The Fall Musical Read online

  “Are you okay?” asked Mr. Levin, rushing toward her. The way he was looking at her was easy to read: This girl is an accident waiting to happen.

  “No rush, I’ll vamp until you’re ready,” Ms. Gunderson said cheerfully, playing the introduction over again.

  Casey walked out to the center of the stage. She took a deep breath. She had practiced her song at least a hundred times. She had planned every facial expression, every gesture. She remembered what her drama teacher in Westfield had told her: Don’t move your eyebrows so much. Think of your eyes as spotlights, and stand still unless you have a reason to move.

  She glanced into the darkened audience and saw Brianna’s shadow in the back, poised with a pencil. Suddenly Ms. Gunderson’s notes sounded totally unfamiliar, like some ancient Icelandic folk chant. Casey took a breath, prayed for the right key . . . and squeaked. Loud. She felt as if someone had crawled inside her and sandpapered her throat. “C-can I start again?” she croaked.

  “No problem, sweetie,” Ms. Gunderson said, vamping some more.

  But at the moment she opened her mouth again, a scream rang out from backstage, followed by a loud CRRRRRASHHH!

  Charles leaped from his seat in the auditorium. “Charle-e-ettes!” he shouted. “Oh, good Lord, time out.” As he jogged onstage, he said to Casey, “Sorry, doll—at Ridgeport, half the drama is backstage. Go ahead. I’ll listen from there.”

  Vamp . . . vamp.

  Casey started again. She sang the right words. She moved her eyes and her arms to the music. Sort of. The sound from her mouth seemed tiny and raw. It didn’t help to hear the hiss of arguing voices coming from backstage. She couldn’t bear to look at anyone, so she stared into the empty seats on the left side of the auditorium. This was torture. Nothing like yearbook. Answering questions, assigning tasks—that she could handle. Not this!

  About halfway through, Ms. Gunderson started playing really softly, then not at all. Harrison was standing up, looking at her.

  Casey’s voice tailed off like a dying bird.

  “Thank you,” Harrison said pointedly, as if he’d said it several times before. “That was great. Callbacks will be posted tomorrow.”

  “You’re welcome. I mean, thanks.”

  That was it. The audition was over. One song. A quarter of a song.

  Casey wanted to take it back. She wanted to rewind time, to before the backstage argument. To before Brianna had changed her sign-up. To before the collision with Dashiell. It wasn’t fair. The cards had been stacked against her.

  Harrison had called her “great.” But that’s what he’d said to Royce, too. This must be another Ridgeport tradition. Lying to the Tone-Deaf and Talentless.

  Brianna was writing something on her sheet. What was it?

  Another toilet? A cesspool? An atomic bomb? There was no way Casey could face her on the way out.

  Instead she ran backstage, hoping no one could see her burst into tears.

  5

  Dr. Fink,

  can’t make tomorrow’s therapy session. the reason is i have 2b here. pipes burst in the prop/costume room. chaos. am curbing perfectionistic tendencies very well but not sudden rages. am on the verge of quitting. bet you didn’t think you’d hear me say that. |o|. hope you get this txt msg before the 24-hour cancellation rule!!! how about Sat. 4 pm?

  charles s

  Charles snapped shut his cell phone. “Oh, please, people! You act as though I flooded the prop room on purpose, just to make you work!” he hissed at the pouting Charlettes, who were taking things out of the prop/costume room and listlessly dumping them on the backstage floor. This offended every one of the Five Senses of Charles Scopetta: Order, Loyalty, Style, Relentless Dedication, and Fun.

  And when any of the Five Senses was violated, Charles was inclined to lash out. Which was a bad habit he had been working on, to the tune of expensive weekly visits with Dr. Eustis Fink the Useless Shrink. So, per Dr. Fink’s instructions, he counted to three (internally) and said (calmly), “This is the theater, darlings. We go on. And”—he picked up a wig that had been dumped on the floor and looked like a dead possum—“we do not ”—he hung up a military uniform that had been thrown over an armchair—“MAKE A MESS!”

