by E. Lockhart
He ran a hand through his thinning hair. “When I was directing Oliver! this past fall,” (shouts and whistles from a few in the audience) “many members of the cast were younger than you are. My star was only eleven, and he carried a Broadway show every night.”
Nanette, on my right, whispered: “They have two kids doing that part on alternate performances. I know it for a fact. Nobody that age can sustain an eight-show schedule with a five-show weekend.”
Morales went on: “I watched you audition myself, in cities across the country. I saw each and every one of you perform, and so I know I’m right when I tell you that you, too, have the talent it takes to do that. To carry a show. There is terrific talent in this room. Star-level talent.”
Another cheer.
“However, your talent may be buried, or it may be undeveloped. It may be clouded by ego and the desire to show the world what you can do. Here at the Wildewood Summer Institute, we help you develop your physical instrument: the voice, the breath, the body. We give you techniques for both self-expression and transformation. And then we bring it all together and put on some of the greatest shows anywhere.”
More cheering.
Morales gestured for Reanne (in the front row) to bring him her bottle of water, which she did. “However,” he said, after taking a long drink, “you must remember that an essential aspect of an actor’s craft is humility. And the eradication of the ego for the good of the show will be an essential part of our philosophy here.
“I mean this in two ways. First of all, to truly embody a character, to truly act, involves releasing yourself from the mannerisms, tics, fears, and foibles that are part of your own character. To become someone else, you must let go of yourself, and to do that, you must be humble.
“It is also true that not everyone can be a star. Not in a single summer with only six productions. You may not love the part you get. You may not even like it. You may think you should have a lead, or a chance to shine in a different way. But what you must do, what you must do if you are committed to the craft of the theater, is to release yourself from those complaints and join together with your fellow cast members to make the show you are in the best show it can be.
“When you leave the room tonight, I want you to take a stone from the dish in the lobby. We have one for each and every one of you, and I want you to treasure that stone this summer, and come back to it when your sense of ego, when your sense of your own importance, is getting in the way of creating good theater.
“Theater is a collective effort, a community endeavor. I am pleased to be going on this journey with you,” he said. “And I look forward to another spectacular summer.”
The students erupted in applause as Morales made his way back to his seat.
“He’s amazing,” I whispered to Demi. “I hope I get him for acting.”
Demi nodded. “Oliver! got phenomenal reviews. I can’t believe we’re here.”
“Me either.”
He squeezed my hand. “You’ll see. We’ll take this place over.”
“What happened to ‘eradicate your ego’?”
“Oops! I already forgot.” Demi giggled.
“Maybe he meant confidence and ego are different,” I whispered. “Like you need the confidence, but you have to leave the ego behind?”
“He’s the man, that’s all I’m gonna say. Whatever that guy wants, that is what I’ll do.”
From the front row, a tall, narrow woman— obviously a dancer—with a shock of pink hair rose to take the stage. “I’m Tamar,” she announced, “and I’ll be choreographing two of the shows and teaching advanced dance classes. I’m here to announce the productions we’ll be doing this year.”
A murmur ran through the audience. “That’s his girlfriend,” whispered Nanette.
“Whose?”
“Jake’s.”
Jacob Morales.
“My agent told me his girlfriend was a choreographer with pink hair.”
It was less hard to believe than it had been before I’d heard him speak. Morales was physically unattractive and had a strange voice—but he had charisma.
Tamar announced the shows. They were just as Nanette had told us they would be:
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
Bye Bye Birdie
Show Boat
Little Shop of Horrors
Cats and Guys and Dolls (the ten-day wonder).
WE ALL TOOK stones from the bowl on our way out. Mine was smooth and hard and black. Demi’s was pinkish with white flecks. I put mine on my dresser at curfew, or at least I think I did. But in the morning, I couldn’t find it.
* * *
THE NEXT day, we assembled for a three-hour tour of the campus. Lyle, Candie, and Demi were in my group—but of course Lyle didn’t need the tour at all, having lived at Wildewood for the past three years. So he entertained us by muttering addendums to the information we were being given. The lakefront beach was, according to Lyle, “the site of several midnight debaucheries resulting in expulsion,” and the boys’ dorm had the “second best roof on campus, each roof receiving points for comfort, view, ease of access, and privacy.”
