The Fall Musical Read online

  “He’s having a rough day; let’s give him some props,” Brianna whispered. Then she called out to the stage, “You sound fantastic, Kyle! Beautiful tone.”

  “Excellent!” Harrison agreed.

  Kyle turned with a start, not used to hearing their voices from stage right. He smiled and gave a devil-may-care shrug. He didn’t look insecure, but he had to be feeling it.

  As he began singing again, Reese sighed. “Can you believe the size of that thing?”

  Brianna nodded. “It’s a major voice.”

  “Unless you were referring to something else,” Harrison said.

  “You have a one-track mind,” Reese replied.

  “I do? Why don’t you just go up there and grab him?” Harrison asked. “Maybe then he’d reach the high notes.”

  Reese raised an eyebrow. “Honey, you are just jealous, because the biggest basket in your life is filled with bread. Yia soo, Greek boy.”

  Harrison turned away. “It’s Be Snarky to Harrison Day,” he said over his shoulder.

  Casey noticed some movement on her laptop. A message from Dashiell.

  Let_there_be_light: zzzup sistah

  Nice. Finally! Casey quickly typed a response:

  changchangchang: you did it!!! the wifi works! geeks rule!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  “Woo-hoo!” came Dashiell’s voice from the lighting booth, distracting everybody.

  changchangchang: ssshhhhhhh

  Let_there_be_light: sorry

  Casey shut her laptop and stood by the edge of the stage. To her left, behind the curtains, Corbin and Ethan were playing a card game while reciting lines. Onstage, Mr. Levin had finished giving Kyle “notes”—criticisms—on his singing. Casey quickly checked her rehearsal sheet and said, “Cast! Listen up! Everyone onstage for ‘Day by Day’!”

  “I was going to give a few more notes,” Mr. Levin said with a patient smile.

  Casey checked her watch. “Can you do it afterward? We’re off schedule.”

  What are you doing? screamed Casey’s brain. Talking back to the director is not kosher. Not not not. Ease up. It’s happening. That old feeling—you can do anything, nothing touches you. That feeling you paid for last year by screwing up everything.

  But Mr. Levin didn’t seem mad, just amused. “Sure, Casey,” he said. “You’re right, actually.”

  Now Charles came popping out of the wings. “Okay, kids, imagine a junkyard—a colorful Disneyworld of cool props you can use to act out the gospel lessons—umbrellas, baby carriages, a scooter, a wagon . . . ”

  Casey watched, letting her brain cool down. The scene unfolded, soon leading into the song “Day by Day,” Lori’s solo. Casey’s IM chime interrupted the mood. Stepping back, she glanced at the screen.

  Let_there_be_light: links done. wanna try Cue 57A & see if it works?

  She typed back

  changchangchang: sure

  Accessing the site, she quickly entered her user name and password. All the cues were lined up in numerical order with descriptions. Casey clicked on “57A: Day by Day 1.”

  In an instant the stage went dark except for a circle of light focused only on Kyle and Lori. They seemed suspended in a perfect white globe. Casey shot a thumbs-up to Dashiell, who was dancing in the booth.

  Then she braced herself for the song. That phrase—day by day—still cut to the bone. After the hospital, that’s what they had told her: take it day by day, and things would get better. Of course, it wasn’t true. When she got home, when she found out what had really happened, she knew that it could never get better. Not day by day, not as long as she lived.

  Lori’s voice soared as she sang “these things I pray,” and Casey’s memories faded as she imagined trading places, so she would be touching Kyle’s fingers, one by one.

  “Pssst!” From the rear exit, out past the costume/prop room, Charles waved Casey toward him. She ran to the door. It was open, and loud angry voices filtered in. One of them was Mr. Ippolito’s.

  Casey peeked out to see him standing face-to-face with the principal of the school, Ms. Hecksher. “If in my judgment this were unsafe,” Mr. Ippolito was saying, “you can be sure I would not do it!”

  “The issues here are not only safety,” Ms. Hecksher snapped, “but cleanliness, protection of property, and respect for process! And beyond that, Mr. Ippolito, there are guidelines. Unless your job description and union affiliation have changed drastically since I last checked, you are not the faculty adviser to the Drama Club!”

