Upstaged

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  “I’m talking about Camille. She gave Molly the part of Celeste Freespirit! I’m talking about favoritism. I’m talking about that snotty Molly Frost and how unfair it is that she always takes the lead role away from my Lisa.” Her voice rose to a shrill pitch and she began to sob.

  I pulled the phone a few inches away from my ear, waiting for her to collect herself. “Mrs. Bigelow? Are you all right? Perhaps you should wait to talk to Camille when she’s not working. You know, after hours? I’m sure she’ll address your concerns. I could give her a message to call you, if you’d like.”

  Agnes snuffled into the receiver. “All right. But I may have to discuss this with the superintendent. I’m very unhappy.” She hung up.

  I stared at the receiver in surprise. Shaking my head, I placed it on the cradle.

  “Gus? Everything okay?”

  My future mother-in-law looked at me anxiously, smoothing the skirt of her sparkling green and yellow polyester dress.

  “No emergency, Maddy.” I pressed my fingers against my eyes. “It was the mother of one of Camille’s drama kids. A stage mother in the worst sense of the word, I’m afraid.”

  Maddy clucked in sympathy.

  I glanced at her desk. It was covered in exam books, schedules, and a newly delivered box of office supplies to be distributed among the other secretaries in the building. Beneath the box was a tattered copy of the September issue of Bride magazine.

  She followed my gaze. Her lips compressed into a pout. She tossed her head and then ran her manicured fingertips through her well-coifed hair. “Camille called me this morning, Gus. She told me about your decision to keep the wedding simple.”

  I sensed the disappointment in her voice. She turned to her desk and picked up the magazine, opening it to a dog-eared page.

  “See this? I’ve decided when I meet Mr. Right, it’ll be me in this gorgeous satin number.” She poked at the figure of a slim model in the voluminous white gown and veil, raised her face toward the sunny window, and struck a pose like the bride in the magazine.

  Maddy was an attractive woman at the age of sixty-two. Although she filled her flamboyant outfits quite amply, she was a loving, upbeat soul who had actually received many offers from potential suitors. Problem was, none of them measured up to her Stanley. Ten years of widowhood had built Stan’s reputation to monumental proportions.

  I placed an arm around her shoulders. “Maddy, you’d look smashing in that dress.”

  She twirled around a few times with a coquettish expression on her face. “I know,” she answered brightly, mincing down an imaginary aisle.

  The phone trilled from Maddy’s desk, disturbing the whimsical moment. Suddenly all business, she headed for it with her high heels tapping along the linoleum. “Music Department, Professor LeGarde’s office.”

  She moved over to the other side of her desk and perched on her seat, playing with her rhinestone medallion. “Hi, honey! How’s it going? Your beloved is standing right in front of me.” She paused, listening. “Oh, okay, sweetie. Here he is.”

  I picked up the extension from my desk and sat down on my rolling chair. “Morning, love.”

  “Hi, Gus. Sorry to bother you at work. Any chance you could break away early?”

  “Sure. My last class is over at one-fifteen. What’s up?” My interest piqued. I imagined a romantic drive down to the Keuka Lake wineries. A vision of a walk among the vineyards, followed by a scrumptious dinner as the sun set over the lake, flashed through my mind.

  “Could you meet me at the school? I’ve been called down to the superintendent’s office at three o'clock. It’s Mrs. Bigelow. She’s complaining again.”

  My heart sank. Crazy Agnes Bigelow had actually followed through with her threat. Camille sounded nervous. I assured her quickly that I’d be there. “Don’t worry. I’ll meet you in your office a few minutes before three.”

  “Thanks, Gus. I really need your moral support. Love you.”

  “Love you too.”

  We hung up, and I strolled back to my class, wondering what sly tricks Agnes Bigelow had up her sleeve this time.

  Chapter Eleven

  I arrived at the high school early, where a long line of orange school buses queued at the curb. I parked my new LL Bean Edition Outback and headed inside against a tide of students streaming out of the building. On the way to Camille’s office, I dodged children of all ages in the corridors. Nelson Santos and Takeema Billings danced by, waving as they giggled over some apparently juicy bit of gossip. I pushed through the crowd, passed the cafeteria, and took a left. Cindi Fox stood by the freight elevator near a cart holding two trashcans overflowing with lunchroom debris. She smiled sweetly, waved, and when the elevator door opened, turned back to her task.

