I laughed. “Why don’t you tell the animals to be quiet?”
“I can’t. When I raise my voice, the rabbits freak out and go bald,” he said. “What’s up? I haven’t called Ms. Elliott yet.”
“That’s fine,” I said, settling on the floor by my bed. “I’ve got an even better plan that’ll make me famous.”
“Uh-oh,” said Stefan. “You’re not going to jump off the roof with a cape again, are you?”
“Of course not.” I lifted the corner of my comforter and ducked under it, pushing aside a stack of DVDs to look for scripts. One of the perks of having parents in the film business was access to loads of movie junk. “What would you say if I told you I was doing a one-girl show?”
Stefan gasped. “I’d say you’re brilliant!” He paused. “Oops. A rabbit just lost some fur.”
I pulled a stack of scripts into my lap and flipped through them. “I could use help, though,” I said. “I’m not sure what piece to do. You think I should ask Bree too?”
She knew every play from Annie to Ziegfeld Girl.
“I think first you should clear your idea with Ms. Elliott,” said Stefan.
I paused. “Oh . . . right.” A feeling of dread crept up my spine. “You don’t think she’ll say no, do you?”
“Maybe,” he said. “You’re competing for stage time with the Mary Pops In cast.”
“Right,” I said again, biting my lip. I hadn’t seen much of the script, but from what I’d heard, there were at least three dance numbers, including the chimney sweep waltz and a hip-hop dance to “Tuppence a Bag, Y’all.”
“Okay, I’ll talk to her tomorrow morning,” I said.
“Great! Keep me posted?” Stefan asked.
“Of course!” I said, with more enthusiasm than I actually felt. Asking Ms. Elliott’s permission had been the last thing on my mind. If she wouldn’t let me do my show, I was sunk.
With a heavy sigh, I hefted my scripts onto the bed and joined them, tucking my stuffed dog Rufus under one arm. I was too old for toys, but he was the closest thing to a pet I’d ever had . . . other than one poor, trampled hamster.
My parents bought Rufus when I was five, swearing that he came to life at bedtime. I probably would have believed it forever if I hadn’t accidentally popped out one of Rufus’s eyes.
To keep me from needing extensive therapy, my parents confessed that he wasn’t real and that Dad was allergic to dogs. They’d lied about Rufus to spare my feelings.
At the time I’d been furious, but now that I was in their shoes I kind of understood why they did it.
Sometimes you just couldn’t disappoint family.
FOUR
AT LEAST A DOZEN BUTTERFLIES were swooping through my stomach the next morning, making it impossible to eat breakfast. While I pushed soggy wheat squares around in my bowl, I wrote and crossed out a dozen ways to convince Ms. Elliott to give me my own show.
Ms. Elliott, I really really really want
Ms. Elliott, my life will be ruined if
Want to see your precious poodle again? Then—
“What’s that?” asked Grandma, shuffling over to the table.
I flipped my notebook closed. “Math. I love it.” Nobody would believe that. “I mean, a love note.” She’d think it was for Chase. “I mean, a love note to my math teacher.”
Awkward. Very awkward.
Grandma raised an eyebrow. “No, what’s that?” She pointed at my cereal. “You’re eating wallpaper paste?”
“Oh!” I laughed and glanced at the bowl. “I guess it does look pretty gross. I wasn’t hungry.”
Grandma studied me. “You didn’t eat much dinner either.”
“I’m just really nervous about this play,” I said. “It’s my first big part!”
I gave her a wide smile, hoping that would hold her off. After a moment she nodded and patted my shoulder.
“Don’t forget to get details,” she said. “And leave your math teacher alone.”
I cringed but nodded and shoved the notebook in my bag. “Would you tell Mom and Dad I left early? I need to talk to Ms. Elliott before school starts.”
Grandma agreed, and I was out the door. The sooner my lie was behind me, the better.
Even though I reached campus early, CAA was already buzzing with activity. Our ballet troupe practiced at sunrise so the boys couldn’t sneak into the studio and whistle at them. Other students showed up to finish art projects or practice solos in private.
