Bigger Love

by Rick R. Reed

  He backtracked to the bulletin board, where several people had already gathered around, checking to see what parts they got—or didn’t get.

  Stacy Timmons was directly in front of him. She squealed with glee. As she turned away from the bulletin board, she saw him. “I got the part I wanted. Myrtle Mae! Can you believe it?”

  Yes, Truman could believe it and had actually foreseen no other outcome. But he was touched by her excitement and her genuine modesty. It was sweet.

  A couple of kids moved away so Truman could finally get up close to see what part he’d gotten.

  Harvey Cast

  Myrtle Mae Simmons…. Stacy Timmons

  Veta Louise Simmons…. Amber Wolfgang

  Elwood P. Dowd…. Rex Lucas

  Miss Johnson…. Megan Schmidbauer

  Mrs. Ethel Chauvenet…. Maryalice Frederick

  Ruth Kelly, RN…. Lori Moynagh

  Duane Wilson…. Michael Burt

  Lyman Sanderson, MD…. Craig Kennedy

  William R. Chumley, MD…. John Soldano

  Betty Chumley…. Tiffany Gilpin

  Judge Omar Gaffney…. Sam Mainhardt

  EJ Lofgren…. Kirk Nizer

  Understudies…. Jessica Stringfellow, Tommy Blevins

  Truman’s heart dropped with a thud to his gut, which was suddenly swirling with acid. He read the list over once more, sure his eyes had deceived him.

  I had to have gotten a part! Even EJ Lofgren, the cabdriver! A small—but important—role, at least. And I nailed the audition. Nailed it. This has to be a mistake. Truman tried to swallow but found no spit in his dry mouth. He wanted to cry and felt a lump the size of a tangerine in his throat threatening to cut off his air supply, but he wouldn’t yield to the tears of disappointment lingering within him. God, it was embarrassing enough not to be picked, let alone crying like a two-year-old in front of everyone.

  He noticed someone had moved close, just by his left shoulder. He turned and looked at Stacy, standing there. “You’re going to do great. I can’t wait to work with you on this.”

  What? Now this bitch is gonna have the nerve to rub it in? He was just on the verge of channeling Alicia and cutting Stacy down with some genuinely mean snark when he thought he should double-check just what the hell the girl was yammering about.

  His brows furrowed in confusion as he stared at her. He reminded himself to shut his open mouth. “What? I didn’t get a part.” It cut like a knife to say this, to make it real in his head all over again.

  “Silly. Did you read the whole thing?”

  “Well, no. I just stopped after I saw I wasn’t cast.”

  Stacy put her hands gently on his shoulders and turned him toward the bulletin board. He scanned the lines of type below the cast, and there it was, his name.

  Student Director…. Truman Reid

  The notice went on to say that rehearsals would start in the auditorium directly after school the following Monday. There was also a sign-up sheet posted to the right of the cast list for stage crew. The message at the bottom of the cast list went on to add that, if anyone had questions or second thoughts, they should talk to Mr. Wolcott immediately.

  Truman sniffed. Sure. Student Director. Probably because I’m not manly enough for any of the male roles. Mr. Wolcott took pity in me. He doesn’t need a student director, for God’s sakes. He said none of this aloud. What he did say was, “I have questions. I have second thoughts.”

  “What do you mean?” Stacy asked. “You’re the director!”

  “Student director,” Truman corrected. “A meaningless title, a consolation prize. I wanted to act, not direct, not that I think I’ll get the chance to do much directing anyway.” He stared down at the floor and then looked back up at Stacy, whose big brown eyes were alive with concern.

  “I don’t know why you’d say that,” Stacy said. “Mr. Wolcott sees something in you, something great. He wants you to help him run the show.” She punched Truman’s shoulder hard enough to make him gasp. “You big silly! You should be proud.”

  Truman considered for a moment, thought of repeating he’d wanted to act, then closed his trap. Weren’t actors always claiming what they really wanted to do was… direct? Maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss this. Maybe it wasn’t a slight after all, but a compliment, even. Still, it was hard to quell the disappointment, like a dark shadow lurking, deep within him. He’d been so sure he’d get a part.

