Carter Finally Gets It

by Brent Crawford

  What does that mean, “get your gear”? I think, loosely translated, it means, “Get out, losers,” because that’s what I heard. Guys are leaving the room with their heads low. A couple of guys are crying. Being rejected sucks. I’d probably be crying too, if I were positive my name hadn’t been called. But he might have. I don’t want to leave this room. The walk of shame is just too much. I could smack off of a thousand diving boards, but I can’t walk out of this room in front of all my boys and Nick Brock, too.

  The coach gives me a nod. “You okay, kid?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Um, my name is Carter? Did you call my name? ’Cause I was spacing off there for a sec, and I didn’t hear it.”

  “No, I didn’t call your name,” the coach says flatly.

  “Ooohhhh,” I say, like air being released from a balloon. “So . . . I should go?”

  “Yeah, sorry,” he mumbles.

  Everyone is staring at me as I make my way out the door. I want to turn around and scream, “Take your dumb hats and balls and bats and shove ’em up your fitted, dirty asses!” But I’m so busy trying not to cry that I’ll have to save the speech.

  Tom Hanks claimed in some movie that there was no crying in baseball. But there sure is today. A bunch of guys are out in the hall sobbing. I won’t be one of them. I won’t waste my tears . . . at least not in front of these dudes. I’m going behind the drama wing to ball my eyes out.

  It just hurts so much to be told you’re not good enough, or that you can’t do something that you really want to do. That you’re not allowed to be a part of something. I don’t want to care about this stuff, but I do. What am I supposed to do now? My friends are going to be talking about baseball all the time, and I’ll feel stupid, and they’ll feel that I feel stupid and not want to talk about baseball in front of me, and then they’ll avoid me so they can talk about it without worrying about my issues. And there I’ll be, alone, without a hat, without a girl, and without hope. I was really counting on using the baseball-player vibe to get a girl to like me. But now I’m back to square one.

  I’m a loser, and the baseball coach must have sensed it. He decided that even though I had raw talent, I was more trouble than I was worth. I try to clean myself up quick because I see my drama teacher leaving the building. Of course Ms. McDougle sees me and walks over, because I haven’t been humiliated enough for one day.

  She smiles and asks, “Hey, Carter, did you get cut from the baseball team?”

  “God, was it on ESPN or something?” I cry. “Does the whole school know what a loser I am?”

  She just looks at me. “Uh, no I just saw the baseball glove, and you looked sad. I didn’t even know it was baseball season.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I got cut,” I say.

  “Well, I’m sorry to hear that. I’m sure that doesn’t feel very good. Have you thought about auditioning for the spring play?” she asks.

  “Oh, I can’t do a play,” I say, and wipe my face.

  “Of course you can. You might be great,” she replies.

  “No, I don’t mean I couldn’t do it.” I laugh. “I mean, I can’t. My friends would never let me live it down.”

  “That’s ridiculous; you should just come and audition. You’ll have a blast,” she says.

  “Oh yeah, Ms. McDougle, that’s just what my self-esteem needs . . . to get cut from something else. Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I say.

  She crosses her arms and says very seriously, “You know you’re one of my best students.”

  “No I’m not,” I reply flatly. “I’m getting a D in your class.”

  “That’s because you never do the homework and you bomb the tests. But with the moment-to-moment truthful acting work, you’re really one of my best,” she says.

  “Really?” I ask. “Like, raw talent?”

  “Um, sure,” she replies. She may just be trying to make me feel better, but it’s working. I’m one of the best actors in the school, huh?

  “My friends would really make fun of me if I did a play.”

  “You are one of the most popular boys in the school, Carter. Who would make fun of you?” she asks.

  “Naw, you only think that because all the kids you hang out with are drama geeks,” I say. “I’m not really that cool. Comparatively, maybe, but realistically, not really.”

  “Well, I won’t beg, but I bet you’d have fun. The show is Guys and Dolls, and we need guys. You might get to wear a fedora and a zoot suit. You don’t want to play a gangster?” she asks.

  Wait a minute, a costume? This might be okay. I could totally be a gangsta! If I had any hair, I’d slick it back.