With every step closer to Ms. Elliott’s office, my heart beat faster, and far too soon, I was rounding the corner to the faculty hall. Ms. Elliott’s door was open and the light was on. It was now or never.
I stepped through her doorway . . . and froze.
Ms. Elliott had her winged back to me. Her winged back. And she was fluttering her arms as she flitted over to one of the plants in her office with a watering can.
I cleared my throat, and she stumbled, almost knocking over a fern. With a quick glance at me, she smiled sheepishly.
“Excuse me,” she said, standing upright. “I was embracing my inner fairy queen. Another role I’m trying for in the city play.”
“Wouldn’t fairy queens have fairy gardeners to take care of their plants?” I asked.
She winked at me and put down her watering can. “You are as bright as your name, Sunny. To what do I owe this lovely visit?”
I sat in a chair across from her desk. “Things didn’t go well at the Mary Pops In tryouts,” I said.
“On the contrary, I hear from this year’s committee that you’ve shown marked improvement,” said Ms. Elliott with a smile. “Unfortunately, I also hear the competition was fierce.”
I fought back an argument and said, “That’s not really why I’m here. Ms. Elliott, I want to do a one-girl show apart from the semester play. An . . . an independent student project,” I added, remembering Chase’s words.
“A one-girl show?” Ms. Elliott settled into her desk chair and sipped from her coffee mug. “Tell me more.”
My heart gave a happy leap, and I pulled some scripts out of my bag.
“I’ve got all these ideas,” I said. “If I’m not the right person for an existing role, I’d at least like a chance to try one I’ve selected.”
Ms. Elliott reached for the scripts and studied them. Then she studied me. “If this is an independent project, you’ll have to do this without my help. And it needs to be completed by the time Mary Pops In debuts.”
“So . . . you’re . . .” I held my breath. Was she saying yes?
Ms. Elliott picked up her mug and watched me. “When the theater group isn’t using the stage, you may use it,” she said. “I can give you a small budget for additional items: makeup, music, costuming, but you’ll have to provide some things on your own.”
I stared at her, waiting for a bigger catch.
Ms. Elliott misunderstood my hesitation. “Sunny, if you can’t accept—”
I jumped to my feet. “No, I can! I totally can!”
“Well . . . good.” She leaned away, startled by my enthusiasm.
I cleared my throat and sat back down. “I can really have my own show?”
Ms. Elliott finally smiled. “I admire your tenacity, Sunny. And you’re right. You do deserve a chance.”
I could’ve jumped up and hugged her, but Ms. Elliott had a tight grip on her coffee mug and looked ready to splash me.
“Thank you so much,” I said, standing with slow dignity. “I promise it’ll be a great show.”
If I’d been wearing Ms. Elliott’s wings, I could have soared through the halls, lightheaded with giddiness . . . and hunger. Now that my stomach wasn’t twisted with worry, I was starting to wish I’d eaten that bowl of wallpaper paste.
There were still twenty minutes before first class, so I headed for the cafeteria to celebrate my victory with a mound of French toast. Just as I joined the serving line, Bree stepped up behind me.
“Hey, Sunny,” she said.
�
��Bree!” I exclaimed. “Great news!”
“Everyone in Mary Pops In got laryngitis?” she asked with a little smile.
“Better,” I said, grabbing her arms. “I’m gonna put on a show!”
“A show?” Bree tilted her head, confused. “Here in line?”
“No!” I laughed. “Instead of the school play. I asked Ms. Elliott if I could do my own show, and she said yes!”
Bree’s eyes widened. “That’s awesome.”
“I was hoping you’d say that,” I said, holding out my scripts. “Because I wanted to ask—”
“Yes!” She gasped, the loudest sound I’d ever heard her make. “Oh, Sunny, I’d love to be in your show!”
Whoops.
I took a step back. “Uh . . . Bree, no. I’m really sorry, but this is going to be just me . . . a one-girl show.”
Bree let her tray clatter onto the serving rail. “Figures. My second rejection of the week,” she said. “At least I’m great at that.”
