convenient if your grades happen to be in the toilet. Which you wouldn’t think would be the case with Lori, but one never knows, do one? Ergo, Lori wanted to convince her parents she was sick. And she told us the same story because she has Mr. Levin for English and didn’t want him to rat her out. But instead of convincing Mom and Pop—which clearly didn’t work—she convinced Harrison and Casey.”

  “That’s pretty lame behavior, especially from someone who calls herself a disciple,” Harrison said.

  Behind them, the door flew open. “Dudes, there are parents everywhere!” Kyle cried out, staggering in.

  “Love the orange swoop,” Charles said, gesturing toward the right side of Kyle’s shirt.

  “Cheetos,” he said, wiping off as much of the Day-Glo stain as he could.

  Casey noticed Kyle’s fingertips were black. He caught her staring and shrugged. “I was working on my car.”

  “Ah. The gasoline-Cheeto hybrid,” Charles said.

  Casey glanced around the auditorium, counting heads. Brianna was tucked into a middle row, working on homework. Good. Maybe she would be able to sleep tonight. “All right, we’re all here. Should we get started? Maybe someone can get snacks?”

  “Ms. Gunderson has chips, I think,” Harrison said.

  As they all headed toward the stage, Kyle fell in step with Casey. “You are just the person I wanted to see,” he said.

  “Me?” She regretted her tone of voice, which sounded a bit too much like the contestant who just won Final Jeopardy!

  “The solo during the crucifixion scene—‘O God, I’m Dying’?” Kyle said. “It sounds so easy, but I can’t get the notes. I listened to it and listened to it and listened to it, a million times.”

  Casey nodded. “There are all those weird modulations.”

  “Modu-what?”

  “Key changes. They’re hard to hear. You kind of have to do them over and over with a piano.”

  “Right. So I’m ready to do that with you. Just like you promised me, in the hallway . . .”

  She had promised. But she never expected him to take her up on it.

  “Nobody ever uses those little practice rooms across the hall from the stage,” Kyle went on. “They have pianos in them. Maybe we could just sneak away during the rehearsal, just you and me? You could bang it out a few hundred times until I get it into my thick head?”

  “Sure,” she said, not quite believing that her voice sounded so casual. She could feel her heart doing little cartwheels of joy. “Just let me know when.”

  Brianna was in the middle of AP world history homework in Row S, simultaneously keeping track of the rehearsal onstage, when a cloud of Old Spice landed in the seat next to her. “Dashiell?” she said.

  “Aren’t you supposed to be paying attention?” Dashiell asked.

  “I’m a slave to multitasking,” Brianna said. Up onstage, Casey was showing off the work she had done in the hallway with the rest of the cast. She had vowed to help Kyle nail the soft-shoe number.

  “Okay, ‘All for the Best,’ ” Casey called out.

  “One, two, three, four!” Ms. Gunderson said, playing the intro.

  Brianna crossed her fingers. Kyle and Harrison were holding their rolled-up umbrellas, bouncing to the beat, singing.

  “And . . . kickline!” Reese called out.

  Harrison kicked right.

  And Kyle whacked him in the face with the umbrella.

  “Cut!” Casey called out.

  Brianna winced. Kyle was trying so hard, but he could never get this number right.

  She took him in with her eyes. What had he wanted to say to her? It couldn’t have been much. Still, the uncertainty stuck in her like an undigested pit. Last night had been hard. Staying awake had been a bitch. She’d snuck some of the caffeine pills her mom had lying around, maybe the equivalent of five cups of coffee, six, she wasn’t sure—shouldn’t have been that big a deal. But she had done some really stupid things. Like calling Casey. And obsessing over Kyle.

  Caffeine gave you jitters. It magnified little things into big deals. Late at night, your left brain was battling with your right brain over the right to sleep. Add caffeine, and your thoughts went haywire. That’s what it was. The caffeine.

  Casey had been so sweet to her all day, asking how she was feeling, bringing her a cup of coffee at lunch. Like a best
friend. Brianna hadn’t had a best friend since eighth grade.

  “Do you like Monterey jack?” Dashiell asked.

  Brianna turned. Dashiell was holding a plastic-wrapped package of cheese in his hand. “Excuse me?”

  “I figured since you left your canapé, you didn’t like cheddar,” Dashiell said. “It does have that sharpness. Walt, the guy at the cheese store, told me this is milder, without sacrificing flavor. He recommended water crackers with it.”

  “Dashiell, are you trying to feed me cheese now?” Brianna asked. “In the middle of the rehearsal?”

