The Love Curse of Melody McIntyre

by Robin Talley

  Dom holds up his hands, laughing. “Sorry! Clearly I stand corrected!”

  “Besides, if you want character complexity, this may not be the show for you,” a voice stage-whispers from the other side of the door.

  I groan. “It’s the first rehearsal, Mr. Green. No complaints allowed.”

  Will steps inside, carefully balancing three giant Tupperware containers. Gabby rushes forward to help him. “Right you are, Ms. McIntyre. I promise to be cheery from now on. Look, I come bearing snacks! Cranberry popcorn and apple chips with cream cheese. You have napkins, right?”

  “Of course we have napkins,” Gabby says, understandably offended he’d even ask.

  “Of course. I never doubt the preparations of the stage management team.” Will claps Dom on the shoulder as Gabby carefully transfers the food over to the table we set up by the whiteboard. “As for the rest of us, shall we venture to the barricade?”

  “To the barricade!” Dom yells, loud enough for everyone to hear.

  The actors start laughing. “I’m with you, man!” Malik yells at the top of his voice.

  Soon there are more shouts. “To the barricade! To the barricade!” Some of the guys even stomp their feet.

  I can’t help smiling, but still, oh my God. Actors.

  “Okay, everyone,” Ms. Marcus says, “I appreciate your enthusiasm, but the chess team can probably hear you in the next wing. Mel, are we waiting on any principals?”

  I haven’t seen Nick or Odile yet, but before I can say so Odile ducks past me silently, sliding her phone into a shoe pocket without needing to be told. She gives me a small smile and a wave, and I smile back, ever so slightly flustered.

  Okay, so it’s possible I’m getting a crush. A small, nonthreatening one. It’s the equivalent of having a crush on Anna Kendrick or someone else equally unattainable. Except Odile’s prettier than Anna Kendrick.

  “Just waiting on Nick,” I say as Odile glides to an empty spot on the bottom riser next to David.

  “Well, we can’t exactly start without our Valjean.” Ms. Marcus is still smiling, though. On first rehearsal day it’s hard not to stay in a good mood. “Let’s give him one more minute.”

  David leaps to his feet, like he’s going to go hunt Nick down then and there, Javert style. Someone starts humming “The Confrontation,” which earns another round of laughs and foot stomps, and Ms. Marcus gently pushes David back into his seat. “Save it for opening night, Inspector.”

  I don’t realize Rachel’s come through the door until she’s clearing her throat in my ear. “Hi, Mel.”

  “Oh. Hi.” I straighten up. Yesterday after school was our first production meeting, also known as The First Time I Had No Choice but to Talk to Rachel Scott Since We Broke Up. I knew that would be awkward, but being so close to her right now is somehow worse.

  “Listen, I didn’t want to say anything yesterday with everyone else there, but . . .” She clears her throat again. “I wanted to thank you and Mr. Green for keeping me on as costume head. I know things have been kind of uncomfortable since . . . But anyway, I’m really excited to get to work on this show. I love Les Mis.”

  “I remember. You said you’d always wanted to design non-revolting corsets for ‘Lovely Ladies.’” I try to replay the conversation we had last summer about Les Mis costumes in my head, but all I can think about is her effectively announcing over the headsets that I’m a slut.

  “Do you think there will be time to take any cast measurements today?” she asks, oblivious to my stress. Which, come to think of it, she always kind of was.

  “Oh, are you the costume girl? Here, you can measure me right now.” Nick smiles broadly from the doorway, holding his arms out to each side. I half expect him to start flapping them and making airplane noises. “Put me in something cool, and whatever you do, don’t make me wear a wig.”

  “Costumes and hair and makeup are two separate departments.” Rachel plucks the phone out of Nick’s outstretched hand and slides it into an empty compartment in the shoe bag. Nick whips his head around to face her, his mouth falling into a shocked little O.

  I grin. There is a reason I liked Rachel. She takes crap from no one.

  “She’s right,” I tell Nick. “But by the way, if the hair and makeup crew decides you need a wig, you’ll wear a wig.”

  Nick lowers his arms, and he looks like he’s about to say something either snarky or flippant when Ms. Marcus interrupts us. “Nick, Rachel, welcome. Time to take your seats. You can join us too, Mel.”

