by Federle, Tim
All the actors have their own folder, like a personal mailbox in the hallway, where stage management slides in our updated script pages every morning. The creative team is rewriting this show so often, there’s barely time to keep up with the old material, let alone the new stuff. Still, I only have to watch Mackey “grunt” something once, and I’ve got it.
“Yeah, I guess I should check out my folder,” I say (standing up from my fifth sit-up, which was my best one). I’m reaching for the new pages when I catch sight of Monica in the studio, making Asella balance on one foot on top of the blue ball. Yikes, Monica is a slave driver, if slave drivers dyed their hair stop-sign red.
“Boys,” Roscoe says, finally opening the door, “let’s get going.”
Jordan and I bump into each other on the way in (we can’t even coordinate offstage entrances, let alone onstage) and find two seats opposite Roscoe in the office.
“So,” he says, taking a big gulp of coffee, which spills into his moustache and is immediately absorbed, like some kind of organic ShamWow. “You probably know what this is about.”
“I just want to say something,” I hear my mouth say. Then I feel my throat gulp and witness my fists tighten. “I’m really sorry. About the other day. In the bathroom.”
Roscoe looks concerned—like a principal, practically. Usually when I’m in the principal’s office, I’m waiting for an apology from James Madison or one of his henchmen. It’s weird to be the bully this time.
“To explain: I was in the bathroom making phone calls, and I should have let Jordan know I was overhearing his conversation. I wouldn’t say I was spying, because I wasn’t planning on overhearing anything. But still. I should have, like, spoken up just as soon as I heard Jordan having his panicked phone call. With his Mommy.”
God, it’s so easy to turn into a jerk when you’ve been accused of being one.
“Please,” Jordan says under his breath.
“O . . . kay,” Roscoe says, checking the time on his phone, as our castmates begin filtering out of the elevator. “That’s . . . nice, Nate. But this isn’t about that.”
“It isn’t?” Jordan and I both say. I’m not sure which one of us is more shocked.
“No,” Roscoe says. “This is about a big press event coming up.”
Assistant stage manager Kiana knocks on the door and says, “Five minutes” to Roscoe. God, I wish the five-minute warning could be implemented at school back home. You can handle anything for five minutes, even mistaken apologies. Even History class.
“As you know, Jordan,” Roscoe says, “we’re going to be doing a giant outdoor event—Broadway at Central Park—to be televised live the day before previews start.” He pulls up a file on the computer. “It’s a big publicity opportunity for the show.”
“I’m feeling great about that event,” Jordan says. But his voice is shaking. “My mom says that’s one of the most important events of the Broadway season.” Now it’s not just his voice that’s shaking. His chair looks like it’s actually levitating, like maybe he’s an alien.
“Yes.” Roscoe laughs. “The producers have elected to have you sing your Act One song, Jord. You know that already.”
“I do,” Jord says.
“But now that the lyrics have all been changed around—”
“Yes,” Jordan says, “I’ve stayed very up-to-date on the lyrics.”
“Fantastic,” Roscoe says in an I-don’t-really-care way. (The other day, I overheard him saying he misses the old days, when the only children who appeared in musicals “were in the background or dead by the second scene.”)
“It’s definitely really, really important for everyone to keep up on their new pages,” Jordan says. He is leaning so far forward toward me that he looks like Feather pointing his nose at a dead mouse in the bushes.
Here, I am embarrassed to report, I squeak. “I totally look at my new pages. Very often. I do.” Weak.
“Regardless,” Roscoe says, standing and shutting off the computer monitor, “now that the song is more about E.T.’s journey to earth, and thus features, you know, E.T. more”—Roscoe is barely stifling a yawn, and clearly takes E.T.’s journey to earth about as seriously as my dad takes my journey to Broadway—“we’re not sending you to the event alone, Jordan.”
“You’re not?” Jordan says. Here, he stands, flipping the hulking script, from his lap, onto Roscoe’s desk, where it lands in a quiet whoosh. Sheesh. Even this kid’s accidents are elegant.
