The car moves to the side of the road. Aunt Jenny cuts the engine.
She pounds on my back. “Whoa!” she yelps. “I didn’t mean to cause a conniption.”
The coughing halts. I clear my throat. “Talk about subtlety.” First Melissa, now Aunt Jenny. What is this? Are they seeing something I’m not? I look out the car window. No, they are both wrong, wrong, wrong. I am not gay! I had enough of that stuff with Brother Gramm.
There is a long pause, and then I decide to tell Aunt Jenny.
But before I can speak, she says, “Did I hit a nerve here?” She waits. I’m still formulating words. “Well, are you?” she asks again.
I can’t believe her. Did she wake up this morning thinking, “Well, I guess it’s time for the gay talk. After all, the boy’s not gettin’ any younger. He’s bound to be at the age where he’s thinkin’ about men’s genitals.”
I turn. Look her in the eye. My acting training tells me I can make my point if I am straightforward, pull no punches. “No—I’m not gay. As a matter of fact, Melissa and I are officially a couple now.”
It’s Aunt Jenny’s turn to cough. “Whe-whe-when…,” she sputters.
“Why are you so surprised?” Still looking her in the eye. “You’d rather I’d be gay than have a girlfriend?”
“No, no, no… it’s not that. It’s just you talk an awful lot about Zane. I never thought you and Melissa were headed in that direction. So I guess I got my wires crossed. When did you decide all this?”
“The other day. We’ve been hanging around each other for a long time now, and it just seemed right.”
“You don’t sound very enthusiastic about it. Are you sure you made the right decision here?”
She’s starting to piss me off. “Yeah, I’m sure.” I emphasize sure. But am I pissed at her or myself? She has a point. This thing with Melissa is kinda sudden. But I deserve a girlfriend. “I like, no love, her… I love her a lot. I love singing in the church choir with her. I’m glad she steered me there. The music is awesome. It seems right we should be committed.”
“Okay, if you say so, sonny. But don’t tell me wedding bells are in your future any time soon. Not that I don’t want you to get married—someday. But you’re much too young for it now. I’m just saying….” Her voice trails off.
“Look, let me just have this for now. I like having Melissa. This love thing. It’s something new, something I’ve never felt before. We’ll see where it takes me.”
I know the woman. I know that look. She’s not buying it.
“I’m hearing some reservations, though.” She won’t let up. But how can I be mad at her when she’s voicing my own, deep down thoughts?
“Okay—you’ve always seen right through me.” I take a breath. “I’m finally enjoying going to church again, but I don’t know. I may find out Melissa is just a little too intense for me.” Why is it Aunt Jenny can pull things from me I didn’t even know I was thinking?
She starts the car again and pulls onto the highway. I know she’s stalling. It’s her way… distract herself with something mundane while she plots her next move. Again, part of her calculated moves, she stares straight ahead at the road. Then she speaks.
“In what way?”
“Like maybe she’s a little too Bible-thumping for me.” So much for “teaching the kids about the church.”
“Praise the Mother.” Aunt Jenny throws her hands to the heavens. “My boy takes after me after all.”
I grab the wheel of the car.
“Would you stop it? I don’t want to be your dead boy here.”
And that breaks the tension. It’s just another beautiful morning. Two people who love each other, out driving.
We laugh as she takes the wheel again.
“You know, there’s nothing wrong with your getting involved with the church.” Her tone is conversational, sharing, nurturing. “Just because I’m not a Bible-thumper, as you call it, doesn’t mean you can’t be one. No one ever was harmed by exploration.”
“I know,” I say. “You’ve told me a million times….”
“Knowledge is power,” we recite in unison.
“And if that’s part of a deeper relationship with Melissa, I’m fine with it. If, however, you find Melissa is not the one, then I’ll have your back, ya know, homey?”
“Gangsta don’t suit ya, know whut I mean, sista?” Again we laugh. It’s fun being out here with Aunt Jenny. Alone time. With my rehearsing, the church, Zane, Melissa, my workouts… I’ve kinda neglected Aunt Jenny the last few weeks. I smile.
But then it floats back into my consciousness.
