The Fat Lady Sings

by Lovett, Charlie

  “How many people does it seat?” says Elliot.

  “About two hundred,” says Taylor. “At least that’s how many folding chairs we have.”

  I step out onto the stage and walk down center, imagining a room full of people and the spotlight on me as I deliver my big monologue. The room is dark and nearly silent; the audience is holding its breath. No cell phone rings or candy wrappers disturb this perfect moment. All eyes are focused on me; all hearts are beating with mine. And then the scene is over and the applause is thunderous. “It’s perfect,” I say.

  “Yeah, but how much?” says Elliot.

  “What do you mean?” says Taylor.

  “How much is the rent?”

  “There is no rent,” says Taylor. “Youth group is allowed to do things here whenever we want.”

  “But we’re not in your youth group,” says Cameron.

  “Sure you are,” says Taylor. “You’re young, you’re a group, you’re here — I’d say that makes you part of a youth group.”

  “Do we have to say prayers or believe in God or anything?” says Suzanne.

  “Or stop being gay?” says Cameron.

  Taylor rolls her eyes. “Yeah, you all have to take a blood oath at midnight and learn the secret handshake,” she says.

  “OK,” says Cameron. “As long as I can still be gay.”

  “Listen” says Taylor, “the space is free — no strings attached. Now can we please move on to the topic that’s making me break out into a cold sweat?”

  “Profanity in the script?” says Elliot.

  “No, dammit!” says Taylor, and I stifle a giggle. Elliot and Cameron are gonna love Taylor, I know. “My audition.”

  Suddenly Cameron is all business. “Let’s do the singing first,” he says. “Did you bring some music?”

  Taylor hands him a piece of sheet music.

  “Nice choice,” he says.

  Taylor takes the stage, and I see what I hadn’t noticed before in my excitement — she is transformed. It hasn’t taken much — a nice blouse, properly blow-dried hair, some judiciously applied makeup — but the plain, disheveled girl of the other night has been replaced by a confident young woman. I had a feeling.

  Cameron, Suzanne and I stand all the way at the other end of the room so we can see what her projection is like, and Elliot seats himself at a piano that sits on the floor next to the stage. Did I mention Elliot plays the piano? He’s a renaissance man — he does pretty much everything.

  Elliot launches into “Popular” from Wicked, and Cameron and I start to laugh. “That has to be a good sign,” he says. And it is. The second Taylor opens her mouth we stop laughing.

  It’s like Kristin Chenoweth has possessed her — I mean she’s beautiful, she’s funny, she’s Christian, and she can sing like a — well, like a word I shouldn’t say in a church. “Even Melissa Parsons never sang like this,” whispers Cameron, but I am too dumbstruck to answer him. “Oh, please let her be able to act,” he says.

  “OK, that’s good,” Cameron says after she has finished the first verse, and the rest of us sort of exhale this sigh — first because we are disappointed that she’s stopping, and second because we’ve been holding our breath without realizing it.

  “Was it OK?” says Taylor, and I wonder if she’s putting us on. Does she really not know how good she is, or is she just insecure, like me?

  “‘OK’ is not the word I would use,” says Cameron. “My people would call it fabulous.”

  Taylor smiles and I see her shoulders relax. “God, I was so nervous,” she says.

  “It didn’t show,” says Elliot. “You did great.”

  “Thanks,” she says.

  I go up on the stage and Taylor and I read a scene from the script — well, actually she reads, I already know it by heart. She’s not bad — not as good as Melissa, but then this is a cold reading, and honestly, if she can sing like that I think Cameron would cast her if she only spoke Lithuanian.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” says Cameron, when we’ve finished the scene. “I’d say this is a banner night in the history of The Fat Lady Sings. Not only did we find our performance space, but we found our new Suzy.”

  Taylor shrieks and practically attacks me with a hug and the joy is back, and my weird mother and Cynthia Pirelli and Hello, Dolly! and math and college admissions and all the rest of my crap life just disappears. That’s what I love about the theatre.