  Dashiell pulled the package down below the level of the seat backs. “No! I was just wondering. You know. Curious. I was going to bring this home and try it myself.”

  “Oh. Jack is good. They make it with peppers, too.”

  “Aha . . . ” Dashiell furrowed his brow, as if filing the concept in its proper folder for future reference.

  Kyle, who had been talking with Mr. Levin, came bounding up the aisle. He was smiling at her now. What? Was he going to ask now? Why did she care so much?

  “Hey,” he said, and she noticed his fingers were stained black.

  “What happened to your hands?” Brianna asked.

  Kyle immediately shoved them behind his back. “I was working on my new car during shop. Vintage ’67 Thunderbird. Red.”

  “Really?” Courtesy of her uncle Paulie, who collected vintage cars to rent to the movie industry, Brianna had actually traveled in one of those. Or maybe a 1969. But close. “Those are so cool. Does it work?”

  “Like new,” Kyle said. “Well, except some of the floor is missing. But it’s a V8. Like driving a spaceship. I was going to tell you about it yesterday in study hall. I wanted to know if you’d like to be the first person to have a ride in it with me. I could drive you home after rehearsal tonight.”

  A ride in a car—that was it? Not exactly what she’d hoped for, but it might lead to something interesting. “Offer accepted,” Brianna said.

  “You, too, Dash,” Kyle added as he sat in the empty seat on Brianna’s right.

  Not going to lead anywhere at all, Brianna realized.

  Dashiell didn’t notice. His attention was riveted on the stage. “Casey is extraordinary,” he said.

  Brianna took her mind off Kyle and focused. “Don’t be fooled by that meek exterior. Casey’s a perfect stage manager and a natural director.”

  “You’re not so bad either,” Kyle said.

  “Pshaw,” Brianna said.

  Dashiell laughed. “That’s funny. Pshaw.”

  “Seriously, Brianna,” Kyle said. “You were awesome when you helped me on ‘All for the Best.’ It made a huge difference.”

  “Excuse me?” Reese said, managing to appear from nowhere, as always, at just the right time. “ ‘All for the Best’ is a dance number, and the choreographer had a hand in it, thank you very much?”

  “You’re welcome,” Kyle said, allowing Reese to do a slow burn before he reached over and bear-hugged her waist.

  “Auuugggh, your hands are filthy!” Reese said.

  Kyle let go, and Reese stood in the aisle with her hands on hips. “What is this, the Brianna Boy-Toy Brigade? We have work to do. Dashiell, Mr. Levin wants to know if you and Kyle can nail the placement for the spots in the crucifixion scene.” She gave a little giggle. “Nail? Crucifixion? Oops. Forgive me.”

  Dashiell rose reluctantly from his seat. “I thought we did that placement already.”

  “Keeps us off the street, Dash,” Kyle said. “I’ll do it, as long as I don’t have to sing the song.”

  “Bubbeleh, you can sing the wings off a butterfly,” Reese said.

  Kyle pinched her on the butt before jogging toward the stage. Dashiell went in the other direction, toward the projection booth.

  “Sexual harassment,” Reese murmured. “Do I have a grease stain on my butt?”

  Brianna raised an eyebrow. “Yup. I would press charges.”

  Reese grinned and slid into the seat next to her. “So, I take it our friend Dashiell is after you now?”

  Brianna stiffened. “What makes you think that?”

  “The Old Spice,” Reese said. “Did he offer you chocolate in the projection room?”

  “No,” Brianna said, not exactly lying. She did not want this to turn into gossip.

  “Well, that’s next,” Reese said. “Unless he changes to some other food. I told him girls had mixed feelings about chocolate. Maybe he’ll graduate to pâté.”

  “Thanks for the tip.”

  “Speaking of tips . . . ” Reese leaned in close. “The field is wide open, Brianna. Just wanted to let you know.”

  “Field?”

  “As in, the touchdown pass is in the air? The wide receiver has side-armed the most savage attacker?” Reese gave Brianna a Look of Great Meaning. “Ugh, Brianna, for a smart-ass, you can be so clueless. I’m talking about Kyle. I was hoping . . . but no, to me he’s a total lost cause. He treats me like Li’l Sis—and that, as you know, is so not me. So . . . I didn’t want you to hold back because of me. I release him. Kyle is yours. If you can hold on to him.”