There were five theaters (one outdoors—which would be for Show Boat ), and their lobby walls were lined with photographs of past student productions. We strolled across brilliant green lawns to dance studios and rehearsal rooms, and poked our heads into the Performing Arts Library, which included videotapes of famous productions, scrapbooks on theater programs, and hundreds of books on theater and dance history.
Basements of the dorms and classrooms contained practice rooms with pianos and soundproof walls (“You don’t even want to know what goes on down there late nights,” muttered Lyle), and the math and science buildings were small and neglected in comparison with the performing arts centers. We saw the costume studio, filled with racks of sparkly clothes and bolts of fabric, the walls covered with design sketches of elongated figures. We took the freight elevator to the lumber shop, where flats from sets for A Doll’s House and Arcadia (two spring shows at the Academy) were leaned up against each other, a cacophony of floral wallpapers.
“We don’t have anything like this in New Jersey,” Candie whispered. “I mean, my high school has like, an auditorium and that’s it.”
I knew what she meant, but I didn’t want to sound ignorant. “There are lots of programs like this,” I told her. “Interlochen, Stagedoor Manor.” I had looked them up on the Internet.
“I know,” said Candie. “I just didn’t know how big it would be; how different it would feel to actually stand here and be a part of it all.”
“Don’t be fooled by tour-guide patter,” said Lyle, coming up behind us. “It’s not all spotlights and glamour.”
“Oh, I know we’ve got to work hard,” said Candie. “Morales told us.”
“That’s not what I meant,” Lyle told her. “I meant that this place can be hard as hell to take. There’s a lot of blood spilled in the creation of musical comedy. You’d be surprised.”
“Don’t you love it?” I asked.
“Of course I do. It’s my home,” Lyle said. “But I’m not afraid to tell you: it’s dysfunctional.”
“You don’t know from dysfunctional, darling,” Demi butted in. “This place is heaven.”
AT LUNCHTIME, the tour finished in front of the cafeteria. “Do you see Blake?” Demi asked, looking around.
“No, I don’t, happy to say,” muttered Lyle.
“Blake is that cute blond guy, right?” Candie said to me. “Don’t you think he’s cute?”
“Certainly, darling,” I said. “But forget it.”
Candie looked crushed. “I didn’t mean he’d ever look at me,” she said, louder. “Gosh, Sadye. I know I’m not—”
“Don’t be so mean, Sadye. You’re giving the girl a complex,” interrupted Demi, putting his arm around Candie.
“I was explaining the Blake situation,” I told him.
“Sadye didn’t mean it how it sounded,�
�� Demi said to Candie. “Whatever horrible thing she said.”
“I didn’t,” I told Candie. “Really.” And that was true.
But it was also true that I hated her neediness, her naked, naked feelings.
“Blake is . . . European,” joked Demi.
“What do you mean, European?” asked Candie, confused.
“Here’s the deal,” Demi explained kindly. “Blond Blake from Boston belongs to me.”
Candie laughed. “What, like you’re gay?” She said it as if it could only be a joke.
Demi looked at her, his face harsher. “Exactly.”
Candie looked abashed. “Oh, my gosh.”
“Don’t be shocked,” said Lyle. “This is musical theater.”
Candie was from a Christian family, I knew. Her parents were conservative. I bet she’d never seen an out gay person in her life. “I never would have thought . . .” she stuttered. “Blake is so . . .”
“Isn’t he, though?” sighed Demi. “So so so so . . .”
“Welcome to Wildewood, Candie,” said Lyle nasally. “I think you’re going to have a very interesting summer.”
AS SOON AS we spotted Blake in the cafeteria (in line at the salad bar), Demi was gone. And Lyle ran after Demi.