  Scene 2

  And so we’re back to rehearsing — this time in a much less sketchy space and with a few new members of the chorus added from Taylor’s youth choir. “It really helps to fill out the sound,” says David. Taylor’s acting is improving every day, and Cameron is even doing some one-on-one work with her in the afternoons. As I predicted, Cameron and Elliot adore her — honestly, I get a little jealous sometimes the way they can fawn over her, but since I adore her, too, it’s not too bad. What I didn’t suspect was how well she would get along with Suzanne. At rehearsals, when Taylor is not on stage, she’s usually in the booth helping Suzanne, who is determined to resurrect the ancient light board. Every now and then I hear shrieks of laughter coming from up there and one of the two of them will pop her head out the window and say “Sorry!” God only knows what they find so amusing.

  I figured Taylor would need all her down time at rehearsal to work on her lines, but she seems to be able to memorize without even trying. Turns out she’s like an academic genius or something. She’s already been accepted to Brown, which surprises me, because it seems kind of left-wing for a youth group kid, but then Taylor is good at surprising me and shattering my preconceived notions about things. Take the youth choir.

  “How do you know about the youth choir, Aggie?” I hear you ask. Funny story. So what do you do when someone you thought, when you first met her, was going to go all evangelical and judgmental on you and witness about Jesus and stuff turns out to be super nice and a great friend and an amazing singer and a decent actress and totally saves your ass out of the worst jam you’ve ever been in and makes your life worth living again? Well, holy crap, it turns out you agree to sing in the youth choir next Sunday morning.

  Actually the way she did it — convince me to sing in the choir, I mean — was to suggest that maybe it would be enough extra vocal work that I wouldn’t need voice lessons. So I made this big deal about telling David (who hasn’t mentioned the whole voice lesson thing since the sock factory arrests) that I’m singing in a choir now. The rehearsals are Tuesdays and Thursdays after school, which is perfect, because it gives me an excuse not to go to Mrs. Carleton.

  And it turns out the youth choir is not so horrible. First of all, they don’t sing “Kum Ba Yah.” In fact, there’s not a guitar in sight (although there is one guy David recruited to play electric guitar in our pit band, but he claims to hate Christian Rock and basically wants to be Jimi Hendrix). Secondly, the kids are not really all that wholesome — I mean, plenty of them are nice and everything, but there are two obnoxious guys who do nothing but talk about sports and weight lifting and one girl who’s pretty much goth and another who is all preppy and snotty and won’t talk to anybody. So that’s a relief.

  I have to admit, I’m more than a little nervous on Sunday morning — not because of the singing, but because I really don’t like being told what to think or what to do (I know, hard to believe, right?) Of course, I do have the pleasure of being able to stage a little drama at home.

  I’m back with Dad and Karl, and they’ve barely opened the Times when I flounce out in this flowery dress I bought at the thrift store. I’m pretty sure they haven’t seen me in flowers since I was about six. “I’m off to church,” I say. “Taylor’s picking me up.” And I swear Karl does a spit take and spews coffee all over the crossword.

  Now, maybe you’ve been to church, so you might know this, but I had no idea. It turns out church is nothing more than theatre. I mean, first of all we go downstairs and put on choir robes, which are basically costumes, and then we go u
p to the church where these ushers are handing out programs and people are sitting in rows facing a set with props — candles, flowers, dishes. There is definitely choreography, I discover, as we march in. Of course there is singing and a chorus (we’re it) and even sing-along sections for the audience. And then there is a monologue delivered by the star (well, I guess they would say Jesus is the star, but this priest lady has a pretty good part).

  The sermon was the part I was really worried about, but it turns out she isn’t telling me what to do or believe, she’s just trying to make sense of some 2000-year-old story about running out of wine at a wedding. I wouldn’t say it’s the greatest piece of theatre I’ve ever been to — I mean, it’s certainly not Wicked — but it’s not awful. And some of the songs and some of the quiet parts and even some of the praying is sort of comforting in a weird way.