  The door to Camille’s office was closed. A loud, male voice came from inside. I casually glanced through the window in the door.

  Camille sat at her desk, her face ashen, but her expression resolute. Armand Lugio, Molly’s beau, faced Camille on the opposite side. He leaned toward her, his hands pressed hard against the desk. A chair was toppled on the floor beside him. Camille’s lips moved, but I couldn’t hear her. Her eyes flickered toward me, but instantly returned to the boy. Armand straightened, ran his right hand through his thick black hair, and shouted again. “It isn’t fair! He’s a damned sophomore, for crying out loud. He’s a stupid little sophomore!”

  Camille spoke softly, trying to calm him down. I couldn’t make out her words.

  Armand dashed his hand across the desk, sweeping papers, pens, and picture frames onto the floor. He yanked the door open and shoved past me, knocking me into the wall.

  I started to grab him, but Camille called to me.

  “Gus? Let him go. I’ll deal with him later when he’s calmed down. ”

  “What’s up with him? What a jerk.” I walked into her office and stooped to help her pick up her things.

  Her hands shook when she rescued the framed picture of her little dog, Boris. The glass had broken.

  “We don’t name-call in school, Gus.” She spoke as if to another student, her face a carefully composed canvas that I feared would crumple any minute, based on the quaver in her voice.

  “Er…sorry.” I began to pick up the shards of glass scattered over the floor, wishing I could have pushed Armand up against the wall and called him some more names. “Are you okay?”

  She kept her head down and grabbed some papers that had flown to the back of the office. “Uh-huh. Just a little shaken. He’s got such a temper. He wasn’t very happy with the small part I gave him.”

  “He expected the lead, didn’t he?”

  She walked back to her desk with her eyes downcast. “He did.”

  “You’re going to report him, aren’t you?”

  She stopped what she was doing and finally looked at me. Her troubled eyes puddled tears. “I’m afraid I have to this time. I tried so hard to help him last year, when his father was deported.” Her lower lip trembled. She sighed again, pulled herself together, and sat down in her chair.

  “Last year? What happened?”

  I thought she wouldn’t answer, but after a few seconds of silence, she did.

  “He was going through a great deal at the time. His father was extradited to Brazil, and his mother was trying to support the four boys on a meager salary. He worked two jobs, attended school, and tried to stay in the play. It wasn’t working. He kept missing rehearsals, and finally he—”

  Before she could finish, Molly Frost breezed into the room. She wore a black cashmere cardigan and a crisp khaki skirt. Her blond hair gleamed when she flung it over her shoulders. “Miss Coté, thank you so much! I’m really happy with the part, and I promise I won’t disappoint you.”

  “You're welcome, sweetheart. You'll be a perfect Celeste. I'm sorry I can't chat right now, I'm due for a meeting in a few minutes.”

  Camille shooed Molly out of the room, locked the door, and we hurried down the hall toward the superintendent’s o
ffice. Although I asked again, Camille deferred my questions about Armand. When we reached our destination minutes later, his secretary was ready for us and motioned us inside.

  Chapter Twelve

  W e’d been sitting the meeting for fifteen minutes when Agnes Bigelow finally stopped her rant.

  Like a deflated balloon, Superintendent Lou Marshall hunched at the head of the table and twirled a yellow pencil between his stout fingers. His bristly white hair, shorn in the style of a 1950s crew cut, transported me back to the fifth grade. My pals and I had carried little black combs leftover from picture day in the back pockets of our chinos.

  We’d wetted the combs under washroom faucets and spiked the front of our hair straight up. Marshall, in his mid-fifties, looked as if he’d been combing his hair in the same style ever since. His bulk filled the wooden armchair, slouching against the table with an expression of strained tolerance.

  Agnes sat across from Camille, her eyes red-rimmed from crying. Lisa, according to her mother, had been too distressed to attend classes and was resting in the nurse’s office.

