by Federle, Tim
“I’ll send this to your mom.”
“Mom checks her e-mail once a lifetime, Aunt Heidi.”
“That’s true,” she says, fiddling with the screen. Maybe she has an app that’ll make me look taller.
“Besides, Libby has to approve all my photos now,” I want to say—but we’re already whirring away, my thoughts barely keeping up with the elevator. And when the doors part on floor six, we’ve certainly gotten off at the wrong level: Hordes of folks hug and kiss and whinny like at a family reunion you might see on a TV show. If this is E.T., how could they all know each other already?
“Sign-in is by the main set of doors!” hollers a guy wearing all black. Maybe today is a national day of mourning in New York. Everyone is in all black. Or maybe it’s traditional to do that in honor of all the folks who didn’t get hired for your show.
“This is E.T., right?” Aunt Heidi says to the crowd.
But she didn’t even need to, because that’s when I see him. The him.
Jordan Rylance stands across a shiny corridor, shimmering like a mirage, surrounded by a hazy team of tight-faced, deliriously grinning adults. His Mommy is with him, and I’d recognize her a mile away—wearing that faux-leopard coat, those real-killer eyes. A fancy photographer is kneeling in front of their tableau, documenting the whole clump. “Smile, Jordan!”
That’s a true snapshot of Jordan for you. Rich part of town. Rich parents. Rich life.
(Back home, legend has it that his family’s even got a koi pond in their backyard. And a carousel. I’m not even kidding. A koi pond.)
“Let’s get all the children signed in!” the nervous man in all black shouts again. “And we’ll start the Meet and Greet inside in two minutes.”
More screams erupt. At the level of building-on-fire, at this point.
“I guess I should get running, Natey.” Heidi and I exchange an awkward squeeze by the elevator. Jordan’s got a camera crew and I’ve got an aunt who never made it to Broadway herself, even though she wanted it so bad. I feel awful for even thinking that, but there’s barely time for guilt, because as I’m placing a check mark next to my name on a bulletin board, a voice squeaks from behind me.
“Do you go to P.P.A.S.?”
I turn to find a doll playing the part of a girl: a purple paisley dress over black tights; shoes so shiny I dare not look at them, for fear I’ll get a preview of her underwear hovering above.
“Were you talking to me?” I say.
“Do you go to P.P.A.S.? The Professional Performing Arts School for kids. For professional kids.”
Her cheeks are so pink, I actually wonder if she’s been seen by a doctor. Then I realize she’s in about a foot of makeup. And eyelashes. Fake ones.
“No. No, I don’t go to P.A.S.”
“P.P.A.S,” she says, grabbing a bagel from a table I didn’t even realize I was being pushed into. Everything is packed tight in this hallway, especially the noise and energy and intimidating doll girls. “Yeah, I didn’t think you went to my school.” She swipes two cream cheese containers and stuffs them into a skirt pocket.
“Let’s get going!” the shouty guy says, opening a pair of double doors and shoveling the clanking group of actors into a rehearsal room.
No. Into a magical rehearsal room.
It’s hundred-foot ceilings with hundred-foot mirrors, stretching clear across every wall that isn’t covered by a panoramic window. Allegedly there are families in Pittsburgh whose houses on Mount Washington stare out over our entire little city—but this is even better.
“Hey.”
I flip around from the view, like I was caught being . . . myself.
“You can take your jacket off,” says a lady around Aunt Heidi’s age. “And your bag. And come on over here with the other kiddos.”
She leads me over to a throng of youth. My heart goes from sixty to zero, which it always does when I’m forced upon a group of kids in a circle. Though, that said, usually I’m in the circle. Getting taunted.
“Introduce yourself,” the lady says, taking my coat and breaking up the group. I wish she wouldn’t do that. The only thing cool kids hate worse than their party being broken up is their party being broken up by me. But wait. Aren’t I . . . one of the cool kids now?
“Oh, hi,” I say, facing down a lineup of the most beautiful children you’ve ever seen. Seriously, everyone back home can just give up. The genetic gene pool seems to have found its deep end. “I’m Nate, and—”
“He doesn’t go to P.P.A.S.”
