D Is for Drama

by Jo Whittemore

  Thankfully, that answer seemed to satisfy Bree. A few moments later, the theater doors swung open, and Ilana burst in with several other actors on her heels.

  “Here we go,” I whispered.

  A small thrill went up my spine as I saw Chase walk in with a couple buddies, and I resisted the urge to knock on the glass and wave to him. Or rather . . . Bree made me resist the urge.

  “Don’t draw any attention,” she warned. “Ilana would eat us alive.”

  I glanced at the stage. “You mean like those kids in the corner?”

  Ilana had backed two chimney sweeps against a wall and was scolding them.

  “I wish I could hear her,” said Bree.

  “She’s probably saying ‘If any of that dust gets on me, I’m gonna kick you in the chim-chimi-knee!’” I guessed.

  Bree snickered. “And they’re saying ‘Soot yourself!’”

  I put my hand over my mouth to keep the laughter in. Luckily for the chimney sweeps, Ilana was intent on starting the rehearsal, and she darted about the stage snapping at people and herding them into the center.

  “She’s like a sheepdog,” said Bree.

  “Except sheepdogs don’t bite as hard,” I said.

  Everyone gathered in a large circle, but instead of instructing like I expected, Ilana joined the circle too.

  “What are they doing?” I asked.

  Before Bree could answer, Chase stepped into the middle of the circle and stopped with his arms outstretched.

  “I am a telephone pole,” he said in a loud, booming voice.

  Someone from the opposite side of the circle stepped in and held onto one of Chase’s arms.

  “I am a bird on a telephone pole,” she proclaimed.

  “They must be doing a warm-up exercise,” I whispered. “That’s a good idea.”

  “Um . . . no,” said Bree. “I’m not hanging from someone’s arm and making bird calls.”

  A boy joined the two in the middle. “I am a man shooting a bird on a telephone pole,” he said.

  “Not even if someone would put you out of your misery?” I asked Bree.

  She giggled and whispered, “Shhh.”

  The warm-up continued until Ilana was the last person to join. When she finished, everyone clapped and ran off stage.

  Those who weren’t in the opening scene sat in the audience, except for two guys who, to my horror, headed straight for the control booth.

  “Crap!” I whispered. “Abort mission, Bree!”

  “What do we do?!” she squeaked.

  “Out the back!”

  We ran for the exit. I turned the knob, but the door wouldn’t budge. “It’s locked from the inside!”

  “Sunny,” said Bree, “we’re on the inside.”

  “Oh. Right!” I ran my hand up and down the frame, feeling for a deadbolt. I unlatched it and pushed with all my might. Nothing.

  “Sunny, they’re almost here!” Bree warned.

  “It’s stuck!” I hissed at her.

  “Too late!” Bree tugged me away from the door and back to the table. “Hide!”

  We cowered underneath and formed our bodies into the tiniest balls possible. The light from the outside hallway revealed two pairs of feet advancing on us. I squeezed Bree’s hand, but thankfully, the owners of the feet just dropped into chairs.

  “I am so done with this theater crap,” one of the guys said. “Wait, that’s not right. I’m so done with Ilana’s crap.”

  “No joke,” said the other guy. “Control freak to the extreme.”

  I wished they’d shut up so I could hear what was happening onstage. Chase was the first to appear, and the guys at the table cued his music.

  Chase sang well, but there was no arrogance in his voice, which was what I needed for Fiyero. The rest of the villagers crowded around to listen to Chase singing poetry in the park while playing a bongo drum.

  The intro song ended, and he and the villagers left. The scene changed to Mrs. Banks and her followers, the Soul Sister Suffragettes, vying for gender equality. They sang:

  We’re clearly soldiers in flashy tights.

  Dauntless crusaders for womens’ rights

  I bit my hand to keep a giggle from escaping, especially when they got to the chorus.

  Our daughters’ daughters will applaud us

  Saying “Y’all are just the hottest!”

  You rock, Soul Sister Suffragette!

  Bree shifted beside me, and I heard her let out a soft whimper of laughter.

