Colors

by Russell J. Sanders

  “Wonderful, ladies,” Mr. Novak exclaims. “Now, shall we have us some Curlys?”

  A gurgle in my gut, then the acid starts to rise. I hate auditions. I hate having to prove myself. I hate having to face the possibility that maybe I’m not the best for a role. But it is so seldom—try never—that someone knocks on your door at home and says, “Hey, you want to star in my show?” So I have to steel myself.

  “We only have three of you guys. Who wants to go first?”

  “Only three?” Zane mutters. “It’s in the bag, Neil.”

  My eyes follow a tall, wheat-haired guy as he strides to the piano.

  “Looks like we have our volunteer,” Mr. Novak says. “Name?”

  “Sonny Broadnus, sir.”

  “Well, Sonny, take it away.”

  Not choir, not drama. An unknown. Oh, please, please, please, don’t let him be good.

  The pianist hits the single note that begins “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.”

  A glorious baritone fills the room. Acid streams into my stomach and burns my esophagus. Who is this guy? I’ve never seen him before. He needs to be in choir. But not here, not now. Hot bile floods the back of my throat. The good thing is Novak didn’t know him. That plays in my favor. Equal chance, with Ms. Walter weighing heavily on me, I hope. I fight the indigestion plaguing me. Auditions are open to the entire student body. Surely this guy didn’t just walk in out of nowhere. Breathe, Neil, breathe. Cool, fresh air. That’s my only defense now against the stage fright. I’m doomed. This guy is perfect for the role. He’s everything any director could want for Curly. Breathe, Neil, breathe.

  When Sonny finishes, Mr. Novak thanks him and sings out, “Next.” Does his voice have a lilt in it that wasn’t there before this Sonny guy?

  Another guy walks to the piano and I’m grateful. I need to get my shit together before I sing.

  As the guy belts out still another version of “Beautiful Morning,” I close my eyes. Take myself out of the room mentally. A voice. Satine’s voice. Grow a pair, Neil. Nobody here is half as good as you. Not a quarter as good. Kick ass, Neil. Thanks, Satine. I needed that.

  Luckily, the poor guy now giving it his all is completely wrong for the part, has only a serviceable singing voice, and has screwed up the words to the song, to boot.

  “Thank you, Mark,” Ms. Walter says. “That was very nice.” She looks at me. “Neil, are you ready?”

  I take the lifeline she’s throwing out with her eyes and stand. I can always count on her to champion me. And thank God we have a special language between us. No one else in the room sees the support in her eyes. It’s our special connection. Right now, I wish I hadn’t had all those bad thoughts about her when she favored me in choir. It feels great to see her confidence in me.

  Zane grabs my hand and squeezes it. And that simple squeeze also bolsters my confidence. Amazing. I’m really feeling comfortable around Zane now.

  I slowly and deliberately saunter to the piano, cowboy Curly filling me, his character strengthening me along the way.

  “I guess you must be Neil Darrien?” Mr. Novak asks.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And what will you sing for us, Neil Darrien?” Why did he repeat my full name? Is he prejudiced against me by something Ms. Walter has said? Was she too supportive? Stop it, Neil.

  “‘Surrey with the Fringe on Top,’ sir.”

  “Well, take us for a ride, guy.”

  I put everything I have into the song. The room seems to be humming with the electricity I pour into the song. I’m high when I finish, but I don’t have a clue if I’ve outsung Sonny Broadnus.

  “Wonderful, guys—we’ve got three great choices for Curly, here. And remember, one of you may be cast as Carnes.”

  Oh great. I come in for Curly and leave as Carnes. Oh, well, “The Farmer and the Cowman” is a great song.

  After five Ado Annies, Mr. Novak says, “Let’s take five, shall we?” He pauses. “And I do mean five. We’ve still got to hear our Will Parkers, our peddlers, and our Juds.”

  “WELL, I’M screwed.” I’m out in the hallway with Zane.

  “You’re not screwed,” Zane insists. “So what if that guy Sonny sang well. Singing’s not the whole audition. We’ve still got to read and dance. There is no guarantee he can act, and he could have two left feet.”

  “Yeah, well, I still say I’m screwed.” But I like the way Zane is trying to bolster my ego.

