Colors

by Russell J. Sanders

  My life came apart. There was the funeral, and Aunt Jenny took me away. Away from Oliver!.

  “No—nothing earlier,” I lie, signaling Aunt Jenny Oliver! is off-limits. Aunt Jenny, in tune with my every emotion, almost imperceptibly nods.

  “Well,” Scott says, “I think there is no doubt you would be an asset to our program. You’ve got it all—a strong voice, great acting skills, and your movement is right on the money. I think I can speak for all of us in saying we want you at Midwest.”

  OMG. Do I look the fool I feel right now? A few minutes ago, my mind was racing about how attractive I was to two of these three, a man and a woman, instead of focusing on the task at hand. Now, like a kid, I want to burst into song, tap dance across the room, and hug all three of them, Tom the piano player too. This is my dream, coming true in a giant way. MTM will set me on my path, my path to Broadway, my path to a theater career. I’ve wanted this my whole life. Now it’s happening.

  I punch the air above me and shout, “Yes!”

  “Well, we can certainly see how you feel, Neil,” Scott says, applauding. His cohorts join him. They even give me a standing ovation. Wow.

  “Now.” Scott turns to Aunt Jenny as everything dies down. “I’m sure Neil has told you all this before, but as a parent myself, I would be remiss if I didn’t go over all of it again just to make sure you understand what and who you’re entrusting your kid to.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Scheer,” Aunt Jenny says.

  “Now, now, now, none of that Mr. stuff. I’m Scott, this is Sam, and this is Mona, Jenny. And you too, Neil. If you’re going to join us, you have to realize we are not some gods out there. We’re just people who want to help you make good theater—to help you learn how to put on a show.”

  I grin. I like Scott. I like him a lot.

  “Now, Jenny, Neil,” Scott continues. “MTM is a full, hands-on musical theater workshop. Our students produce four complete Broadway-style shows a year. We are affiliated with the university. Technically, Sam, Mona, and I are adjunct professors. You attend classes in the Rs—readin’, ’ritin’, and ’rithmetic—in the mornings. The afternoons belong to us. That’s when the torture begins.” Scott switches to a Nazi accent. “Ve vill be your vorst enemies!”

  “Stop it, Scott,” Mona Tulle shouts, reaching across Sam to slap Scott’s shoulder. “You’ll scare the boy.” I like her. And I tell myself I imagined her reaction to my performance. This woman is a professional, not some horny cougar lusting after a teenage boy. Brother Gramm really did a number on you, Neil.

  “Yeah, Scott,” Sam Rollings chimes in. “Don’t believe him, Neil. Our program is hard, and yeah, sometimes it may feel like torture, but we believe it’s good training for a career in musical theater.” Total professional. What a fool you are, Neil.

  Practice, Neil…. Sam. And Mona.

  Scott laughs at his tablemates. “You two spoil my fun.” Then he turns back to me and Aunt Jenny. “Anyway, ours is a complete four-year program. When you finish, you will have completed a Bachelor of Fine Arts degree. And you will have the experience and training you need to wow any theater company I know of—and I know ’em all.”

  Aunt Jenny speaks, hesitating a moment. “Ms. Walter said there could potentially be some scholarship money offered.” She pauses. “Neil has the talent, but we’re a little short on the cash.”

  “No problem, Jenny. We are blessed with a benefactor who, in large part, funds our program. I can offer Neil full tuition for as long as he stays in the program—which will be the whole nine yards, I’m sure. This boy has talent.”

  “Hear, hear,” Rollings—no, Sam—says, raising a can of pop he has in front of him.

  “I second that,” Mona chimes in.

  “So,” Scott says, “are we all agreed? Neil Darrien will be the next rising star of MusicTheatreMidwest?” He raises his eyebrows and grins at me and Aunt Jenny.

  I nod, squashing my urge to scream, jump, whoop.

  “Now, my boy,” Scott says, getting all fatherly on me, “all you have to do is graduate from high school.”

  He puts his hand on my shoulder.

  I flinch and pull away. Why did I do that? Quickly. I can’t offend Scott. Turn on Billy’s charm again, Neil.

  “I’ll try, by God, I’ll try,” I say, flashing Billy’s toothy smile, quoting from Carousel.

