by Tom Leveen
I see doubt cross his face like a shadow.
“Do you want to ask the coach to confirm?” I keep going. “I can’t sit through a gym class, much less spend time in the locker room. Come on. How many times have you seen me right here in your office during PE, for fuck’s sake?”
Dr. Floor makes some noise and looks at the cop. “That is true.”
“Okay,” the cop says. “Like I said, we’ll be investigating. Thanks for coming in.”
Dr. Flores hands me a hall pass with a reminder not to swear. I take it and walk out. I go out into the hall, which is empty. Across from me, taped to the wall, a yellow poster announces auditions for Hamlet.
SHAKESPEARE’S GREATEST REVENGE PLAY! the poster reads.
“To be or not to be … in this place for one more minute,” I say to the poster.
My pill kicks in right about then, and I feel better. Mostly.
The bell rings, and the halls flood suddenly with foot traffic. The way this pill makes me feel, whatever it is, I just want to float along with the crowd, or maybe be lifted up on top of them like at a concert.
But then there’s the quarterback. The old QB himself, Brady Shitbag Culliver.
Need I say more?
Apparently a meme went out that I didn’t catch, seeing as how my phone was stolen to take kiddie porn shots in a place I would never enter lest I burst into flame.
The meme must have said something like, “Call the Jennings kid a skinny little faggot at every opportunity,” because that’s what this QB calls me as I pass him in the hall. Just like last time. Same method, too: passing in the hall, spoken quietly so as not to catch the ear of anyone who might actually have to do something about it.
So I stop. Pivot.
“Explain something to me,” I say over the noise of people rushing to get to class.
It takes QB a second to register I’m actually saying something back. I don’t think he’s used to it.
Good. So much the better.
“If I wore padded tights,” I say, loudly, “and smacked guys on the ass, and dove into big piles of huge, sweaty men, and afterward spent time naked in a shower with them all, you’d call me a … what?”
The hall crowd slows, then stops to watch. It’s like an old filmstrip losing power and freezing on one frame. The football player looks about ready to explode.
I may have crossed the line. No, wait … I am pole-vaulting over that motherfucking line because that’s what needs to happen here. It stops. I’m deciding, right now, I’m not taking this shit anymore.
And it’s about time, right? The good news is, I’m so high right now that I don’t feel a thing. Not even an inkling of nerves, not a whiff of self-preservation. Hopefully, when he smashes my face to crimson pulp, I won’t feel that, either.
I simply and gloriously do not give a galactic shit.
“Seriously,” I say. “What would you call me? Say it nice and loud so everyone can hear.”
The guy shakes. I can literally see him quaking.
“No?” I say. “Nothing? What, you don’t want to say it now, or you just can’t process things fast enough? You must ace those standardized tests, huh?”
You could hear a number two pencil snap in the silence. Then a hand lands on my shoulder. It’s a teacher. Mr. Butler. Or Bladder, or Ballsack, or something. Same guy who interrupted us last time, now that I think about it. His button-up is lavender today.
“You should get to class, Danny,” he says, very softly.
“Oh, sorry, I’m having a conversation right now.” I do not take my eyes off QB.
“You should really get to class.” The teacher’s hand tightens on my shoulder.
I decide I’m done with jerk-off teachers, too.
I look pointedly down at that hand on me. “And this is assault. I haven’t done anything wrong. I’m only asking our star Athleader here when he thinks it is appropriate to use the word ‘faggot’ in a sentence. Using small words, of course.”
“It’s never appropriate,” the teacher says. He tries to pull me away. “Now, it’s time to go to class.”
I pull my shoulder back. His hand glides off. “Don’t touch me, dick.”
I get a few gasps for that one. Meh. The downside to these pills is, since I don’t care about anything, I don’t care when I get a good reaction, either. Bummer.
“So come on, I’m waiting,” I say to QB.
The hand lands again. It means business. It’s Business Hand.
“Let’s go,” Mr. Bladder says.
“Whatever you say, boss,” I say, and let him turn me around.