  Casey looked past Ms. Hecksher and saw what she was upset about. At the end of the hallway, cushioned by thick rags, the enormous rust-covered chain-link fence leaned against the wall.

  Charles came up behind Casey. “We have to do something!” he whispered.

  Before she could say a word, Mr. Levin came toward them. “Is there a problem?”

  Mr. Ippolito began explaining that because he was a huge Godspell fan, he had come up with the idea to bring in the fence for the junkyard scenes.

  He was taking the fall. Putting his job on the line. Not even mentioning that it hadn’t been his idea.

  “Um . . . ” Casey said. “I . . . it was my . . . ”

  Nobody was listening. A crowd was gathering around her, curious actors and the Charlettes. Mr. Levin turned to them wearily and said, “People, let’s take a fifteen-minute break.”

  “Mr. Levin,” Casey pressed on, “I was the one who wanted the fence.”

  “Um, if you’re looking for martyrs, add little old moi,” Charles piped up. “I planted the stupid idea—”

  “Casey, Charles, please, you are not employees of the school,” Mr. Levin replied. “Let Ms. Hecksher deal with this.”

  “B-but—” Casey stammered.

  The crowd was pushing her back to the door as Mr. Levin, Ms. Hecksher, and Mr. Ippolito walked briskly away, disappearing around the corner.

  When Mr. Levin called the break, Kyle headed straight for the empty hallway leading to the football field, wanting some time alone with his throbbing ankle. Next to a row of lockers, he could see through a window to the field. The varsity squad was out there practicing, and the new guy at wide receiver—Kyle’s old position—was pretty good. Pete Newman, it looked like.

  He turned as he heard footsteps pounding on the tile floor.

  “Oh!” Casey Chang stopped short as she came into view, surprised to see him. “I’m sorry. I . . . I just . . . want to get to my locker . . . I’m sorry . . . ”

  “Hi, Sorry,” Kyle said, “I’m Grateful.” His dad’s favorite stupid joke.

  She walked swiftly past him, her hair falling in front of her eyes, and opened her locker. “You were good today.”

  “Right,” Kyle said, trying to sound grateful. “Thanks.”

  “You were,” Casey insisted.

  Kyle shrugged. “Hey. Whatever.”

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  Kyle shrugged. “Well . . . I am, I guess. Wait, that doesn’t sound right. Maybe not. I don’t know. It’s just that, well, here’s the thing . . . . ” He shifted, and a brief stabbing pain shot upward through his leg. “Okay, everybody tells me I’m great. Even when I screw up, sing flat, bump into people, make the wrong entrances, fart onstage—they still say I’m great.”

  “So?” Casey said.

  “So . . . I know I’m not. I can’t be that good. It’s like when I drop a pass or screw up on the field, my coaches and teammates tell me I suck. They really let me have it. But not the Drama Club. And yo, I’ve been sucking a lot lately.”

  Casey’s locker door thumped shut. She walked over to him tentatively. She was eating something that looked like a candy bar. “They do mean it,” she said between chews. “You don’t have to be perfect to be good. Everybody makes mistakes and sings out of tune during the early rehearsals. You just need practice. Look, you practice catching and running, right? It’s the same with music.”

  “I know.” Kyle rubbed the back of his neck. “But getting a chance to practice i
sn’t that easy. Ms. Gunderson’s always too busy. And I don’t read music.”

  “If you want, I can play through the melodies for you on a piano,” Casey suggested. “I’m not very good, but I can do that.”

  “Thanks.” Kyle shrugged, not wanting to make a big deal out of this. He shifted uncomfortably, distracted by the shouts from outside. Someone had just made a first down, but it was on a broken-pass play with the downfield receiver in the clear by the goal line. He knew he would never have missed that opportunity. “You’re a theater person,” he said quietly. “In the theater, how do you know you got it right?”

  “What do you mean?” Casey asked.