  “I like your enthusiasm, Billy.” Scott laughs. “We’ll see you in the fall.”

  Chapter 2

  “POUND OUT that beat, guys,” Ms. Walter shouts above the music. “Ladies, keep the scat crisp.” She points to the altos. “Now, sell it, gals.”

  Looking like a crazed traffic cop or a deaf woman on speed, Ms. Walter’s hands fly through the air, one beating out a rhythm, the other coaxing just the right sound.

  Like two trains in a head-on collision, the pounding rhythm of the boys and the lightning fast doodly-atta, doodly-atta of the girls come together, bringing “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” to a huge finish.

  “Hm… hm, hm, hm.” Ms. Walter shuts her eyes and wails. “Youse are some hepcats,” she says. “You cats was wailin’.”

  We all laugh at her. Three weeks ago, before we began work on “Boogie,” we were clueless what a hepcat was, and we certainly didn’t know that “scat” was the nonsense syllables sung in jazz, not to mention how to “wail.”

  “We’re gonna win that competition, I tell you,” Ms. Walter says. “Give yourselves a round of applause.”

  Congrats are shared, all around.

  “Now,” she says, “I’ve saved the best for last.” She looks at me. “Do you want to tell them, or do I get to?”

  I nod at her, embarrassed to break the news myself but wanting it broken nevertheless. And besides, Ms. Walter had been so excited when I told her, I figured she would want to tell everyone else. Of course there is danger in that, but the Satine in me pushes me on, so I nod to Ms. Walter to announce away.

  “Okay, guys and gals—” She beams. “—Neil auditioned for MusicTheatreMidwest this past weekend. They offered him a full scholarship to the program. Looks like we have a bona fide star among us.”

  My fellow choir members applaud, some shouting “Way to go” and “Wow, man.” But I also hear some whispers: “Big whoop” and “Stuck-up butthole” coming from the guys behind me.

  “What’s that, guys?” Ms. Walter had heard their comments. “Anything you want to say out loud?”

  So what if they don’t like me? I don’t care. It’s not like I didn’t warn myself—letting her tell everyone opened me up to the risk they would act that way. I’ve heard it before; I’ll hear it again, I’m sure. Of course, it would help if Ms. Walter wasn’t always praising me. I’m sure the other guys can’t like that. But, hey, I’ve never had friends. Only Melissa, my girlfriend. Not having friends is just my cross to bear. I don’t care. I’ve got performing, and that’s all that matters to me.

  The chastised offenders mutter sorry just as the bell thankfully sounds to end the period.

  “See you tomorrow,” Ms. Walter shouts over the hubbub, as her choir rushes out of the room. On my way out, I hear her say “It’s really startin’ to percolate.” Most everybody is gone from the choir room, but she refuses to give it up. I love her enthusiasm.

  My mind racing with MusicTheatreMidwest thoughts coupled with the reaction those guys just gave me, I head out of class, oblivious to anything else.

  “Neil. Wait up!” Melissa—that’s Melissa Watt, star soprano, aforementioned girlfriend—cozies up beside me as I pass through the door and out into the hallway. “You trying to avoid me?”

  Melissa is beautiful and willing—to a point—so she makes a good girlfriend in that respect. I have to appease her. When she feels slighted, I have hell to pay. “No, Melissa. I was just distracted. My mind was far away.” I flash a smile, and from the grin she returns, I can tell she forgives my abrupt departure.

  “Your news is fantastic,” she spouts. “I’m so proud of you.” She reaches up—
Melissa is only five feet four to my six feet—and hugs me. I shiver and try to pull away. I hate that I do that, but I guess I’m just royally screwed up.

  “Don’t you try to pull away from me, Neil Darrien. You deserve a hug.”

  No. Don’t touch me. It feels like spiders crawling all over me. Damn you, Brother Gramm.

  “You can’t get away from me so easily, Mr. Broadway Star,” she kids. “So, why didn’t you call me after the audition like I told you to?” She shakes her finger in my face.