She’s so short, I hadn’t even clocked her. But there she is again, smacking away at that bagel.
“Oh,” goes a different girl with blonde hair. She, too, is in a fancy skirt and black tights, like it’s the uniform. All the kids but me have got a little bit of black on, in fact. I’m the only one in navy blue and red, which I thought would be a nice nod toward America. Broadway is America’s greatest gift, according to Libby and anyone with a brain. “Where do you go?” the blonde girl says.
“To a school outside of the city,” I say. Smart. Nonspecific.
“You mean like New Jersey?” a boy says.
“No.”
“You mean like Staten Island?” This, from the blonde.
“I love the Staten Island Ferry!” the bagel-chomper squeals.
“Yeah!” I say. “It’s where ‘Don’t Rain on My Parade’ was filmed for the movie Funny Girl.” Finally, an in!
“Oh,” they all say. They must be reserving expression and enthusiasm for the show, because they’re not giving me any.
“Suuure,” the bagel eater says, “Funny Girl. Uh-huh. No, I love the ferry because I had my headshots taken on it, at sunset. They’ve gotten me a lot of work. I mean . . . you know backlighting!” They all giggle. “Makes you look younger,” doll girl says. “Helps for print work.”
The girl looks younger than my average pair of Hanes. “Backlighting” must make her look like an infant.
“So . . . what’s your name?” I say.
“Genna with a G, but it’s pronounced like it’s with a J.”
“Excellent,” I say.
“Did you turn your bio in?” Genna says. But fake–sugar sweetly. Genna is like Diet Pepsi. I prefer real Coke.
“Oh, no, were we supposed to?”
“I just see you holding it,” she says—and I guess I am. I worked on it with Aunt Heidi last night and actually feel pretty okay about what I came up with. “If your agent didn’t already send in your bio, you should probably hand it in now. Just a thought.”
“My agent was being such a dip about sending it in for me,” the tall blonde girl says, cutting in. “And I’m like: I’m not a writer, Monty; I’m an actress.” The children nod, and one touches her back very softly. “Just list my credits. You know what I’ve done, even if I got half the work myself through my own connections.”
“I hear you,” Genna says, swallowing the last hunk of bagel. “I had to produce my own Web series before my team would send me in for TV.”
“That’s awful,” the blonde girl says. “Just awful,” she goes, but actually that part she just mouths.
“And after that?” Genna says. “It was callback-this and booking-that. And now I can barely get a smoothie in, I’m so overcommitted.”
“What shows have you done?” the boy says. All the kids face me, the blonde girl tilting her head slightly like I’m an Algebra equation she can’t quite crack.
“Oh. I was in a show back home, like a community show that was geared for important social causes.”
I don’t dare tell them that other than basement performances, I’ve only understudied the legumes and played the broccoli in Vegetables: Just Do It. And that it wasn’t even a community show; it was at school. The last thing my school has is a sense of community.
“That’s special,” Genna says, flipping her head away and leaving a fine dusting of aerosol in her wake.
“Let’s see,” the boy says, whisking the bio from my hands and gri
nning at it. “Let’s check the credits.” It’s a million-dollar grin, by the way.
“Keith,” Genna says, “be nice to the out-of-towner.” But she’s up on her tiptoes, trying to read over his shoulder.
“Nate Foster,” Keith reads, “Ensemble, understudy E.T. You’re understudying E.T.?”
“Yeah,” I say. “That’s what they said when they called.”
“Wow, that’s mad cool.”
“Mad cool,” the blonde girl says like it’s the first time she’s ever spoken, slurring the words together.
Wait. This is good. These kids aren’t understudies, like me. They’ve got credits but they’re just in the chorus!
“I’m understudying Elliott,” Keith says.
Okay, forget my theory. Still. We’re all in the chorus together. Not every star can be the biggest star, or else everything would, like, light on fire.
“Yoo-hoo!” a woman, suddenly clapping, calls out. “Yoo-hoo, everyone!” She’s tiny and British but you can tell she’s a real boss of a gal. That’s how dangerously high her heels are. And she’s not young, either.
