by Ted Michael
I can see him, smiling and happily waiting his place in line. Somehow he texts back without even looking at his phone. I don’t think he even takes it out of his pocket.
“What did he say?” Hannah asks, looking over my shoulder.
“He said,” I say with a gulp, “the show must go on.”
The meeting starts with the public comments, but there are a handful of people in front of Alex in line so we have to wait. I crane my neck every five seconds to try to see the parking lot like I’m waiting for the Great Pumpkin to arrive. The Great Pumpkin is never going to arrive!
My phone beeps. It’s our turn to go on. No Javon. What the heck are we going to do? There will be a big awkward instrumental part in the middle that is supposed to have a rap part. The whole thing is going to suck!
Hannah and I walk into the room. She turns on her guitar and lets out a massively loud minor chord. Alex starts to sing. Then my phone beeps again. Another text. This one is Tresta. Break a leg, it says.
I look up. She is in the audience! She must have snuck out! She broke curfew and she snuck out of being grounded! For me! Or did she only come for Javon. . . .
I see a few other kids from theater: Claudia, Tanner, even Ann Nekin. Me and Alex sort of let it slip that something was going down tonight. We couldn’t tell them exactly what because then they’d be jostling for stage time and stepping on our lines. . . .
Hannah smacks me with her guitar. I’m supposed to be following her. The song is starting!
The school board guys just look confused. Hannah is strumming her guitar loudly and Alex is singing his Bob Dylan-ish best, “You say the money’s gone . . .”
I scramble to sing my part. “You say your hands are tied . . .” And then it clicks. The performance instinct kicks in, and I’m lost in the moment. Our harmonies are tight. Our melodies are strong. The crowd isn’t in an uproar. If I had to describe their reaction, I would pretty much say “polite bemusement.” We hit the breakdown. The time for the rap to start. No Javon. But it’s clear. I know what I have to do.
Wax O’Donnell has to freestyle rap.
I take a deep breath and step to the center of the stage. Hannah plays this jerky little rhythm thing she’s been practicing that is perfect for rapping over. Okay. Deep breath, Wax . . .
INT.—SCHOOL BOARD MEETING, 6:30P.M.
Wax struggles to come up with words. He is not a good rapper.
WAX: (haltingly) Aw, yeah, the budget is cut? That . . . judge . . . is a slut.
Okay, not the best first line. What judge? Doesn’t matter. It rhymes with budget. Sort of. What rhymes with slut?
WAX: (cont.) Put a horn in your . . . butt.
What am I saying right now? Time to bring it back to at least something somewhat relevant.
WAX: (cont.) East Atlantic Bank killed theater, and I hate their silly faces!
Hannah stops playing. Mouths drop open. Do I hear crickets? I know I hear laughter. Just a little at first. Then a lot more. Rapping is hard! Shut up!
I run offstage, never to be seen from again.
. . . . .
I run right out of the school board building and head back to my house. It’s a long walk and it takes forever, but I don’t want to face anyone. I can’t stop replaying the scene in my mind. I hate their silly faces? Oh, for all that is holy and just, please just kill me now. I run into the house, slam the door to my room, throw myself on the bed, and decide to hide for a few thousand years.
Not only have I failed to save theater, but I have made an ass out of myself. In front of my friends, in front of Tresta, in front of Walt Peters and a dozen American flags. And—oh no—my heart sinks further if that’s even possible. There is no doubt that someone recorded it. You can’t bust out a hard rock school board guerilla theater anthem and not have someone whip out a cell phone. I try to remember the audience—did I see anyone with a phone? I can picture Walt Peters’s face, which was pretty epic. And Tresta’s, which was . . . not.
Why did I have to try to rap? Why did I try to be Javon Harris? Why did Tresta have to mention Javon’s rapping in the first place? Why didn’t Javon show up? Why couldn’t I be eloquent?
I had my one chance to say what I know to be true. That this theater department means everything to me, to all of us. You can’t put a price on that.
. . . . .