“No, we’re not,” Roscoe says, growing restless. “The producers want E.T. there. They think kids will like it more.” He puts air quotes, with his fingers, around the words kids and like.
“Well fine, then,” Jordan says. “Where’s the part about Nate?” He juts his thumb out at me, hitchhiker style. Man, would I love to see Jordan try to climb into a truck.
“Mackey only does events where he sings solo,” Roscoe says. “It’s in his contract.”
Jordan begins hopping up and down, actually hopping up and down and causing the air to stir a bit. Loose sheets of script scatter to the floor like mutant snow. “I didn’t know that was an option,” he says. “That’s a contract option?”
“Relax, Jordan,” Roscoe says.
Kiana peeks her head in. “You can keep Jordan, Rosc, but Nate’s due in a vocal rehearsal. An important one.”
(I love the idea of any Broadway rehearsal not being important. Please. This is the only important thing happening on earth, other than late-night SpongeBob marathons.)
“I’ll send Nate along in just a sec,” Roscoe says.
“Okay, so no Mackey,” Jordan says. “Fine. You’ll send Asella, right? She’s hilarious.”
“Asella turned down the event,” Roscoe says, just like that—and then turns to me. “So, Nate, all you have to do is stand there. It’s a nice pay bump—like a whole extra week’s salary.”
Ummmmmmmmmmmmmmmmwhat?
“Why did Asella say no?” I watch my mouth say in the mirror. There’s a mirror in this office. They’ve mirrored everything in New York. I’m surprised you can’t see your own reflection on toilet seats, but they’re probably getting around to it any day now.
“Oh, Asella gave some obscure excuse,” Roscoe says—and then rolls his eyes. “But we all know Asella . . .” As if Asella even talks to me and not down at me. Which is a remarkable skill, considering she’s the only living adult who’s shorter than Nate the Underdeveloped King of Sweets. “She’s at the age where actors refuse to do events that take place outside in the dead of winter.”
But I’m not. I’m the perfect age for outdoor events. When Libby and I practice songs in my backyard, sometimes we wait till the dead of winter, because “comedy is best when it’s done in the cold,” according to Libby. Apparently the threat of frostbite gives every punch line a little jolt, because if you don’t laugh, your body will shut down or something.
“Has anyone even taught Nate the blocking?” Jordan says, sounding desperate.
“You’re just going to stand there and sing the song, Jordan,” Roscoe says, putting a hand on his shoulder. “We’re not even doing the part where you hop from the bed to the dresser, putting the hula skirt on E.T.”
“But that’s where I get my laughs,” Jordan says, shrugging Roscoe’s hand away.
“Well, to be fair, Jordan, I think Mackey’s getting most of the laughs there. But you sing the song beautifully, and the Central Park event is on a makeshift riser. There won’t be any set pieces. Nate will just stand there.”
“Even Alien Number Seven can handle that,” I say too loudly, like we’re all friends enjoying a bowl of communal popcorn.
“I can’t believe this,” Jordan says. Stealing the words from my frontal lobe.
I’m going to make a week’s salary for just standing still. It’s like I finally understand what I’ve been practicing for in gym class.
“Does he even have, like, a costume that fits him?”
“Jordan, this conversation is over. And y
ou’re not being a very gracious star.” Roscoe opens the door. “This shoots right after tech rehearsals are over. It goes live and it goes national. A huge audience, probably over eight million people. I’m going to send an e-mail to your parents to confirm time and place.”
“Cool.” Over eight million people. Jankburg has less than eight thousand. And that’s including the cemeteries.
“My mom’s going to flip out that I’m not doing this performance alone,” Jordan says. “I mean . . . no offense, Nate.” Now he’s all-out frowning.
“Break it up, you two,” Roscoe says. “Nate, get upstairs to music rehearsal. Jordan, study that new packet. You’ve got a lot of lines and I’d be more worried about those than your co-star.”
“He isn’t my co-star; Mackey is,” Jordan says, but he’s whispering it to himself. “Oh, God, if we mess up anything on national TV, my mom’ll kill me.”