“Why would you ask me that?”
“Ask you what? About Melissa? I care about you. I want you to be happy.”
“No… earlier. About the gay thing. You know me.”
“You’re right. I guess it’s just the maternal in me leaking out. You and Zane have become pretty tight since he moved here. I guess I just needed reassurance.” Reassurance? What does that mean?
A pause. “And, by the way, if you’d told me you were a flaming queen and had sixteen boyfriends, it wouldn’t matter a hill of beans to me.”
I wonder.
“It’s just it is a hard life.” There is something in her voice. A sadness. A regret. Why?
No, maybe it’s just her reservations coming out.
“Well, you don’t have to worry about me, and you don’t have to worry about Zane. He’s not gay, either.”
“Are you sure? And, again, it doesn’t matter to me, but from what you’ve told me, he sounds a little too flamboyant to me.”
“That’s just the theater in him.” I defend Zane once again—like he needs defending—but this time when I say it, I’m not really trying to convince Aunt Jenny. As she said, she couldn’t care less. No, I’m trying to convince myself. Are Aunt Jenny and Melissa onto something about Zane I am just refusing to see? And why am I refusing to see it? If, that is, it is really there? Am I a raging homophobe? Not a chance. It’s something else. Something I need to work on. Satine would not put up with this. She’d make me dig until I had an answer. That episode where she confronted the choir’s queer-baiting asshole was the best ever. I almost wish she were here, prodding me to figure this out, right here, right now. But tomorrow’s another day. I just know if Zane is gay, I shouldn’t care. No. I don’t care. Zane is my friend. He can be anything he wants to be. Gay, straight, bisexual….
“If you say so. That’s for Zane’s parents to worry about. I’ve got enough to ponder with you and your newfound love.” Aunt Jenny takes her eyes off the road a millisecond, long enough to smile at me.
And as the sexy voice on the GPS says, “You have arrived at your destination,” she pulls into a parking spot, then shuts off the engine.
“What say we survey our spot before we move all this stuff?” she says, opening her car door. She’s all business again.
I swing open my door and almost hit a tall, gorgeous redhead. I hadn’t seen her approach, but I guess she’d been looking for us. Must be one of the organizers. She’s Aunt Jenny’s age, so I’m not getting horny for her or anything, but she is a looker. Piercing violet eyes, flawless pale skin. Head to toe designer duds.
“Jen,” she calls across the car. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
I look across at Aunt Jenny. I’m puzzled. She looks drained, pissed.
“Kris, what are you doing here?”
She knows this woman. Calls her by name. Tone in her voice is not happy.
“I just want to hang out with you. Promise. Nothing heavier.”
Now that is some weird talking. Who is this woman? And why is Aunt Jenny tripping? And who calls my aunt Jen?
“No, Kris,” Aunt Jenny says, quietly. Almost hesitantly.
“Jen, it’s been years. Let’s just catch up. No pressure. Promise.”
There’s that word again. Why does she keep saying it? And what is she promising?
“I’ll help set up. We can visit. Then I’ll l
eave, if you want. Come on, Jen. You owe me that much, don’t you think?”
I look at Aunt Jenny. She does seem to be melting.
“Okay,” she says. “But no expectations. Clear?”
“Clear.”
This Kris person holds out her arms. Aunt Jenny slowly approaches her. I can see her body tense as she lets Kris embrace her.
“How did you find me?” Aunt Jenny asks.
The woman looks at the ground, obviously weighing her words. “Private eye.” Then she quickly adds, “But only because you cut me off totally.”
I have never, ever heard my aunt mention this woman. And now I hear she “cut her off”? What is she saying?
“But,” Kris says, “enough about the past. I just want to talk about now. How have you been?” There is a warming sparkle in the woman’s eye.
“Good.” It’s not like Aunt Jenny to give one-word answers. She’s from the South. They don’t know how to give one-word answers.
“And just who is this handsome guy? This can’t be Neil.”
Obviously, she’s known Aunt Jenny for a while. All the more reason why I want to know everything.
Flustered, Aunt Jenny spins around. “Neil, this is one of my dearest friends. Kristina, this is my son, Neil.”