Candie and I found seats with Iz and Nanette. We ate grilled cheese with coleslaw on the side and claimed parts for ourselves in the big musicals. Iz, the mezzo, wanted Miss Adelaide in Guys and Dolls and Rose in Bye Bye Birdie, both fiery characters who get their reluctant guys to the altar by the end of the show. Nanette, also a belter, but more of a leading lady type, wanted Audrey in Little Shop—a buxom, vulnerable blonde with the brainpower of a pea and a heart as big as Texas. She said she’d also be happy with Julie in Show Boat. “But you know me,” she said, (although we didn’t), “I’ll get stuck with the little brother in Birdie. Because of my size. The curse of the tiny.”
Candie hoped meekly to sing a solo. When pressed, she said she’d be glad to get Grizabella in Cats.
“What do you want, Sadye?” Iz asked me.
I was terrified I’d end up a dancer in the background of Cats without ever speaking or singing a word onstage all summer. And I already felt sick at the supposedly friendly competition between us all, which (if it went on like this) might mean that none of us would ever be friends, no matter if we ate every meal together for seven weeks. No way would I land a high soprano part like Kim in Birdie or Magnolia in Show Boat. I didn’t have the vocal power for Little Shop, either. Rose in Birdie was a possibility, but my best bet was the shrieky Brooklynette babe, Miss Adelaide, who shakes her tail feathers in Guys and Dolls as a featured act at the Hot Box club.
So I replied to Iz’s question with an answer she didn’t want to hear: “Adelaide.”
Iz looked at me for a moment without saying a word. Then she stood up and climbed onto her chair. Standing with one foot on the table next to her grilled cheese, hip cocked out, hands fluttering around her face in comical confusion, she began to sing. “Take Back Your Mink”—Adelaide’s big number.
The cafeteria hushed. Isadora’s slightly gritty belt soared—all about a fur coat, a beautiful gown, and the no-good fella who bought them for her and then figured he’d bought himself the chance to undress her.
The song sounded good, a capella. Her voice was a jazz trumpet. It announced itself, bossy and smoky at the same time, piercing at the high notes and growling when she went low. People pulled their trays away, and Iz stepped up on the table. Her wide eyes flashed. She paraded up and down, bending to stroke the hair and shoulders of all the cutest guys, and finished the number with her legs and arms wide, triumphant.
The cafeteria exploded into applause, and Iz glowed as she stepped off the table. Then she dropped Miss Adelaide’s Brooklyn accent and turned to me: “I love that song. Don’t you?”
“You have an awesome voice,” I said. Because it was true. Because I liked Iz, even though I also hated her.
Because what she’d just done, though obnoxious, was also exciting. She wasn’t just a brassy girl who talked big. She lived big, too. Sang big. It was thrilling that someone who looked so ordinary had so much light inside her.
But could I ever win a part she’d set her sights on?
WE HAD the afternoon free, and the sun was out. People sat on the grass outside the dorms, singing snatches of show tunes and lying with their heads on each other’s stomachs. Everyone was lolling around, the girls showing off their legs, the boys taking off their shirts, topping each other with stories of the plays they’d done in high school, the speech competitions they’d won, the parts they aimed for someday—and bonding. All of us were dreaming the exact same dreams.
Nanette squeezed in on a cotton blanket between me and Demi and started feeding us Skittles with her tiny fingers. Iz came up and leaned on Nanette’s legs, demanding to be fed as well. Then we all lay on our backs and kicked our legs to the sky like Rockettes while trying to remember the lyrics to “All About Ruprecht” from Dirty Rotten Scoundrels. Demi demanded we airplane him, which we did, and then he tried to fly on our feet and catch Skittles in his mouth at the same time, which ended in disgustingness.
Theater folk are like this, I realized. Physical right away. Kissy, huggy. Not like my family at all. Theater people will act like your oldest friend when you’ve just met. And they do it even while they’re competing with you.
That night, there was a dance in the black box theater: sweaty, dark, a blur. Demi got filled with testosterone as soon as he heard “My Humps,” and chased Blake all night. He was surprisingly unslick in his adoration. He pulled Blake outside to look at the “incredible moon” and gyrated next to him with ridiculous abandon. As if he were marking his territory. All the gay boys were eyeing the two of them, as well as the girls who were thus far clueless as to their orientation.
