Colors

by Russell J. Sanders

  Readers love

  RUSSELL J. SANDERS

  The Book of Ethan

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  “I really enjoyed the diversity in this book... I will probably be on the lookout for more from this author.”

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  Special Effect

  “Special Effect is a quirky novel: part murder mystery, part coming-of-age tale, and part romance.”

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  By RUSSELL J. SANDERS

  The Book of Ethan

  Colors

  Special Effect

  Published by HARMONY INK PRESS

  http://www.harmonyinkpress.com

  Copyright

  Published by

  HARMONY INK PRESS

  5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886 USA

  publisher@harmonyinkpress.com • www.harmonyinkpress.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Colors

  © 2015 Russell J. Sanders.

  Cover Art

  © 2015 Aaron Anderson.

  aaronbydesign55@gmail.com.

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Harmony Ink Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or publisher@harmonyinkpress.com.

  ISBN: 978-1-63476-541-1

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-63476-543-5

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2015947191

  First Edition January 2016

  Printed in the United States of America

  This paper meets the requirements of

  ANSI/NISO Z39.48-1992 (Permanence of Paper).

  For my amazing husband, a word I never thought I would use, a man I never thought I’d find.

  Acknowledgments

  COLORS HAS been in development for several years. So many people helped me hone the plot, flesh out the characters. I thank them all, especially Varsha Bajaj, Kathy Duval, Linda Jackson, Marty Graham, and Vonna Carter. As budding writers, we struggled together and made the process so much easier. Most of all, I thank my friend and mentor Kelly Bennett. When I first met Kelly, I had a desire to write (nurtured by the supremely wonderful writer, teacher, and mentor Kathi Appelt), and Kelly has stood by me, coaxed me, taught me, critiqued my work, and shown me I do know what I’m doing. Finally, Dreamspinner Press and Harmony Ink must be thanked for giving me a wonderful publishing home. I’m grateful every day for their support and faith in me as a writer.

  Nine years before

  RED. GREEN. Blue. Orange. Yellow. Purple.

  Neil stared at each color the sunbeams made as they came through the stained glass.

  Blue. Orange. Red. Green. Purple. Yellow.

  Dots of color on his bare skin.

  Purple. Red. Yellow. Green. Blue. Orange.

  His white T-shirt looked like a box of crayons.

  Orange. Blue. Red. Purple. Green. Yellow.

  The sunlight pierced the windows and lit up the pulpit with a rainbow.

  Green. Purple. Yellow. Blue. Red. Orange.

  The colors stained the carpet of the altar steps.

  Green. Purple. Orange. Yellow. Red. Blue.

  Looking at the colors had always helped before. Now the colors just reminded Neil of the other times.

  Yellow. Please. Purple. Please. Green. Oh, please. Red….

  When would Brother Gramm finish?

  The pastor’s warm slobber bathed Neil. The man moved his tongue over him. He ran his fingers up and down Neil’s body. The fingertips felt like spiders crawling, creeping.

  Brother Gramm finally gasped and collapsed with a little moan, lying on his back across the altar steps. It was almost like he had died.

  Neil’s first reaction was to run away.

  But the doors to the sanctuary were locked. Brother Gramm had locked them after they came in. Except for services, the doors were always kept locked because other churches in town had been spray-painted.

  All Neil could do was sit there until Brother Gramm was ready to let him out. He stared at the colors, knowing they weren’t helping him anymore.

  Blue. Green. Red….

  “Let’s finish putting out those hymnals, shall we?”

  Brother Gramm’s voice startled Neil. It took him a moment, but he remembered the new hymnals were why the pastor had brought him here in the first place. Brother Gramm was always getting Neil to help him with some chore or another.

  But it always led to “their little secret.”

  That’s what Brother Gramm called it. He would flash his big, toothy smile and say, “Now, Neil, don’t forget. This is our little secret.”

  And who would Neil tell anyway? Who would believe a nine-year-old boy? His mother certainly didn’t when he tried to tell her. His parents thought Brother Gramm Peters was a saint. In fact, the whole congregation felt that way.

  Brother Gramm had always been their preacher. Neil had never known another pastor. The tall, broad-shouldered man was everything to their church. He preached loud, fiery sermons on Sunday, then coached the church league softball team in the afternoons. About twice a week, Neil’s mama had Brother Gramm to dinner. Sometimes it was just Neil, his mom and dad, and the pastor, and sometimes other church members joined them. Mama was a good cook, and no one turned down her invitations. The grown-ups laughed at Brother Gramm’s stories while the kids fought to sit on his knee.

  No one saw through him.

  Only Neil.

  Only Neil knew the truth.

  Only Neil shared Brother Gramm’s “little secret.”

  Only Neil and the colors.

  Red. Green. Blue. Purple. Orange. Yellow.

  Chapter 1

  MORNING SUNLIGHT glints off the wall of mirrors, dappling the room with diamond sparkles. The dance floor is scuffed and worn. Tattered theater posters are taped here and there. A scarred table sits in front of a bank of high windows. Three empty chairs wait silently at the table.