  Let it go. You did get a part. You just won’t be on stage. But you’ll also have the reins. Or at least the co-reins. You can really make this play into something! Truman tried to console himself. And he had to grudgingly admit it was beginning to work—already. He gave a little half grin to Stacy. “I guess it could be fun, provided I’m given some leeway.”

  “You’re gonna do great, Truman. I’m really looking forward to having your guidance. God knows I’m gonna need it! I’ve never acted before.”

  Truman didn’t tell her that neither had he. Why undermine her confidence in him? After all, he was the student director. And he already had some ideas about how she could play the role, ways she might go a little opposite of what was on the page to make the part unusual, funny maybe. He squeezed her shoulder and quipped, “Stick with me, kid. I’m gonna make you a star!”

  Stacy giggled. “Are you walking home today?” She glanced out through the plate glass front doors. “I think we just missed the bus.”

  “I guess I’m walking home, then. Care to join me?”

  Stacy slipped her hand under Truman’s arm, and the two of them departed for East End.

  Truman couldn’t wait for Monday to come. He’d spend the whole weekend reading the play over and making notes. If he was going to be student director, he was going to be the best student director Summitville High had ever seen.

  Chapter 6

  THE FIRST week of rehearsals was just sitting around the stage on folding chairs, reading aloud from the scripts. The following week, they’d begin blocking—and building the set. Truman wasn’t quite sure how that would work. How were they supposed to act with the stage crew hammering and hollering and moving things around?

  Use your imagination. It’s an actor’s—and a director’s—job to fully immerse in the world they’re creating and rise above distractions.

  But that first week, he couldn’t be too concerned with what was to follow. Now he needed to assert his leadership role, which was something new. In spite of the makeup and flamboyant clothes, Truman was shy, a victim of a paradox—he both wanted to be noticed and didn’t want people to look at him. He wondered if other people, famous people, in the spotlight could possibly also face this introvert paradox.

  So, as a leader he expected pushback, ridicule maybe, people rolling their eyes if he dared to actually try to direct them. He didn’t have much confidence that people would listen to him, let alone respect him. Of all the nerve, he could hear them thinking, Truman Reid trying to tell me what to do. Not gonna happen! Thoughts like these made him quiver inside.

  He was surprised to find, though, that most everyone in the cast laid their undivided attention at his feet with hope in their eyes. They actually wanted him to lead, to show and tell them what they might do to make their turns on stage the best they could be. They ascribed to him knowledge that they didn’t know he didn’t possess. But that was okay; what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. If they wanted to assume he knew all about acting, diction, movement, and so on, so be it. Truman didn’t have to admit to them that he was doing his own acting as he sat next to Mr. Wolcott, earnestly listening as people read their parts aloud. Truman didn’t have to admit he was winging it and faking it until he made it.

  And Mr. Wolcott was fully on board with letting him be an equal partner in directorial duties. In fact, he’d said that every Thursday night would be Truman’s turn to fully take the reins. Mr. Wolcott wouldn’t even be around on Thursdays.

  Near the end of the latest rehearsal on Friday, Mr. Wolcott turned to Truman and
asked, “So, Truman, after a week of reading the script aloud, how do you think we’re doing? Any notes?”

  Truman had been largely silent during the rehearsals that first week, allowing Mr. Wolcott to take the lead while he scribbled madly in a leather-bound notebook upon which he’d pasted a black-and-white still of Jimmy Stewart as Elwood P. Dowd in the movie version. The notes he made, he dutifully turned over to him before homeroom every morning. It did Truman’s heart good to see Mr. Wolcott earnestly incorporating those notes during each subsequent rehearsal.

  “Johnny, you need to speak up, project more. Aim for the last row in the theater,” Mr. Wolcott would say, for example, taking that “last row” comment from Truman’s own advice, advice Truman himself had stolen from the internet.

  “Lori, be willing to take some chances. Loosen up. Don’t be afraid to be someone you’re not. Think about how you’ll look in one of those old-time nurse’s uniforms with the little cap. Be that nurse.”