I danced, and danced, and danced. After the agonies and excitements of the day, I just moved, letting the music go through me. I danced with Demi, Lyle, Iz, Nanette, Candie, and even Blake. I danced by myself when other people got tired.
I didn’t dance with Theo, though. When I finally spotted him, he was holed up in one corner, talking intently to a girl named Bec. A Kristinish brunette with a turned-up nose.
Bleh.
Iz, Nanette, and I convened in the girls’ bathroom.
“You should ask him to dance,” Iz advised. “Guys like it when you ask them. I asked Wolf to dance at a club; did I tell you that’s how we met?” She reached over and picked up my lip gloss, spreading it on her wide mouth without asking. “My skin is like, so broken out,” she moaned, shoving her face up to the mirror. “It always breaks out when I have auditions.”
Nanette pulled out gold glitter mascara and put some on her eyelashes, then handed it to me like of course I was going to use it. “We can’t be dancing with the gay boys all night,” she announced. “It’s already been going on too long. If you ask Theo the piano player, Sadye, I’ll ask that guy in the Rent T-shirt.”
“What makes you sure he’s not gay?” asked Iz.
“I’ve got no idea. But I’ll find out, won’t I?”
“I don’t understand why Theo’s all over her now,” I said, going back to the subject of Bec. “One second he’s walking me back to my dorm and practically barging his way in, the next second he’s forgotten I exist.”
“He’s distracted, that’s all,” said Iz. “Straight guys here get an enormous amount of play. If you want him, Sadye, you’ve got to pounce.”
“But I pounced earlier today. I shouldn’t have to do all the pouncing. He should pounce me back.”
“He did pounce you, he tried to come into the dorm room.”
“But he’s not pouncing now.”
“Now he’s pouncing Bec,” Nanette put in. “So you have to repounce.”
I took a deep breath. “I’ll repounce if everyone pounces. Nanette, you do the Rent shirt guy. And Iz, you ask someone, too.”
“Okay.” Iz was surprisingly open for some
one madly in love with Wolf. “I’ll pounce that crew-cut guy with freckles, did you see him?”
“With the pierced ears?”
“Yeah.”
We looked at ourselves in the mirror: Nanette, under five feet and dressed in white jeans and a white shirt, tons of makeup, and a swarm of strawberry hair curling in the humidity; Iz, curvy and broad-shouldered, wearing a red cotton sundress with a black bra peeking out; me, tall, a little androgynous, a lot glittery, in a green T-shirt that said “Natural Blonde” and my brown suede miniskirt. “We look fabulous,” I said. “Let’s pounce.”
Theo was talking to a different girl from the one before. Well, that was encouraging. At least he hadn’t proposed immediate marriage to Bec. Nanette gave me a slight shove in his direction, and I marched up and tapped his shoulder. “Come dance with me!”
“Hey, Sadye.” Theo smiled. “Give me a minute.”
“Okay.”
He didn’t introduce me to the girl.
He hadn’t said no. Right? He’d basically said yes.
But what was I supposed to do? Stand there waiting?
For how long? And how far away from where he was talking to the other girl?
I waited for a minute, about five feet away, but Theo and the girl kept talking. And kept talking. So I started dancing, on the edge of the crowd, figuring Theo could find me when he was free. But before I’d been there twenty seconds, Demi came up and started doing some ridiculous shimmy thing at me, dragging me into the center of the crowd. I shimmied back, and then we did the bump, and when I looked back for Theo—he was gone.
Later, I saw him talking to yet another girl, and another, and another, and it was pretty clear that he was realizing how few attractive straight boys there were at Wildewood, and that he really had his pick of the litter—and didn’t have to settle for gawky, geektastic me.
* * *
I STEPPED OUTSIDE to get some air. And there, leaning against a tree, was James/Kenickie.
We hadn’t been introduced. Iz said he’d come by our dorm, like she’d asked him to, but I had been in Lyle’s room so we never met.