I squeezed her arm. “I’m really sorry,” I said again. “Do you want me to ask Ms. Elliott if you could do your own show, too?”
Bree shook her head. “She’d never let me. Everyone says I’m so quiet, I make snow sound loud.”
I grimaced. “Awww. You’re not that . . .” I trailed off and reached for a basket of French toast sticks.
Instead of grabbing food, Bree clasped her hands in front of her and looked at me with puppy dog eyes. “Please, Sunny. Let me be in your show.”
I sighed. “Bree—”
“What show?” Suresh, Bree’s boyfriend, leaned over her shoulder.
“Sunny’s putting on a production,” said Bree. “Ms. Elliott approved it and everything.”
“That’s great!” said Suresh.
And then he said the six words I was dreading to hear.
“I want to be in it.”
“It’s a one-girl show,” I said, paying for my food.
He shrugged. “I can dress like a girl.”
I gave him a look and picked up my tray. “You’re missing the point. It’s a one-person show.”
I walked away from the line, and Bree and Suresh followed.
“Come on, Sunny. Please?” he said. “I’m trying to bring in Bollywood.”
I picked up my fork. “That’s great, but—”
“Everyone thinks I’m here on a snake-charming scholarship,” he added. “And I can’t tell you how many kids want me to teach them yoga. And—”
“I get it,” I said. “You’re a walking stereotype.”
He nodded enthusiastically. “But if I had a legitimate acting role, I could make them understand.”
“Me too!” piped up Bree. “Then maybe kids would stop leaving cue cards that say LOUDER in my locker.”
I held up a hand to silence them. “Listen, I’ll go to Ms. Elliott and see if you guys can have your own show. She can’t possibly say no.”
And I was right.
When I visited Ms. Elliott at noon, she didn’t say no. She said, “Absolutely not.”
The confident smile I’d worn into her office faded. “What? How come?” I asked.
Ms. Elliott adjusted her glasses. “Sunny, I was fine letting you have your own show because I thought that would be the end of it. But if I let Bree and Suresh have their own show too, then I have to let the next students. Soon there won’t be enough stage time for all of you.”
“Then say no to anyone after Bree and Suresh,” I said with a hopeful smile.
She shook her head. “I’m sorry, you’ll just have to let them into your production.”
“Let them . . .” My mouth fell open. “But this is my chance for fame and glory!”
“I’m afraid that’s all I can offer,” she said. “You either tell them no or share the stage. Now”—she held up two wigs—“which of these says fairy queen?”
“The purple,” I mumbled, picking up my backpack.
There was no floating through the halls with giddiness this time. Instead, there were shackles of guilt around each ankle, one for not getting Bree and Suresh their show and another for not wanting them to be in mine.
To make my conscience feel better, I went in search of the one person who could tell me the right thing to do.
“Chase?” I called, rounding the corner of his locker bay. “You won’t believe—”
I stopped short. Not because he wasn’t there, but because he was there with Ilana. And she was wearing his jacket. And giggling.
I don’t know why it bothered me. I had no desire to wear Chase’s jacket, he wasn’t my boyfriend, and she wasn’t my best friend. But I had a sudden urge to pull him away from her.
Chase smiled at me. “Hey, Sunny D! What’s up?”
“Can we talk?” I asked him, giving Ilana a small smile.
In response she propped her cosmetics case in one arm and held open the lid. “Makeover while you chat?” She gestured at the contents. “You could look killer.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to look like a killer. Just give me a second with Chase, please?”
Chase raised his eyebrows, and Ilana snapped her case shut.
“Fine,” she said, stepping between Chase and me. She gazed up at him and smiled sweetly. “See you this afternoon?” she asked.
“Of course!” he said. “And thanks for the history notes.” He saluted her with a hot pink binder.
“Thank you for the ten bucks,” she said, patting her pocket as she sauntered away.
“What’s happening this afternoon?” I asked, watching her leave.
“Ilana’s coming to my baseball practice,” he said with a pleased smile. “You want to come?”