When I wake up the next morning, it’s not to Dad rustling his newspaper. It’s to my phone, going crazy. It’s beeping a million times, like an extended beep solo. I debate throwing it out the window, but I really like this phone.
I look at the screen. It’s worse than I expected: 47 million missed calls and 863 billion text messages. Slight exaggeration. I don’t even want to read any of them. Then the phone rings again. It is Alex.
INT.—WAX’S BEDROOM, WEDNESDAY MORNING.
Wax O’Donnell has bed head but looks adorable.
ME: Hello?
ALEX: Hello? That’s all you got is hello?
ME: Was it as bad as I think it was?
ALEX: How bad do you think it was?
ME: Like the stinkiest stink to ever stink up earth?
ALEX: Worse.
ME: Thanks.
ALEX: But dude, something amazing happened.
ME: Don’t tell me: Someone filmed it. The video exploded. Nine million views overnight.
ALEX: Yup.
ME: You’re joking.
ALEX: Nope.
(Wax contemplates suicide.)
ME: I—I was joking.
ALEX: It gets better.
ME: Could it get worse?
ALEX: It gets much better! I’ve been reading the comments. Most everyone just laughs at you. But one of them is from a bank.
ME: What?
ALEX: Western Hills. I swear it’s legit. They’re a competitor to East Atlantic. They’ve been trying to contact you. They want to use your rap in a commercial. “East Atlantic Bank killed theater, and I hate their silly faces!” is the most famous phrase on the Internet right now. Also they’re going to make a donation to save the theater program! And all of the other arts programs that were going to get cut!
(Wax’s head explodes.)
ALEX (cont.): Dude! We did it! You did it.
ME: Hold on—I have another call. It’s Tresta!
(Wax switches to the other call.)
ME: (cont.) Hello?
TRESTA: Dude, you’re a terrible rapper.
ME: I know.
(There is the longest of pauses.)
TRESTA: But a pretty great guy.
. . . . .
A few short (long) months after the day I saved the arts/became the world’s laughingstock, Tresta and I are again in an idling Subaru at the park. It’s dark and quiet. The dashboard clock blinks 10:45.
“I should go,” she says. “I don’t want to get grounded.”
“Again,” I say.
“Again. I have got to be the only girl who ever got grounded for sneaking out to go to a school board meeting.”
“Was it worth it?” I ask. She kisses me. Again. We have been kissing a lot.
“Maybe.”
There is a brief pause. The crickets sing to us from outside. And this time I break the cardinal rule. I bring up a girl’s ex-boyfriend in a parked car. “Um, so hey—did we ever figure out why Javon didn’t show up at the school board meeting?”
“Yeah,” she mumbles. “I thought I told you.” But the way her voice gets quiet and her eyes stare out the window tells me that she’s lying.
“I’m pretty sure you didn’t,” I say.
“Oh, well, I don’t really know.” She looks down.
“You know, for a great actress, you’re a really bad liar.” The icicles-on-my-skin feeling returns. What is she hiding?
“Shut up.” She punches me. “I really am a great actress. Say that part again and kiss me.”
“You’re trying to change the subject.”
“It’s working,” she says, kissing me again.
“It
really isn’t,” I say.
“Don’t get all weird. Can we just go back to kissing?”
“No. No, we cannot.”
“Ah, you got weird.” She throws up her hands.
“I did not!” I say, though I totally felt myself getting weird.
“Fine. Read for yourself.” She taps her phone a few times and hands it to me. I will paraphrase the texts so as to save your brain melting from grammar sickness.
TRESTA: Dude, what the hell—where were you the other night?
JAVON: Where was I supposed to be, baby?
TRESTA: You don’t remember? You promised to come to the school board meeting and help us save theater.
JAVON: Oh hell, sorry, I forgot. I got invited to a party up in NYC—couldn’t miss it. I’ll make it up to you. You know I still love you, baby.
I feel my ears turning red. “Keep reading,” she says.
TRESTA: The feeling is not mutual.
JAVON: Give me one more chance. ONE MORE CHANCE.
TRESTA: I told you, I fell in love with somebody else.