  Just then, Sonny Broadnus strolls up to us. Is that the walk of confidence—my walk of shame?

  “Great song,” he says to me. “You really nailed it, man.”

  “Thanks, guy,” I answer. “You were great too.” I’m trying my best to be nice. Aunt Jenny would demand it.

  “You think?” Sonny smiles. A genuine smile. “I couldn’t tell. I’ve never done anything like this before. I learned the song by listening to the CD. My mom wanted me to try out, but I don’t expect anything to come from it.”

  “Wow. You’ve never done any theater before?” Zane asks.

  “Never,” Sonny says, blushing. “Unless you count The Happy Farmer in third grade. I was the fourth scarecrow on the left.” He laughs.

  A likeable guy. That will make it easier to lose the part to him. Then it hits me—what he is doing. Kissing up, trying to knock me off my guard. Don’t think like that, Neil. You’re going to get this part. If the only experience this Broadnus has is a third-grade play, you’ve got him beat hands down.

  “Well, I’m heading back in. Good lu—no, it’s break a leg, isn’t it?” Sonny Broadnus flashes a self-satisfied smile as he leaves.

  “Oh, Satine, Satine, watch over us and pile your theatrical blessing upon us. Amen.” Zane crosses himself, then cocks his head at me in a whatever motion.

  I shake my head, but I, too, hope Satine fills us both with her powers. “Can’t hurt,” I say.

  “Yeah, Satine will see us through.” Zane nods. But there is a sudden sad look clouding his face, and I know he has remembered the concert.

  “Look, Zane. You never know what will happen. Maybe they’ll add more dates, and we can catch a concert somewhere else. I’ll even expand our radius to 400 miles, okay?”

  Zane is once again happy.

  “Okay, okay—get back in here!”

  Novak is bellowing from the doorway. Auditioners file back into the room.

  I SIT, totally hypnotized. It’s powerful. The isolation, the loneliness, the longing envelops me. The accompanist lays down the final notes. I immediately begin to applaud, stop myself, realizing clapping is not done.

  Instead, I stand and smile at Zane. I survey the others. They seem just as impressed with Zane as I am. Zane was Jud Fry. And anyone at this audition who doesn’t believe that simply doesn’t know theater.

  “Thank you, Zane.” There is a prayerful note in Mr. Novak’s voice, like he doesn’t want to break the stillness. Finally, Novak turns to us all. “And thank you. Thank you all. Ms. Walter and I are very impressed. Tomorrow we’ll read from the script… see how your acting chops are.”

  As the auditioners file from the room, Zane says to me, “We did it.”

  “You mean, you did it.” I pick my backpack up from the floor and sling it over one shoulder. “You made me look like ‘Neil tries out for the talent show.’ You were awesome, man.”

  Zane slips on his jacket. “Mucho thankso. But you were the best thing out here today.” Zane is doing his best to be humble and supportive, but I can tell he knows no one else topped him today. That, maybe, no one else will ever top him.

  “Don’t bullshit me, Zane. You know how good Sonny was. He’s Curly, I tell you. But I still know you’re going to get Jud.”

  “And I’m equally convinced you’ll be Curly. That Sonny guy won’t outact you, and I personally don’t think he outsang you.”

  “Well,” I sigh. “Now, we wait.”

  “The hardest part,” Zane agrees. “Hey, Neil, my parents are out this evening. You want to grab a burger?�
��

  “Sure. Let me just call Aunt Jenny and let her know.”

  Chapter 15

  WE SETTLE into a booth with our #5 specials: bacon cheeseburger, jumbo fries, and jumbo drink. I have my Diet Coke, Zane, a root beer. If Aunt Jenny were here, she’d be lecturing me at the top of her lungs. Fries, bacon, cheese—all on her unapproved list. And of course, “diet” anything sends her reeling. I smirk at the image I’m conjuring. Aunt Jenny never, ever lectures and certainly not at the top of her lungs. No, she would be giving me one of her gentle nudges in the “right” direction. Gotta love her.

  But I’ve just been through a tough situation. A guy can break training once in a while and feed his ego a bit of carbs and fat… and the ever-lurking menace of aspartame. Call me crazy, but all that Diet Coke has made me like it better than the sugary version. So—I guess I can watch my weight and just push the threat of aspartame-induced cancer into the back of my mind.