  I say Melissa’s my girlfriend, but we’ve never made it official. No I give her my letter jacket (like I have one), no promise ring (is that still a thing?). No, she chases, I keep my distance, although sometimes when I feel a need, I get a little closer. I think about it all the time. Why don’t I just let her catch me? Let the world know we will be forever linked. Like all the other guys. Every other guy, it seems, is hooked up, totally. In the halls, it’s rare to not see people paired off, slobbering all over each other. It makes me shiver. It’s so gross. But still, having a girlfriend is the natural order of things. I know I’m not gay. Despite the fact I sometimes get a little turned on by a really stunning guy, I won’t let it go any further—most definitely. I refuse to be gay; after all the stuff with Brother Gramm, there’s no way I’ll ever be gay. I won’t let what he did to me define me. So why do I shy away from Melissa?

  “It happened so fast; there wasn’t time. I thought about calling you yesterday, but you know you’re busy with church most of the day Sunday. And then last night I got busy working out.”

  “You and your weight lifting.” She frowns.

  I look at her. “You know I have to work out. My body is my instrument. And just like a fine piano, I have to keep it tuned.” Why are people always on my case about my lifting? Aunt Jenny’s always bringing it up, and now Melissa, for God’s sake. Haven’t they seen all the shirtless guys in movies and on TV? I need to look good as well as be healthy.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah, Steinway.” She tosses her words like they mean nothing. “I’ve heard it all before. And don’t think I don’t like to look at your instrument.” She fakes a leer at me. “But, I still think you could have found time to call me.” She pauses, looking annoyed. Then she brightens. “I’ll forgive you. Remember, though, when you’re in your first Broadway show, you’d better send me front row seats for opening night, you hear?” She’s always teasing me about those front row seats.

  “Right,” I say, nodding. I take my pen and scrawl across the palm of my hand, mouthing the words as I write, Two seats, front row center, Melissa and her doctor husband. “Just so I won’t forget,” I say and wink.

  She grabs my hand and reads. “Doctor husband?” she says. “I’m thinking my husband will be right there onstage.” She smiles wickedly, but I’m not sure she’s kidding.

  “You gonna marry a chorus boy?” I say, trying to deflect.

  Melissa laughs and clips me across the chin with her closed fist. I managed to lighten the mood, thank God. Very strange. She’s just hit me, albeit a tiny playful thing, and I feel a little stirring. Melissa is beautiful, and she does turn me on. For a Christian girl, she is a total prick tease sometimes. Then she’ll do something totally off-putting. So confusing.

  We continue down the hall, not talking, just enjoying each other’s company. It feels good for me to let down my guard, loosen up, and just be happy with Melissa for once. Maybe this is why guys have girlfriends.

  Unfortunately, I’m not paying attention to where we’re headed. Suddenly, we’re smack dab in the middle of a part of school I mostly avoid: the grand atrium. And to make matters worse, Melissa abruptly stops.

  If I absolutely have to go through the atrium, I walk through as quickly as possible—that’s if I can’t get where I’m going any other way. I hate the place, and only go there if there’s no other way to class. And then I walk head down, with purpose. Above the entrance to the school is a huge stained glass window—depicting the school mascot, a spread-winged Golden Hawk. Passing through the colors makes me uneasy, but now Melissa has stopped.

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

  The colors speckle the light gray tile floor.

  “There’s something I want to ask you,” Melissa says.

  My palms begin to sweat; my heart beats faster, and I feel little wet beads on my upper lip. Damn! The nine-year-old me used the colors to forget what was happening. Now all they do is make me remember.

  Melissa doesn’t seem to notice my burgeoning panic.

  I feel my knees buckling as she continues babbling.

  “I’ve got a great idea for us,” she says. A frown of concern scrunches her face. “You look kinda pale. Are you okay?”

  Finally. “I don’t know.” I gulp air. “I need to sit down.”

  She helps me to a bench. I take long deep breaths. The colors are all around me. They’re swirling, taunting. I shut my eyes, but I can still see them.

  “I’ve got to get out of here.” I leap up and sprint across the atrium. Shoving the bar of the door, I run into the morning sunlight. Double over. Gasp for air.

  “Neil, what’s wrong?” Melissa shouts from behind me. “Do I need to get the nurse?”

  As quickly as the sick feeling came over me, it subsides. I straighten up. No more colors, no more panic.

  “No—I’m okay,” I tell her, the trembling in my body leaving. “I don’t know what it was.”

  I look at Melissa and smile, acting like nothing happened. Thank God for the acting training. “I guess I just needed some fresh air. Let’s take the sidewalk out here to class. You game?”

