by Ted Michael
It was then that I realized that Stephanie had been right: I was an amateur. And this camp was meant for stars. Anyone else was relegated to the chorus.
“Chorus!” Brad bellowed, jerking me out of my thoughts. “Places, please, for the opening number.”
I backed up and took my spot in the dusty far corner. Despite every-thing—my homesickness, my hunger—I felt a tingle of anticipation. It was still exciting, that beat before performing. Life onstage, however brief, was magical—the promise of people noticing your talent, applauding your efforts. There were no constraints of homework, school, or parental rules—just the pure opportunity to dazzle.
Both the best and worst thing about being in chorus was that you were onstage constantly. This was especially true in Oliver!, a show with lots of nameless kids—orphans, pickpockets—always singing in a group. But it was grueling work, hovering in the background. You had to be careful not to sing too loud or too low. The word solo had to be banished from your mind as you toiled under the hot stage lights.
Two days ago, I’d gotten carried away during “Be Back Soon,” a number performed by Fagin and the pickpockets. I’d imagined myself in Pinocchio, and had let my voice soar and my arms open in a dramatic V.
Until Brad frowned at me and barked, “Keep your pitches even!” So I’d resolved to button my lip.
Today, though, on National Cheese Day, Brad threw us amateurs a bone.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, pacing back and forth, “about giving a brief speaking role to someone in the chorus.” He peered intently at us.
We all caught our breaths. All except Hayden, the boy who played Oliver. He was only hidden in our midst for this number, and then he could shine all he wanted. For the rest of us, a speaking role meant a shot at glory. It meant that when the production of Oliver! went up on the final weekend of camp, with our parents and a few tantalizing “theater professionals” (as Brad put it) in the audience, we’d be seen.
I didn’t care about some talent scout discovering me (although, if that happened, I wouldn’t protest). I only wanted to experience the warm rush of pride I’d felt back in my Pinocchio days. I wanted confirmation of my specialness. That was all.
“First, though,” Brad said, snapping his fingers and hopping off the stage. “Let me see your ‘Food, Glorious Food.’”
Another audition of sorts, then. I exchanged glances with my chorus mates. A slouching girl named Meredith stood taller, and Andy, who was asthmatic, tried to cover up an anxious wheeze. It could be that this was just Brad’s ploy to get us to up our games, but we weren’t taking any chances.
I cleared my throat, preparing to sing. By now, I knew every song in the show by heart. They were all catchy earworms that stayed with me all day and during restless nights in my bunk. “Where is Love?,” “Consider Yourself,” “I’d Do Anything” . . . Unwittingly, I had made Oliver! the soundtrack to my life here at camp.
But “Food, Glorious Food” was my favorite song, and one I now related to with a kind of fierceness.
I opened my mouth and joined my fellow chorus-orphans. We sang, mostly in unison, about eating the same old awful gruel. I pictured the mac and cheese and the electrocuted cow, and it was easy to call up an expression of true misery.
In lockstep, we shuffle-marched across the stage, holding out invisible bowls. Some of the other camp musicals had already received their props and costumes, but we were still waiting on ours. Not that my costume would be one to write home about: a raggedy brown shirt and brown pants. I wondered if I’d been placed in Oliver! because I already had the waify, pale, big-eyed look down pat. No stage makeup required.
I tried to look as waiflike as possible as we sang about imagining “food, glorious food.” Brad nodded in the first row, his expression unreadable. Pick me pick me! I wanted to shout, but I tried to keep my focus on the choreography. Step, step, turn, turn, pretend to set down invisible bowl.
I could feel dread building in my chest; we were coming up to my most hated part of this number. Of any number in the show. When we sang about peaches and cream being piled six feet high, four of us chorus members were to physically lift the three others onto our shoulders. This little maneuver was Brad’s brainchild, and he couldn’t have been prouder of it. I, of course, a master at shirking my duties, had complained of a shoulder injury the past few rehearsals so I’d get a breather from hoisting Meredith skyward. I’d simply stand there, singing, while three other weaklings struggled to bear the weights.