  But then something strange happened. The longer I watched, the more I noticed how professional and put-together the cast was. They moved seamlessly from song to song, and their voices blended in harmony. Forget needing a week’s worth of practice; they were ready to go.

  Bree nudged me as a guy named Cam stepped onstage and started singing. He was playing Mr. Banks, so parts of his lines were spoken, but the rest he warbled in a throaty voice that had just a hint of conceit.

  Cam’s pipes were perfect for Fiyero.

  All I needed was to coax him into recording Suresh’s singing parts and then practice like mad with the others to get their numbers nailed down by Friday.

  But that would have to wait until I tackled a bigger, more immediate problem.

  The guys manning the control booth were getting bored. And when guys get bored, disgusting things happen.

  “Hey,” one of them said, “guess what I ate for lunch.”

  The other one chuckled. “What?”

  In answer, his friend farted long and loud.

  Both guys cracked up.

  “Ugh, dude, I’m guessing you ate spoiled eggs!” the non-farter said.

  Bree stiffened beside me, and I tried to maintain my cool. Maybe farts worked on the same principle as hot air. Maybe they rose into the atmosphere, and we’d be safe under the table.

  “Dude. Check this out,” said the non-farter. And then he quickly lost that title, releasing his own.

  I was wrong. I was ever so wrong! Farts didn’t work like hot air. Farts worked like sprinklers, hitting everything in a twelve-foot radius. I clamped my hand over my nose and got as close to the floor as possible, hoping the worst was over.

  But everything was a contest with guys.

  “Oh yeah?” said the one who’d first let fly. “How about—”

  “Stop!” I popped my head out from under the table, and both guys screamed. One of them fell out of his chair entirely. “It’s like a gas chamber in here!”

  “Yeah,” said Bree, popping out to join me. The guys screamed again. “Why don’t you clip an air freshener to the back of your pants?”

  “What . . . what are you doing here?” one of them asked, flipping on the light. Bree and I looked at each other.

  “We were . . . taking a nap,” I said. “Until you disturbed us.”

  Bree shook her head. “Looks like we’ll have to find someplace else to go.” She brushed past the boys and pulled open the door on the back wall.

  “Oh, it’s a pull,” I said.

  She silenced me with a look, and we walked with quiet dignity out the exit. Once we were in the hallway, though, we burst into giggles.

  “That was nasty!” I said, doing a shudder dance.

  “They could definitely take Ammo in a battle of the butts,” said Bree.

  We fell against the wall, laughing, until we heard footsteps clomping down the hall, swift and determined.

  Bree paled and her eyes widened. “The principal?”

  I set my lips in a tight line, recognizing the footfalls. “Someone even worse,” I said. “Chase’s dad.”

  A tall, red-haired man in a snappy black suit and tie came around the corner. He smiled broadly when he saw us.

  “Good evening, ladies! Sunny, have you seen Chase?” He stuck out his arm and tapped his watch. “He’s a little late for baseball practice.”

  I peeked into the auditorium. “He’s onstage, Mr. O’Malley. Doing the chimney sweep waltz.”

  Mr. O’M
alley’s eyebrows lifted. “He’s a chimney sweep . . . and a dancer? Those sound like promising career paths.”

  He smiled again, but his neck muscles were tight.

  “It’s just a play, sir,” I said. “I’m sure he’s got big dreams for his future. Big . . . responsible dreams.”

  “Well, he’s not going to see them come true if he’s dancing with brooms.” Mr. O’Malley bent to eye level with me. “Be a doll and fetch him, won’t you?”

  I stepped back and held the door open. “Parents are allowed in, sir.”

  “Yes, well, I’d rather not be sucked into”—he waved his arm in front of him—“that nonsense.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone, punching unseen keys on its surface.

  “I’ll go,” said Bree, slipping past me into the theater. She could probably feel the tension building between me and Mr. O’Malley.

  “Sir,” I said, leaning against the wall, “if you’re so against this, why do you even let Chase stay at CAA?”

  Mr. O’Malley shifted his eyes to look at me without lifting his head.

  “His mother wished it, and I’m not one to dishonor her memory,” he said. He went back to looking at his phone. “Besides, his education here’s almost over. When he reaches high school, he’ll put theater behind him.”