  Brianna couldn’t help laughing. Reese never did lack a sense of drama. And self-importance. “Oh! Reese, that’s so, um, considerate. But I wasn’t really thinking about that—”

  “Mm-hm,” Reese said. “Well, I have a feeling this may be a limited-time opportunity. If you wait, Brianna, you may have to stand in line . . . ”

  She was looking at the stage now, where Kyle was standing in a spotlight that was changing from white to blue to red to yellow and back again in rapid succession.

  He was not alone. Casey stood next to him, her body turning gently from side to side as she gazed up into his face. He laughed at something she said and then turned toward Dashiell in the booth. “Are we all set, Dash?”

  “I think so,” Dashiell replied.

  “What’s next?” Kyle asked Mr. Levin.

  Mr. Levin looked at his watch. “Whoa, we ran over. Where does the time go? Okay, cast, time to go home! See you all tomorrow!”

  Reese nudged Brianna in the ribs. They both watched as Kyle put his arm around Casey and headed back into the wings.

  Casey?

  Brianna felt her stomach knot and her teeth clench. “Cute,” she said.

  “As long as you don’t mind,” Reese said with a shrug.

  “Why would I mind?”

  “None of my business.” Reese turned away, with a sharp toss of hair over her shoulder. “Just wanted to make sure Casey wasn’t screwing up a good friendship.”

  15

  THE FEELING CAME BACK IMMEDIATELY. THE lessons with Mrs. Dunham. Casey’s tiny fingers struggling to press the keys. Here we go / Up a row, / To a birthday party . . . Casey smiled. There were some things she really did miss.

  “Brava, Kara mia!” That was what she always said, Brava. The feminine of bravo. And Kara mia. My dear. Mrs. D took so much joy in their lessons, especially the sight-reading, where they would sit side by side. And after good lessons Casey would get a gold star, until her assignment book was so thick with gold stars that it could barely close. And that last lesson . . . the four-hands version of Beethoven’s Fifth, with the sun streaming through the open window . . . and when they finished, Mrs. D said the sky was the limit, but it wasn’t, because that was the last day . . .

  “Casey?”

  She spun around. Kyle was coming through the door with two bottles of water. “Thanks,” she said, her voice parched.

  “You sound as bad as I feel,” Kyle said. He untwisted the top of his bottle and held the water high. “Cheers! Let’s hydrate.”

  “Do you have anything to eat?” Casey asked, suddenly feeling ravenous.

  “I’m a football player. I always carry snacks.” He pulled a Baby Ruth and a Fast Break out of his backpack and put them on the piano.

  Focus. Energize. Casey quickly ate the Fast Break. It soothed going down. She had been eating a lot lately. It was
stress. But she would cut down, after today. As she took a long swig of water, she closed her eyes and concentrated on the moment. Focus on now. Now was now. Everything else was then. “So, what part is giving you trouble?” she asked. “‘All for the Best’?”

  Kyle groaned. “The dance number? That is going to suck so bad. I can never get that. But at least that song is easy.” He plopped his musical score on the piano. The sheets were dog-eared and marked up with dynamics and directorial suggestions. Quickly he turned toward the back of the score and pointed. “Here. This little part I sing during the crucifixion. I can never do it right.”

  The line was pretty easy—to play, at least. Mostly quarter notes, dotted quarters, and half notes. Casey could handle that. “Um, let me play it through once first. Then you can sing the second time,” she said.

  Kyle looked over her shoulder as she played. He smelled good. It wasn’t cologne or aftershave, Casey guessed. Probably some kind of soap. A faint scent of the sea. Unconsciously she sat higher on the bench, to be closer to his face, and began playing the intro. “Let’s jump right in . . . okay, two, three, four . . . now!”

  “‘Oh, God, I’m dying . . .’ ” Kyle sang.

  “Perfect—keep going!” So far, so good. But he had to sing the same line in a couple of different keys. Together they counted through the rests. “And . . . now!”

  “‘Oh, God, I’m dyiiiing . . .’” Kyle sang.

  “Almost,” she said, stopping the music. “Very close. Let’s try that again.”

  He was even further off the next time.

  Casey pounded on the E, F, and F, singing three sentences to the tune: “Dy-ing! A-little-higher! Here-are-the-notes!”

  “I am dying,” Kyle said, flattening himself against the practice room wall.

  She’d been too harsh. She was alienating him. “Sorry!” she said.

  “Yeah, I know,” Kyle said with a crooked, goofy grin. “Sorry because the Drama Club cast me. Sorry because you agreed to suffer in this sweaty little box while I mess up the tune. Yo, Stephen Schwartz is spinning in his grave! He’s sorry, too.”