“I’ll let your mom know Nate is a very responsible kid and everything’s going to be just fine,” Roscoe says. But I barely hear the last part, because he’s literally kicking my butt out the door.
Jordan’s mom will kill him if I mess him up on national TV. I’m not even sure my parents will tune in.
But as I’m hopping up the stairs to music rehearsal, two at a time, I’m not thinking about that. This isn’t about my parents or Jordan’s parents or even Jordan, who looked genuinely frightened back there. Like he might get into a kind of trouble James Madison gives me back home if I trip him up.
No, this isn’t about any of that.
This is about me making my national television debut—and a whole week’s salary on top of it—playing the title role of a Broadway musical.
Move over, Annie.
Make way, Oliver.
Step aside, Jordan.
(Here comes Nate.)
Oohs and Aahs
(Two weeks and six days till first preview)
I bet you’d be surprised by all the wasted space in a Broadway musical’s choral practice room. Today we’re geared up to learn new parts to the Act One finale, where Elliott and his brother pretend to take E.T. out to go Trick-or-Treating, but really they’re heading into the woods. (As if real kids would avoid candy for trees.)
“Okay, actors. Come on in.”
The point is that this room is massive, with gleaming wooden floors that lead to mile-high ceilings. This morning it feels like I’m practically up there, floating over the whole room—with the promise of a national television appearance just past the next cloud.
“Whoa, check out Nate.” Is that Keith talking? Or just a cloud?
“Naaaate. Nate.” Hollie’s laughing now. Apparently I’m staring at myself in the mirror, and grinning, and sort of . . . swaying.
Keith claps in my face. “Earth to Nate, what-up?”
It’s the perfect phrase because that’s exactly where I am—on another planet. Not even an astronaut could snap me from this delirium.
“Goofball,” Genna says, brushing past us. Okay, that does it.
“Long story, guys,” I say to Hollie and Keith—sort of loud enough for Genna to hear—and we all start to giggle. “Some other time.” You’ve just got to be very careful sharing a big secret (over eight million people) with a couple of kids. Great as these two might be.
“You guys,” says Sammy, the music assistant, flicking through Tweets on his iPhone, “let’s quiet down and grab our seats. This is a big rehearsal.”
Again with the big rehearsal business.
“I need my sopranos down front and my altos just to the side of them.” Everything is “my my my” on Broadway. There’s a lot of territory disputes, like a junior high school cafeteria but with more glitter. “And then let’s get our baritones in the back with the tenors and basses scattered, or whatever.” Sammy always gives up by the end of a simple set of orders.
“Where do you want me?” Keith says. Keith can sing any part, I swear to you. He’s got a voice like a Aretha Franklin, who is allegedly his distant aunt, FYI.
“We’ll see where we need you,” Sammy say. “Just grab a chair with the other boys.”
Keith and I take seats next to each other, and I pull out my music binder (which is bigger than your average History textbook—even if these days, I do my schoolwork online) and flip to the end of Act One in the score. I haven’t had much to sing in the show so far, so who knows what today has in store? Who cares, even. I’m going to be on national TV, if anyone has forgotten.
“So, here’s the deal,” Sammy says, putting his iPhone down. This must be serious. Musicians never put their iPhones down. “The lyricist has rewritten the Act One closing number.”
“Again?” Asella shouts. She’s sitting on her music binder, but not to boost herself up, I don’t think. Out of protest.
“Yes,” Sammy says. “Again.”
“What’s wrong with an ooh and an aah?” Asella says to nobody in particular. “I paid for two apartments throughout all of the eighties with a bunch of oohs and aahs.”
“Fair enough,” Sammy says, putting his hands up in a “Don’t shoot the messenger” plea. “But I’m following orders here.”
“Let’s get cracking then,” Asella says. “I’m hardly keeping up on all the new changes, as it is.” She points to her seat, the binder’s pages barely staying inside.
“So, my tenors,” Sammy says. “Same as before—we’re still going from the B-flat at measure fifty-two to the C-sharp in fifty-four, and holding it.”