“I’ll see you later!” the star Athleader says.
“You see me now, nothing’s stopping you,” I call back. I pause for just the right length of time before adding, “Candy-ass bitch.”
Not because that’s something I would normally say. To anyone. It’s just not in my oeuvre. The thing is, I know what buttons to push. I could’ve called him any number of great things, but candy-ass … now that’s a symphony. That’s the thing that will stick with him. That’s the thing that will drive him into the red.
I walk away from Mr. Ballsack and head for Hanson’s office. Mr. Bladder tries to stop me.
“I’m going to see the shrink,” I tell him. “She’ll explain everything, I’m sure.”
Mr. Bladder escorts me to her office nonetheless. When I get there, they hold a hurried, whispered conversation in the hallway while I sink into the chair opposite her desk. So cushiony. So soft.
“Danny. Danny.”
I open my eyes. Holy crap, how long was I asleep?
“Wake up,” Hanson says, sitting at her desk with a sigh.
“You bet, Doc.”
“Let’s start with what I sincerely hope is the easy question. What are you wearing?”
“Clothes.”
“Danny …”
“What.”
“Those aren’t your usual clothes.”
“But I’m a teenager.” I can tell my words are coming out slowly. I wonder if she notices. I wonder if I care.
Mmm … nope.
“I’m experimenting with many different styles of self-expression. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do?”
“Sometimes you are very upsetting, Danny.”
“And sometimes you give me a hard-on, but I elect not to tell you about it.”
Dr. Hanson laces her fingers together and leans forward over the desk. “Not only is that immature and offensive, it’s also criminal. I could have you suspended for that comment, right here and now, no question, do you understand that?”
Ah, hell. She’s not kidding. That’s some true shit right there. I shift gears to throw her off: “Why don’t you call my parents? See what they think of that idea.”
“Danny …”
“And actually, I think you have to have a trial or something. Or a hearing, with the school board and everything. You really have time for that?”
“If you don’t stop using provocative language, yes.”
“Fine. No one’s stopping you. Although now that you mention it, how is kicking someone out of a school when they don’t want to be at that school considered a punishment?”
“Have you been taking your medication?”
“Religiously. Can’t you see how calm and rational I’ve become?”
“Danny …”
The slowness disappears from my voice. It comes out strong now. Hell yeah.
“What? Jesus, you keep saying my name with ellipses, finish the thought! What do you want? I changed my clothes, I didn’t lose my temper on that assjack in the hall, what the hell do you want? Everything I try gets shot down, so what do you people want? Huh? Spell it out, and I’ll do it, just leave me the Christ alone!”
Well, she lets that sit for a while before saying, “Auditions start today. Are you going?”
“That’s why I dressed up.”
She can’t tell if I’m serious. Thing is, I am. More or less.
“
Stop trying to figure me out,” I say. “I’ll do the math for you. I had this great school, and I want to go back to it. The end, close the file. Send me back, Doc.”
“I’m glad you’ll be trying out.”
“Magnifico. Lovely chatting with you.” I get up and walk out. Because the truth is, they can’t really stop you from doing that. I think about taking another pill, except now I’m getting jazzed up. Blood’s pumping. Screw it. I’m going to the audition like this. It’ll be fun.
Something has to be.
AFTER SCHOOL
A lot of schools don’t care about their speech and theater departments. This one? Is no different. Except over the last decade, since Mrs. Tanner began teaching, this department has an 8-2 record of placing at state competitions. Four times, they won first. Best in the state.
Everyone knows that Day One of auditions for the fall play is for the kids with heartbreaking lisps, or who can’t speak louder than a whisper, or who have body funk that’s too hard to overcome. It’s for the kids who can barely read but think they are ready for Hollywood. It’s also for kids who don’t want to be in the play at all, but stay after school because there’s air-conditioning and the AC doesn’t work at their houses.