  “Like, in sports for example,” Kyle went on, “you know what to do. You learn plays, practice them, try them in a game—and then they either work or they don’t. And the game just goes on like that until someone wins. With the theater it’s different. You sing a song only once in a show, you do each scene once, and that’s it. You can’t do it over. How do you know if you got it right?”

  “Well, I—I guess you never really do . . . ”

  “I thought so.” Kyle let out a deep sigh.

  “God, this doesn’t sound like you,” Casey said. “You’re always like, Mr. Confident.”

  “I’m not me. I’m my twin brother, Duke.” Kyle smiled. “Yo, do you ever have the feeling you’re somewhere you don’t belong?”

  Casey looked at him cautiously, and he went on.

  “Like, something bad happens to you, like your ankle—and suddenly you find a place where you can escape, where you can be someone else? And for a while you think, yo, a new life! Like a fantasy game. And then after a while, things get hard . . . and you realize you’re just the same person you always were?” Kyle stopped, laughing at the sound of his own voice. If there was one thing he didn’t have, it was a way with words. “God, that’s stupid. Forget I said it.”

  “No, it’s not,” Casey replied. “I do know how you feel.”

  “You do? ’Cause to tell the truth, sometimes I feel kind of like a phony around you guys. Not always. Just like when I can’t tell my right leg from my left in a dance. Have you ever felt that way? Like a phony and you just want to run away?”

  He glanced at her, but she was reaching into her shoulder bag, pulling out a cell phone. “It’s Charles,” she said. “We’re supposed to come back. See you there.”

  Funny. He hadn’t heard the phone ring or buzz or anything.

  She turned and ran around the corner, back toward the auditorium. But not before he got a good look at her face. She was crying.

  11

  From:

  To:

  Subject: ur offline AGAIN so im sending this e-mail cuz i miss u!!!

  September 22, 2:02 A.M.

  rachel!

  you must be studying too much or making the beast with two backs with some hot yalie if there is such a thing. i can’t wait for you to get online or turn on ur cell cuz i HAFF to tawk. im kinda buzzing. u know me at 2 in the morning. weeeee. don’t joke, i will not have a blood test hahaha.

  ok, update. week 1, Godspell rehearsals.

  what a difference a small cast makes. no blood and guts like sweeney todd. no cast of thousands like carousel. no animals peeing on stage, like annie. 10 actors. peace, love, and the gospels. so:

  mr. ippolito is in the doghouse for trying to get us a rusty metal fence casey chang suggested. the early costume designs look like they’re on loan from the big apple circus. today we did half of act ii, scene 1 in blue light and the other half in darkness. the turntable began to spin during “where are you going?” (appropriate title, huh?) and the choreography still looks a little like spelunkers finding their way around an unfamiliar cave in the dark. thats a metaphor. or is it a simile? anyway charles is a diva, harrison’s doing macbeth, reese is doing “girls gone wild,” ethan is comatose, and corbin is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. i fight the feeling that I should be up there, acting & singing. no don’t worry i am following yr advice. i really do like studnt directing.

  mostly.

  on the bright side, we have casey and kyle. she knows how to kick ass. and if jesus was as hot as kt, it’s no wonder christianity lasted so long. (forgive me, it’s a JOKE!)

  on the dark side, we have reese (and kyle). just ONCE I would like to see her lift her eyes from below his waist. and stop telling him he’s a GENIUS every time he blows his nose. and thrusting every conceivable body part in his general direction. eventually this treatment will go straight to his head. or somewhere else. he’s only human.

  sort of.

  o god, rach, is he hot. not that i’m interested.

  ok, i’m interested.

  if u must know.

  ok, he is perfect, rach. i wonder if he’s buying

  what reese is selling.

  could he be?

  oh god, listen to me, quel bitch. well, I’m sitting here watching old friends reruns, which always put me in a good mood.

  friends, and you.

  B

  “Mood gorning, comrades!” Dashiell said, barging into the costume/prop room. He knew, of course, that Charles preferred that non-Charlettes knock when the door was closed—it was one of the little personal quirks that made the Drama Club the Drama Club. Dashiell, however, had trouble remembering people’s little quirks. That was one of his quirks. But it was a Saturday. Aside from Kyle, only the Drama Club officers were here. No teeming multitudes to distract and annoy. Everybody was always a little looser on Saturdays.

