“It’s weird how teachers think they’re going to ‘reach out’ to students by showing them videos of musicals,” I say. “You and I are probably the only ones around here who really like them.”
“You’re right.” Zane does a sweeping arpeggio on the keyboard. Another of his many talents, apparently. “Why is he suddenly singing?” Zane’s imitation of our classmates is spot-on.
“That’s just not realistic,” I counter with my best impression of our whining peers. “Who said entertainment has to be realistic?”
“I know exactly what you mean. It’s better since High School Musical. Everybody saw that when it came out. But getting them to watch a classic musical is still a hard sell.” He noodles some more on the piano. I’m impressed. “Speaking of reality, you watch Curtains Up!?”
“You kidding? My favorite. I love Satine. Hard to believe a girl our age is such a ball of talent!” The fact we both love the show doesn’t surprise me, but we haven’t mentioned it before. It’s just another reason to like Zane.
“And that girl kicks ass. She’s sexy gorgeous to boot,” he says. Zane is full of surprises. Not that he likes Satine as much as I do, but that his description of her is so macho. “What about what she did this week? What’s up with that?”
I hold up my hand. “Don’t tell me. I haven’t watched it yet. Still on my DVR.”
“Well, you’re gonna love it. Best Satine maneuver ever.”
Zane’s delight at Satine makes him look even more like her. I can’t get over those lips he has. I simply gaze at him a moment, thinking of Satine.
“And speaking of,” Zane babbles, “she’s coming, you know.”
“Huh?”
“Satine. The show’s sending Satine’s choir on tour. You think they’ll come anywhere near this podunk town?”
“Well, if they do, you and I will be fifth row center,” I declare.
“Really? You’re not shittin’ me?”
“You’re Mr. Macho today, Z. And no, I’m not messing with you. If Satine comes within 250 miles of here, it’s road trip for the two of us. I know Aunt Jenny will let me take the car. We’ll whisk away to Satine heaven, guy.”
“Wow. I’m gonna hold you to that promise, you know.”
“No prob,” I say.
Zane plays a phrase of “If Ever I Would Leave You,” a flourish at the end, his pretty little curl lifting as he plays the final chord.
“Hey,” I say, my eyes glued to his forehead, “you’re good.” I mentally shake out of it. “Till today, I had no idea you played the piano too.”
“Yeah.” He picks out another tune. “I took lessons, but mostly I just play by ear.”
“Is there no end to your talents?”
Zane smiles. A gracious, humble smile. “Where’s Melissa? Isn’t she going to rehearse with us?”
“She had a Youth for Christ meeting. Besides, she says she’s not going to try out.”
“Oh, well, her loss.” Zane tosses off the words, a casual dismissal. I look at him. There’s that smile again. Do I see just a touch of wickedness?
“So, ‘Lonely Room’ for your audition?” I ask.
“Yeah, it’s Jud’s only solo.”
“And the hardest number in the show.”
“What? You don’t think I can pull it off?” A moment. A slip of his perpetual confidence.
“No, no, no,” I try to rebolster him. Damn. I wish I’d kept my trap shut. I didn’t realize Zane could be deflated so easily. “I think you can do anything you set your mind to.”
Without replying, he begins the plaintive intro to Jud’s song. Zane starts the lyrics softly and intensely, building to a climax of rage.
Oh… my… God… I lose myself in Zane’s performance. Such intensity. Zane knows the lost, loneliness of this character. Zane is Jud Fry.
I am totally speechless for a moment. A rendering this intense can’t be acting. Zane is either a total method actor, or he lives the loneliness Jud feels. I almost want to hug him, tell him it will be all right. But, instead, I regain my senses and realize this is just a rehearsal like any other. “Amazing, Zane.” My words are quiet. Somehow, the moment calls for reverence. Theater is a temple, as the Greeks believed. Zane’s song has been a prayer.
A tear slides down Zane’s cheek. Quietly, almost a whisper: “I’ve been working on it.”
“You’ll get the part. I know you will.” I reach over the piano. Touch his shoulder.
