I jump a few times and then start running around the room.
“No, no, NO! Twenty-one, you’re coming in on the half step. You’re missing the one count. Go again!” she barks. (I’m missing a hell of a lot more than the one count.) “Five, six, seven, eight,” she yells.
I march in place for a second then step, kick, wiggle.
“Nooo, Twenty-one! You’re not feeling the music,” she says, shaking her head in disgust.
I just glare at her. Who has time to “feel”? I’m too busy over here counting and wiggling to feel a thing. “What?” I ask, a little pissy.
“You’re missing the steps because you’re not feeling the music, young man. You’re being too timid!”
“I’m being ‘too timid’ because I can’t remember the damn steps and I don’t speak Japanese!” I bark back.
Oops, I just yelled at the leotard lady. She seemed to like it, though, because she says, “Don’t even concern yourself with the steps; just feel it, and come in when you’re ready. The steps will follow. Why don’t you go by yourself this time? I think the other boys are negatively affecting you,” she says
Yeah, they’re the ones “negatively affecting” me.
I ask her, “So, feeling is more important than the steps, here?”
“Yes, feeling is everything in dance. Passion is paramount in the theater. The steps are just steps, the words are just words, everything is nothing without emotion!” she says.
This lady is pissing me off. Why the hell did she teach us all the march, step, wiggle crap if it doesn’t mean anything? Was all that chassé crap just busywork? I got your feeling, bitch!
I yell out, “Play the damn thing, piano man! Five, six, seven, eight,” and the piano goes. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I’ll just wait until I feel it. I’ve got to block out this whole room. I’ve just got to imagine those dancing gangsters in the movie and let them flow into my body. Those dudes could dance . . . and so can I!
I feel something, so I step out with some flair and stomp, march, step, kick, wiggle. I kick out my leg and jump around in a circle. The piano doesn’t stop, so neither do I. I toss my head around and spread my fingers out really wide and shake them. March, step, wiggle, waggle! I gyrate my hips and bust a squat move I’ve seen on MTV.
That’s probably the wrong feeling, but it’s a feeling, and “feeling is everything in dance”! So I go for it! This is way better than that old march, step, kick, wiggle (and way more fun). I swirl my arms around in a circle and spin around again. I sprint across the room and try to slide on my knees. But I more just slam my knees into the floor and stop cold. I throw my hands out like that was my big finish. Then the piano stops and I turn to the leotard lady.
She’s staring at me in disbelief. So is everybody else. Maybe I felt too much. She breaks the silence. “Okay, I think we’ve seen enough. Number twenty-one, you are free to go. Next group . . . please!”
Dang it! I walk out shaking my head. Man, that was embarrassing. Thank God none of my friends saw. But actually it’s kind of nice. To make a complete ass of yourself and not have anybody dog you for it. You can’t be too much of a geek in the drama wing. In fact, I may have just out-geeked the biggest geeks in the school.
I feel her before I see her. The right side of my head gets really hot, and I look over to see where the tractor beam is coming from and who’s shooting it at me . . . ABBY!
“What are you doing here, Carter?” she seethes.
“Uh, Ms. McDougle asked me to try out for the spring—”
“For what part?” Abby demands.
“Uh, the fat guy,” I say, because I can’t remember any of the characters’ names I signed up for. She’s really jacking me up with that stare!
“You’re not fat,” she barks.
“Oh, thanks. Neither are you,” I say.
She glares at me and shakes her head. Maybe she didn’t catch that as the compliment I was throwing.
“You don’t need to worry about it, Abby.” I laugh. “I just got kicked out of the dance room, so . . .”
“Why would . . . What did you do, Carter?” she asks.
“Nothin’. I was just feeling the music, like the lady told me to. I may have freestyled a bit. Busted some jumps and spin moves that she wasn’t ready to handle,” I say.
Abby laughs. I made her laugh again!
“I don’t think I’ll get to be in the play is my point. I might sign up for the lights or building the sets or something,” I say, all cool, like a guy who has a tool belt in his truck. Chicks love that. But if she ever sees me hammer my thumb into a board and cry like a bitch, it’ll ruin it. She almost smiles, but then she pulls back and gives me the usual scowl.
“I heard about you and Christy Schauper,” she says.
“Who?” I ask.
She shakes her head and clarifies. “The Chopper, you jerk!”
“Jerk? I saved that chick’s life. She would’ve frozen to death in that shed if I hadn’t carried her big ass into the house,” I reply.
“Oooh, only after you were . . . Uhh, Carter! You are unbelievable!” she bellows.
“What? W-w-what do you want from me? I’m doing the best I can! I screw everything up, yes. But I never try to. I’m sorry, but it’s not my fault if a chick throws herself at me,” I say.
She stomps away in a huff, and fumes, “Stupid jerk, I can’t believe I ever . . .”