  The Charlettes were staring at him. With their slouches and slack, surly features, they resembled a Calvin Klein ad for the pimple set. Charles forced a smile. Everything seemed suddenly very quiet. It took him a moment to realize that the girl—Casey—had just finished her audition. Oh, lovely. He had barely heard her. He should have been out there with the other DC officers, but no, he had been busy text-messaging his shrink and dealing with the prima donna freshmen and sophomores who thought it was beneath them to clean up. This year’s batch of Charlettes needed a training session. Boot camp. A spanking. Something.

  “My fingers are schmutzy,” said Vijay.

  “Okay, um, so where are these supposed to go?” said Ruby Dionne, holding two spiked World War I helmets.

  “And where do we put these ostrich features?” asked a freshman named Dan Winston.

  “Well, let’s see . . . ” Charles began. “How about up your—”

  With a whoosh, the backstage curtain opened, mercifully cutting off Charles’s answer, and a blur of hair, shirt, and jeans rushed past him.

  “Wrong exit, honey,” Charles called out. “Try again. With feeling.”

  “Ggghhh . . . ” she replied, her voice strangled by tears, her body blocked by the mound of costumes and props that lay between her and the exit. It was Casey, the girl who had just auditioned. “Sorry,” she said, between jerking sobs. “S-sorry!”

  Charles bolted up from the chair. She was upset. Damn, he had to curb the catty remarks. “No, I’m sorry,” he said, leading her toward the card table. “I’m a jerk, ask anyone here. Look, I take back what I said. You can use any exit you want, okay? You can use two exits—go out that door, come back in, and then use the one near the big room.”

  Casey smiled a little. “That’s . . . not why I’m upset.”

  “That’s a relief. For me. Doesn’t do you a lot of good. Come and sit. We’re having a crisis back here, too. Maybe we can share miseries.” Charles gestured to the table, but on each chair was a plastic but nonetheless surprisingly realistic World War I helmet, complete with tasseled spike pointing straight upward. “Ouch. We’ll, uh, move them first.”

  He handed her a handkerchief and swept aside two of the helmets. As they sat, she wiped her eyes. “Thank you for not laughing,” she said.

  “Oh?” Charles said. “Is there a reason to laugh? Tell me, I need one.”

  “I meant, at my audition?”

  “Please!” Charles said in his best heartily scoffing voice. “You were way better than my first time. Why do you think I’m back here with these losers—because I love to fondle gowns soaked in sweat from 1993? Well, yes, but you should have heard my audition. Harrison nearly passed out during my ballad. The school nurse rushed in thinking I was dying of strangulation. So I read the handwriting on the wall. I found my bliss elsewhere.”

  Casey smiled, her eyes slowly taking in the enormity of the mess. “And . . . this is it?”

  “I design. That’s what I do. I make things beautiful. This mess is something different. It’s what happens when you lose a stage manager, the prop room floods, and your loyal underlings turn against you. Normally, we’re very cuddly and milk-and-cookies back here.”

  Casey smiled. Judging from the little gut that pooched over his belt, Charles had had much happy experience with milk and cookies. Somehow that made her feel at ease.

  “Well, there’s plenty of space to put things away while the room dries?” Casey said.

  “Is that a question or a statement?”

  Casey blushed. “Sorry. I do that sometimes when I’m nervous. The uplift. It’s a statement? I mean, it’s a statement! You can reorganize. You need to reorganize. Okay, I’m telling you. Reorganize.”

  “Bossy thing, aren’t you? I was thinking of a
Dumpster. There’s one out back, near the construction site for the new wing.” Charles grinned. “Which adds to the other two new wings that have been built during our lifetimes, and which, upon completion, will finally allow the school to fly away.”

  Aha. A laugh. Casey was loosening up. She stood, picking up a few helmets. She eyed the fretwork of pulleys and taut vertical ropes against the wall and stacked the helmets snugly behind some of them. “How about here? By the time you need these ropes to raise and lower the backdrops, the prop room will be dry.” She picked up a fistful of empty hangers and hooked them onto a horizontal metal pipe just over her head. “This will hold a lot of weight. You can get the costumes off the floor.” She glanced at the Charlettes, who did seem pretty motley. “Um, can you guys give me a hand?”