  “Your ‘cool’ friends don’t even need to know that you’re trying out for the play,” she continues. “Or you could work on the lighting crew or help build sets.”

  No chance of that. Not after a costume has been brought into the equation. I’m doing it. I’m totally auditioning for Guys and Dolls!

  40. Porn! the Musical

  Bad news must travel fast, because the troops are armed with Kleenex and sympathy when I walk into the house. I guess I’m supposed to be freaking out about getting cut from the baseball team, but I’m not feeling so bad anymore. I hate being rejected, but I’m pretty stoked about this whole theater thing. My mom looks like she’s ready to cry for me, and my sister just looks mad. Big shock.

  “I can’t believe those jerks cut my brother from the baseball team!” Lynn barks. “I’m gonna give that coach a piece of my mind. Nick said you were doing really great, too.”

  “Please don’t talk to anyone. Nick was lying. I’m no good at baseball,” I say.

  My mom jumps in with her usual “Yes you are, honey. You’re great at whatever you try to do.”

  “No.” I laugh. “It’s cool, though. I think I’m gonna try out for the spring play instead.”

  Lynn’s jaw drops. Exciting development. She looks more concerned about this than the baseball cutting. She squints her eyes really small and says, “Oh no you’re not! Only dorks do theater, and you’re not a dork. You’re my brother!”

  Mom pulls her off me with “That’s not true, Lynn! If he wants to do a play, I think that’s great.”

  “No, no, no, it’s not ‘great.’ It’s not good. It’s not even okay. It’s not remotely socially acceptable,” Lynn howls. “He’ll be shunned! He’s popular, thanks to my constant effort and guidance, but I can only do so much. Him being on the swim team was very difficult, but I can’t do anything for him if he’s singing and dancing in front of God and everybody.”

  “Shut up, Lynn; nobody is singing or dancing,” I protest.

  “The spring play is a MUSICAL, you doofus! Singing and dancing is all you’ll be doing. Mother, people will find out and he’ll be ruined. I’ve seen it happen before. This guy Jeremy in my class was very cool in junior high, then he went down into that drama wing our freshman year, and he, well, he just never came back,” Lynn yells.

  “It is not a musical! It’s this play about gangsters and looking tough. It’s called Guys and Dolls, for God’s sake!” I exclaim.

  My mom kind of winces at my stupidity. “Yeah, honey, that’s a musical, with lots of singing and dancing. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Guys and Dolls was also a very popular movie . . . your grandmother’s favorite. Marlon Brando was so beautiful before he ate himself, and I think Frank Sinatra was in it too.”

  “Nuh-uh, Mom, it’s about gangsters. Frank Sinatra? Wasn’t he a hit man for the mob in real life? And Marlon Brando was The Godfather. You see? The show is about tough guys,” I protest.

  “Yeah, tough guys who sashay and prance around singing every couple of minutes,” Lynn says.

  My mom’s laughter makes me think that Lynn is right. Dang it! Ms. McDougle set me up. I jump on my bike and fly down to Blockbuster. I didn’t even know they had a musical section. The cover of the DVD doesn’t look very promising. It’s definitely Ol’ Blue Eyes and the Godfather. They’re all young and cool and dressed in gangster suit
s, but they look way too happy and their mouths are open really wide. Dang it, they’re singing for sure. I grab a copy of Keanu’s last movie as I approach the counter to try and disguise the musical, because the girl at the counter is hot. I’ve got shame in my eyes as I place the movies on the counter. It’s like I’m trying to rent porn.

  She smiles. “Guys and Dolls, huh? Are you trying out for the musical at Merrian High?”

  This must be some big deal if random hotties know about it.

  “Uhhh, no. I just wanted to see this movie. ’Cause I like singing and dancing. I don’t do it myself or anything. I’m more of a supporter of singing and dancing than an actual participant,” I clarify.

  She raises her eyebrows like I may have given her too much info and says, “Okay, that’ll be five eighty-nine.”

  Dang it, I only have five bucks! I grab the Guys and Dolls movie like I’m going to put it back, but I don’t want to rent Keanu’s stupid movie. I really want to see this singing-gangster flick. It’s too built up now. I’ve got to see it.

