D Is for Drama

by Jo Whittemore

  I had to agree.

  At the end of the hour, everyone thanked Stefan and dashed off to eat lunch before next class. Except me. I hung back to ask him a favor.

  “Another one?” he asked, jumping down from the stage. “You realize even genies only grant so many wishes.”

  “Yes, but I can pay this time!” I said. I fished through my backpack and pulled out an envelope. “Here. Two hundred dollars.”

  I’d cleared out almost all of my personal savings for this favor. The only thing left in my bank was three quarters and some lint.

  Stefan sighed and crossed his arms. “Before I take anything, let me decide if I can even grant this favor.”

  “It’s about Chase,” I said. “His dad pulled him from Mary Pops In because he thinks theater is silly and pointless.”

  I could almost see the spikes in Stefan’s hair stand on end. “I see,” he said in an even voice.

  “So I was hoping you’d help me show him the power a little performing can have.”

  One corner of Stefan’s mouth curled up in a smile. “Go on.”

  I told him my plan, and the more I explained, the broader his smile got.

  “What do you think?” I asked when I was finished.

  Stefan scratched his chin. “Just so you know, what you’re asking will take a couple weeks. It won’t be done in time to get him back into Mary Pops In,” he said.

  I shook my head. “It doesn’t matter. This isn’t about one moment in his life. This is about his entire future.”

  Stefan threw an arm around me and pulled me close for a hug. “That is the most mature thing I’ve ever heard you say. All right, I’m in.”

  “For free?” I asked hopefully.

  “Uh . . . no,” said Stefan, sliding the envelope out of my hand. “In fact, I should be charging you way more.”

  He had a point. My plan required eight people besides Chase.

  “Okay,” I agreed and hugged him back. “Thank you so much for everything,” I said.

  “Good luck with Ms. Elliott,” he told me. “And come by the shop Friday to let me know how it goes.”

  I nodded and watched him leave, hoping what he’d taught us would be enough.

  CM WAS BETTER than his word, getting me the disc of recorded songs the very next morning.

  “Oooh, thank you so much!” I told him.

  “No problem,” he said. “And good luck. I hope you guys sell a lot of tickets for your show.”

  I looked up from slipping the disc in my backpack. “What do you mean?” I asked with a confused smile. “We’re part of the same showcase as you.”

  Cam shook his head. “Our shows are the same night, but we’re charging admission separately to help with the budget crunch. It was Ilana’s idea.”

  Of course it was. Anything to separate her show from the “freak show.”

  “Well, thanks, and good luck to you guys, too,” I said.

  Cam leaned in and talked out of the corner of his mouth. “And if you . . . uh . . . need any more favors,” he said in his best gangster accent, “you know where to find me, dollface.”

  I rolled my eyes and grinned. “Good-bye, Cam.”

  He winked and strolled away.

  Later that day I ran into Bree and Suresh and gave him the disc. I didn’t bother mentioning the separate ticket sales; that would only bum them out.

  “Make sure you listen to Cam’s voice and practice,” I told Suresh. “So you can move your mouth at the exact same time his voice comes out.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know,” said Suresh, flipping the disc over and over in his hands.

  Bree rubbed his arm. “Don’t be sad. You can’t be good at everything.”

  Suresh scowled at her. “Who says I’m good at anything?”

  “You’re good at doing splits,” I said. “And you’re a good dancer.”

  “And a great boyfriend,” said Bree, gazing up at him admiringly.

  Suresh grinned sheepishly. “All these things are true.”

  “So just practice hard,” I said. “Both of you. Remember . . . there’s an agent in the audience.”

  That became my motivational chant to the Melodramatics any time I saw one of them.

  “To get into character, let’s come up with a playlist of our character’s favorite songs. And practice hard. There’s an agent in the audience!”

  On Thursday, it became, “Let’s step into our characters for the entire day, even during school. And practice hard. There’s an agent in the audience!”