Dearest friends? Is this true, or is she just covering her lack of manners earlier?
I offer my hand to this Kristina. She grabs it and pulls me into an enveloping hug. “None of this handshaking, Neil. We’re going to be good friends.”
I like her.
“Now,” she says, “give me a box of stuff, and I’ll tote it on up while you and Neil unload the rest. Better yet, give me a folding table. No, two. I’ll get ’em set up.”
Aunt Jenny loads Kristina up, and despite her perfect beauty, she’s strong as an ox. And has the energy of two oxen. She rushes away with the tables.
Aunt Jenny starts to pull the boxes of jewelry from the hatchback. “I bet you’re wondering who she is,” she says quietly, almost meekly.
I definitely want to know everything about Kristina, but right now, something else in on my mind.
“You introduced me as your son,” I say. No emotion. No question. No nothing. I just want a reaction.
Aunt Jenny first looks at me like she doesn’t know what I’m talking about. Then she says, “That’s what you are to me. So it’s about time I used the word. I never want to replace your parents. I loved my sister, and you are her flesh and blood. But I think by now I’m entitled to claim you as my own.”
She wipes a tear off her cheek. “Look here,” she scoffs. “This old crankcase is leaking.”
I laugh. “You certainly know how to defuse a sentimental moment.” I kiss her on the cheek. “Mom.”
I’ve never seen a more enormous grin in my life.
“Now, son”—she emphasizes the word—“take these boxes up.” She piles three in my arms. “Just look for Kristina. She’s tall as the Eiffel Tower. You can’t miss her, towering above the crowd.”
“One thing before I go: just who is this Auntie Kristina, Mommy?” I use my best toddler impression.
“An old, old friend. That’s enough for now. We gotta sell some jewelry. Now, skedaddle.”
Chapter 14
THE DRAMA room is all set up for the auditions. A double classroom, there are about twenty student desks pushed together, piled to the right side of the room. On the left is a battered studio piano at which sits the choir accompanist. Rows of chairs for the auditioners flank the windows. Across from them is a table with two chairs. A tall man with glasses and a mustache sits at one of them.
This is the drama teacher. I’ve never met him, but I’ve tried to do my research. I’ve talked to every kid in drama I could find. And I’ve found out very little. He’s new, a first-year teacher, and apparently, his students are just getting to know him. They say he’s fair, but with every kid I talked to, I got a different impression of what he likes. I just hope Zane didn’t steer me wrong when he told me to use gestures. I don’t want to look like I’m overstepping here.
It’s very frustrating, not knowing anything. Never go into an audition blind if you can help it.
I survey the room, then sit in the back row. As the chairs fill, still no Zane. He’d promised to get here as soon as the final bell rang.
Ms. Walter breezes through the door. She examines the gathering group and smiles at me. I smile back. I wish the decision rested with her and her alone. If that were the case, I would definitely leave the auditions as Curly. And then it dawns on me what a hypocrite I am. I want her special attention in here, but in choir, I want her to lay off.
Ms. Walter walks to the table, where the drama teacher pulls out her chair and motions for her to sit. At least he’s a gentleman. That’s something.
He begins immediately to confer with her, shuffling what looks to me like the audition forms we were required to submit… deadline yesterday.
After several minutes, Ms. Walter’s partner looks at his watch, stands, goes to the door, closes it, then returns to the table.
A grumbling in my stomach, that queasy feeling I always get before an audition. Funny, performing doesn’t give me butterflies at all, but having to prove myself makes me jumpy as thunder. Where is Zane?
With that thought no sooner complete, he comes bounding through the doorway, the door slamming behind him, propelling him into the room. The auditioners laugh, but the drama teacher is not amused. Ms. Walter leans in, whispering something to him.
“Mr. Jeffrey?” the man says.
Zane’s eyes widen, a deer in the headlights look. He gulps. I can’t tell if he is really alarmed or if this is a Zane move to get noticed. Which, of course, he has. Gotten noticed. The guy even knows Zane’s name, thanks to Ms. Walter. Score one for Zane.
“Yes, sir,” he mutters.