“Forever,” says one of the tenors—the guy who appeared in the entire original run of Les Misérables and is thus the unofficial mayor of Broadway, to me anyway. I’ve been studying him in rehearsals. “We hold the C-sharp forever.”
“We should get hazard pay for that C-sharp,” says another tenor.
“Great,” Sammy goes, barreling on. “Except—here’s the change, everyone—instead of singing aah on the C-sharp, we’re going to sing, flyyyyyy.”
“Fly?” the first tenor says, looking around like Sammy just spilled Coke Zero on his favorite sweater. “We’re singing the word fly?”
“You’re singing fly,” Sammy says, fiddling with a pencil and looking as if he’s about to stab himself, already. We’re fifteen minutes into a long music rehearsal and there’s already a warm debate that’s hinting at hot.
“Let’s get this straight,” Asella says. “Just to clarify, as storytellers. We’re sending a bunch of kids into the woods and we’re telling them to ‘fly’?”
“Look,” I hear. We flip our heads around to see Dewey hiding in the corner of the room, chewing on a pen cap. His chin is streaked with blue ink. “Look, everyone. Listen up.” He sorts of dares himself to move and then jump-starts so fast that he trips over a sneaker. He never ties his sneakers. My kind of adult. “So, yeah.” In two seconds he’s next to the piano. “I know. A lot of changes.”
“A ton of changes,” a soprano says—one I’ve been avoiding in rehearsals, because she only makes eye contact with other adults.
“But the changes are all really important,” Dewey says.
“Fly is going to get us the Tony?” Asella says.
I really can’t believe how brazen these people are. If Dewey told me to set my shirt on fire, I’d probably say, Do you want that stage left or stage right?
“I don’t know if fly is getting us the Tony or what,” Dewey goes, running a hand through hair that looks like it hasn’t been washed since the movie of E.T. “What I know is that we’re about to move into the theater. And there’s a lot of pressure to get this right before we leave the rehearsal rooms.”
A lot of pressure always means a lot of money. Dad’s always saying Mom’s under a lot of pressure at the store, but what else can that mean but money, when you’re surrounded by tulips all day? What kind of pressure does a tulip offer?
“Listen,” Dewey says. “The composer and lyricist are staying up all night trying to nail this. Rewriting around the clock.”
“May I say something?” a barito
ne offers.
“Sure,” Dewey says, momentarily distracted by his hand getting stuck in a clump of bangs. It looks quite complicated up there.
“Perhaps,” the baritone continues, “the problem with all the rewriting is that the writers haven’t been given the chance to actually hear us do their most recent material.”
He has a point, this giant baritone. We’ve rehearsed entire scenes that the writers never even watched us perform before they redid all the lines. And as these days have piled on—while I observe everything with wide eyes and closed lips—sometimes it does feel like we just change stuff willy-nilly. Like how Libby’ll put a tank top on in the winter just to get attention from the track team.
“I hear you,” Dewey says, finally breaking that hand free. It appears as if he lost his wedding band in there. “But you . . . have to trust me.”
Nobody says it.
Nobody says why, but the room is so thick with everyone thinking it that it just about breaks Dewey down. His eyes well up and he looks at Sammy and then accidentally starts talking again. “Guys, we’re in the theater next week. Once we’re onstage, we won’t have time to rework stuff. We have to focus on adjusting the lights and doing the sound and making sure it’s all, like, superbright and superboomy.” Uh-oh. He’s talking video game–speak again. “So learn these new parts so that we can forget them, yeah?”
“Let’s start with the sopranos,” Sammy says, fast. “At measure fifty-four, on fly.”
“But, Dewey,” the baritone says, raising his hand as if he’s waiting to be called on, but continuing to talk anyway. Classic schoolroom move. “I think the actors’ issue is that we learn something one day, it changes the next, and we’re losing confidence that we’re going to arrive at anything coherent.”
Keith and Hollie look at each other and nod vigorously. I take their cue and nod too. It’s just what friends do, okay?
“Getting confident is what previews are for,” Dewey says, but it comes out like a question. Like maybe Garret Charles coached him to say that, or he read it last night in a book called How to Direct a Broadway Musical.