  “Amber, Veta Louise is a society matron, nose in the air. Go ahead, put on airs.”

  And so on. So much so that Truman was beginning to feel he actually was directing the play, but from the back seat. He looked forward to when they started blocking in earnest and making the play real instead of sitting in this confounded circle. And he really anticipated Thursdays, when he could be in charge, if only for the night.

  But back to Mr. Wolcott’s question. What overall thoughts did Truman have? This would be his first time truly speaking to the cast, although he had tossed out a bit of advice here, some snark there, a laugh after a certain line.

  “Well, I think you’re all doing a really good job.” He forced himself to look at each of their expectant faces in turn. “I can see that some of you already are well on your way to having your parts memorized. And that’s impressive after only a week.” He eyed Kirk Nizer, who had been cast in the part Truman used for his audition, that of the pivotal cab driver, EJ Lofgren. Nizer had never lifted his head from the script, not once. And sometimes he even seemed to stumble over his lines, as though reading didn’t come easily to him. Why on earth had Mr. Wolcott cast him? Truman thought his own cabdriver had stood head and shoulders above this boy’s. He’d have to work extra hard with Kirk, which wasn’t such a daunting prospect because he was kind of cute, with red hair, freckles, and green eyes, which made him appear boyish, yet the worked-out, ripped bod and the six-foot-four height was all man.

  Maybe, it suddenly occurred to Truman, Mr. Wolcott wasn’t so stupid in his casting choice of Kirk—he’d be eye candy. There was a reason Hollywood was filled with beautiful people, some of them vapid and talentless but famous nonetheless.

  Anyway….

  “One thing overall I don’t see you guys doing, though, is interacting. You’re all acting, or trying to, and that’s painfully obvious.” He looked at Mr. Wolcott and saw that maybe he’d crossed a line, at least this early in the process. Mr. Wolcott gave him a sort of wincing expression, which Truman interpreted to mean “Tone it down. Be more diplomatic.”

  “I mean, I’m impressed at how you guys are going all out to be your characters.” Truman smiled. “But, as I said, what we need to see more of is interacting. Sometimes it’s not what’s said that makes an impact, but what’s left unsaid.”

  “And by that you mean…?” Mr. Wolcott asked.

  “I mean you guys need to relate to each other more. You need to listen and react. See, from where I sit, I see you all taking turns reading your parts. Dutifully. You wait patiently—and graciously—for each person before you to finish, and then you read your part.”

  Stacy piped up, “So?” Her eyebrows furrowed. “What are we supposed to do? Cut each other off?”

  “No, no. Of course not, but remember that listening is equally as important as speaking. Sometimes you might do your best acting just by being silent.” Truman scratched at the top of his head, suddenly realizing everyone was not only staring at him but hanging on his every word. Heat rose to his cheeks. He was used to being the center of attention because he was the only boy in school who dared to wear a little makeup and, sometimes, clothes pulled from the women’s department, but he wasn’t used to being respected.

  This was a new thing.

  “Your reactions to each other are just as important as the actions you make and the words you speak,” Truman said quietly. He glanced at Stacy, who was taking notes in the margin of her script. “It’s really the opposite of cutting each other off, because when you cut each other off, you’re not paying attention. And what I want you to do is pay closer attention to what your scene partners are saying and doing.”

  Mr. Wolcott clasped Truman’s shoulder, squeezed, and let go. “Truman’s right.” He stood up and stretched, signaling everyone else to do the same. “I think we’re about finished here for tonight. Everybody have a great weekend. We’ll hit it again on Monday.”

  Truman stood next to Mr. Wolcott as he watched the cast file out. Maybe it wasn’t so bad—this student director gig. He was learning something and, wonder of wonders, establishing a place for himself in the high school hierarchy, even if he was only a minnow in a very small pond.

  As he left the auditorium, Truman found himself actually looking forward to the long walk home. Autumn was in its last throes. The air, finally, had a real nip to it. Truman picked up on the scents of woodsmoke and moldering leaves on the breeze.