I rip the bio out of Keith’s hands, moments before he discovers my greatest legacy is as a singing vegetable.
“Welcome,” the British lady says, “to the first day of rehearsals for E.T.: The Musical.”
Mayhem and laughter and shouting: All of it bounces around the room like an inside joke exploded in a microwave.
“Now, listen here,” the lady continues. “My name is Nora Von Escrow and I am one of the lead producers.”
Panic, whooping, howling.
“Okay, okay, save it. You’ve got only five weeks until a paying audience, and we can’t waste any time.”
No laughter or shouting here, but the fright meter creeps up.
“I want to introduce your very important, very young director, Dewey Sampson.”
A guy who looks about three days older than my brother, Anthony, steps forward. He’s got artfully arranged messy hair, and bright blue Vans, and glasses so thick, you could melt down the frames and make a pretty nice set of chairs out of them. “Howdy,” he says, which, for some reason, gets applause and hollers. I barely even remember him from my final audition.
“What else has he directed?” I say to Genna. (Libby and I couldn’t find his credits on playbill.com.)
“Shh,” Genna says through a smile that’s pasted on so hard, my own jaw is aching.
“And,” Ms. Von Escrow continues, “I might as well introduce you to my old pal from way back in England—”
“Watch it now,” the old pal says.
“—Mr. Garret Charles.”
He parts the sea of people—which makes sense, since he’s basically as old as Moses. Garret, the clever and cruel choreographer from the audition, wears a zippered jumpsuit from toe to neck. His female assistant stands by with a cup of tea.
“Get ready,” Garret Charles says, his English accent so stiff-lipped he may have just had a stroke. Or Botox? “I hope everyone brought their tap shoes.”
“I don’t tap!” a woman screams.
“You will,” Garret’s assistant says.
“Yes, they will, Monica,” Garret says. “They will indeed.” All he’s missing is a white cat and a chair that can spin around. And my head on a platter; I don’t tap either. Oh God.
The producer Nora shoves them over and keeps barking. “Traditionally at a Meet and Greet we go around and everyone says their name and birthplace and dreams and all of that nonsense. But I’m from the old school: We get to work. That’s what we’re paying you for. You can trade names on Facebook.”
Hip, this lady. And this is good: The sooner we get to rehearsal, the better our show’ll be on opening night. The better our show is? The longer we run—and the more checks I can send home. That’s kind of the only reason Mom and Dad let me take the show, anyway.
“So let’s hop to it,” Garret says, bellowing, “Stage management!” just after.
On cue, a team of helpers begins flipping and setting up tables. (It’s official, by the way: They’re wearing all black too.)
“So, can we just sit anywhere?” I say to the lady who ruined the cool kid clump by introducing me.
“I’m not sure, let’s see what the director says.”
But the director doesn’t say anything. The director is cowering behind Garret Charles, who whispers into his ear and pushes him toward a chair at the center of the longest table. Stage management passes out stacks of folders at warp speed, and I take a seat next to Genna.
“Okay,” Dewey says, swallowing. “Now. So.” He’s barely audible above the cast’s chitchat.
“Listen up!” Garret Charles says, leaning onto his elbows and smacking a hand on the tabletop. A child’s folder falls to the floor and Garret Charles sneers at it. Or the child. Hard to tell through the smog of his dialect.
“So yes. Thank you, Garret,” Dewey says, adjusting a necktie that isn’t even there. “So the plan here, then. The plan.”
“The plan,” Garret Charles says, playing with his jumpsuit zipper. “The plan is that we’re going to read the text. And let’s put some real verve behind it. We don’t want to start out by cutting scenes that were simply the victims of an underenergized reading.”
I can’t figure out why the dance person is giving all the—you know—direction. But Dewey seems completely relieved, nodding like I do when Libby offers to take the soprano line in “Hard Knock Life.” Tougher time hitting those notes recently.
“You’ll pardon us, Nora,” Garret says. The producer perks up in her seat. “But we are indeed going to do a few introductions, so the chorus actors know which small parts to read.”
“Maybe get out your pencils, then?” Dewey offers.