  “But what if he doesn’t want to?” I asked.

  Mr. O’Malley winked at me. “He wants to.”

  I pressed my lips together, wondering how much further I could push it. “He seems to be really good at it.”

  “Oh, I know he is,” Mr. O’Malley admitted. “In fact, I don’t think there’s anything that boy of mine can’t do well.” He puffed out his chest a bit.

  Chase was right. He wasn’t all bad.

  “You should see his trophy collection,” his dad continued. “His mother made me promise to keep every one. Even his Best Supporting Goat ribbon for Three Billy Goats Gruff.” His shoulders shifted as he chuckled to himself.

  “Really?” I asked with a smile.

  He nodded. “She wanted him to remember that life rewards you for working hard.” His face softened a little. “She was a smart woman.”

  The theater doors opened, and Bree appeared with Chase in tow.

  “Ah, here we are!” said Mr. O’Malley, all business again. “Son, you must have forgotten about baseball today! I received a call from your coach.”

  The flush in Chase’s cheeks and the frown lines in his forehead made it very clear that he hadn’t forgotten, but Chase simply nodded.

  “Must have, sir,” he said.

  “Well, grab your things and let’s go,” said Mr. O’Malley. “We should make it there right after the seventh-inning stretch!”

  Chase’s shoulders slouched, but he held up the bag in his hand. “Ready, sir,” he said.

  “Always thinking ahead. That’s my boy!” Mr. O’Malley clapped him on the shoulder. Then he turned to me and Bree. “Ladies, do you need a ride home?”

  “No, thank you,” said Bree.

  Chase’s eyes darted to mine.

  “I could use a ride,” I said. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Not at all!” Mr. O’Malley gestured for us to follow him down the hall, his high spirits returned.

  We reached the car, and Chase sat up front with his dad while I climbed in back.

  “So, Sunny, did Chase tell you about the no-hitter he pitched in his last game?” asked his dad.

  “No, sir,” I said. Then, looking over the seat at Chase, I added, “Very nice!”

  Chase’s gloomy expression lightened a bit. “It was no big deal.”

  “Are you kidding me?” exclaimed Mr. O’Malley. “Sunny, I’m telling you: My boy’s got talent!”

  Now Chase was full-on grinning.

  “Thanks, Dad,” he said.

  I wanted to remind him that Chase also had theater talent, but I knew my words alone wouldn’t matter.

  Chase’s dad would have to see for himself.

  THIRTEEN

  EVERY DAY, MY LIST OF tasks was getting longer. When I’d first decided to do my show, all I needed was a script. Now, I not only had to fix Suresh’s singing, but also prep for Friday’s critiqued performance and take care of blocking, costumes, makeup, and scenery.

  And if I wanted something done right, I had to do it myself.

  Even though there was so little of me to spread around, I was determined to make Wicked stand up to Mary Pops In. The last thing I needed was for the agent to love Ilana’s show more than mine.

  Tuesday morning I marched into the cafeteria and approached Cam, the guy playing Mr. Banks, with an offer he couldn’t refuse.

  “Here’s twenty dollars,” I said, dropping some wrinkled bills on the table.

  He glanced up, startled. “Did I miss something?”

  “Sorry. Hi.” I smiled at him. “I need a job done, and I need it kept quiet. You in?”

  Cam picked up one of the bills. “That depends, 1920s Gangster,” he said. “Who do I have to bump off?”

  “Ha-ha. It’s not that kind of job.” I dropped into a chair and said in a low voice, “I need you to record two songs for my show. By Thursday.”

  Cam lowered his voice to match mine. “Don’t you have an entire cast for that?”

  I shook my head. “One of our lead guys can’t sing.”

  “You mean Suresh?” Cam asked, eating a bite of cereal.

  “Shhh!” I glanced around nervously. “And yes. How did you know?”

  “He tortures songs during PE,” said Cam. “No matter how many dodgeballs we throw at him.”

  I smoothed out the money I’d tossed on the table. “Could you please do it? I’ll even give you credit in the playbill.”