“Thanks, Neil,” Zane says. There’s a long pause. I realize my hand still rests on Zane. Where are the spiders? Have I conquered something? Or is it that I’ve reached out, not the other way around? Still, I feel a turning point in my life.
Finally, Zane asks, “Now, what song are you using for tryouts?”
I take my hand away, but gently, not to spoil the moment. Not for him. Not for me. “I don’t know—I’m caught between ‘Beautiful Mornin’’ and ‘Surrey.’ Which do you think?”
“If it were me, I’d do ‘Surrey.’ It’s got a bounce to it and the range would show off your voice.” He clangs one note, the intro to “Surrey with the Fringe on Top.”
I sing the first phrases of the song.
“Great.” Zane shouts directions. “Now, do you think they’re gonna want gestures, or should you just stand and sing? I’ve worked with some directors who want a full performance at auditions.”
I stop. “I really don’t know. We have a new drama director this year. Ms. Walter will be helping to cast the show too.”
“Lucky for you. It’s obvious she adores you.”
“I-I-I guess so,” I stammer. “I just wish she’d curb her enthusiasm sometimes.”
“Like around the other guys in choir?”
I nod, glad Zane understands me.
“Well, as my dear old grandma used to say, ‘Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.’”
“Zane!”
“Oh, lighten up, girl. You don’t need those candy asses’ approval. You’re Neil Darrien, and you have more than the sum of all their talents.”
Did he just call me girl? I brush that thought into the wind.
“Well, getting back to your original topic, Ms. Walter usually wants a performance of sorts.”
“Fantabulous.” Zane’s word, his gesture, are both super theatrical. “Let me see what you can do.”
And he clangs the note again.
This time I pull out all the stops, performing the song. Curly is convincing Laurey to go with him to the box social. Confessing his love for her in the only way he knows how: the power of humor, of exaggeration. Love cloaked in jokes. I wildly punctuate each idea with my hands, while Zane calls out instructions like “Tone it down some” and “Point here.”
When I finish, Zane critiques. “Looks good, but I think you need a smaller, sweeping gesture at the beginning, like this.” And he shows me what he means.
I imitate the move, thinking I’ve nailed it.
“Not quite so big,” Zane directs.
I try once more. But I see Zane still isn’t satisfied.
“I’ll help you.” He stands and moves around behind me. He takes my wrist and moves it in the gesture he’s looking for, holding his body close to mine.
“Yeah,” I say, caught up in the moment, loving the process. “Feels right. You really know your stuff, Zane.”
Just then, the door to the practice room swings open. Melissa stands there, her mouth open.
I wrench myself from Zane’s grasp and take a step forward. “Th-th-thanks, man.” The stammer is back, but this time it’s not shock—it signals—I don’t know what. “I’ll do it just like…” I quietly add, then my voice trails away. An involuntary thing.
The three of us stand. Motionless statues. Tension hangs on the air. Melissa’s mouth is still open.
What is she thinking? Is she confirming everything bad she ever said about Zane? Did it really look that horrible? We were only rehearsing. It meant nothing to me. Or did it?
After what seems forev
er, Zane has the courage to break the silence. Break the tension. “Neil’s going to be a wonderful Curly, Melissa.”
Melissa doesn’t answer.
“Yeah.” I find my voice. “Zane was just helping me with a gesture.”
More silence.
Eventually, Melissa closes her mouth. But then words spill from it. “Meeting’s over. I just thought I’d check on you guys.” She slows her words, meaning pressed into each one that follows. “But… it… looks… like… you’re… doing… fine… without… me.”
She turns.
Leaves.
Chapter 11
A HUNDRED and fifty voices—this church choir is awesome. I can just get lost in the music. Best time I’ve ever had in my performing career.
Kenny’s leading us in a rendition of “Bringing in the Sheaves,” an old hymn this arrangement has totally transformed. I remember we used to sing it all the time at my old church. In this version, the basses have the melody line for much of the piece. Being part of the chorus of deep, thundering voices is like wrapping yourself in velvet. I’m glad Melissa steered me here to the Church. Singing in this choir makes me feel ten feet tall.