“Uh . . .” I chewed my lip. “If I say yes, do I have to actually show up?”
Chase rolled his eyes. “Never mind. What’s going on?”
“I have a moral dilemma I need help with,” I said.
His expression turned serious. “Yes, you should leave tap dancing off your list of theater skills.”
I scowled at him. “My dancing is fine. I just didn’t know the edge of the stage was so close.”
“Then I’d leave ‘observant’ off your list of theater skills,” said Chase.
I gasped in mock dismay and raised a fist. Chase laughed and threw his arms up protectively, spilling papers out of Ilana’s binder. We both bent to grab them.
“All right, I’ll be serious,” he said, sliding the papers back into the folder pocket. “What’s your moral dilemma?”
“Huh?” My attention was now on one of the papers in my hand.
Audition Assessment . . . MPI, it said. Below that was a list of comments in different handwritings and different colored pens.
This was an audition evaluation for Mary Pops In!
I shifted it aside and saw another one underneath.
“What’s that?” asked Chase.
I jumped up and held the papers against my chest. “Some homework of mine that Ilana borrowed. Small world, huh?” I laughed loudly and grabbed the binder from Chase. “What else is in there?”
“Just lab notes and poetry about her mom.”
“Oh. Lame.” I thrust the binder back at him.
“I’d leave ‘compassionate’ off the résumé too,” said Chase.
“Uh-huh,” I said absentmindedly. “Well, I’ve gotta go. Later!” With the pages still pressed to my chest, I walked away at a hurried pace.
“Hey!” Chase called. “I thought you had a question!”
“I do!” I shouted over my shoulder.
The question was . . . what did the audition assessments say?
FIVE
I COULD BARELY FOCUS IN MATH, with the stack of assessments taunting me from my notebook. The moment the teacher let us do busy work, I pounced on the first review . . . Bree’s.
It started out okay, even though her name was spelled B-r-i-e, like the cheese. She’d been rated highly on emotion and style, but under stage presence and vocals, there were a series of back-and-forth
comments.
Is she talking? I can’t hear her.
My eyebrows rose. That was Ilana’s handwriting.
She’s quiet but good! Someone else wrote in pink pen.
Maybe if she gestured more with her hands? Another person suggested in blue.
Forget it, wrote Ilana. This isn’t Mime-y Poppins. She won’t work as a lead.
I frowned at the assessment. Bree was quiet, but if she had a microphone, she’d be fine. Ilana needed to give her some credit.
I shifted that assessment to the back and looked at the next one for a boy named Max. Again, the first comment was from Ilana.
Does he have to shout everything? Although . . . between him and Brie, we’d have a normal-sounding person.
“Awww!” I said out loud. At a look from my algebra teacher, I added, “Curse you, stupid equation!”
The teacher frowned but turned away, and I went back to reading Max’s assessment.
But he’s cute! commented the judge with the pink pen.
Plus, he’s funny, added the blue.
Yeah, and he could shatter glass with his voice, wrote Ilana. Make him a village kid.
I glanced at Ilana, who was giving her makeover pitch to a girl in orange lipstick. Considering what she’d said about not having control, she seemed to be calling a lot of the shots on casting.
I read the other assessments, and the pattern was the same. Thoughtful comments from her co-judges and thinly veiled insults from Ilana. Every rejection was for some reason that might make a little sense if it wasn’t so incredibly shallow.
At the bottom of the pile, I found mine.
Cute! She’d be good as the housekeeper, wrote Ilana.
The housekeeper? I snapped my head up to glare in her direction.
Ilana hadn’t suggested me for Mary Poppins at all!
I returned to the page to see what the others had to say.
We already have that role filled, wrote Pink Pen. How about Jane Banks?
Or even Mary Poppins? suggested Blue Pen. Sunny’s a pretty good singer.
I felt a momentary surge of satisfaction that at least someone had considered me for a lead role.
But then I saw Ilana’s next comment.
Jane Banks can’t be Asian with white parents. It’s not normal. And an Asian Mary Poppins would just be weird.
D Is for Drama Page 3