“I trust you are not always late. That simply won’t do at my rehearsals.”
“Yes, sir. It won’t happen again, sir.” Zane starts toward me and the seat I’ve saved. “That is, sir, if you cast me, sir.” He sits down. “And I certainly want to be cast, sir.” Zane looks at me, shooting me a sly wink. I don’t know how anyone could turn this to his advantage, but if anyone can, it’s Zane. “I was detained, sir, by unforeseen circumstances, sir, but I shall never let it happen again, sir.”
The group laughs at Zane again as the drama teacher just rolls his eyes, then smiles. And Zane, once again, has been noticed, remembered, and marked himself indelibly in the guy’s mind.
The duped personage stands.
“Well, now Mr. Jeffrey has pledged his undying devotion to our little project here, let me welcome you to tryouts for the Cawton County High School Thespians’s, in association with the Cawton County High School Show Choir and Orchestra, production of Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma!. It’s a mouthful, but I think we have to give credit where credit is due. I’m the director of this shindig, Mr. Novak. Assisting me is our musical director, Ms. Walter. For those of you here today who are drama-only folks, Ms. Walter is our choir director at Cawton County. And for the choir members in attendance, I’m the drama teacher. There’s one more member of our production team, our drill team instructor, Ms. Moonie, who will choreograph the show, but she won’t join us until the third day of auditions, where she will test your movement skills. She has graciously allowed Ms. Walter and me to whittle down the list to callbacks until she decides whether you can do a two-step without falling all over your two left feet.”
Great. There will just be a few of us at dance auditions. I know I can ace those. And it will be much easier to impress if I don’t have to trip over a bunch of clumsy-ass dancer-posers.
“And have no fear, Ms. Moonie’s bringing along some of her dancers for the dream ballet. She promises the principal actors can fake the moves she’s designed—provided they can put one foot in front of the other without tripping. Hence the third day auditions.”
Everyone laughs at him.
I like this guy. G
reat sense of humor. That’s important in the theater.
“Now, give Ms. Walter and me a moment to collect our thoughts, and we will begin the talent portion of our pageant.”
The butterflies flutter. Zane leans in and whispers, “It’s showtime!”
Mr. Novak, who had sat back down next to Ms. Walter, looks up from his notes. “Shall we start with our Laureys? And ladies, if you recall, you have to sing for Laurey even if you only want to be considered for Aunt Eller. It speeds the process a bit.” He looks at the paper in front of him. “Missy? Will you be our first lamb to slaughter?” There’s that sense of humor again. He points to a spot near the piano for her to stand.
A beautiful redhead stands and walks—almost waltzes—to the designated spot. This girl knows her stuff. She must be drama. She’s certainly not choir, I know.
Missy nods to the accompanist, who begins the bouncy intro to “Many a New Day.” The girl sings the song with a lot of flare, although her top notes are a little flat. A pity.
She finishes, Mr. Novak thanks her, and she returns to her seat.
“Not bad, but I hope there are better choices,” Zane whispers. Almost a stage whisper. I look to see if anyone has heard him. “Where’s Melissa?” he continues.
“Sh-sh-sh.” I shut down Zane fast. I certainly don’t need Novak to come down on me, and Zane, with his spectacular entrance, doesn’t need any more attention either. Especially negative attention.
Another name is called, another girl sings, until all the Laureys have finished. There are six in all, but only one stands above the rest. She is a plain brunette with creamy skin and a lovely, ringing soprano. She joined choir this year as a sophomore, but I never knew she had such a beautiful voice.
As she finishes her tryout number, Zane says, this time his voice more under control, “With a little makeup, she’d be really pretty with her glowing skin. I think we have our Laurey here.” Ms. Walter looks up at him, frowning. He mouths sorry at her. She nods and smiles. All is forgiven. Zane has that way about him.
Two more sing after the brown-haired girl, but they are definitely not contenders. One is plain as day—Laurey needs to be beautiful; maybe this girl could be Aunt Eller—and the other can’t carry a tune in a bucket. There is even a titter from a guy down the row from me as she sings, but I stare him down quickly. No one deserves to be laughed at when they try out.
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