Today, though, I sensed there could be no shirking. I was going to do this, all the way. I gritted my teeth and let Meredith position her dirty sneaker on my shoulder. She stood, and I held on to her ankle, and my arm trembled like crazy and I remembered the camp director saying, “You’ll need your strength for rehearsals!” over the loudspeaker. And I felt vaguely like this was torture, that if government regulators knew what was happening here, they’d send in cops to raid the place. But I bit my lip until I tasted blood and kept Meredith up until that particular lyric ended. I would never enjoy peaches again.
In the first row, I saw Brad shift in his seat, and make a notation on his copy of the script. Pick me pick me! I was sweating as we formed a line and shuffle-marched backward, singing the triumphant closing notes.
“Foood!”
“Thank you,” Brad said tonelessly, rising from his seat. “Needs some work, but it’ll look better once we get the bowls. My Hamlet didn’t quite work until I got to actually hold Yorick’s skull.” I had no clue what he was talking about.
He got back onstage and walked a circle around us as we waited, tense and coiled. Pick me pick me!
“Okay,” he said at last. “You.”
My heart was racing. I couldn’t look. I looked. Brad was pointing at me.
Me!
“Me?” I whispered.
“Ruth Phillips, right?” Brad said, and I nodded, stunned. “You’ll have a speaking line in the ‘Boy for Sale’ number,” he told me, glancing down at his script. “You will say ‘How much is that boy?’ You can project your voice, obviously.”
Was that a backhanded compliment? Who cared? My face was flushed, and I was grinning. It had all come together—my loudness, my longing for good food, and my determination to lift Meredith. Brad knew who I was. I had a solo!
Sort of. A semi-solo.
My chorus mates were scowling at me in much the same way I had scowled at Josh the Artful Dodger. I relished their scowls. I preened, even as I returned to my dusty corner for the next number. And when “Boy for Sale” rolled around, I strode to the center of the stage, as directed, and practically shouted, “How much is that boy?”
Brad asked me to do it again (“A little quieter this time”), but he didn’t fire me. In fact, he told me more about the “role”—that I was a London housekeeper looking for a servant. I would even be getting a whole other costume for it!
National Cheese Day or no, things were looking up.
3. Where Is Love?
Dance class passed in a happy blur. We had moved on from ballet to jazz, and it turned out I was terrible at shaking my nonexistent hips to old show tunes. But I didn’t mind. My imagination was off and running—I saw myself asking, “How much is that boy?” on opening night, and wowing the audience. I saw Brad handing me a bouquet and saying I should have never been in the chorus. By the time I entered the cafeteria for lunch, I was beaming.
That morning, I’d “eaten” my “breakfast” (a glass of juice) standing up by the drink dispenser. Now, I boldly accepted a half-melted American-cheese sandwich and sat with Tara and Hannah. Quickly, other girls from our hall (including a no-longer-clown-faced-Stephanie) gathered to sit around us; Tara and Hannah, like all the “star” kids at Backstage, were popular.
One of the first lessons of camp was that cliques and hierarchies formed more quickly than they did at school, due to the time crunch. Also, what counted toward popularity back home—athleticism, designer jeans, scoffing at hard work—did n
ot apply here. You could even be unattractive (like Josh, my Artful Dodger nemesis), but as long as you had a big role and a bigger voice, you could be king.
I tended to hover in the background of the social stage. But today I nodded along while the girls nattered on about Capezio tights and Stephen Sondheim. I nibbled around the edges of the soggy Wonder bread, and asked Tara if she had any spare candy bars. She did, so we hightailed it back to Liza Minnelli to nab some Twix from under her bed.
I headed to Stunt Fighting feeling almost hale and hearty. I wouldn’t fake a headache today, I decided. I hadn’t dodged out of lifting Meredith, and I’d been rewarded. I would bring the same can-do enthusiasm to this class.
Stunt Fighting met in the camp gym. I sat things out in the bleachers while our teacher, Kimberly, stood on the mats, schooling my classmates in the finer points of pretend slaps. There were only five other kids in the class—four boys (including cute Theo) who’d actually signed up for it, and another girl who, like me, had been transferred against her will. Her name was Jessica, and she had become my one real friend at Backstage.