  Friday at lunch, when I gathered everyone for a final run-through, the first thing Suresh said was, “Sunny, please no more character exercises. The voices in my head are keeping me up at night.”

  “Yeah, and people were really annoyed when I followed them around and narrated their lives,” said Tim.

  I smiled. “Sorry, guys. But don’t forget—”

  “There’s an agent in the audience!” several people shouted.

  We all laughed, and I held up my hands.

  “Okay, okay. You get the point!”

  In our brief rehearsal we maneuvered through dance steps and the trickier songs. I had to give Suresh credit. He was mouthing the lyrics so precisely, it was almost impossible to tell the voice coming over the speakers wasn’t his. I was pretty pleased with our progress, and I really hoped Ms. Elliott would notice.

  When she walked into Blakely Auditorium that afternoon, the Melodramatics were lined up onstage, scripts clutched behind their backs.

  “Good afternoon, everyone,” said Ms. Elliott, settling into the front row with a clipboard.

  “Good afternoon,” we all chorused.

  She smiled at us. “I understand you’ve been working on a show, and I’d like to see it.”

  I cleared my throat. “We’d like to share it with you.”

  Ms. Elliott held her arms open. “Please.”

  The Melodramatics scrambled offstage or into position. I nodded at Cole to cue the music, and the show began.

  And quickly fell apart.

  It was definitely a two-week-old performance. Some of the lines were nervously rushed, and there were awkward pauses where kids missed their cues. I hated to admit it, but we were nowhere near as good as the Mary Pops In cast.

  But—Ms. Elliott sat through the entire show and didn’t yell at us once for ruining the good name of theater. Occasionally, she’d jot something on her clipboard when we were speaking, and during the songs, she tapped her foot.

  And for our dance number? She smiled and leaned back in her chair.

  Score one for Grandma.

  An hour and a half after Ms. Elliott held out her arms for the show to begin, she was drawing them toward her to applaud our finale.

  I motioned to the other Melodramatics, and we gathered at the edge of the stage to hear her judgment.

  “For a production run by students who”—she paused—“to be honest, haven’t acted much, I’m impressed. Although, I did have some critiques to improve your performance for opening night.”

  I grabbed the hands of the people on either side of me. “Opening night?” I repeated. “So we get to keep our show?”

  Ms. Elliott pushed her glasses into place and studied all of us. “Of course,” she said.

  An explosion of cheers and squeals followed, and it took several minutes and a booming “Quiet!” from Max to restore silence. We listened earnestly to Ms. Elliott’s critiques, and when she was done, I excused the rest of the cast to have a private word with her.

  “Thank you so much for giving us a chance,” I said as she handed me the notes from her clipboard. “Once we get the costumes and makeup and scenery taken care of, it’ll look even better,” I promised.

  “It looks wonderful now,” she assured me with a quick smile. Then she placed a hand on my shoulder. “But while we’re on the subject, I wanted to discuss your budget.”

  I glanced down at the hand she’d placed on me and felt a huge weight come with it.

  “Ye
s?” I dared to ask.

  “I’m afraid,” she said, “that I have bad news.”

  FIFTEEN

  THERE ARE TWO KINDS OF bad news.

  1. Expected: “Sunny, I’m cutting you off from coffee because it’s affecting the show. There was no Daddy Starbucks in Annie.”

  2. Unexpected: “Sunny, we’re still having budget issues with Mary Pops In. I have to take most of your funding.”

  That was the bombshell Ms. Elliott chose to drop on me. My mouth fell open and all I could make was a croaking sound.

  “I’m truly sorry,” she continued. “But after we resolved the disaster with prop expenses, we still had to consider the tailoring.” She held a weary hand to her forehead.

  “Do you really need fitted costumes?” I ventured. “Kids grow every day. By the time the show opens, everyone could be busting seams like the Incredible Hulk.”

  Ms. Elliott frowned. “I wish we could do without tailoring, but Ilana made a good point. We’ll have STARS members in the audience, and we can’t afford to look sloppy.”

  Who cared what the STARS members thought? I was going to have an agent in the audience! I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from screaming.