  Cam chewed his cereal thoughtfully. “Is Suresh okay with this? I don’t want to hurt his feelings.”

  “Trust me,” I said. “His feelings will be hurt way more if people jam pencils in their ears during the show.”

  Cam laughed. “All right. Give me the lyrics and the music, and I’ll get it done.” He held out his hand and I placed the money in it.

  “By Thursday,” I said.

  “By Thursday,” he promised.

  With that chore out of the way, I could focus on my next big dilemma: getting everyone else to sing loud, good, and in harmony. The day before, I thought we’d made tremendous progress from the start of rehearsal to the end. On, Tuesday, however, it felt like we’d taken two huge steps backward.

  When I first walked into the theater, everyone was sitting around talking instead of prepping. Then the opening song, which was supposed to be joyful and upbeat, sounded sarcastic and catty.

  “Good news,” they all sang. “She’s dead.”

  I stopped them. “Guys, the Wicked Witch is dead. We should be happy!”

  “I failed my math quiz!” Max mourned in a booming voice. “I can’t be happy.”

  “And Mary Pops In got a chimney sweep from the original film to teach them dance moves,” said Wendy. “We’ll look like fools compared to them!”

  Other people chimed in with complaints, and our practice quickly started to collapse.

  “Guys,” I shouted above them all, “we have to focus. Now, come on. Happy!” I pulled my lips into a smile with my fingers and looked from person to person.

  They all attempted to imitate me, but the end result was a lot of sneers and half smiles.

  “Uh . . . okay, good enough,” I said. “Let’s take it from the top.”

  But instead of singing, they all looked past me into the audience. I turned and almost fell off the stage in surprise.

  Grandma was tottering down the aisle toward us.

  She waved when she saw me. “Hello, Sunny!”

  “Hey, Grandma!” I jumped off the stage and hurried over to her. In a quieter voice, I added, “What are you doing here?”

  She rested her purse on a chair.

  “I wonder how your show is going,” she said, “but I can’t ask your parents, so I find out myself
.” She leaned past me to wave at the others. “Hello!”

  They all mumbled hellos, except for Holly, who clapped her palms together and bowed at the waist.

  Grandma glanced at me. “What is that?”

  “Holly,” I said, as if it was enough explanation. I pointed to the chair beside Grandma’s purse. “Have a seat. We’re working on our opening song.”

  “Oh, good!” She rubbed her hands together.

  I clambered back onstage and whispered, “Guys, that is my grandma. She is our audience. If you can’t be happy for me, be happy for her.”

  I started the music again and, to everyone’s credit, they tried, but the song was still lackluster. When it ended, everyone slumped as if it had taken all their energy.

  I chanced a peek at Grandma and did a double take. She was now standing on the roof of the orchestra pit and leaning against the stage.

  “I didn’t feel the song,” she said, looking up at me.

  “Yeah, we didn’t bring it,” I said with an apologetic smile. I turned back to the others. “Let’s move on to—”

  “Again,” said Grandma.

  I took a steadying breath and counted to three. “Sorry, Grandma?” I asked with a bright smile.

  “Do it again,” she said, shaking a finger at me. “You can’t practice badly once and move on!”

  “We didn’t practice badly once,” Suresh spoke up. “We practiced badly twice.”

  Grandma shook her head. “Then you try again.”

  The group muttered and moaned.

  “Nobody’s in the mood, Grandma,” I said.

  She narrowed her eyes at all of us. “Then you get in the mood.”

  Before I could stop her, she’d hoisted her upper body onto the stage and lifted her right leg, attempting to swing the rest of her body over the edge.

  “Grandma, there’re stairs,” I said as she struggled to bring her left leg up to join the right. “They’re probably quicker . . . ” Her skirt rode up a few inches. “And less embarrassing for your grandchild.”

  Derek rushed forward. “Let me help you, ma’am.”

  He bent to take Grandma’s arm, and Cole ran up to grab the other. It was the most awkward stage entrance I’d ever seen, but Grandma didn’t seem to notice.

  The guys hauled her to her feet, and she thanked them, brushing off her clothes.