D Is for Drama

by Jo Whittemore

  “Right now?” I asked.

  Holly giggled. “I think that’s the definition of ASAP.”

  “Okay,” I said with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

  “Want to gallop?” asked Holly. “We’ll get there faster.” She dashed forward a few paces and came back to me. “See?”

  It was like taking a small child to the zoo.

  “I’m not really in a rush to see Ms. Elliott,” I said.

  Holly slowed to a walk. “Why not? She’s super nice.”

  “I know.” I glanced behind us to make sure nobody was following. “But I think someone’s been telling her bad things about the show.”

  Holly frowned. “Ilana? She can be a pain in the butt.”

  I busted out laughing. “Holly! I can’t believe you said that!”

  She looked pleased with herself.

  I leaned closer. “And I can’t believe you guessed right.”

  Holly shrugged. “People think that super peppy means super stupid, but they’re wrong.”

  “Clearly,” I said with a smile.

  We stopped just outside Ms. Elliott’s office, and Holly sidled up along the wall like a cat burglar.

  “Do you want me to go with you?” she whispered.

  I shook my head. “Thanks, but the show was my idea. I should deal with whatever happens.”

  “Good luck,” she said solemnly. “And FYI, Ms. Elliott’s prop budget got cut today.”

  I closed my eyes. “Great. Thanks for the warning.”

  Poking my head around the corner I could see Ms. Elliott stabbing numbers on her calculator and furiously scribbling on a notepad.

  In the quietest voice possible, I asked, “You wanted to see me, Ms. Elliott?”

  Her head whipped up so fast that her glasses slid down her nose. “Sunny!” Her smile was tight. “Sit down, please.”

  I perched on the edge of one of the chairs. Ms. Elliott shoved the adding machine and paper in her desk and pulled out a single piece of notebook paper with a list of names on it.

  “Yours, I believe.” She pushed it across the desk, and I saw it was the audition results from my show.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “You told me if other people wanted to be in my show, I had to let them in. And I did.”

  Ms. Elliott leaned back. “But from what I hear, it’s quite a motley crew you’ve got, punching each other in the face and starting fights during rehearsal.”

  I gritted my teeth, silently cursing Ilana.

  “That punch was accidental and the fight was resolved,” I said.

  But Ms. Elliott wasn’t listening. “I’ve also been told you have no director. No guidance.”

  “We’re working on that,” I said.

  Ms. Elliott stood and paced the floor around me and her desk. “Sunny, when I agreed to let you do this, I trusted you’d be all right on your own.”

  “We will be,” I said. “We just need time to get our . . . act together.” I smiled, hoping she’d like the pun.

  She didn’t.

  “You’re not taking this seriously,” she said with a frown.

  “We are, I swear!” I said. “If you want, you can supervise our rehearsals.”

  Ms. Elliott sighed. “No, I don’t have time. We’ve had our budget cut after the props were ordered, and I now have to come up with money another way.” She dropped into her seat, hair gone wild and glasses crooked on her nose.

  “I’m sorry that happened,” I said. “But I can make my show work.”

  “I hope so,” she said with a smile. “Because if I’m not impressed by your progress next Friday, I’m pulling the show.”

  “Next Friday?” I repeated in my most casual tone. “No problem.”

  “Good.” Ms. Elliott returned to her calculations and I backed out gracefully.

  But the second I reached the hallway, not even a cheetah could’ve outrun me.

  “Breeeeee!” I shouted when I tracked her down in the math lab.

  She looked up from her notebook with wide eyes. “I’m working on the letter to myself right now, I swear!”

  “No, it’s not you. It’s Ilana!” I growled.

  Bree dropped her pencil. “Oh no. Is it something with the show? Is it canceled?”

  “It will be if we can’t impress Ms. Elliott by next Friday,” I said.

  Bree’s skin turned paler than her paper. “How impressive do we have to be?”

  “Level Two impressive,” I said.

  “Level Two.” She swallowed audibly and put her notebook away. “What do you need?”