  Besides, Dashiell had a question for Kyle. And at the moment Kyle stood in the middle of the room, wearing a spandex Superman costume with an oversize S insignia, a red cape, rainbow suspenders, striped bell-bottom pants, and orange clown shoes.

  It was a rare high school where the costume designer was ready after one week of rehearsals, but Charles was no ordinary costume designer.

  “Voilà,” Charles said. “What do you think?”

  Kyle glanced dubiously into the mirror. “It’s . . . um. Wow. So, this is what I wear in the show? As Jesus?”

  “The crown of thorns violates school safety rules, and we eighty-sixed the loincloth for obvious reasons,” Charles replied.

  Dashiell felt in his pocket for the note he had carefully typed, revised, and finally printed out for Brianna. He had been promising to give it to her for days, but he needed a piece of crucial information from Kyle first. “Hope I’m not interrupting,” he said.

  Charles glared at him. “You may enter, but kindly leave your calling card with the butler. And tell me what you think of Mr. Touchdown’s costume. Give him the reassurance he so richly deserves.”

  “You last name is Touchdown?” Dashiell asked.

  “That was a joke, Dashiell,” Charles said. “It’s Taggart.”

  “I knew that,” Dashiell lied. “And speaking of names, you can call me Dash.”

  “No one calls you Dash,” Charles said.

  “No one calls you Chuck, because you like Charles,” Dashiell pointed out. “I’m only asking for the same consideration.”

  “Hey, I’ll call you Dash,” Kyle said.

  “Thank you. Listen, I wanted to ask you something,” Dashiell said.

  “Uh, Dash? Remember . . . my question?” Charles said. “The costume?”

  Dashiell shrugged. “It looks great—and that’s coming from a guy who prefers Marvel over DC. It evokes that postmodern iconic kind of mental paradigm shift.”

  “That’s what we like about Dashiell—he’s a human SAT vocabulary builder,” Charles said.

  “I don’t know, guys . . . . ” Kyle fidgeted in front of the mirror. “I wore something like this on Halloween, about ten years ago.”

  “Honey, people wore stuff like this in the seventies,” Charles said. “Well, maybe not the clown shoes or the cape. But it’s not only that. The design spirit comes from ancient religious pageants. They were all about goofy costumes and pratfalls
. That’s how they told stories to the masses. Through colorful mythic costumes and exaggeration.”

  “Well, I’m going to be toast with my teammates,” Kyle said. “They’ll never let me live this down.”

  “Um, excuse me—shoulder pads, masks, and padded thighs?” Charles said. “These are not ridiculous?”

  Kyle let out a howl of laughter. “Okay, good point. See? I spend my life looking stupid. What do you two guys know about being ridiculed?”

  “Well, is it time for confessions?” Dashiell said, “I’m six feet six, maybe one twenty-five when wet. I’m atrocious at sports, but that’s all everyone ever asks me about—do you play basketball? They act like I’m a mutant when I say no. My favorite part of gym? Sitting in the stands and reading Ender’s Game.”

  “I’m a charter member of the club, too,” Charles said with a sigh. “My mom believed in fat kids and so created me in that image, which I have been trying to shake for years. Mom also managed the church thrift shop. So I got plenty of clothes—miraculously preserved from the 1980s. How do clothes stay perfect for twenty years? I figured they came from kids who had died. Maybe from being too fat. Their parents kept the clothes in drawers, weeping and caressing the material. Getting dressed was a grim experience. Going to school was an exercise in embarrassment. Nobody asked me if I played basketball. I was the last one picked for team sports in gym. The opposite team would laugh and say ‘You got Scopetta!’ like it was a disease.”

  “You are kind of contagious,” Dashiell pointed out. “I mean, in a good way. Hence, the Charlettes.”

  Charles shot him a glare then turned back to Kyle. “Look, Kyle,” he went on, “the costume is great. You’re an actor now. If you were in Into the Woods, you would wear tights. People don’t care. Not the audience, and especially not the Drama Club.”