Dang it. I can’t win with that girl. Well, I believe I’ve had enough embarrassment for one day and walk toward the doors. For a guy with rejection issues, I seem to set myself up for it an awful lot.
As I pass the door to the theater, I hear screaming and yelling, so I stop to check it out. It sounds like an episode of Cops is being filmed in there. A girl is screeching like somebody is beating her trailer-park style. So I cut through the drama classroom and sneak in the back way, to peek through the curtains. A drama geek girl and a drama dork guy are holding papers and yelling at each other . . . as loud as they possibly can!
He yells, “‘I’ll make you a proposition!’” all stiff.
Oh, I know this. He’s yelling the Brando lines, but not nearly cool enough.
“‘And what’s my end of the bargain?’” she says like a piece of wood with a megaphone.
This is the scene in the movie where Brando is trying to get the Goody Two-shoes to go to Cuba with him. They fight a little more, and then a piano kicks in and they start singing. The girl must be nervous, because her voice is all crackly and off-key. The dude doesn’t sing anything like Brando.
Ms. McDougle is writing stuff down. I bet she’s writing “These kids SUCK!” and “Kill me now!” but they finish screwing up the song, and she says, “Hey, guys, that was awesome! Thanks so much for coming. We’ll post the cast list after school tomorrow. Really great job.”
What? Is this some alternate universe where “great” means “crap”? Because those two knuckleheads missed the whole point of the song! Wait a minute! She said I was one of her best students the other day in the parking lot. She must just throw those compliments around, because I got the boot from the leotard lady in five seconds. And, homework or not, you wouldn’t give your “best student” a D!
She pulls the same “That was great” line with a bunch of other kids. I’d call them a lot of things, but “great” wouldn’t make my list. It seems like nobody has seen the movie. The guys aren’t tough enough, and the dolls aren’t mean enough to the guys. The girl is supposed to hate this guy at first because he’s a real player in her eyes. And she’s a hater. She thinks he’s a no-good sinner! He gets her with his charm in the end, but that doesn’t happen for an hour or so. Plus, nobody is singing the song right. It’s not about singing pretty, it’s about being smooth! These auditions are like great reality TV, though. I can’t not watch. It’s interesting to see how so many people can say the same lines so totally different. And totally wrong! They’re all so nervous.
Even upperclassmen you’d think of as supreme dr
ama geek royalty, like Jeremy (the guy my sister used to be friends with), are screwing it up. He’s been in every show since he was a freshman, so he walks in like he owns the joint. His clothes look expensive and his hair is perfect, but his mouth is so dry, his top lip keeps sticking to his teeth and jacking up the way he talks. He sings really well, but almost too well, like he’s showing off.
I had no idea how many drama geeks there were. More than a hundred kids must have come to screw up tonight. The hottie who works at Blockbuster walks in, and I thought she’d be great. She has to have seen the movie, right? Wrong! I want to yell “Booo!” when she starts to sing. I wish I had one of those old-timey hooks to pull the stinkers offstage and save Ms. McDougle the trouble of lying. “That was really terrific! Thanks so much for coming.” I know why she’s such an awesome drama teacher now: she’s a great actress. It may be eating her up on the inside, but it doesn’t show one bit. It’s after ten o’clock, and that notebook has got to be full of “This idiot is even worse than the last!” or “Crappy . . . but not too crappy.”
The helper girl comes in looking really tired and finally says, “Okay, we have Abby and Trevor. The last pair of the evening.”
Abby walks in looking really pretty. She’s wearing her black dress. I guess she keeps that thing in her locker. She looks hot but nervous. I want to run out there and tell her, “Relax; all the other kids suck!” Her partner, Trevor, looks like no exception to the rule. He may top all others, though, because he looks like he might puke. Awesome!
He’s auditioning for Sky, and has the first line. He’s supposed to say, “I will need a lot of personal help from you.” But this kid is doing everything he can to hold down his dinner, and he isn’t letting the line come up, either.
Abby waits for a second and then jumps in with her dialogue. “‘I think not, Mr. Masterson. Tell me, why are you here?’”
Oh, Abby is good! Good and sassy. But the green goblin standing across from her isn’t saying a word. His line is supposed to be, “I told you. I’m a sinner.” But I think he’s stopped breathing. I know he’s not dead, because his hands are shaking the pages together, making a flapping noise. He looks around like he’s in a dream. He might be, like, one of those serious method actors Ms. McDougle talked about in class. Maybe he’s really deep into the character and he’s digging up the emotion. Nope, he’s digging up his lunch! He covers his mouth and runs out of the theater. YES!
Abby must really be nervous, because normally she’d be laughing at that doofus.
“Well . . . ?” Ms. McDougle says. “Is anybody else still here?”
The helper girl looks panicky as she replies, “No, everyone is gone.”