“Good, Dewey,” Garret says, barely turning to him.
We all grab for our supplies, and there’s enough distraction that Genna whispers to me: “Video games.”
“Not right now, for God’s sake,” I say. “We’re in rehearsal.”
“No. Dewey. The director? You were asking. He directs video games. This is his first, like, stage thing.”
“Oh, wow. Is that unusual?”
“Well, he directed Final Sludgequest 4: Monsoon’s Death Mask for Wii,” she says, chipper as a prize ribbon pig, “and it made forty million dollars the first week it was released, so—”
“Forty-five million,” Keith says, drumming the tabletop with his fingers, since it looks like he forgot to bring a pencil. Not that I’d tell on him, ever.
“They figured Dewey would get our show a lot of press,” Genna says. “Because of the alien thing.”
“Aaaand, we’re back,” Monica, Garret’s assistant, calls out.
“So, like, there are bit parts throughout the show,” Dewey says. “Little parts where you’re not officially a lead but you have to say the lines.”
Garret grimaces. “They understand the concept, Dewey.”
“Yeah, right. Of course. Sorry. So, will the following people read the following parts.” Dewey tries to make sense of a blank page in front of him. Then, from behind: a rugged, wide-in-a-strong-way guy drops a list in front of Dewey and retreats to the corner.
“Thanks, Calvin. Oh, everyone?” Dewey stands. “This is Calvin, the assistant director. And he’s basically an amazing guy. We went to college together and while I was playing ultimate Frisbee, Calvin was breaking swimming records and directing the student underground shows.”
Man, Dewey’s really come to life now. Like he worships the guy.
“So, anything I say that doesn’t make sense, go to Calvin. Calvin literally once rescued me from a burning car. Long story. That scene is in Final Sludgequest 5, I’ll tell you that.”
All the kids let out a roar. I’ve never even heard of the game before today, but I follow suit and attempt a whoop that’s timed to start exactly when everyone else has shut up. A stage manager chooses me to shush.
“Hi, gang,” Calvin says, waving at everyone—but, I sw
ear to God, pointing right at me.
Of course Dewey loves the guy. Calvin’s unreal, the adult at the audition who gave me important deodorant advice (“Wear deodorant”). He’s my hero.
“Now,” Dewey says, “let me list off a bunch of little parts. April, raise your hand.”
She does: a beautiful, seventeen-foot-tall woman, with bangs cut so low, she may have been born without eyes.
“April, you’re going to be reading the part of the school teacher, in the frog sequence.”
“Ribbit ribbit,” is the best she comes up with, but it earns some nice murmurs.
Dewey continues down his list of names, but my mind keeps looping back to the words tap and dancing. This is an issue. I don’t have tap shoes and barely possess rhythm. Usually my “thing” is just to memorize a song and then sing it the same way every time.
“Jake? Where’s Jake?”
Everyone’s gotten so quiet that something must be horribly wrong.
“Well, I have a Jake here, who should be reading the part of Alien Number Seven.”
“Nate,” Calvin says, approaching Dewey from the corner. Running up to him, actually, like he’s in a relay and my name is the torch.
“Oh, right. Sorry. Nate, not Jake.”
Even hearing my name makes me go hot. When my name’s called back home, it’s to answer a question I never know the answer to.
“Nate,” Dewey says, “from now on, you’re Alien Seven.” Garret Charles grunts. Jordan Rylance smirks into his water bottle. Of course he does.
“Okay! Awesome, thanks.”
I flip through my script and find it—Alien Seven’s one solitary line in the middle of the first act. One solitary word.
“Blurp.”
“Do you need my highlighter?” Genna says.
I catch sight of her script, already premarked. Bold strips of candy yellow blare out from every page. My God: This living doll is playing Gertie. Genna is Elliott’s younger sister. Jordan’s younger sister. She wasn’t kidding about those Staten Island Ferry headshots getting her a lot of jobs.
“Oh, thanks,” I say, looking back at my line. At my Blurp. “But I don’t think I’ll be needing a highlighter.” I don’t think I’ll be needing a microphone.