  “What about the kids in my show?” I asked. “You don’t want us to look sloppy, do you?”

  “Well, that’s the good thing, dear,” Ms. Elliott said, squeezing my shoulder. “With the money left in your budget, you could get tailoring done to . . . whatever you find in the wardrobe room.” She gestured vaguely behind the stage.

  I’d seen the outfits in the wardrobe room. They were from previous shows, had been sweated in multiple nights, and needed more disinfecting than any budget could afford.

  “What about special effects?” I asked.

  “You can use the greatest special effect of all,” said Ms. Elliott with a whimsical smile. She pointed to her head. “Your imagination!”

  I stared at her. “My imagination won’t keep me airborne if I jump from the stage rafters,” I said. “Trust me. I tried something similar in a cape.”

  Ms. Elliott sighed and took my hands. “I’m sorry, Sunny, but this is the way things are. And frankly, you’re lucky to be doing a show at all.”

  Her words sounded dangerously close to a threat. In fact, they sounded more like . . .

  “You’re not letting us keep our show because we deserve it,” I said. “You’re doing it because you feel bad taking away everything else.”

  Ms. Elliott released my hands. “Don’t be ridiculous. I think it was an apt performance.”

  “Apt” sounded one step above “I didn’t hate it,” but I knew better than to push it further.

  “Okay, then,” I said. “What’s my new budget?”

  Ms. Elliott only hesitated a second before saying, “A thousand dollars.”

  My heart sank into my stomach. “A thousand dollars?! That barely covers props!”

  Ms. Elliott had reached her sympathy quota for the day. “I know you’ll make it work,” she said, patting my arm. “You’re a clever girl.”

  I didn’t respond. Instead, I snatched my bag out of a chair and stormed out the emergency exit, letting the screaming alarms match the screaming in my head.

  I tried and I tried, but no matter what I did, something fought me at every turn, trying to pull me down. It was getting harder and harder to stand back up. Maybe the universe wanted me to just give up.

  Maybe the universe thought I sucked.

  After all, the only way I could get into a show was to create one of my own. How pathetic was that? I mean, sure, Ilana had played a big part in my exclusion, but what about all the shows before this one? I obviously wasn’t included for a reason.

  Tears welled in my eyes, blurring the street signs. I wiped at the dampness and hurried to catch the crosstown bus. My phone buzzed in my pocket, but I ignored it. The only person I felt like talking to now was Stefan.

  When I appeared in the shop door, he glanced up in surprise, then concern, as I burst into tears. I tried to blubber an explanation but it was difficult to do while crying and running toward him.

  “Oh, Sunny. Did Ms. Elliott cancel the show?” he asked, leaning over to hug me.

  I shook my head into his shirt. “The show’s . . . still . . . on,” I managed.

  Stefan stepped back. “So these are violent, happy tears?”

  I shook my head again and took a deep breath. “Ms. Elliott cut our budget to almost nothing, and she’s letting us keep the show as an act of pity.”

  The bell above the door rang, but Stefan didn’t even look up.

  “How much is almost nothing?” he asked.

  “Our costumes will probably be made from cafeteria napkins,” I said, sniffling.

  Stefan grimaced. “You’re talking a thousand dollars, huh?”

  “Yes,” I said. “This show is doomed. Everything and everyone is against us.”

  The bells over the door rang again, and this time he left to greet the customer. He returned with a box of tissues and a wriggling puppy.

  “I trust you know which is for petting, and which is for blowing your nose,” he said, holding out both.

  I smiled gratefully and took just the puppy, which squirmed until it could lean back and lick my nose.

  “So the odds are stacked against you,” said Stefan, “but you’ve prevailed so far.”

  “It’s not just money.” I hugged the puppy close. “It’s our singing. And our acting. And our dancing.”

  Stefan frowned. “As your one-hour dance instructor, I’m mildly offended.”

  “Okay,” I said. “The dancing’s not horrible, but the rest of the show stinks. If it was just me, that’d be an easy fix. But everyone is just as bad, if not worse.”