  I avoid making eye contact with either of them as I go to my seat next to Gabby, where I’d already laid out my binder with my blocking script and mechanical pencil at the ready.

  Nick wedges into the front riser between David and Odile, giving the two of them a totally different smile than the one he gave Rachel and me. He actually looks sincere. Maybe even nice. Odile meets his gaze for a second, then turns down to her script as Christina simpers into a seat on her other side.

  Ms. Marcus goes through some admin stuff about rehearsal schedules, then gives us a mini speech about the history of Les Mis. No one speaks while she’s talking. No one even moves. We’re all in a theater hush.

  It’s finally starting to sink in that we’re doing this show. This show. In a couple of months, we’ll build a barricade, and not long after that the auditorium will be filled with people, listening to a full orchestra play “Do You Hear the People Sing?” while sixty voices ring out in perfect harmony.

  It’s awesome. I’m not going to lie.

  Ms. Marcus leads the actors through some warm-up exercises and assigns the ensemble solo lines, and then we start the read-through. Gabby and I take turns reading the stage directions, which is fun.

  Dom gets to read the first solo line of the show. He looks happier than I’ve ever seen him, which is unfortunate since he’s supposed to be talking about how hellish prison life is. But he’s so glow-y it’s hard to hold it against him.

  The reading goes pretty quickly once we start, since without the actual music, the show isn’t nearly the three-hour epic it’s supposed to be. Most of the actors aren’t really acting yet, much less singing, but just hearing the words read out in the voices that are going to sing them is still kind of amazing.

  I make notes in my binder as we go. I can already see places where we’ll have to carefully choreograph what the crew’s doing backstage.

  When Malik, Alejandra, and Leah start reading “A Heart Full of Love,” a few of the younger actors start giggling behind their hands at the romantic lyrics. Some of the crew members do too, until I look their way and they go quiet. But a moment later, as the lyrics venture into the way-over-the-top territory—seriously, Marius and Cosette’s flirting is significantly more painful to listen to than Romeo and Juliet’s—Nick starts chuckling. Loudly.

  It’s so unprofessional. This is his first show as a principal, but he should still know that laughing during a read-through is one of the rudest things you can do. I knew Nick was a jerk to me and Rachel, but I didn’t think he’d be this uncool even to his fellow actors.

  When we finally get to the last song of act one, “One Day More,” Ms. Marcus lets the cast sing the final chorus. This song involves a lot of triumphant yelling, so the sound of all sixty-odd cast members booming out the lines together is nearly deafening. Even Odile joins in for the finale, despite the fact that her character’s dead during this song. I almost want to join in myself.

  Ms. Marcus declares a break, and everyone pounces on the food. I set the timer on my watch so I can call the group back on schedule and try to think of how I can most productively use the break time. I could show Gabby how I’ve set up my blocking script, but she’s talking to Jasmin and Dom, and I don’t want to interrupt cross-generational crew bonding.

  “Mel?” Ms. Marcus calls. “Do you have a second?”

  “Of course.” I hurry over.

  She gives me instructions on how to make the rehearsal schedule for the next week, and I
jot down notes in my binder. Making rehearsal schedules is a lot of work, but it’s fun—it’s like a logic puzzle, figuring out who needs to be where and when. Plus, she already gave me the list of who’s going to be in all the featured ensemble roles, which is cool, since the actors don’t know that themselves yet. I like that she trusts me to keep it secret.

  Ms. Marcus calls Fatima and Jasmin over next, and I’m halfway back to my seat when I hear Gabby say, “Wait, what do you want?”

  Something in her tone makes me turn and look. She’s standing in front of Nick and Christina, her hands on her hips, making a face like she just bit into something sour.

  “Should I spell it for you?” Nick says. “L-A-T-T-E.”

  “Stop,” Christina mutters beside him, but she’s giggling. Nick turns to her, grinning in that way guys like him do when they’ve made a girl laugh. As though that’s equally as impressive as climbing Mount Everest or hitting every note in a Sondheim show.

  “What’s going on?” I step forward. I don’t want to undermine Gabby’s authority, but I really, really, really don’t like Nick’s tone.