Day Two is for the real royalty. The red-carpet walkers. The ones who already have auditions lined up out of town for Juilliard, for The New School, for Carnegie Mellon, for other coveted institutions of higher learning for the arts. They attend Day One, sitting in the back row of the auditorium and clapping politely for schlubs like Kelly The Man who don’t stand a chance of getting cast. But everyone who’s anyone knows that Day One is something of a sham.
That’s how it’s been every year, as far back as even Mrs. Tanner can remember.
Until today.
At first, this Day One is like all the others. There’s the usual slew of nervous freshmen, nervous not because they are cold-reading Shakespeare in front of their peers, but because they are freshmen without a Place. Without a Group or Set or Clique or Gang. They are moorless, wandering the halls during normal school hours, still trying to remember where all those big-kid classrooms are.
There’s the usual group of other underachievers; bored, many of them, having nothing better to do. There’s Kelly, of course, who everyone knows, because she will probably be awarded Least Likely to Take a Hint at the annual and unsanctioned Most & Least Awards held at the drama club president’s house each May. Kelly is too tall, too heavy, and too awkward a gal, one who actually looks like the word “gal” still applies. She is remarkable in only one aspect, and that is her utter unremarkableness.
But today Kelly is reading with a new kid. Her audition is as abysmal as any of her auditions over the years, but after the first line is spoken, the day goes in an entirely unheard-of direction.
This new kid, wearing a tie for reasons known only to him, bursts onto the stage and stands beside Kelly, full of kinetic energy unlike anything anyone has ever seen. He pulls on faces and accents like they are hats; off with one, on with another. He hits cues others don’t even know exist. He goes off-book but returns right back to it just in time to give poor, bewildered Kelly a cue. Once Kelly gets her line choked out, he’s off again, riffing and improvising and quite literally bouncing off the walls. At one point, he makes a joke about aliens, and tears a hole in his shirt, an alien chest-burster popping forth. A few of the seniors might have thought to make the joke, but had they torn their clothes in the process, they’d have slunk off stage, embarrassed.
Not this guy. He just widens his eyes and keeps on going. He turns his fingers into an alien hand puppet, shrieking for blood.
No one has ever seen anything like it. Mrs. Tanner is beside herself with hysterics. Someone in the back row whispers loudly, “Who is that?” and a small girl wearing a Ramones T-shirt several rows down turns and says, “Danny Jennings!” before facing the stage again and laughing at his antics.
Jennings’s is the first ever standing ovation for a cold reading from a script. The president of the drama club, Jason, and his upperclassmen club officers don’t know whether to join in or murder him and hide his body in the prop closet. He’s made them all look like wannabes.
It is unfortunate that the play Jennings has just auditioned for is Hamlet, which is not known for its comedic bits. But no matter; everyone knows he just won a part, probably a decently sized one, too, because as they say, If you can do comedy you can do anything, and If you can do Shakespeare you can do anything.
Danny Jennings just did both. Quite suddenly, Day Two of auditions isn’t such a big deal anymore.
He is.
“Let’s go,” President Jason is heard saying, and he leads his troupe of players from the theater to the loading dock beyond the auditorium scene shop to smoke. A lot. Fiercely.
Danny Jennings disappears as quickly as he appeared, as if in a puff of smoke. Kelly looks stunned and embarrassed as she and a freshman girl wearing long sleeves gather their bags and slink out of the auditorium.
“Next!” Mrs. Tanner calls, but no one gets up. Who would want to follow Danny Jennings?
CADENCE
It takes awhile, but I finally find Danny at lunch on Wednesday sitting outdoors by himself behind the cafeteria. There’s six or seven other people here, too, all of them alone, all of them cranky looking. One guy, who could fit three of me inside his shirt, is sitting under a tree drawing on his arms with a black Sharpie. He’s really good, so I tell him so. He looks up like he’s surprised, then gives me this very adult-looking nod that I think is meant to say both Thank you and It is, isn’t it?
I should talk to him sometime. He might be fascinating.
But right now, I’m on a mission. I walk up to Danny and sit down on a short concrete wall beside him.
“Dude! Your audition!” I say, setting my plate down on my other side. The other students dart their eyes at me. I’m not supposed to talk back here, apparently.