Jessica occasionally sat out, but she was a more honest person than me, so she normally participated. “It’s not that bad,” she would tell me afterward in her sweet, earnest way.
Jessica was thirteen; she wasn’t in my dorm, and mixed-age socializing never happened in the cafeteria. She was in the chorus of Pippin, and her other class was Voice. But Stunt Fighting, followed by the free hour before dinner, was our precious hangout time. We’d sprawl out on the patch of grass by Jessica’s dorm, whispering about Theo or comparing our favorite books.
Today, when I entered the gym, I spotted her in the bleachers, reading a paperback. “Ruthie!” she said, jumping up. “I have to lend you this.” She showed me the cover, and her dark eyes sparkled in her heart-shaped face. “You can start it during class if you want.”
Jessica was like me: indoorsy, a big reader, and someone who’d had no clue how intense or “professional” Backstage was going to be before she’d arrived. But unlike me, she bore the whole experience with grace and good humor. She was grateful to be in the chorus, laughing to me about how off-key her singing was. The other class she’d wanted to take was Method Acting, but she was relieved she’d been moved out of it. “There’d probably be too much ‘getting in touch with your emotions,’” she would say. I often wished Jessica’s positive attitude would rub off on me, but it hadn’t quite yet.
“Thanks, Jess,” I said now, glancing out toward where Theo and the other boys were goofing around on the mats. Kimberly hadn’t arrived yet. Theo looked in our direction and my cheeks got warm. “Listen.” I turned back to my friend. “I’ll participate today.”
“What? Why?” Jessica asked, her expression alarmed. She put a hand to my forehead. “Are you okay??”
I laughed. “I’m great.” I hurriedly filled her in on my good Oliver! news.
“Ruthie, that’s amazing!” Jessica said. She gave me a hug. “We have to celebrate.” She dropped her voice, flicking her long, shiny black braid over one shoulder. “Tonight, my friends and I were planning to sneak into the cafeteria after dinner to see if they have ice cream bars in the freezer. Our hall counselor swears they do. You should come!”
My heart soared. I was being invited to hang out with thirteen-year-olds? I’d been okay keeping separate from Jessica and her friends, though certainly envious when Jessica told me about their fun escapades and mature activities like leg-shaving. But now the tide could be turning. And getting ice cream would more than make up for National Cheese Day. My stomach rumbled and I smiled.
Just then, Kimberly entered the gym. Our teacher’s blonde curls and angelic face were misleading; she worked as a stunt double on TV shows and could do roundhouse kicks like nobody’s business. Fortunately, she only demonstrated those on the punching bag that hung from the gym ceiling.
“Ruth Phillips! Jessica Perez!” she called up to the bleachers. “Will either of you ladies be joining us today?”
“Both of us!” I answered, taking Jessica’s arm and pulling her down the steps.
Kimberly looked as startled as Jessica had been. “Okay . . . great,” she said, blinking. “Well, let’s partner up.”
Jessica and I looked at each other and grinned. Maybe this would even be fun.
Kimberly stood before our three groups of two, hands on her hips. On one side of me was Jessica, on the other side, Theo. His white T-shirt set off his tan skin and dark hair. He was chewing cinnamon gum, and it smelled so good. I wanted to tell him that I thought it was awesome that he had the lead in Bye Bye Birdie. And that I now had a speaking part in Oliver!, and maybe he’d come see the show on Performance Weekend.
But before I could work up the courage to whisper something, Kimberly spoke.
“Today, we’re going to act out boxing,” she said. “You’ll often see punches being thrown in movies, on TV, or onstage, right? And they look really real, huh?” We all nodded, though I covered my eyes at any hint of onscreen violence. I knew Jessica did too. “Obviously, those stars aren’t really slamming their fists into each others’ jaws, because that would mess up their pretty mugs. And then they wouldn’t be able to do all those fancy acting things you all spend the rest of your day doing here.”
She smiled grimly and I realized then that teachers, weird as it seemed, could feel left out too. Kimberly must have been reminded constantly that her class was on the sidelines of Backstage. Nobody thought about stunt fighting when they imagined a career in the theater arts. So I’d been sitting on the sidelines of the sidelines.