  “He wants me to go get him coffee.” Gabby turns to me, then back to Nick. “I was about to tell him I’m not an errand girl. I have to stay at school until rehearsal’s done, just like you do.”

  Nick’s smile fades.

  “Gabby’s right.” I fold my arms across my chest. “The crew isn’t here to do the cast’s bidding. You want a drink, you get it yourself—after rehearsal—like the rest of us.”

  I glare at Christina, remembering all those cough drops. Most of the actors are decent to the crew, but there are always a few who think we’re here to be their servants.

  Usually it’s not the leads, though. Liam brought me doughnuts during R&J tech.

  “Hey, okay, okay.” Nick’s smile widens as he holds up his hand in a mock salute. “Whatever you say, boss lady. Don’t put me in a time-out, all right?”

  Behind him, Christina giggles. “Mel, I thought you were coming over to tell us we were breaking one of the superstitions. Is there one for this show yet?”

  “Yeah, actually . . .” Julio leans over from his seat. “We need one now that rehearsals have started. If we don’t have it by the end of today, that’s bad luck by itself.”

  “It is?” Leah looks alarmed.

  That’s the first I’ve heard that, and I’m pretty sure Julio’s making it up, but I go with it. We’re still keeping the whole love-curse thing a secret from the cast, and we need a decoy superstition so they don’t start asking questions. “Yeah, we should come up with something.”

  “Or the evil curse spirits will get us,” Julio stage-whispers.

  Dom starts humming the Twilight Zone theme music from a few risers over, which makes me snort, but Leah and Christina are both darting their eyes back and forth, as though they can’t figure out whether to take this seriously.

  “Plus . . .” Beth leans in, stage-whispering just like Julio. “Remember how we were supposed to do Phantom of the Opera originally? Well, I read that if you say you’re going to do Phantom and then you back out, your new show gets cursed by the real Phantom as revenge for spurning him. He’ll send Andrew Lloyd Webber’s personal thirteen horsemen of the apocalypse after you.”

  “Okay, no, wait.” I have to intervene now. Some of the ensemble girls have their hands over their mouths, like they’re genuinely frightened by this inanity. “That’s completely not true. I’ve never heard a single story about the thirteen—”

  “Should we even be talking about this?” Christina asks. “Isn’t it bad luck to say the number—um, the number one-three?”

  I’ve never heard that rule, either, or at least nothing that’s theater specific, but I might as well take advantage. “Okay, look, here’s the special superstition for this show.” I hold up a finger so they’ll know I’m serious. “No one can say that number. Not in rehearsals, not in the auditorium, not anywhere. If you say it, you’ll have to, um . . .” I try to think. Countercurses are supposed to be the opposite of whatever you did to bring about the bad luck. What’s the opposite of saying thirteen? Well, seven is supposed to be a lucky number. “Spin around backward seven times.”

  “While yodeling,” Beth adds. Everyone laughs. “Seriously, yodeling is good for the spirit. Plus it’s a solid vocal warm-up.”

  I nod agreeably. If a countercurse is funny, people are more likely to do it.

  “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” Dom cups his hand over his ear. “Which number are we not supposed to say?”

  “I’m not falling for that,” I tell him while Beth and the others snicker. “Spread the word, everyone. I’ll put it on the shared drive tonight.”

  “But what if we have to write it down?” Julio points to his script. “Like, what if Ms. Marcus tells me I’m supposed to steal exactly thir—I mean, twelve-plus-one coins out of Nick’s pocket? Can I put it in my script as a blocking note or will Andrew Lloyd Webber come chasing after me on a horse with a chandelier? Or what if I’m doing my calc homework and the answer is exactly thir—I mean, um—”

  I hold up my hand again, trying to look stern even though everyone’s laughing harder than ever. “You know how this works, everybody. We have superstitions for a reason.”

  When I get back to my seat, Gabby’s sitting with her arms crossed, still fuming. “We should call him Nick the Dick,” she whispers as I take the seat beside her.

  “Ha. I like it.”

  “Hey, Mel, do you have a second?” Will asks from behind us.