  Marshall harrumphed and attempted to speak again, having fortunately been given a break by Mrs. Bigelow noisily blowing her nose.

  “As I’ve been trying to say, Mrs. Bigelow, Miss Coté volunteers for this activity. It’s not a paid position. She has complete control of the production and reports to no one in this capacity. It is through her dedication that our school has been honored with the Rochester Broadway Theater League’s Stars of Tomorrow awards. You may know that we've won ‘Best Musical’ in our class now for four out of the last five years. We have absolute faith in her ability to choose the appropriate cast members and don’t intend to interfere with her selections.”

  Agnes turned sullen. Wisps of black hair escaped from a stringy ponytail. She pulled her baggy gray sweater tighter around her chest and sniffed. In an unsteady voice, she started in again. “My daughter practiced these pieces for six months. I paid over four hundred dollars for singing and dance lessons. Molly told Lisa that she picked up the music one week before the auditions! One week! In my opinion, Lisa outperformed Molly in every facet of the performance. There was no question in my mind that she’d get the part of Celeste. I was flabbergasted when she called me this morning. Simply flabbergasted.”

  Camille spoke gently to the troubled woman. “Agnes. Please . Lisa did a fine job, she’s a great little actress. But Molly honestly is better suited for the part. Lisa will have a ball as Rikki. It’s a wonderful role.”

  Agnes shot a steely glance at Camille. “I know favoritism when I see it, Miss Coté. I know it well. And this fiasco smacks of it!” She paused momentarily, smoothing her sweater. Her eyes drifted around the table. “I’d like a second opinion. My daughter is so distraught. This will destroy her. It will simply destroy her.”

  Again, her voice rose to an unsteady pitch that made me wonder what was wrong with her. Was she on drugs? Was she unstable? Well, that part was certain. Maybe she needed drugs.

  The superintendent shifted in his chair and met my gaze, playing with a loose button on the yellowed cuff of his white shirt.

  “Mrs. Bigelow, this isn’t a medical issue. Second opinions are not an option. But perhaps Professor LeGarde would offer us the benefit of his opinion? After all, he is a music professor. You must have heard his radio show, Mrs. Bigelow? It’s on WRLN Sunday mornings at eight.”

  Agnes’s head snapped up, and she stared at me with widened eyes. “Professor LeGarde?” She looked worried, then snorted. “I thought you were just the piano player.”

  She delivered the words “piano player” as if they were an insult. Apparently she hadn’t paid attention when Maddy answered the phone earlier.

  I decided to speak up. “Mrs. Bigelow. I volunteered to play piano for the auditions. And I wrote the musical, albeit many years ago, so I have a pretty good understanding of the roles. I’ll continue to provide the service for free during the rehearsals, until the orchestra comes on board. In addition to being the piano player and the composer, I’ve taught for nearly twenty-five years at the University and am currently the chairman of the Music Department. I believe I’m qualified to offer you a second opinion.”

  I pushed my chair back from the table and took a deep breath. Agnes seemed to calm down, nodding in my direction. I spoke up in my lecture-hall voice, overdoing it a little, but rapidly losing patience.

  “First of all, the choice of cast has always been and always will be the unique decision of the director. Who the director chooses is her option. The decisions are final and must not be questioned by the participants. The cast must trust in the instincts of the director or seek acting opportunities elsewhere .”

  Agnes opened her mouth to interrupt, but I barreled on.

  “I agree wholeheartedly with Miss Coté’s decision. Her instincts are superb. Lisa is a talented young woman, but her vocal range precludes her from the high B flat required in many of the solos. She’s much better suited in the comedic role of Rikki. To tell the truth, I would have cast your daughter in the hippy chorus and would have chosen the Williams girl for the part of Rikki. But that is of no consequence, because it’s not my decision .”

  The color drained from Agnes' face. Her eyes narrowed and her lip curled. She resembled an emaciated Doberman, expelling a long, sour breath. Erupting from her seat, she seethed across the table. “Well, sure, you’d side with her! You’re screwing her, aren’t you?” She hurled the words across the table, knocked her chair to the floor, and bolted from the room sobbing.

  I looked at Camille. Her eyes widened and her lips parted. She looked at me, and then at Marshall.