  “Meet me in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Spread the word to the rest of the theater group . . .” I held up a finger and corrected myself. “Our theater group.” I rubbed my chin. “We should really come up with a name. Like ‘Broadway Bound’ or ‘The Talent Troupe.’”

  Bree grabbed my arm. “Sunny.”

  “Right. Focus. I’ll see who else I can track down. And don’t breathe a word to anyone outside the . . . group.” Then I darted out of the room.

  I was able to get the message to five other people before lunch, and when I reached the cafeteria, I was pleased to see that word had spread to everyone. They were all sitting at a corner table in the art crowd, whispering nervously and glancing around.

  Bree was the first to spot me and wave me over.

  “We figured this was the best place to sit,” she said, “since artists and actors don’t really get together and gossip.”

  “Good idea,” I said, unrolling a large piece of paper and taping it to the table. To the rest of the group I said, “Guys, we have a little problem. Ms. Elliott heard how bad our first reading went—”

  “I thought it was great,” interrupted Suresh.

  Bree turned to him. “Really? Was that before or after the arm wrestling?”

  “Anyway,” I said. “She’s afraid we’re not taking this seriously, so next Friday she’s going to evaluate us. We’ve got to be up to Level Two standards.”

  Bree nodded, and Suresh and a few others groaned.

  Anne Marie raised her hand. “What’s Level Two?”

  I held up a black marker. “Good question.” On the giant sheet of paper I wrote the numbers one through seven. Then I wrote the following:

  1: Lines

  2: Songs

  3: Memory

  4: Costumes and props

  5: Blocking and lights

  6: Dress rehearsal

  7: Performance

  “According to friends of mine, every CAA theater production has seven levels to completion,” I said. “One for each week. Level One is reading lines.” I underlined the word.

  “That means by the end of the first week there can’t be any mispronunciations or hesitation,” said Bree.

  “But we’ve had only one table reading,” Wendy spoke up. “And, as Sunny says, it stunk.”

  I pointed my marker at her. “That’s why we’re in trouble. Next week when Ms. Elliott comes, we should be done with line reading and have our musical numbers down.”

  My words were met with a chorus of groans.

  “If we can’t produce,” I said, “Ms. Elliott cancels the show.”

  The groans turned to wails of despair.

  “We’ll never make it!” shouted Max.

  “It’s impossible!” said Wendy, pounding the table with her fists.

  I glanced at Bree. “Maybe our group name should be ‘The Melodramatics.’”

  She grinned. “I actually kind of like that.”

  Thankfully, among all the moans and groans there were a few voices of optimism.

  “We just have to work harder,” said Anne Marie.

  “Until there’s blood, sweat, and tears!” agreed Tim, eyes wider than ever.

  A couple kids shifted uncomfortably.

  I squeezed Tim’s shoulder. “I like your enthusiasm, but let’s leave out bodily fluids.” To the others, I said, “Guys, it’ll be easy. If we meet this weekend, we can practice five or six times and be back on sched
ule for Level Two on Monday!”

  Again, my bright idea was underappreciated.

  “You want me to give up my weekend for this?!”

  “Saturday and Sunday are my only days away from school!”

  “I have to help my brother put red dye in the park fountain so it looks like blood!”

  The last one was, of course, from Derek.

  I was close to having a riot on my hands, but I remembered what my mom had said the night before.

  Someone always steps up and takes charge.

  I didn’t want the role of director, but I was the closest we were going to get. So I listened for a minute more to the complaints and took a steadying breath.

  “Guys,” I said, “I’m sorry to take your personal time, but it’s one Saturday afternoon. I’ll give you today off, and we can read at the park tomorrow so you won’t have to come to school.” I turned to Derek. “And so you can watch your brother get handcuffed when the cops bust him.”

  People still didn’t seem convinced.

  It was time to pull out all the stops.

  “All right, listen.” I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “You guys have to keep this a secret, but on opening night, there’s going to be an agent in the audience.”

  At the mention of an agent, the mood at the table instantly shifted. Instead of slumping over in dejection, everyone sat up a bit straighter with a new fire in their eyes. Of course, none of them knew the agent was only coming to see me.