  Aunt Jenny and I sit in folding chairs across the room to the right of the table. I let out a huge, deep breath. Loud. Nervous. WWSD? S is Satine. Gorgeous. I would take her instantly if she offered. Love those lips. She’s my favorite on that reality show Curtain Up! That’s the one that tracks four high school show choirs as they head to competition. Why Satine? Because she’s tough, takes no prisoners. Be like Satine, Neil.

  Aunt Jenny clutches my arm, whispering soothing words. She’s my rock, my comfort. Has been for eight years. But I don’t need comfort right now. No, this moment cries out for passion, for determination, for resolution. Yeah, I’m an actor, all right. Only an actor would think of passion crying out.

  I stare at the sheet music, rolled up in my sweaty hand: the “Soliloquy” from Carousel. If I’m going to get through this, I have to become Bi
lly Bigelow, the character who sings the soliloquy. Billy: manipulator, charmer, sex personified—takes shit from no one but gives a lot of it. I let Billy possess my body, like an alter ego taking over. I sit up straighter, push my shoulders back. Now I am Billy.

  This is it. My one chance. Blow it, and it’s all over. A lifetime of training and wishing circling the drain. But I won’t let that happen. My dream is just one song away—here, at my audition, at MusicTheatreMidwest. Ms. Walter, choir teacher extraordinaire, had arranged it. If—no, when—I win this audition, I’ll be enrolled in the best musical theater training program in the world.

  My leg jiggles—a nervous habit I inherited from my dad. Aunt Jenny puts her hand on my knee, pats me, quelling the tremors, and smiles. Stop it, knee! I can’t let anything get to me. I can’t let my nervousness show. Would Satine? I feel a tickle deep inside. Why this Curtain Up! fixation all of a sudden? Am I a thirteen-year-old girl? I expel an audible titter. Aunt Jenny glances at me, wonder in her eyes. I just smile. Shake my head. I’m not sure she’s even aware I’m obsessed with that show. Sure, she’s seen me watching it, but I doubt she knows every episode is banked on my DVR. I like watching it, plus those guys’ moves are great training videos. And then there’s Satine. My age. My performing obsession. Attitude funny as hell. Easy on the eyes. Sexy as all get-out.

  The door to the rehearsal hall opens. I jerk my head up, startled. My mental vacation to Satine Land distracted me. Eased me. Billy and I are definitely ready to wow these three somber figures now filing in. Following them, a man walks straight to a piano across the room… the silent guy who’s always in S’s choir room. Stop it, Neil. This isn’t reality TV. This is total reality.

  Two of the first three take places at the table. The third heads toward us, his footsteps beating a hollow sound across the dance floor. I recognize him from his pictures. After all, he is famous.

  “Okay, Billy, come on,” I whisper to myself as I stand. And help me, Satine. I can’t help but smile inside.

  “Neil Darrien.” The man holds out his hand for me to shake. “I’m Scott Scheer, director of MTM.”

  I shake his hand firmly and smile.

  “No introduction needed,” I say. Seven time Tony-winning director. Everyone knows who you are. “I’ve been a fan of yours for a long time, Mr. Scheer.”

  I feel a rush, shaking his hand—it’s like I’ve touched greatness. Corny, I know, but I can’t help it. This man is a musical theater god.

  Scheer smiles, the first indication I get the man isn’t all business.

  “Call me Scott. I’ve heard good things about you from Carrie Walter. You know, before her marriage, she did three of my shows. I think Carrie could have been quite a star, but she chose teaching and family. My loss, your gain.”

  “Ms. Walter is the greatest, sir,” I say, and then I remember how Billy and Satine would handle this…. “Scott,” I add, newly manufactured confidence oozing, I hope. I’m hesitant at using this great man’s first name, but my coconspirators aren’t.

  “And who is this lovely lady?” Scheer gestures to Aunt Jenny, who stands beside me.

  “Oh!” I feel heat rise in my face as I redden, embarrassed I hadn’t introduced the most important person in my life. “This is my Aunt Jenny—Jennifer Hall.”

  Get it under control, Neil, Billy warns. I relax; the tension building in my shoulders releases. I even silently giggle down deep, picturing the lovely Satine massaging my shoulders, like a trainer right before their boxer steps into the ring.

  “Good to meet you, Aunt Jenny.” Scheer—no, Scott—takes her hand in his and holds it a moment. I like Scott. And I can see why he’s a successful director. He has a let me guide you, let me protect you thing about him. Instinctively and instantly, I know I would do anything for Scott Scheer. And anybody that nice to Aunt Jenny is a winner in my book, any day.

  Scott points toward the table. “Sam Rollings, our acting instructor, and Mona Tulle, our dancing-slash-movement teacher. They’ll be checking you out today.”

  Shuffling papers, the two half wave at me. Lost in the paperwork, they act as if they have no time for me, no business with me.

  Tough audience? I hope not.

  “Don’t mind them.” Scott winks. “They take their jobs way too seriously. The good news is they know talent when they see it. What did you bring for us today?”

  “Billy Bigelow’s ‘Soliloquy’ from Carousel.”