  Marshall spoke first, looking very uncomfortable. “I am so sorry, Miss Coté, Professor LeGarde. I truly apologize for this, for this, uh—unusual situation. ”

  In addition to the fury, I felt a powerful urge to defend my fiancée's honor. Aside from a few tentative romantic interludes, Camille and I had maintained a rather Victorian relationship. As much as it killed me, we’d agreed to wait until we were married to sleep together. I knew Camille’s soul was still tender because of her ex-husband’s abuse. And in spite of my love for her, and the wild surges of desire that rose within me, sometimes I felt clumsy and even a little guilty when I was in her arms.

  Elsbeth was supposed to have been my lifetime soul mate, and although it had been five years since her passing, it felt as if she’d fallen from the Letchworth Gorge cliffs just yesterday. Waiting until Camille and I worked through our personal issues had been the right choice for us.

  I stopped the jumble of thoughts Agnes’ sordid comments had triggered, and turned to Marshall. “Superintendent. Marshall, I just want you to know—”

  He dismissed my attempt with a brief hand wave. “She had no right to speak to you that way. Please don't give it a moment's thought.”

  Jonesy was just outside the door, pushing a wet mop in large “S” patterns across the linoleum. He raised his head from his work, looked dully at each of us, and turned his attention back to the floor.

  Marshall touched Camille’s sleeve with an expression bordering on affection. “Miss Coté?”

  Camille face flushed and she studied her hands. “Yes?”

  “I hope you won’t let this affect your decision to continue with the show. We need you. We need your talent. The work you do with these children is exemplary. It’s one of the best and healthiest outlets they have. Don’t let the words of a—” he hesitated and lowered his voice, “a lunatic—stop you. Please?”

  The strained expression melted from her face. “Thank you, Mr. Marshall. I won’t. I don’t plan to give up on them. They’re a great bunch of kids.”

  Marshall beamed at both of us, shaking our hands. “Well then, we’ll be just fine now, won’t we?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  A t quarter to nine on Saturday morning I headed for the high school in heavy rain. Thunderstorms had swept into the valley at dawn and hadn’t let up. Angry black clou
ds rolled through yellow ochre skies, releasing torrents of cold rain. My windshield wipers struggled to keep up with the downpour.

  I drove carefully over the slippery roads and finally reached the school, parking as close to the entrance as possible. After searching unsuccessfully for my umbrella, I finally realized I’d left it at home. Shrugging, I tucked the music score under my jacket, grabbed a bottle of water, and timed a dash inside between flashes of lightning.

  Once inside, I followed a trail of wet footprints toward the auditorium. My jacket and shoes were soaked and the rain had seeped under my shirt collar. I peeled off the sodden jacket, thankful that the music score was just a little damp, and turned into the auditorium. The hairs on my arms still tingled from electrical charges in the atmosphere.

  On the first day of rehearsal, the air in the auditorium quivered with excitement, much like the ozone charges I’d felt seconds earlier.

  Giggling teenagers filled the halls and swooped up and down the aisles. Nelson Santos pranced around the stage with a blue boa wrapped around his neck. Clearly, he was in his element. It seemed the drama environment provided him a comfortable place to enjoy his “regal” tendencies without causing too much ridicule.

  He crooned “Who Am I?” in a surprisingly good falsetto, spoofing the role of Celeste. Had life in the small country school been different, I figured Nelson might actually have enjoyed the part of Celeste over his assigned role of Emilio Juarez, the acerbic writer .

  When he finished the song to a splutter of applause, Takeema Billings circled around him, twisting and pulsing in an erotic tribal dance. She placed her legs apart with her knees and feet turned slightly outward. Her head snapped back and forth and she leaned forward, hips undulating. She wore a vivid pink and yellow head wrap and a matching short, satin dress that rode up her thighs.

  “I needed some nourishment for my roots,” she said to Nelson, who clapped in approval, “so I took these fabulous African dance lessons up at Eastman this summer.”

  She continued in her earthy demonstration while Randy Sherman locked his hands on the edge of the stage and bucked like a bronco. His legs flew high; it appeared his target was Armand, who sullenly ignored him from the front row beside Molly.