“What about it.”
“I loved it!”
Danny’s eyes snap wide. “You saw it?”
“Yeah! I tried to track you down to tell you but you got out so fast I couldn’t find you.”
Danny frowns for some reason and mumbles something about having things to do, then opens a paperback copy of Hamlet.
“Seriously, man, it was so awesome,” I say, because it’s true and I want him to know that. “Everyone’s talking about it.”
“Who’s everyone?”
“I don’t know. People in classes and stuff. A lot of people.”
“Am I popular now?” he deadpans.
Oh, boy.
“Danny, I’m gonna level with you,” I say after a sip of my soda. “Sometimes you are exceptionally difficult to get along with.”
“Only sometimes?”
“Okay,” I say, and stand up. “You know, I just wanted a friend. That’s it. All my girlfriends moved or got pregnant or got caught getting high so it was just me. But whatever, that’s cool. I’ll find someone else. Ciao, baby.”
I shoulder my bag, pick up my plate, and head back toward the cafeteria doors.
I’ve almost made it when I just barely hear him behind me.
“Wait.”
I almost don’t. Just to show him. His voice is so quiet, I could easily pretend I didn’t hear it.
But I’m big dopey sucker, so I stop instead and turn and say, “What.”
He looks around, then nods to his side, like I’m supposed to come sit next to him again.
I almost don’t. But, sigh, I am a big dopey sucker, so I go back and sit down.
“Sorry,” he says.
I cross one ankle over my knee and sit up straight. I’m trying to fix my posture. “About what, exactly? Be specific.”
“You’re going to make this a thing, aren’t you.”
“Yes.”
He grits his teeth. I can see his jaw clenching. “I’m sorry I’m such an asshole.”
“Well,” I tell him, “I didn’t say—”
Uh-oh. Now he’s the one making this a thing. “I’m sorry I like to wear clothes that no one else in the galaxy likes. I’m sorry I like music no one else has ever heard of. I’m sorry my sister is such big bossy bitch, and I’m sorry my mom doesn’t give a fuck about any of it. And my dad, well. Fuckin’ forget about it.”
I bite my lips.
“Is that specific enough?” he says after a minute.
“Yep,” I whisper. It sucks when he goes off like this. Like I’m not being his friend or something. But I’m also not going to point it out right now.
“You can go if you want,” he says. “I don’t mind. I understand.”
“You wouldn’t mind, or you wouldn’t care?”
He thinks about that. “Oh, I’d care. You have no idea.”
“Then I’ll stay.”
I pull a sack of trail mix out of my bag, open it, and start munching. I offer it to Danny. “Some?”
He doesn’t answer, but he picks out a few cashews. My favorite.
Ah, well. I’ll let it go. He looks like he needs a favor. And cashews are supposed to be an antidepressant or something, I think, so it’s probably good he’s having them. Because seriously, I’ve never met anyone quite so unhappy as Danny.
But I get it. Sometimes things are tough. It’s just that sometimes, I don’t think he thinks it’s tough for anyone other than him.
DANNY
They post the cast list on Friday. Kind of like how people are fired on Fridays so there’s less likelihood that they’ll return to shoot up the place.
The list gets taped to Mrs. Tanner’s office window after first period, and draws a crowd. Apparently, there are no surprises written on the column of names and parts assigned.
No surprises except for me.
DANNY JENNINGS … … LAERTES
Cool, I guess. Didn’t expect it, but, hey, I get to swordfight and die on stage. Not bad.
Looks like everyone else got what they wanted. Well, maybe not everyone; there’re a couple sad souls—freshmen, I assume—who look downcast. Yeah, well, life’s rough.
I turn to go and bump into the drama club president, Jason, whose face I only know from the big-ass black-and-white headshot adorning Mrs. Tanner’s office window along with those of the other club officers. President Jason is trying very hard to look humble, having naturally been cast as Hamlet. I wonder if everyone sees past it as easily as I do. When he sees it’s me, he says, “Oh. Hey. Uh … congratulations.”