  Scott raises one eyebrow. “That’s a tall order, but if you think you can pull it off….” His voice trails off as he strides to the table to sit with the other two, the tribunal that is to decide my fate.

  It’s make it or break it time. Give me strength.

  “Give your charts to Tom there, and whenever you’re ready, go ahead.” Scott nods toward the piano, then takes his seat.

  Aunt Jenny squeezes my arm. She leans over, whispers in my ear. “Your parents would be so proud.”

  Would they? But I don’t have time to think about that. I’ve got Billy, Satine, and Aunt Jenny on my side. What more can I ask for? I’m all set to wow.

  Aunt Jenny sits back down. I smile at her for luck. She mouths “Break a leg,” the traditional theater luck wish, and I make my way over to the piano. After conferring with the accompanist, I take my stance in front of the mirrors.

  I morph into character. Okay, I tell myself, Billy has just been told he is going to be a father. At first he is his old self, bursting with sexual confidence, congratulating himself on making a son, but he slowly realizes he could have a daughter. Then he knows nothing will keep him from doing right by her and taking care of her.

  Tall order? We’ll see about that. I feel Billy Bigelow fill me, tug at me. His fire and passion overtake me, and I’m ready.

  I nod to the pianist. At the nod, a tiny moment of doubt. I squash it. Nothing will stand in my way. I’m the greatest star. Oh, great, now I’m channeling Streisand in Funny Girl.

  As I begin, it all floods back, my performance in Carousel last year. Ms. Walter said I was one of the best Billy Bigelows she had ever seen. And right now, I am definitely feeling Billy Bigelow. My body seems to pull itself up, making me taller and more erect, Billy’s bravado, his overwhelming desires filling me, pouring out of my mouth, and erupting into the song.

  As Tom rumbles the bass notes on the piano, I finish the last phrase, swelling with Billy’s triumphant declaration that he will do anything to take care of his little girl—that ominous statement that foreshadows Billy’s fate in the show. I hold the last note, like I’m holding on for dear life, not wanting to finish. I fear their reaction. But at the same time, I know I nailed it. If they don’t take me, it’s going to be their loss.

  Total silence pervades the room. I hear my heartbeat echo in the cavernous rehearsal hall. Nah. That can’t be. But still, my heart’s racing, and it feels like everyone in that space can hear the thump-thump-thump, like a drum. Right now it wouldn’t surprise me if everyone in the room got up and conga-ed around to the beat.

  Stop it, Neil. Just keep it together.

  The three jurors are buried in paperwork, busily scribbling notes.

  I look over at Aunt Jenny. Tears are streaming down her face.

  Well, at least she liked it.

  Finally, Scott looks up, a huge grin on his face.

  “Fine job, Neil, fine job,” he declares. King Arthur has just tapped me on the shoulder with his sword. I am knighted, Sir Neil, a loyal knight of the Round Table.

  “You really captured Bigelow’s character, his heat, his tenderness,” Rollings adds. “I was totally caught up with your Billy.” He adjusts himself in the chair, waves a folder slightly, as if he is trying to cool himself off. Did I just turn this man on with my song?

  “And where did you get that body?” Mona Tulle’s question is a bit wicked. Then, I guess, she remembers her role here, to evaluate my physical ability to portray a character. “Total control.”

  Thank you, Billy. And thank you, Satine. Does m
y face show how happy I am, not only because I wowed these two, but also because I turned them on? You’ve got it, Neil.

  Scott leans in toward his cohorts, and so softly I can’t hear a word, they discuss my performance a bit. When they finish, the three are totally in business mode.

  “Pull up a chair—you too, Jenny—so we can discuss this,” Scott says.

  I drag two chairs over to the table.

  “Okay, kid, tell us what you’ve done. Carrie told me about your school stuff—El Gallo in The Fantasticks, Albert in Bye, Bye, Birdie, and of course, Billy Bigelow, but surely you’ve done more than that. You don’t get as good as you are after only four roles.”

  “At our community theater, I did four supporting roles—Tommy Djilas in Music Man, Cornelius in Hello Dolly!, Rolf in Sound of Music, and Marius in Les Miz. And last summer, I was Troy in our community college high school theater workshop production of High School Musical.”

  “Pretty impressive résumé,” Sam Rollings says, nodding.

  “Thank you, sir,” I say.

  “Anything before those?” Tulle asks. No trace in her voice that she, just a few moments ago, was a bit hot and bothered by me. “You move like you’ve been doing this for years and years.”

  I remember the first role I was cast in…. Oliver, the homeless boy. I rehearsed the role three weeks, three of the happiest weeks of my life. Three wonderful weeks realizing I could jump out of my own skin and into a character’s to escape.

  But that awful moment came… my parents were killed by the carjacker. If Dad hadn’t fought back… if Mom had just stayed put.

  Don’t do it, Neil. Don’t cry. Not here. Not now. Do not come unglued. Professionalism. Hold yourself together. That will impress them.

  And what made it worse was Brother Gramm was the one who broke the news to me… and comforted me.

  Good. Hate the memory; love the way it keeps you from crying. Anger can do wondrous things.