  Stefan pursed his lips. “Is this the wrong time to say ‘I told you so’?”

  I scowled and thrust the puppy in his face. “Don’t make me use this.”

  “I’m kidding,” he said. “You’re being too hard on yourself and everyone else. You didn’t really think you’d be ready for Broadway right off the bat, did you?”

  He motioned for me to follow him down a line of fish tanks.

  “I don’t know . . . maybe,” I said. “At least I thought mentioning the agent in the audience would motivate everyone.”

  Stefan stopped and looked at me. “The agent that’s coming to see you?” he asked.

  I blushed. “I may have left that part out. My point is . . . we’re nowhere near as perfect as the kids in Mary Pops In.”

  “Perfect?” Stefan grunted in amusement. “No offense, Sunny, but no one at your school is perfect. I’m not even perfect.”

  I actually smiled. “You mean The Great Stefan has flaws?”

  “Yes,” he muttered out of the corner of his mouth, “but don’t spread that around.”

  “Okay, fine, so we’re far from the best,” I said. “But we’re also far from Mary Pops In quality.”

  Stefan fished around in his apron and pulled out a dog biscuit, which was quickly snatched away by the puppy.

  “That’s not a fair comparison,” he said. “Don’t forget that most of the kids in your show have never spoken more than a couple lines. They have way more learning to do.”

  I considered this for a moment while he took a lid off one of the fish tanks.

  “Even if that’s true,” I said, “how do we avoid looking stupid with our budget?”

  Stefan shrugged and sprinkled food into one of the tanks. “You’re not starting from scratch. CAA has old props and costumes that’ll work if you just use—”

  “Don’t say ‘our imaginations,’” I said. “Or I will shove your head in the piranha tank.”

  “I was going to say ‘supplies from the art department,’” said Stefan, giving me a look.

  “Oh. Sorry,” I said.

  When he finished feeding the fish, I handed him back the puppy. “Thanks for the loaner. And for listening.”

  “Are you gonna be okay now?” he asked, giving me
another hug.

  I nodded. “I should probably go let everyone know what happened with the show. And let you get back to your customers.” I pointed to a group of kids browsing the cat toys.

  They turned to look at us, and I realized with horror that I recognized them all . . . my shouter, my spitter, and my creepy-eyed narrator.

  Max, Janice, and Tim had been standing one aisle over the whole time.

  And they’d heard every word I said.

  There was no doing damage control with this one. Not after three people heard me bash them and the show firsthand. I chanced a look at Stefan, but even he looked unsure of what to do.

  Finally, he said, “Hey, I heard Ms. Elliott approved your show! Let me get you each a congratulatory goldfish.”

  Then he abandoned me to fend for myself.

  It was fitting that I was in a store called Feathers ’N’ Fangs, because the three kids now staring at me looked ready to bare their teeth and go for my throat.

  “Guys,” I said. “Let me explain.”

  “Too late,” said Janice, holding up her cell phone. Max and Tim followed suit. “Everyone in the play now knows how pathetic you think we are.”

  I held up a finger. “I never said pathetic.”

  “No.” Max’s voice made the birds screech in their cages. “But you said the show stank and that everyone is just as bad as, if not worse than, you.”

  “Not to mention, you lied to us about the agent,” added Janice.

  I blushed. “Okay, I did do that.”

  “We’ve been talking about it the last few days . . . all of us,” said Tim.

  Suddenly, those prerehearsal gatherings I walked in on made more sense.

  “And we’re acting on everyone’s behalf,” said Max, “to tell you that you’re through.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that you’re out of the show,” said Max.

  “What?!” My eyes grew even bigger than Tim’s. “You can’t do that! It’s my show.”

  “It was your show,” said Janice, her spit sailing farther than usual. “But you obviously don’t care about it or us, so we’re saving it from you.”

  “No.” I shook my head. “You’re wrong, I do care. I know I had my doubts, but we can make it work.”