  But as long as it motivated them, what could it hurt?

  “What do you say, guys?” I asked. “A few days ago you had nothing. Now you’ve got a chance at fame.”

  “I’m in,” said Suresh, holding up his hand.

  Bree beamed at him. “Me too.” She held up her hand.

  Mine went up, as did Anne Marie’s and a couple others. Slowly, every other hand raised except for Derek’s.

  “Come on,” I told him. “Just a few hours.”

  He sighed. “My brother’s going to kill me.” But he finally raised his hand.

  “Excellent!” I cheered. “See you guys tomorrow at one o’clock in the park!”

  They all dispersed to grab food and visit other friends. All of them except Derek.

  “So . . .” He shoved his hands in his back pockets. “Since I agreed to hang out with you guys instead of my brother—”

  I smiled. “You’re not in trouble anymore, Derek.”

  “Good,” he said, relaxing a little. “Oh. And here.” He pulled a folded piece of paper from his back pocket.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  I started to open it, but Derek stopped me.

  “Don’t read it here. It’s the letter to my character,” he said.

  I stared at the paper, which suddenly felt different in my hand. Like it was more than just lead on a page.

  “Derek, I’m . . . impressed,” I said with a smile. “You didn’t turn in a blank sheet like Suresh.”

  Derek smirked. “Suresh handed in a blank sheet?”

  I nodded. “He said his character spends so much time goofing off in class, he probably can’t read anyway.”

  Derek laughed. “I should’ve thought of that!”

  “Well . . . thanks for the letter,” I said. “And sorry to pull you away from all the fun you had planned.”

  He shrugged. “My brother has his art. It’s time for me to have my own thing too.”

  We waved good-bye, and I smiled to myself until I turned and bumped into . . . his evil twin.

  “Hey,” I mumbled, stepping around him.

  “Hey,” said Ammo. He held out a rolled-up piece of paper. “Listen, I wanted to offer this as my way of saying sorry for the other day. I didn’t mean to single you out with that insult.”

  “Really?”

  This was turning into a very surprising lunch period.

  “Wow, thanks, Ammo!” I unrolled the paper. “You didn’t have to—”

  The words “Freak Show” glared up at me, scribbled in black marker.

  That was more what I expected.

  Ammo tapped the paper. “I overheard Ilana say that and thought it was catchy.”

  Below the title he’d drawn caricatures of everyone in my cast with their flaws amplified. Max had an enormous mouth; Wendy’s arms were long, wiggly, and out of control; Janice was a fountain spewing saliva . . . and standing apart from all of us was Derek, bound and gagged.

  I crumpled the paper and shoved it in Ammo’s chest.

  “You’re a jerk!” I snapped.

  Ammo shrugged. “I told you I didn’t mean to single you out. I meant to insult all of you.” He uncrumpled the paper and pointed to an illustration. “Look at the one of you. I didn’t know whether to go with ruthless dictator or Bruce Lee.” He shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if you knew any martial arts.”

  I smiled sweetly at him. “I know one kick.”

  It wasn’t a move Bruce Lee would’ve approved of, but it definitely brought Ammo to his knees.

  ELEVEN

  MY LITTLE GIRL IS GOING on her first date!” cooed Mom that afternoon. Her reflection hovered behind mine in the mirror while I got ready to meet Chase.

  “It’s not a date,” I told her. “We haven’t called it that, and he hasn’t given me any cattle.”

  “I see.” Mom pulled my hair back and twisted it on top of my head. “Well, if it’s not a date, I guess you won’t want that.” She nodded to a white box on the bathroom counter.

  “What is it?” I tried to sound casual, but my fingers fumbled to get it open. Dark purple gemstones twinkled at me.

  I sucked in my breath and lifted one of the earrings out of the box. “They’re gorgeous.”

  “Purple sapphires,” said Mom, shielding my eyes from a hairspray shower. “From one of my movies. The director let me keep them.”

  “Wow,” I said. “The only thing I ever got from a show was a Peter & the Pans poster.”