  “Um, I’m just gonna p-p-put Keanu’s movie back,” I say.

  “Okay,” she replies with a smile. “You do go to Merrian, right? You used to date Abby?”

  I have been identified. “Yep, my name’s Carter,” I reply in disgrace.

  “Yeah, I thought I knew you. I was at Christy Schauper’s party, and I have choir with Abby,” she says judgmentally.

  “Well, you know, I might try out for the musical,” I say real quick. I don’t need to hear how Abby cried for a week in choir class. And how she thought I’d murdered the Chopper.

  She nods and says, “You should. We need guys.”

  This chick is a drama geek? I’ve never even seen her before. If this chick is what’s going on down there, I may start spending more time in that drama wing, no matter what. If none of my boys has spotted this chick before, who the hell is going to notice me down there? I’ll just tell people I’ve got detention. Three months of detention will only help my bad-boy reputation.

  She smiles and says, “Break a leg” as I walk out.

  That was uncalled for. “Bitch,” I say under my breath as the door closes.

  I race home and pop it in the basement DVD player. There is some singing and dancing right at the start, but it’s not too bad. The clothes are super cool and I like the way they talk. There are a lot of old-timey jokes, and what they’re singing about is getting chicks and how guys only do stuff to impress them. I’d like to play this fat guy for sure, but I’m not even close to fat anymore after swimming my ass off for the last few months. And there’s this cool little guy who pals around with the fat guy, but I’m way too tall now. I may just get to be one of these guys with no lines, who just walks by with a newspaper or something. But I’ll still get a costume, I bet. The story is getting going, and Brando (Sky Masterson) is trying to trick this Goody Two-shoes chick to come to dinner with him in Havana, Cuba. Because that’s how gangsters roll. He’s charming her and asking her a bunch of questions like a player, but she’s a tough cookie. He’s not just going to bag this chick by asking questions, and he knows it, so he just busts out a song right in front of her! How dope is that? See some chick at the mall and just start singing to her. Brando more raps than sings anyway. If Marlon Brando can do it . . .

  I hear some commotion upstairs. There are footsteps and loud talking, then the basement door flies open and my mom yells down, “Sweetie, your friends are here.”

  Oh noooo! I grab the remote as fast as I can, but the fear of my boys catching me watching a musical makes it shoot out of my hands and sends it crashing to the floor. Batteries fly everywhere. Feet are stomping down the stairs. I’ve got to shut this thing off! Brando is really going for it when he talk/sings, “Yes, I’ll know when my love comes along!”

  Shut up, Marlon, my boys are coming along, and I’m dead meat if they see you. I slam my hand into the machine to get it to shut off, but he’s still crooning away. I’ll kick the screen out of this TV if I have to, but these guys will not catch me watching a musical!

  EJ, Bag, Hormone, Nutt, and Doc walk in. I slam the machine down as hard as I can, and the player finally shuts off.

  “Carter, what are you doing?” EJ says.

  “Nothing! I’m not doing anything,” I say, way too loud. My face is glowing red, and I think I broke the machine.

  “What were you watching, dude?” Bag asks.

  “Nothin’!” I say, guilty as hell.

  “He was watchin’ porn.” EJ laughs. “You were watching a porno!”

  “YEP, guilty as charged. I was watchin’ a porno! Ha-HAAAA.” I laugh. It’s way better to get caught watching porn when you’re fourteen than to be caught red-handed with a fifty-year-old singing, dancing, gangster movie. At least with these dudes.

  “S’up?” I ask as I look at them for the first time. They’re all wearing matching hats. Black fitted ones with an M on the forehead. They look so proud. Jerks. They didn’t even think about it. How is Bag’s hat already dirty?

  “We’re going to a party at Ryan Kim’s house. Hormone only has five in the CRX. You wanna come?” Doc asks.

  I just look at the hats for a second. I can’t be mad at my boys for making the baseball team. I’d never take that hat off if I had gotten one. It doesn’t make it hurt any less, or make me feel any less left out, though.

  “No thanks, I’m just gonna chill out here. . . .” I say, as Frank Sinatra pops back onto the TV, does a little jumping spin move, and starts belting out a song.