  At the sound of my first name, I snap to attention. Will never calls me that at school. I twist around. “Sure?”

  “Good.” He lowers his voice to a whisper and beckons for me to lean in. “I have a suggestion.”

  “Cool, what?”

  “You may want to downplay the superstition talk.” He fiddles with the tape measure in his hands, drawing the tape out and rolling it back in again. “It isn’t always a great idea to make a spectacle of these things.”

  I shift in my seat. Obviously I can’t tell Will about my need to hide my love curse from the cast, so I shrug. “It’s tradition. And it’s good for team unity, right? We all have a common enemy—the curse.”

  “Sure, but . . .” Will tilts his head and scratches his chin. “You might want to avoid using that word, too. When you start throwing it around, that’s how rumors get going. Imaginations run wild. Notions are planted.”

  “But it’s my job to enforce the rules.”

  “It’s only a suggestion.” He holds up his hands. “Just . . . the subconscious is a heck of a thing. We’ve got enough problems on this show without everyone worrying about some boogeyman.”

  “But we just got started. There aren’t any problems yet.”

  “There will be.” Will starts ticking things off on his fingers. “We’re going to have a hazer, twelve wireless body mics, a flying bridge, a giant barricade made of falling-apart furniture, rolling carts, a starter pistol—assuming we can get Coach Mulhern to lend it to us—a trapdoor, and that godforsaken turntable. It’s a recipe for accidents. If you want to keep your team safe, that’s what you should be focusing on. Make sure they learn to be careful and follow the rules—the ones that actually matter—and that they trust you enough to always do exactly what you say.”

  I sigh. I hate getting lectured. “Okay, okay.”

  The act two read-through goes faster than the first half did. The actors have hit their strides, and there are fewer lyrics in this act anyway, since a lot of it is battle scenes. Most of the principals die off—except Odile, who already died back in act one—but Ms. Marcus lets them sing the very end again anyway. Considering that they’ve had exactly zero music rehearsals and we don’t have any instruments today, it sounds surprisingly good.

  “Principals and featured ensemble members, come up when I call your name,” Ms. Marcus says when they’re done. “Everyone else, you’re dismissed. Dom, you’re up first.”

  I sit back
to watch the squeals as she tells the actors which ensemble solos they’re getting. All the male principals have extra parts except Nick and David, and some of the girls get multiple parts, too. Christina gets to be Factory Girl and one of the student revolutionaries, plus she’s understudying for Fantine, and she looks simultaneously thrilled and terrified when she gets the news.

  “Convict Number One!” Dom cries, skidding toward Gabby and me. “I get to open the show! More singing for me!”

  “Since when are you even that into singing?” I ask him. “I thought you always said percussion owned your soul.”

  “I changed my mind. Singing can have, like, half of it. Also, you weren’t kidding about my awesome death scene. I’m going to keel over and make all the poor fools in the audience cry. Do you think I could talk Ms. Marcus into having Convict Number One die onstage too?”

  “Um . . . I doubt it.”

  “Congrats, man.” Nick claps Dom on the shoulder, dude-bro style. “I heard you’re opening the show with us.”

  “Yeah!” Dom grins at him. “It’s gonna be awesome.”

  Nick grins and claps him again before going over to join Malik and Julio, probably to dude-bro with them, too.

  “Ugh.” I groan as he walks off. “That guy is every obnoxious actor stereotype come to life in vivid and horrifying detail.”

  “Eh, he’s not that bad.” Dom shrugs. I’m about to tell him about how he tried to send Gabby on a beverage run, but he’s already turning around to call out to Malik, “Hey, wait up!”

  I follow the others outside. The hallway is packed and noisy, with sixty-plus actors and the whole crew too slowly making their way out. Ahead of us, some of the guys are goofing off at the far end of the hall. Dom jogs up to join them.

  “Pick me up like this,” Malik is saying, slinging his arms around Nick’s neck. “Bride-over-the-threshold style.”

  The others laugh, and I sigh wearily. They’re talking about the sewer scene, where Malik’s character is unconscious and Nick is supposed to carry him around the stage, but I don’t see why they have to do that tedious straight-guy thing where they act like it’s hilarious to even think about making physical contact with each other.