“Why don’t we face each other?” Kimberly was saying, clapping her hands. “Make a fist, draw your elbow back, and wham—” She mimed hitting the punching bag. “Try not to make direct contact. You can lightly graze your partner’s cheek or jaw. At the same time, stomp your foot loudly to create a noise effect.”
Jessica and I turned to each other and immediately started cracking up. Why hadn’t I been participating in the class all along? This was hilarious. Jessica made a fist but then doubled over laughing before she could swing it in my direction.
“Girls,” Kimberly said threateningly. All around us, the boys were dutifully stomping their feet and stopping short of knocking fists into chins.
“Sorry, Kimberly,” Jessica said, trying to compose herself. “You go first, Ruthie.”
I balled my hand into a fist, still laughing, feeling giddy and, for the first time in two weeks—maybe for the first time in my eleven years—immune to fear and uncertainty. Backstage wasn’t so bad. I had a friend here, a true friend. I’d proven myself at rehearsal. “How much is that boy?” I heard myself saying. I imagined camera flashes from the audience. I’d started the day off miserably, but I was powerful now. I was—
I was letting my fist shoot forward with surprising speed and I wasn’t stopping it and oh my God my fist was hitting something. It was hitting Jessica’s nose. Hard.
I punched my only friend at camp square in the face.
“Owww!” Jessica screamed—a horrible sound. She doubled over, not laughing this time, her hands cupped over her nose.
I was trembling, staring in wonder at my fist. What had gone wrong? I was a weakling who could barely lift my weakling chorus mate. I hadn’t eaten a proper meal in twenty-eight days. I wasn’t capable of doing something like this.
“What happened?” Kimberly demanded, running over to us.
“I just—I think I—” I stammered, still glancing from my fist to Jessica, who was still bent over, wailing.
“She punched me!” Jessica cried, dropping her hands. I saw the blood trickling down to her upper lip and my stomach jolted.
“I thought you were going to move out of the way!” I cried, which I knew wasn’t quite fair. In truth, I’d just been caught up in my own head.
“What? No!” Jessica screamed, wiping the blood with the back of her hand while Kimberly tried to calm her. The boys had gathered around us, buzzing w
ith excitement and curiosity. “You were supposed to not make contact!” Jessica went on. “Didn’t you listen? What’s wrong with you?”
There were tears in her eyes, and I suddenly felt like crying too. Gone was my comforting, good-natured Jessica. An iciness filled my gut: I knew that, somehow, as crazy as this accident was, we wouldn’t giggle about it later. Things wouldn’t be the same between us.
“Jess, I’m so sorry,” I said, meaning it with all my might. But it was too late—Kimberly was leading her away, saying they would get an ice pack from the infirmary.
Jessica threw a glance at me over her shoulder. “I knew I shouldn’t have been friends with an eleven-year-old,” she sputtered.
Kimberly looked back at me, too, as she and Jessica left the gym. “You stay right here and wait for me to get back, Ruthie,” she said brusquely. “You’re not slithering out of this one.”
I groaned and sat down on a bleacher step, burying my face in my hands. If I had a punch like that in me, couldn’t I have saved it for, say, my roommate?
And now I was in trouble too. Kimberly probably thought I was a black belt in karate who’d been hiding my talents all along.
I heard someone approach me, and I looked up. Theo was standing there, a grin stretched across his face.
“Nice going, Phillips!” he said, holding up his hand for a high five. “I have to say, that was pretty awesome.”
I stared at him. Here he was, my sort-of crush, the cutest twelve-year-old at Backstage, talking to me. Acting like I was cool. Interesting. Worthy of his time. My first thought was that I had to tell Jessica, and then the harsh reality hit me.
“That was not awesome,” I snapped, standing up and fighting the urge to bawl. Theo’s mouth opened in shock. “Jessica’s bleeding, in case you didn’t notice. And you’re a jerk if you think that’s funny. Who cares if you have the lead in Bye Bye Birdie? Not me.”
Then I really realized I was going to cry, so I lowered my head and sped past Theo, out the gym doors. I knew Kimberly would be furious that I cut out, but I couldn’t stay there any longer, not after what I’d done to Jessica and what I’d said to Theo. Jessica was right; something was wrong with me.