  “Sure,” she says, a trace of skepticism in her voice. Her look tells me she wants to know more and doesn’t buy my story about just needing fresh air. I slip on my best Satine attitude, but thankfully she lets it go.

  “Now, what was it you were saying?” I ask.

  “Saying?” Melissa stares at me, looking like she has no idea what I’m asking. Then, I guess, she remembers. Having your boyfriend freak out on you can do that to you.

  “Well,” she says, “I was telling Brother Kenny, the choir director at my church, about our solos in ‘How Lovely Are the Dwellings.’ He knows the piece, says it’s one of his favorites. He wanted to hear a tape of us. Yeah, I know. He’s with it in so many ways, but he still thinks people use tape recorders. Well, anyway, yesterday I took my iPod and played him the MP3. He loved us. He wants us to do it at church next Sunday. He said he’d teach the church choir the choral part. Great, huh?”

  My knees begin to tremble again. Church. Stained glass. Brother Gramm. “I don’t know, Melissa,” I say. “I’m not much of a churchgoer. I haven’t been to church”—I’m about to say, since my folks died, but instead I say—“since I came to live with Aunt Jenny. She’s not very religious. She might not approve of my going to church.”

  “Nonsense, Neil. Your Aunt Jenny never forbids you to do anything. She’s not going to start now, not over going to church, anyway,” she says. “And it’s not like I’m trying to convert you or anything. I just think it would be fun. We both like to perform. Don’t think of it as church. Think of it as Sunday theater.”

  How can I say no without hurting her feelings?

  “Please.” She draws the word out, batting her eyelashes at me. “Please, please, please, please.” She shakes her short strawberry blonde curls as she begs me.

  She grabs my cheeks with both hands. She puts her face right in front of mine, touching her turned-up button nose to mine, and forces me to stare into her rich lavender eyes. She gazes at me with a how can you refuse me? look.

  “Okay—I’ll do it,” I say, forcefully pulling away from her. “But don’t expect me to do any ‘amen’ shouting, you hear?”

  Chapter 3

  TREMBLING OVERTAKES me as the gigantic sign comes into view:

  THE CHURCH of SHELTON ROAD

  I steer the car into the parking lot and park near the huge sign. This will be the first chu
rch I’ve been in since…. No. I will not let those nightmares start. No spiders. Not tonight.

  I shake my head to clear it. A long, cleansing breath of early evening air.

  I can do this. It’s just a building, a performance space.

  The Church of Shelton Road is one of those “mega churches” that are all over TV. You can’t miss them, channel surfing on Sunday morning. Melissa said they have five thousand members. The complex is gigantic, with three enormous buildings set among a forest of oak trees and a parking lot that can hold thousands of cars. Melissa’s directions were clear: go in the door exactly opposite the sign, and that would put me in the choir practice room.

  As I step into the building, Melissa runs up. She must have been lying in wait.

  “I see you found us,” she says, stunning in a red dress that shows off her hair. She’s beaming a huge, sparkling smile. If I weren’t so anxious here and if this weren’t a church, of all places, I could easily grab her and plant a big one on her lips. But as I calm myself and regain proper decorum, the doubts about Melissa return. Is she glad to see me, anxious to show off our talents, or wanting to display her boy-catching prowess? Could be any or all. I hate that she can turn me on and turn me off, all in a thirty-second cycle.

  I cast my eyes at the floor and say, “Yeah.” Why am I here? Church is just not my thing.

  “Come on.” She grabs my hand. Possessive. “I want you to meet Brother Kenny, our Minister of Music.” I remember her husband joke, and pull away from her grasp.

  She looks at me with a whatever look, but my maneuver doesn’t stop her. She latches onto my arm, dragging me across the room to a sandy-haired man.

  He sports a perfectly tailored suit, and his hair is shaped and styled. This guy is raking in the big bucks at this place.

  “Kenny,” Melissa says, “I want you to meet Neil Darrien.”

  The music minister clasps my right hand and shakes it vigorously, holding on for dear life. “Welcome to the Church, Neil.” His smile slashes his face. Friendly. A bit smarmy. “Your tape blew me away. And Melissa’s told me great things about you. We’re glad you have chosen to worship with us.”