  I’m not having a religious experience or anything crazy like that, but it’s — I don’t know — peaceful, I guess. And it’s an escape from the outside world — so, like I said, theatre.

  The only thing is that the choir room is sort of crowded afterwards, and I guess people don’t realize that you can hear everything they’re saying in a room that small and as I’m taking off my choir robe I hear the two obnoxious guys talking.

  “I thought she was supposed to be the star of some musical.”

  “I was right in front of her and I couldn’t hear her at all.”

  “Dude, be glad. She totally screwed up the harmony on the verses.”

  “You’d think somebody that size would be able to really belt.”

  “Yeah, you’d think.”

  And then Taylor pulls me away and out of the room, just before I start crying. “Don’t listen to them,” she says. But it’s too late.

  “Why shouldn’t I listen?” I say as she pulls me down the hall through a throng of people. “They’re right. I’m not adding anything to this choir.”

  “It’s your first Sunday,” says Taylor. “Give it time.”

  “I don’t have time,” I say. “I’m less than a month away from singing three songs solo in front of an audience.” I pull away from Taylor and shove my way through the door, feeling the sharp cold air on my face. It’s just the shock I need, because now everything is suddenly and pathetically clear. “I need someone to help me find my voice,” I say.

  “I could help you,” says Taylor.

  I stop racing across the parking lot and turn to her. “That’s really sweet, Taylor, it really is. Honestly, I think if I needed you to walk across a bed of hot coals for me, you’d do it. But you have a role to prepare for and you hardly have any time to do it in. You don’t need to waste time coaching me.”

  “There must be somebody,” says Taylor.

  I reach out and hug her, which I think takes her a little off guard. “I’m sure there is,” I say. “And by this time tomorrow I’m gonna know who.”

  When I get home Dad is working the Sunday afternoon shift, so Karl is in his favorite chair reading a medical journal, the completed New York Times scattered at his feet. He’s taken to wearing reading glasses lately, and they look super-cute on him.

  “How was Jesus?” he says, peering over the glasses.

  “Not bad, actually,” I say.

  “So does this mean you’re a believer now?”

  “No, it just means it was — well, nice,” I say.

  Karl takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, his standard “I’m puzzled by the actions of a teenager” move.

  “I hope you’re not too disappointed in me,” I say, “since you raised me to be a heathen and everything. You know something else I’ve been meaning to tell you — I’m straight.”

  Karl laughs and gets up to give me a hug. “I’m not disappointed in you in any way,” he says. “I think it’s great that you went to church. I’m just a little disappointed in myself and your dad. We haven’t been very good at raising your — well, your spiritual side.”

  “Listen, Karl, can I ask you something?”

  “If it’s about religion, I’m not sure I’ll have a very good answer.”

  “It’s not about religion,” I say, and I think, it’s about something important, but I stop just before saying that. I would have said it yesterday, but I guess this morning made me a little less cynical — about some things, at least. “I need a vocal coach.”

  “Honey, I don’t know if you’ve ever heard me sing, but your father says it makes dogs howl. I’m afraid you’re asking the wrong guy.”

  “No,” I say, “I just need some advice on who to ask. You see, Taylor offered, but she’s way too busy, and then there is Mrs. Carleton the chorus teacher, but I just don’t think I could face her after that whole Hello, Dolly! thing. She would just make me more nervous about singing, which is the last thing I need.”

  “Aggie, I really don’t hang out with singers and choir directors,” says Karl.

  “I know that,” I say, “but I also know that when I come to you for advice about anything, you always say something totally obvious but also totally brilliant that I couldn’t see because I’m such a stubborn ass.”

  “Hey, that’s my daughter you’re talking about.”

  I get this really warm feeling whenever Karl calls me his daughter. He doesn’t have to say that — I mean it’s not legally true — but he does, and I love him for it.

  “So you want me to say something wise about finding a voice teacher?” he says.

  “Right,” I say.