Kenny gives the cut-off and shouts, “Praise the Lord. That was rockin’.”
Rollicking laughter. I feel the joy they feel, plus I suspect they’re laughing at Kenny. I doubt seriously the term “rockin’” tumbles off Kenny’s lips very often.
I glance at Melissa. She looks back at me, suppressing a giggle.
It’s nice to be back on good terms with Melissa.
Good terms? That was putting it mildly after what happened this afternoon. She was really pissed when she stormed out of the practice room.
I ran after her, shouting, “Melissa, wait up. You don’t understand.”
Her words shot at me like an AK-47. “I understand perfectly, Neil. You and your friend are getting to know each other quite well.”
“It’s not what it looked like—he was just showing me some moves for my song.” I don’t know why I was so desperate for her to believe me.
“He has some moves all right.” She turned her back to me.
“Come on, Melissa, don’t be this way.” I took her shoulders and turned her around. “Zane just wanted to help me with my song. That’s all.”
“Face it, Neil; he’s in love with you. And you must like it, because you spend a lot of time with that—that—fruit.”
A knife. I scrunched up my eyes, closing them tightly, shaking my head, willing her words to go away.
She was wrong, wrong, wrong. I couldn’t be gay. Zane was just my friend.
“Please, Melissa, you’re wrong about everything.” I had to make her believe me. “We were just rehearsing. I promise. He was just helping me with my audition song. I kept getting the gesture wrong, so he”—I purposely avoided Zane’s name—“was showing me how to do it right. You know how much it means to me to be absolutely perfect at the tryouts. Please… please… you can understand, right?”
I began to relax as I saw the hardness in her give way. I was actually reaching her. I put a smile on. “Everything okay?”
She sighed. A long, exasperated breath. Like she didn’t want to believe me, but she was going to anyway. “I guess so… but please, watch out for him. He’s not like you and me.”
“Okay, okay.” I leaned in and pecked her lips. An apologetic kiss. I didn’t like her being mad at me. I wanted her to love me.
But that disdain for Zane—still there—bothered the hell out of me. Still, her concern for me was touching. I’d been compartmentalizing all my life, sorting through my feelings and placing them in my little mental boxes. I could have a friendship with Zane while loving Melissa. So my decision was made.
“I’ve been thinking.” I paused. “How ’bout….” I paused again. “You and me….” Another pause. This was harder than I expected. “You know….”
A huge smile lit up Melissa’s face. “Are you asking what I think you’re asking, Neil?”
“Yeah, I guess so.”
“Yes,” Melissa crowed. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes.” She danced around in the hall.
I guess I officially have a someday fiancée. Going steady sounds so high school. At this point, I’m not sure what Melissa is calling our relationship. I do know she is over-the-moon happy.
“Now, group,” Kenny says, shifting me back to the here and now, “look in your folders for a new piece. And I do mean new. It is still in manuscript.”
I rifle through the sheets in the folder and find a photocopy of a handwritten song. The title reads “Suffer the Little Children.” The composer is Miriam Railston. OMG. A new Railston song, and we are performing it.
“This is brand spanking new,” Kenny begins. “I met Miriam Railston when I was in seminary. We haven’t spoken in many years, but thanks to one of our own, our resident music publisher Crown Leto”—everyone looked to this Leto person, who was sitting next to me—“we were chosen as the first to do the piece. Crown Publishing will release the song this spring.”
A burst of applause. A guy behind me slaps Leto on the back and proclaims, “Way to go, Crown.”
“Now, Miriam has placed her trust in us,” Kenny says after the noise has died down. “Let’s do her proud.”
He signals the accompanist. She gives the starting notes for the first chord. After each section has sung their note, Kenny directs a sustain of the chord. Then he cuts us off and motions for the introduction to begin.