  As I rip the paper from the burger, Zane says, “So, where was Melissa?”

  “I told you she wasn’t trying out.” I swig my Coke, enjoying the hit of the carbonation, the flatness of the artificial sweetness.

  “Yeah, I know. But I figured she’d be there to keep an eye on you. After all, you’re her ‘Hunka-hunka-burnin’ love.’” Zane sings the last, in his best Elvis voice, upper lip curled up on one side.

  “Stop it.” I laugh at him, shaking my head, as he slathers a french fry with ketchup and slips it into his mouth, his curl bobbing up and down as he chews.

  “Aw, come on, now….” Zane pauses. “You’re hot for her too, aren’t you?”

  “Well….”

  Zane stares at me, as if he is hanging on, waiting for me to continue. Or is it a stopped in his tracks look?

  “Melissa and I are getting closer….” That’s a deliberate understatement. I feel uncomfortable talking about her now, with Zane.

  I no sooner get the words out than I see Zane’s face darken. What’s that about? Does he really dislike Melissa so much he doesn’t want me dating her?

  I quickly pick up my drink. To lighten things up, to shift the tone here, to distract him, to distract me, I lift my cup in the air and intone, “A toast: To the two new stars of Oklahoma!—Zane Jeffrey and—” I pause, twisting a wicked smile. “—Sonny Broadnus.”

  “Cut that out,” Zane barks.

  “I’m kidding. I’m kidding.” Then I pause. “At least I hope I’m kidding.”

  “Give it up, Neil Darrien,” Zane scolds me. “You’re gonna get the part. Now cease the negativity.”

  “Okay, okay… I just hope you’re proven right. I’d hate to have to tell Scott Scheer I couldn’t cut it for this year’s musical.”

  That switches Zane’s attention.

  “Have you heard anything from Scott lately? The drug thing must be a real hassle for him.”

  “Aunt Jenny got a call from him. He wanted to reassure her there was no rampant drug problem at MTM.”

  And once again, Zane’s limited attention span goes to another topic. When he shifts, it shows in his whole body. I don’t know how someone who has such total concentration when performing can be so flighty when he’s being himself.

  “How long have you lived with her?” Zane asks, stuffing the last bite of his burger into his mouth. “From what you’ve said, she seems like a nice lady.”

  “She really is. And to answer your question, since I was nine. When my folks died, she marched right in and took charge, packing me up and moving me here.”

  “Must be nice to have someone to care about you. My dad doesn’t think about anything but work, and my mom is always involved in some charity or other. Sometimes I think I would get more attention if I ran off to Botswana to become one of the starving children.”

  “So, they’re just busy. That doesn’t mean they don’t care.”

  “Believe me—they have whole days when I don’t even cross their minds.”

  This must really bother him. He’s never said more than two sentences about anything but theater.

  “That’s too bad. But I know what you mean. My parents pretty much ignored me. They were so caught up in church.”

  “Real Bible-thumpers, huh?” A flash. I remember using almost those exact words to describe Melissa to Aunt Jenny.

  “Yeah. They were good people, but with as much church work as they did, I sometimes got lost in the shuffle.” Yeah, like all those afternoons with Brother Gramm. The fleeting thought makes me look at Zane. I wonder what it would be like with someone who actually loved me, someone my age. No—Brother Gramm ruined that idea for me, even if I wanted to pursue it.

  “But at least they gave you some attention. My mom doesn’t hear a word I say to her.”

  He touches me. He hugs me. I don’t like it.

  Nonsense, Neil, Brother Gramm’s a very loving man.

  “But your Aunt Jenny—she’s different, isn’t she, man? She’s better than my two parents put together.”

  Just the mention of Aunt Jenny is a lifeline to me, saving me from the thoughts I’m about to drown in. “Yeah,” I say.

  “She ever been married?”

  “No. Never dated to my knowledge.”

  “Weird. Never dated, never married, never had kids of her own. Her parenting skills must have just sprung from her head like Athena from Zeus.”

  “What are you talking about?” I’m completely lost. One minute we’re talking about Aunt Jenny, next he’s spouting Greek mythology.