  Nobody interrupts Frank. They all just watch in silence as he sings.

  I unplug the set, and Frank shuts up. I turn to my old friends with a guilty look. Their jaws are open wide. The nastiest, freakiest, donkey porno would not have warranted this level of shock.

  “What the hell was that all about?” I ask, like I’m as shocked as they are. “My mom, she loves this crap,” I say.

  EJ smirks and says, “Yeah, your mom is pretty gay.”

  They walk out and pile into the little car without saying much else. My sister is totally right, as usual. I haven’t even tried out for this musical, and it’s already ruining my life. I watch them drive away, five matching hats in a car with two seats.

  41. 5, 6, 7, 8!

  The drama wing is electrified. I’m still not sure I can go through with this. You can feel how nervous the drama geeks are. These kids are all trying so hard to be weird. I’m genuinely weird, so I can spot the effort a mile away. I’m always trying to be cool, but down here, weird is cool. So they, like, compete for who can say the craziest stuff or dress the most jacked up. Competition is stiff this afternoon. I’m sure I could be the man down here if I just started talking a whole bunch of nonsense or singing for no reason at all. But I think defense is my best offense in the wing. I sign up to audition for Nicely-Nicely Johnson, Benny Southstreet, and Liverlips Louie. I think those are the coolest names, and if I try for all three, I might just get a part.

  They have three rooms set up for the auditions. One room is for dancing, and everybody has to go into it, and then, depending on what parts you sign up for, you go into different rooms to read for them. The little parts are in a classroom and the big parts are in the theater. It’s mostly older drama geeks that are trying out for the big parts. I think a drama nerd actually growled at me when I looked at the sign-in sheet for the Brando part. Kids are screaming in the halls, yelling, and just being really obnoxious. I think one guy has makeup on. Some kids look like they’re trying not to look nervous, but mostly, everybody looks freaked out. I’m numb.

  I just came out of the classroom where I read for Benny Southstreet. I think it went pretty well. I don’t stutter when I say somebody else’s lines. They had me sing half of the Happy Birthday song and told me to go on to the dancing room.

  What am I doing here? Why are all these kids being so loud? It’s like they’re looking for deaf kids to be in this play. I guess you have to be loud when you’re onstage, so they’re practi
cing? But I’ve been around some deaf people who speak, and they have no idea how loud they are, so they just go for it when they try to talk. That’s more what it seems like. Either that or they’re trying to intimidate me. I know I’m an outsider, and I’m getting looks that seem to confirm my status. They’re trying to ice me. And it’s working, because I’m terrified.

  I go into the dance room with about ten other dudes. They call out my name and stick the number twenty-one on my chest. I see a piano and an old lady wearing a leotard. I’ve got to quit staring at her boobs, because now a guy is playing the piano all of a sudden, and she’s jumping around and counting to eight over and over again.

  “Five, six, seven, eight and one, two, three, four,” she yells, and kind of step, hop, kicks, and wiggles around the room. “Chassé, arabesque, pas de bourrée, chassé, grand battement, pas de bourrée, ball change, and that’s it!” she says.

  That’s what? It’s not English. Where the hell is Ms. McDougle? They didn’t talk or dance like that in the movie. Gangsters don’t wiggle! She does the moves a few more times, and the other guys seem to be getting it. I pretend like I’m getting it too, but I’m totally clueless.

  “Okay, let’s break off into groups,” she yells.

  Three guys to a group, and we’re supposed to remember the pas de bourrée stuff on our own. And then what steps go where with the counting. Brando didn’t arabesque! He just looked cool and kind of strutted around.

  My group is called first (of course). The piano starts and the other dudes are chassé-ing and pas de bourrée-ing around pretty well. I’m just sort of jumping in place.

  The music stops and the leotard lady yells, “Number twenty-one, you’re missing the grand battement!”

  Oh? Am I missing the grand battement? Terribly sorry. I thought I was missing something. Uh, by the way, what the hell is a grand battement? Is that the wiggle, the kick, or the march?

  The piano man starts going again, and we’re off. Leotard lady yells, “Five, six, seven, eight!”