  As she began picking up the garments, Vijay, who had been leaning against the wall, scooped up a jacket or two. “She’s cool,” he said to Charles.

  “I’m about to faint,” Charles replied.

  The other Charlettes pitched in to help, too. They found old boxes and vases and stuffed them with props. They made shelves out of music stands. They made a discard pile of old useless material.

  Charles quietly sneaked away and scurried back into the audience. Back to his Drama Club audition duties.

  “Everything okay back there?” Harrison whispered.

  Charles nodded. “We are in very good hands.”

  He sat back and listened—a Kelly Clarkson soundalike, a guy with a sweet high-pitched voice, a girl who speed-sang. Aisha, Jamil, Becky. All good. Charles liked auditions from this side of the stage. His dad used to say the eyes were the windows to the soul, but he was wrong. You could hide things with your eyes. Singing was being naked. Nothing hidden. Whoever you were—timid, brave, tender, tough, unsure, giving, selfish—it all came through when you sang, whether you wanted it to or not.

  They were nearing the end of the list when Mr. Levin excused himself for a break.

  Harrison was smiling. “This is great. I think we already have what we need.”

  “Not yet,” Brianna said. “Just wait.”

  “Meaning . . . ?” Harrison said.

  “Meaning just wait,” Brianna shot back.

  Harrison’s smile tightened. “You know I hate secrets.”

  “You know I am all about secrets,” Brianna said. “And this is why we adore each other, vre Harrison.”

  Oh, the tension, Charles thought. Mr. Control and Ms. Over-the-Top. Being near those two had the same effect as dunking your head in a bowl of Starbucks espresso. But he was distracted by quiet laughter filtering out from backstage. With the Charlettes these days, that was not a good sign. “Excuuuuse me again,” Charles said, rolling his eyes. Tucking his clipboard under this arm, he ran onto the stage and slipped behind the curtain.

  Near the far wall, around a card table, sat Casey, Vijay, Ruby, and the other Charlettes. The table was stacked neatly with gloves, paper fans, fake phones, and electronic equipment. The floor had been swept clean and the wing space was festooned with costumes and props, everything neatly in place.

  Charles’s clipboard dropped to the floor. “I’m dreaming,” he said.

  Casey looked tentative. “Sorry . . . ?”

  “Sorry about what? How did you do this?”

  “It wasn’t that hard,” Casey said.

  “Wasn’t that hard?” He lifted her and spun her around, screaming with glee like something out of a cheesy movie, but he didn’t care. “Will you marry me?”

  “Um . . . ” Casey giggled, embarrassed. “I guess . . . if you design the dress.”

  Vijay bolted out of his chair, looking thoroughly disgusted. “Oy. My stomach.”

  Ms. Gunderson began playing again. The audition. Charles had almost forgotten about the audition. He forced himself to listen. It was a familiar intro.

  When a male voice began to sing, all conversation stopped. Time stopped.

  The sound was so clear and sexy and strong and human, it was like the thing itself with a shape and a life. It soared and floated. It filled the stage. Charles had heard “On the Street Where You Live” sung a million times, but never like this.

  He tiptoed to the curtain. One by one the Charlettes joined him.

  “He’s a god,” said Dan Winston.

  “He’s a natural,” whispered Charles.

  Casey put the pieces of the puzzle together. “He’s a religious experience.”

  As the song ended, Kyle smiled into the audience and then began to stroll off the stage. No one moved or made a sound until he got to the stairs.

  “Uh, do you have an up-tempo?” Ms. Gunderson squeaked.

  Kyle stopped. “An up-what?”

  “Never mind.” Harrison’s voice popped up from the dark auditorium. “Kyle, would you come back tomorrow for callbacks?”

  “Tomorrow?” Kyle said. “Aw, damn, I have to go to practice. I can’t play because of the ankle, but I’m part of the team and—”

  “Cancel it,” Brianna told him. “This is mandatory.”

  As Kyle started toward the auditorium doors, limping but whistling, Brianna could barely stay in her seat. She was right. She had called it. Nailed it when no one else even guessed.

  She knew his type.

  Some people had it and forced it on people, like Reese. Other people had it but chose to hold back.