  “Athena was Zeus’s daughter. Zeus swallowed her mother, so Athena was born by springing from Zeus’s head. Thus, we say that great knowledge—a beautiful creature—can simply spring forth, fully formed.”

  “You never cease to amaze me, Professor.”

  “Well, returning to my original point, you are indeed fortunate, my child, to have a parent to whom you can talk.”

  “Yeah. We talk all the time.”

  “That’s incredible. What about?”

  “Well, I can tell her things. She knows all about you and how talented you are. And she takes an interest in my work. And in me.”

  “How so?

  “U-u-uh, this is kind of embarrassing.” I pause. I can’t believe I’m going to say what I’m about to. This having a friend thing is a trip. Somehow, it seems right to dig deep with your best friend. “Just the other day—and I’m not sure how the conversation got around to this—she asked me if I am gay.”

  Zane chokes on a swallow of root beer. As he coughs, I pound on his back. After several seconds of coughing, Zane takes deep breaths and finally chokes out a question. “What did you tell her?”

  Just then, a tall, lanky guy steps up. I recognize him from the audition.

  “You two were mind blowing,” the guy raves.

  “Thanks,” I say, always enjoying praise for my performance. And this time, reveling in someone liking Zane as well. “You were pretty great, yourself. Your ‘Kansas City’ was absolutely Will Parker. You’re bound to get the part. Novak is crazy if he lets you get away.”

  “You think?” The guy slides in next to me. A fleeting thought… I wish I were comfortable enough to just join in a conversation with virtual strangers. “I hope you’re right.” Then he adds, “You don’t mind if I join you, do you?” With the guy unloading his tray, it’s obvious he doesn’t care what our answer might be. And, actually, I don’t care either. Having guy friends is awesome.

  I look at Zane.

  His face droops, as if he is disappointed.

  Chapter 16

  ZANE IS early today for auditions. He strides over to me and collapses, as if exhausted.

  “Learned your lesson about being late yesterday, huh?”

  Zane salutes me. “Yessir, sir. Private Jeffrey, reporting for duty, sir!”

  “What? Did you leave your seventh period class early?”

  “Sure did, sir. Feigned an illness, sir. Teacher thought I was going to ralph, sir.” And he makes puking noises.

  “Yuk. And enough
with the sirs, sir.” I push his arm.

  He leans in close. “Besides, I think I made myself known yesterday. No need to repeat myself.” A gallop in my stomach. A skipped heartbeat. His Satine smile is so close to me. Stop it, Neil.

  So the late act was just a ploy to get noticed. As if he needed it with his performance.

  “You ready to read, Brando?” I ask.

  “Ready and able,” he mumbles, just like the immortal Marlon. “How are your butterflies?” He’s back to Zane now, a concerned, caring Zane.

  “They were under control,” I say, my eyes tracking Sonny Broadnus as he enters and finds a seat next to a beautiful girl… one of his groupies, I’m sure.

  “Cut it out, Neil. You’re the star, here. Just think WWSD.”

  “WWSD?”

  “What would Satine do?” He is oh, so happy at his cleverness.

  I point at him. “You’re good, Zane.”

  Ms. Walter and Mr. Novak arrive together and dump their things on the table. Trailing is a girl carrying a stack of red books.

  “Hey, gang, this is my assistant director LaSheyna. Raise your hand if you want to read the first scene, Laurey and Curly. She’ll supply you a script.”

  My hand goes up; the girl tosses a book.

  For the next hour and a half, we read from the script, several scenes in various configurations: Laurey/Curly; Will/Ado Annie; Curly/Jud; and scenes with Ali Hakim the peddler, Aunt Eller, and Carnes.

  “Well, that’s just about it, folks,” Mr. Novak announces when the last scene is read. “Here’s the deal. Tomorrow morning, on that Call Board”—he points to a bulletin board next to the door—“will be the callback list. Now, everyone who sang and read will be in the chorus. If you don’t want that, then you need to inform LaSheyna before you leave today. The callback list will be the people we are considering for Laurey, Curly, Jud, and Will. We’ll only need to see them tomorrow for the dance auditions. Since the first three characters are in the dream ballet and Will dances ‘Kansas City,’ Ms. Moonie will want to put them through their paces to see who can dance. The complete cast list will be posted Thursday morning. Thanks for everything. We’re going to have a great show.”