To this, Javon apparently did not respond.
I stare at the phone, out the window, and finally at Tresta. The girl in my car. The girl who apparently loves me.
“You broke up with him?” I say. “Who did you fall in love with? Do I know the fella?”
She looks at me with those big, beautiful eyes and smiles.
“What can I say?” she says. “You’re a star. And besides, I told you Sondheim makes me hot.” We kiss again. A long, slow, soft, and beautiful kiss. “Just don’t ever rap again.”
ANECDOTE: IAN HARDING
I remember the exact moment I decided acting was my life’s passion. This epiphany, if one could call it such, came out of someone else’s mistake.
I was a senior in high school, and had already auditioned for several colleges and acting conservatories, but I was still a little uncertain. I had been performing throughout high school, loved doing the work, and was reasonably talented, but could I actually do it for the rest of my life? Did I have what it takes?
The show was How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying, and I was cast as Mr. Biggley, a crotchety older man who runs the World Wide Wicket Company. I forget the exact point in the story, but in one performance the actress playing Rosemary, the young love interest, completely missed her entrance, leaving myself and the other actress onstage with nothing to do. In that moment, having never taken an improv class and without even being conscious of my actions, I started making up lines.
Something going wrong in a show is never fun. And trying to cover for someone else’s mistake can be heart-wrenchingly nervous. Would people think I was the one who messed up? Would they be weirded out? Would the director be upset with me? But “the show must go on.” At that moment, keeping the audience entertained was all I could focus on—not whether I was scared or anxious about what might happen next. I remember referencing the other actor onstage. Then, seeing she was terrified and completely lost as to what was going on, I made some crack about her and being deaf for some reason. The audience lost it.
Finally, Rosemary walked out, also completely bewildered as to where I was in the script, and I covered that as well. We broke into song and dance as one is wont to do in a musical, and then Rosemary exited. In doing so, the door she left from came off its hinge, swaying awkwardly, revealing all of the other actors getting ready to come onstage for their entrances.
Again it happened.
I made some comment about budget cuts, told the people standing in view of the audience to get back to work (I was playing their boss after all . . .), and slammed the door into place. The audience laughed and applauded, which startled me since I was used to applause at the fall of the curtain. The scene ended, and I left feeling something I couldn’t articulate. To this day I don’t know what I said, or even if what happened was any good. In that moment though, I got the certainty I needed: I was an actor.
It’s not the applause, the laughter, nor the praise, (in fact, I’ve mostly received the opposite of praise). It was the alive-ness. I know that’s not a word, but that’s what it is. Danger, excitement, connectivity, the moment, and what comes out when those things are combined. Just throwing myself out there. That’s why I do it. It doesn’t matter if I’m brilliant, terrible, ugly, beautiful, happy, or sad. It’s getting out there anyway and knowing it will turn out as it should.
IAN HARDING is an American actor whose work can be seen in several films and television shows, most notably on ABC Family’s Pretty Little Liars as Ezra Fitz. He attended the Carnegie Mellon School of Drama, and would like to thank his friends Ted Malawer and Nic Cory for their totally unfounded faith in his talent. Along with his above anecdote, Ian would like to add that he is still learning the ins and outs of show biz, and would encourage the reader to remain forever a curious student.
TESSITURA
Maryrose Wood
“Sing a little something for us, Fiona. Come on, love, give us a song.”
A table full of bleary eyes and eager smiles swivels my way, like a bank of searchlights converging on an escaped prisoner. I flinch, can’t help it. Then I laugh, to make like it’s all right. They’re Niall’s friends, after all. I have to be nice. I’ll sing whatever they like.
“Sure, Fiona, let’s have a song. Sing ‘Molly Malone.’”
“Sing ‘Johnny, I Hardly Knew Ye.’ Gets me every time.”
“Bit military for a birthday, don’t you think?”
“’Tis, you’re right. Sing ‘Danny Boy’ then.”
“‘Danny Boy,’ that’s it!”