  Mom gave me a curious look.

  “From that kindergarten play I did where Peter Pan grows up to be a dessert chef?” I reminded her.

  She nodded. “That’s right. You were one of the Lost Boysenberries.” We smiled at each other in the mirror.

  “Lame,” I said. “But it was my ticket to stardom, right?”

  Mom squeezed my shoulder. “You’re still young. And look how far you’ve already come! Star of the school play with a potential agent in your future!” She winked at me.

  I lowered my head and stared at the sapphires.

  “About that—” I ventured.

  “Try the earrings,” she said. “Let’s see how they look.”

  Since they were beautiful in the box, I knew they’d be just as pretty in person. And sure enough, with my hair pulled up, I looked like the movie star I wanted to be instead of the fraud I actually was.

  “Perfect!” Mom clapped her hands together.

  “Mom,” I said. “There’s—”

  She held up a finger. “I think I hear something.”

  Dad poked his head in the bathroom. “Chase is waiting downstairs, ladies.” He stepped back and smiled at me. “Your first date.”

  My eyes widened, and I put my finger to my lips. “Dad, shhh! It’s not a date!” I whispered.

  Dad glanced over his shoulder and turned back with a smile. “The way he’s dressed, I’d have to disagree.”

  “What?!” Sweat sprang up on my palms, and I gave Mom a worried glance.

  “You look beautiful,” she promised, pushing me toward the staircase.

  “How is he dressed?” I asked Dad, clinging to the banister. “Business suit? Tuxedo? Did he bring a marriage cow?”

  “Go,” said Dad, prying up my fingers. “Have fun. But be home by nine.”

  I patted my hair and ran my hands down my blouse, leaving sweat streaks behind. My earrings were classy, but the rest of me screamed Awkward!

  Chase was sitting in the front room, and he stood when he saw me. He was wearing jeans too (thank goodness) b
ut had definitely stepped up his shirt from the usual hang-out attire. He even smelled nicer.

  “Hey, Sunny,” he said. “You look—”

  “I just washed my hands!” I blurted in greeting. “And I used my shirt to dry them!” I pointed to the sweat streaks.

  “Uh . . . same here,” he said, pointing to identical stains on his button-up.

  Our eyes met, and we laughed.

  “So . . . you look good,” I said, ducking my head in embarrassment.

  “Thanks.” Chase blushed. “My dad thought I was underdressed.” He lowered his voice an octave in his best imitation. “Nothing says ‘successful bachelor’ like a coat and tie!”

  “Bachelor?” I repeated. “He knows you’re thirteen, right?”

  “Going on thirty,” said Chase with a nod. “And . . . um . . . I was going to say that you look nice too, also, by the way.”

  I blushed and moved to wipe sweat on my clothes again, but thought better of it and put my hands behind my back.

  “Ready to go?” I asked.

  Chase cleared his throat and held open the front door. “Fair lady.” He bowed with a sweeping gesture.

  I laughed, glad to be back in our comfort zone. With a curtsy, I stepped onto the porch and glanced up and down the street.

  “Where is the chariot to take us to yonder shopping mall?” I asked.

  “Alas,” said Chase, “we journey on foot, for my father believes it builds character.”

  “And blisters,” I said.

  But it was a cool night, and I couldn’t have had better company. The entire walk there, we sang show tunes from our favorite musicals. Mine was Singin’ in the Rain and Chase’s was, of course, a musical about baseball called Damn Yankees.

  Just for him, I launched into a rendition of “Shoeless Joe from Hannibal, MO.” Chase whistled and clapped.

  “Much better than the high school production,” he said.

  “Be nice!” I nudged him. “Stefan was in that.”

  “And Stefan was good,” Chase said loyally. “But the girl playing the reporter sounded nothing like you.”

  I blushed and grinned. “Thanks.”

  Dinner was delicious, but I still wasn’t clear whether or not we were on a date. Chase held the door open for me when we walked into the restaurant, but he also burped while drinking soda. He paid to split a dessert with me, but he also ate more than half.