The intro is clear and sweet, plaintive. The gorgeous, gentle melody wraps around us. After the first phrase, sung by the entire group, the sopranos take the lead. I listen, entranced. They tell of how precious our children are and how we must protect them. The full group joins in for the refrain, “Suffer the little children, when we turn away, not seeing their pain, not hearing their cries…,” and then the altos sing the bridge of the song. The next refrain is a duet between tenors and basses. As I sing the words, I feel like a wound in my heart has opened. The pain jabs me as the refrain is repeated by the full chorus, with sopranos singing a soaring obligato. The piece winds its way to a quiet—and for me, healing—end, almost a whispered, “Protect them.”
I take the back of my hand and, hoping no one is watching, wipe a tear from my cheek. I dart my head around to make sure no one has seen me. I especially don’t want Melissa to see how the song has affected me.
“Wonderful, wonderful,” Kenny praises the group. “You guys were near perfect. Let’s go over a few problem areas, and then I think we can do this on Sunday morning.”
We spend the next fifteen minutes working out the kinks, and then we perform the song again in its entirety.
Again, I fight back tears. Why is this doing this to me?
“Great.” Kenny has a huge grin on his face. “This is ready. See you Sunday morning.”
As the choir members are gathering their purses, putting on jackets, storing away folders, Melissa grabs my sleeve.
“So, what did you think of the new piece?” she asks, totally oblivious to how it affects me—and I’m glad for that. The last thing I need right now is for her to be all concerned.
“Awesome,” I gush, keeping it upbeat. “Railston has outdone herself. And I can’t believe this group.”
“Yeah,” she says, “I knew you would like working with us.”
“I knew the choir was good when we did ‘How Lovely,’ but tonight proved they are great.” Melissa flashes a self-satisfied smile. I add, “I love singing with this group.”
ON THE drive home, the Railston song won’t leave my head. Nor will what it has done to me. It’s a power I can’t define. How could a song speak to me this way? It reached down deep into my soul and brought up feelings I didn’t know were there. Very strange. Very different from usual. In order to really perform a song, I’ve always had to develop a characterization. Even in choir, by the time we did a piece for an audience, I had a whole scene worked out the song fit into. But the Railston blindsided me. We only
sang it twice, and both times I felt it without even thinking about a character. Why was that?
“That you, Neil?” Aunt Jenny calls as I flip the dead bolt on the front door.
“Yeah, it’s me,” I say, coming from the hall into the living room.
Aunt Jenny is curled up in her favorite easy chair, reading. She looks up at me, then removes her reading glasses. She puts down her book, rubs her eyes, and then smiles at me. I melt. That smile is my blanket, the warmth guiding my life.
“Fun time?”
“Sure was.” I grin. Should I tell her about Melissa and everything? No, it’s too new. I want to keep it just for me for now. “Awesome group. I heard how great they are when we sang with them before, but tonight, singing as a group member, I was totally blown away. We did some powerful music making.”
“You’re going to be quoting the Bible, chapter and verse, at me before you know it.” Aunt Jenny stands. She puts her arm around my shoulder, cradling me. “Come on into the kitchen. We can share some of my famous homemades while you’re still talking to this sinful old gypsy.” She laughs.
We goose step into the kitchen. She fetches the Chips Ahoy from the cupboard while I get out the milk and two glasses.
As we sit at the kitchen table, Aunt Jenny orders, “Okay, buddy boy, tell me all about it.”
“Well, we started with a prayer, evidently the way all their rehearsals begin. I bowed my head, but I didn’t close my eyes. I wanted to get a good look at who was there. A lot of them are old, forties and fifties….”
Adopting a quivering voice, Aunt Jenny almost whispers, “Land’s sake, little boy, they are old, by cracky!” Continuing her “old woman” act, she lifts her milk glass with both hands, a visible shake slopping the milk onto the table.
“Okay, okay, you make your point. But they seem a lot older than your forty-five years. Maybe because I don’t know them like I know you.”
I look at Aunt Jenny. True, she doesn’t seem like she’s been on this planet almost a half century. But she has. And alone. At least as long as I’ve known her. I wonder why she never married. She’s a great catch. Beautiful. Talented. Smart. Caring. Someone should have snapped her up years ago. Has she ever been in love? Or even dated?
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