  “OK,” he says, “well, I guess the wisest thing I can say is find someone who can sing, who can spend time with you, and who’s a good teacher. I can’t imagine that’s much help, though.”

  But Karl is wrong, because he’s just given me the craziest idea in the history of crazy ideas. “It’s perfect,” I say, and I kiss him on the cheek and skip to my room to write an English paper.

  “Hey Cynthia,” I say the next day during study hall. “I feel like I’m really getting a handle on this math.”

  “You are,” she says. “You probably don’t need me anymore. I could talk to Donahue if you want. I mean, I know this hasn’t been an ideal arrangement from your point of view.” Her voice is ice cold.

  To be honest, things have been even more awkward than usual since the whole asking-for-acting-lessons thing last week. I know what I have to do. It won’t be easy, and I swallow a giant lump of pride to start with.

  “Listen, Cynthia,” I say. “I want to — well, to apologize for last week. I shouldn’t have just walked out like that. You’ve been really nice to me and it was rude and I’m sorry.”

  “What do you want?” she says.

  “What do you mean, what do I want?” I say.

  “You must want something,” she says, “or you wouldn’t be apologizing. Everybody knows you hate me.”

  I do hate her, right? I hate this girl who has given up her study hall to tutor me in math with absolutely no thanks. I mean if I hadn’t hated her, I could never have written The Fat Lady Sings. I never would have discovered playwriting, or spent all those fantastic nights rehearsing my own words, or met Taylor. So surely I do hate Cynthia Pirelli, whose only faults are an ill-considered boob job and getting cast in a play.

  And when I think about it like that, suddenly hating Cynthia seems like the stupidest, most childish thing in the whole world.

  “I don’t hate you,” I say.

  “That’s a lie,” she says, and now she’s not cold, she’s angry. “I’ve talked to people who’ve heard you say it, and not just once.”

  There is a silence broken only by the ticking of the clock on the wall. What can I say? I can’t deny it. And why does my hatred of Cynthia, which was such a powerful driving force for the past few weeks, suddenly seem so pointless? Is it just because I need something?

  I decide there’s no point in doing anything other than telling the truth.

  “Look, I did hate you, that’s true. Maybe until just this morning. Maybe until the very moment you accused me of hat
ing you. I hated you because you’re beautiful and everything comes easy to you and because you got a part that I stupidly thought belonged to me. I hated you for stuff that wasn’t even your fault. And then hating you became this — this thing that helped me write a play and make friends and feel confident in ways I never had before. And now it turns out that maybe I can do those things without hating you. Look, what I’m saying is — god, for a playwright I really suck at putting words together — I think hating you was never about you, it was about me. Anyway, I’m sorry, and I know it may be hard to believe, but I don’t hate you now.”

  There is another long silence, and I’m starting to think that after this morning I won’t even have a math tutor anymore. Then finally Cynthia looks up and we make eye contact for the first time since this all started.

  “You think I’m beautiful?” she says.

  “Of course,” I say, laughing. “Is that all you got out of my big melodramatic speech?”

  “No,” she says, “but it was my favorite part.”

  “So can you forgive me?” I say.

  “I don’t know,” says Cynthia. “But I might be willing to try.”

  “Fair enough,” I say, and I really want to hug her — I know, weird, right — but it feels too soon, so I hold out my hand and we shake. That feels weird, too, and I don’t think we are friends or anything. At this point I’d settle for not bitter enemies.

  “So listen,” I say. “You were actually right when you said I wanted something. I want two things.”

  Cynthia pulls her hand away from me. “What?” she says.

  “First, I want to accept your offer to let me be your acting coach.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. I mean, it’s my favorite role in the world, and if I can’t play it on stage, at least I could help you play it. Next best thing, right?” This is something I spent all last night trying to convince myself, and I’m coming close to believing it.

  “You would actually coach your nemesis in the role she stole from you?” says Cynthia.

  “I thought we cleared up all that ‘hating you’ stuff,” I say.