  Underpromise, overdeliver. That was his MO. Don’t let on. Don’t let them see you sweat. Nurse your talent in secret. Then, when the others least expect it, blow them all out of the water. Brianna admired that. Kyle was her opposite. For Brianna, all the effort showed. She screamed Type A no matter how hard she tried to hide it. So people expected the 97 average, the SAT score of 2300, the drama-queen performances, and fashionista clothes. Anything less, and they talked. But Kyle—nothing about him was expected. Just when you thought you had him pegged, he proved you wrong. He was a force of nature. A major talent. She’d known it the moment she’d heard him singing at Scott’s party that night. That was sexy enough. But the fact that he didn’t need to show off, that he kept it inside until he was good and ready . . .

  She couldn’t think about this. Because when she did, she couldn’t think about anything else. Brianna didn’t know many people like Kyle. She wanted to know him. She had to.

  She watched him heading for the door, shooting her a thumbs-up, grinning like a three-year-old. Like a kid who just gotten away with something, just played with the coolest toy in the room while no one was watching. And that was when the thought hit her—maybe he just didn’t know.

  Could he not know how talented he was? Was it possible he couldn’t tell what an impact he created? God, the air in the room had changed. From now on in the Drama Club, it would be BK and AK: Before Kyle and After Kyle. Brianna knew that in her gut.

  As the auditorium door shut, Charles emerged from behind the curtain. “Did I just die and go to heaven?”

  Brianna ran down from the mezzanine. Her head was buzzing. Her pores felt wide open, as if she had just taken a long shower. “You’re welcome, everybody! Now you know why I was late. He wanted to play catch with his teammates. I had to yank him away.”

  “He’s beautiful.” Reese sighed.

  “Who knew?” Ms. Gunderson said.

  Mr. Levin looked skeptical. “If he were in the show, could he make a commitment? This is football season, and he’s the star of the team.”

  “Not this year,” Brianna said. “Over the summer he hurt his ankle in a cribbage—”

  “Scrimmage,” Harrison corrected her.

  “So he’s out for the season,” she went on. “He was in a cast until last week, in case you didn’t notice. Which is why trying to play catch with his buddies was insane, and why I was able to get him to come here.”

  Dashiell nodded solemnly. “You have an awesome ability to spot talent, Brianna. It’s a unique gift. I have always admired that in you—”

  “He’s perfect for the lead role,” Reese interrupted, throwi
ng Harrison a provocative look. “For Jesus.”

  Harrison gave her his best I-don’t-give-a-crap look. Brianna recognized it. Nonchalance was one of his specialties as an actor, even when he was mad jealous, which he had to be right then. If there was one thing Brianna had expertise in, it was Harrison’s ego. “I agree. The guy is a natural,” he said through slightly gritted teeth.

  “Well, let’s not cast him yet,” Brianna said diplomatically. “He still has to get through callbacks.”

  “Yes, that’s what I meant,” Harrison snapped. “I meant callbacks.”

  “Don’t be upset,” Brianna said. “I was just trying to recruit good people.”

  “You did great,” Harrison told her with a tight little smile. “One star. One dud. A five hundred average. That’s good. Now let’s move on.”

  Charles took in a sudden sharp breath. “You did not say that,” he whispered, looking over his shoulder.

  “What?” Harrison asked.

  A door slammed backstage, loudly.

  “Damn . . . ” Charles said, running onto the stage. Brianna followed close behind him, along with the other DC members.

  He pulled aside the curtains. The backstage area was beautiful. Immaculate. The Charlettes were standing around a card table, looking shell-shocked.

  Charles ran to the door, opened it, and looked out into the hallway. “She’s gone.”

  “Who?” asked Reese.

  “Casey.” Charles sank into a chair.

  Harrison winced. “No. Did she hear?”

  Charles rolled his eyes. “With a voice like yours, Mr. Project-to-the-Back-Row? Of course she heard.”

  “Yeah, that really sucked,” said Vijay softly.

  Brianna glanced at the tidy boxes, the neat rows of costumes. “This is beautiful. Who did this?”

  “Our beloved dud,” Charles said.

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  September 11, 6:32 P.M.