Look, they’re crying already. Just say the words “Danny Boy” to this crowd and their eyes turn to faucets. The Japanese may have invented karaoke, but we Irish have our own version. We call it life. We can’t gather for five minutes without someone calling for a song. At least, that’s the way it goes in Niall’s circle of friends. They’re all creative types to begin with, of course. Fiddlers, drummers, dancers, poets. New arrivals and nostalgic expats, their Irishness seems to double the minute they arrive in Woodlawn. And I don’t mean the cemetery, though that’s here too.
Woodlawn is the Bronx’s own Little Ireland. Take a walk down Katonah Avenue; you’ll see what I mean. You’ll hear it too. The brogues are thicker than the head on a pint of Guinness, and contagious as a yawn. Listen to me, for fek’s sake. I talk like an American at school—I was born here after all, though my parents weren’t—but when I’m around this lot. . . .
“‘Danny Boy’! ‘Danny Boy’!”
Like an under-rehearsed choir of drunken ghouls, they start moaning the tune in four different keys at once. Niall rolls his eyes and checks his iPhone. He’s a busy fellow, even in a pub with friends. Even on his birthday. The Kilcommons Irish Culture Institute never sleeps. Might you be interested in a step-dancing class? How about some Gaelic lessons? Is it your lifelong dream to learn to play the uilleann pipes? If so, Niall’s your man. He’s all incorporated and everything. If I ask him for a few bucks and he won’t give it, here’s his reply: “Sorry, love, but I’m a nonprofit organization.” You can’t imagine how often I’ve heard that one.
The moaning’s over; now they’re all lighting their cigarettes. There’s no smoking allowed in New York City unless you’re hunkered in your own bath with the windows nailed shut, but we’re in the private party room at Kelly Ryan’s pub, and it’s Niall Kilcommons’s birthday, after all. Rules do not apply. Frankly it’s a relief to see people enjoying a smoke for a change, instead of standing huddled on the sidewalks in front of buildings, shoulders hunched in shame, eyes flitting about like murder suspects. I hear you can’t smoke in a pub in Ireland anymore, either. That’s a sure sign of the apocalypse, if ever there was one.
“Somebody get Fiona the microphone, now. Come on, love. Sing a song for your da.”
Yeah, Niall’s my da, but I call him Niall. If I said my da, most people wouldn’t understand who I meant. Fathering is not what
he’s known for. But he is known, make no mistake. He’s famous in certain circles, among the barkeeps and bagpipers, the cops and the Catholic priests. He knows every fire chief in the five boroughs by his middle name. It’s not much of a feat of memory, mind you, as about ninety percent have got Patrick for a middle name. That’s another of Niall’s jokes. Every one a groaner. I only repeat them so you know what I’ve been up against my whole life.
Niall’s vast reputation makes Evelyn and me famous too, on the rare occasions we’re all three together. Niall Kilcommons’s two gifted daughters are we. I’m the teenaged singer, the sassy one with the big chest, and Evelyn’s the dancer and the looker. And a dental hygienist too, but Niall doesn’t mention that part. Twenty-six years of life as Niall’s daughter has blessed Evelyn with a sense of the practical, if only in self-defense. She was a brilliant dancer in her day, though. She used to win all the step-dancing contests, before she traded in her dancing slippers and beautiful costumes for her current wardrobe of powder-blue polyester jackets, boxy and unflattering, even on a tall, slim girl like Evelyn.
If there’d been a third Kilcommons daughter, she’d have played the fiddle no doubt, or maybe the flute, but after I was born, my mum declined to bear any more talent for Niall’s unpaid employ. Instead she took up with a biker fellow with fearsome tattoos wrapped about both arms. His name is George and he’s swarthy. Of Greek extraction, and therefore statuesque (that’s a joke of my own making, but George is certainly well muscled in the classical style, not that I’ve noticed). He works construction and is a quiet type. By quiet I don’t mean shy, or mumbling, or weak. George is anything but weak. But he’s not a talker. He just gets up and does the thing. No preamble. No excuses. Can you imagine? The silence of George must have been a blessed relief for Mum, after all those years of listening to Niall talk about Niall.