  Ah! There was Stacy, just ahead. He thought to catch up with her. They’d walked home from rehearsal once before that week, and Truman was starting to like her. Before, he’d thought she was stuck-up, another popular kid, a cheerleader—someone who wouldn’t ever give Truman the time of day. Instead, he found someone who was warm, interested in him, and just as nervous about doing well as he was. And this was another thing he never would have expected: she came from similar financial circumstances. Unlike Truman, though, she didn’t even have a single parent to call her own. She lived with her great-aunt Sarah, whom she called Aunt Sus, the reasoning for which remained unclear to Truman. Aunt Sus was nearly eighty years old and was much more interested in reality TV and her Bible than she was in her great-niece.

  Besides, he hoped especially to walk home with her tonight because he wanted to ask her about her cousin, Mike. He didn’t know what he wanted to ask, because really, what could he ask? What’s he like? How did he get to be so damn sexy? Was he a “friend of Dorothy”? Truman smiled. He knew he could never ask any of those questions of Stacy. For one, he didn’t have the nerve. And for another, asking such questions would probably nip their developing friendship in the bud.

  “Stacy! Hey! Wait up.” The roar of a loud muffler, the deliberate kind and not like the one on his mom’s car that needed to be repaired, drowned him out. Truman was left waving his hand in the air ridiculously. With some exaggeration he tried to morph the unacknowledged wave into patting his hair into place, just in case anyone was looking.

  He glanced behind him. No one was. In fact, Truman and the driver of the souped-up vintage Trans Am that had just pulled up in front of Stacy were the only people around this long after school had let out.

  Truman stepped back into the shadows of a large maple tree as he watched Stacy approach the car idling at the curb. He didn’t quite know why, but he felt nervous about being seen. There was something illicit about what he was observing. Something secret. Truman could practically smell it in the chilly autumn air.

  Stacy flicked her dark hair over her shoulder and leaned into the driver-side window. Truman could hear muffled laughter, flirtatious, coming out of her. And then a man’s voice—definitely not a boy’s—deep and raspy, as he talked to her. Truman couldn’t make out any words, but he caught the timbre and tone and could hear the persuasion being attempted.

  Truman was about to step out into the light when Stacy turned and peered around her. Instead of stepping forward, he went back a little so he was more hidden. Stacy, he thought, looked guilty, as though she was checking to make sure she wasn’t bei
ng observed.

  Truman thought he should let her know. What kind of stalkerish friend spied as he was doing? Before he had a chance to announce himself in some way, though, Stacy hurried around the front of the car to slide into the passenger seat. He heard the clunk of the door close. He tried to get a look at the man, but saw only the glow of a cigarette in the dark.

  They roared off.

  Truman stepped out from the shadows, feeling unaccountably shaken.

  The whole scene simply looked wrong. There was a sense of guilt about Stacy as she peered around. The car, and the man—even though Truman couldn’t really see him—seemed too old for her. Plus, there was the weird fact that Truman felt a completely illogical stab of jealousy. Of course, he didn’t like Stacy in that way, but he was growing toward thinking of her as a friend. He was on the verge of asking her to come by his house some night after rehearsal, just to hang out.

  But now he felt shaken, inexplicably a little nauseous. It seemed to Truman he’d witnessed someone doing a bad thing, something they didn’t want anyone else to see. Truman appreciated secrets, understood most people’s need to have them, but when he was forced to witness one—as he thought he was tonight—it just felt, well, weird.

  Maybe he didn’t know Stacy as well as he thought.

  Or maybe he did. Truman thought back to once upon a time when he’d carried around his own secret life—there was a boy who used to meet him on the banks of the Ohio, a popular boy with whom Truman thought he was in love. Truman had mistaken being used as a come receptacle as being loved. It had been a very rude awakening. Thankfully, he now had enough distance from that experience to see that it had taught him a life lesson, even though the result of that lesson had been a broken heart. He’d thought it would never mend—but it did.

  Truman wanted to hurry home, be in his little house with Patsy, where he felt safe.