“Oh well,” Ms. McDougle responds. “I guess that’s it, Avery. Your résumé says that you’ve had a lot of dance training. I think you did really great. Thanks so much for coming.”
Who the hell is “Avery”? I think Ms. McDougle is beyond tired. She should at least listen to Abby sing.
“My name is Abby,” she sheepishly replies.
“What?” Ms. McDougle says absentmindedly. “Right, Abby. Look, we’re out of boys. Thanks for coming, though.”
Abby’s lower lip starts to tremble. Don’t do it, kid. Fight! Demand to sing. You can’t be any worse than the rest of them.
“Okay.” She softly surrenders and drops her head to leave. She walks offstage and looks so sad. Her shoulders start to shake as she steps down.
“Nope. Can’t do it,” I say as I step out into the blinding light. “Would it be okay if I read the Brando part with her?” Man, I really hate to see this chick cry. This is going to suck!
“Sure,” Ms. McDougle replies.
“No,” Abby says with a tear rolling down her face. “It’s not okay. I don’t want to read with him.”
Ms. McDougle ignores Abby’s protest and asks me, “Why didn’t you audition for Sky in the first place, Carter?”
“Oh, um, it’s nice and calm in here, but outside those doors, it’s chaos. A kid growled at me when I got too close to the sign-in sheet. I just want Abby to get to the singing part,” I say.
“No, no, I really don’t want to read with someone who’s not in the theater,” Abby says, all snide.
WELL! Try to do something nice and what do you get? Sass! “Oh, get over yourself, Avery!” I say. “Get up here and read the stupid part!”
She shoots me a mean look and marches back down toward the stage. She may be coming to hit me again, so I don’t even wait for her to get up onstage before I cock my head, point my finger in her face, and fire the first line. “‘I’ll need a lot of personal help from you. Why don’t we have dinner?’”
Her jaw drops, she turns red, and seethes, “‘I think not, Mr. Masterson. Tell me, why are you here?’”
Abby is great! “‘I told you. I’m a sinner,’” I say.
“‘You’re lying!’” she snaps back.
I don’t even have the script in my hand. I’ve seen the scene so many times that this junk is just rattling out of my mouth. I crack a smile and say, “‘Well, lying’s a sin. You need sinners, don’t you?’”
The smile pisses her off. “‘We’re managing.’”
I get close to her face and quietly say, “‘Why don’t you let me help you? I’ll bet I can fill this place with sinners.’”
She pushes me back and yells, “‘I don’t bet.’”
I pick up a script off the piano because I can’t remember what comes next. She’s not looking down at her script. She’s just staring at me. “‘I’ll make you a proposition,’” I say coolly.
She just glares. “‘And what’s my end of the bargain?’” she asks, all snide.
“‘Have dinner with me,’” I respond like a pimp. Oh man, I’m the gangster of love! This is where I trick her into going with me to Cuba. Abby and I go back and forth for a while. Some of the lines are wrong, but the “feeling” is definitely right. I’m being so cool and it’s pissing her off so bad. I think she smiled at me once, though. I like this! I call Abby “doll,” “dame,” “broad,” and “baby.” She hates it, but what can she do? It’s in the script!
I say, “‘Why don’t you change your pitch to, “Come to the mission one and all, except guys. I hate guys!”’”
She tries to say her line. “‘I don’t hate anybody.’”
But I totally cut her off with, “‘Except me. I’m relieved to know that it’s just me personally and not all guys!’”
Oh, it feels good to yell at Abby. And she seems really into yelling at me. I bad-mouth all the guys she’s dated and all the “squares” she’ll date in the future. She yells how she would never have someone like me as a boyfriend. She fumes that she would never date a degenerate, a hustler, or a guy who’s one of the devil’s first-line troops!
I tell her, “‘I’m not interested in what he’”—her boyfriend—“‘will not be’”—like cool. “‘I’m interested in what he will be.’”
The piano starts and I’d forgotten about the singing part. Abby sure didn’t. She opens her mouth wide, and angels fly out: “‘IIIIII’LLLL know when mmmyyy looove cooomes aaalooong . . .’”
Wow, she’s awesome! And she’s not just singing the words, she’s still yelling at me through the song! I miss my part to sing because I’m just staring at her. Dang it!
She gives me a worried look, but I jump in and talk/sing, “‘You’ll know at a glance’”—I’m just talking in time with the piano—“‘By the two pair of paaaannts . . .’” Oh boy, I just sang that one! I didn’t explode, either; I might do another.
She busts in and sings, “‘I’ll knooow by that calm steady voice, those feet on the groouund.’”
I bust out laughing because these lines are cheesy. Abby glares at me, then smiles.
She sings, “‘I’ll know . . .’”
And then we both sing, “‘When my looovvve cooomes aaallllooonnnnggg . . .’”
I sang pretty quiet, but Abby let it go. Awesome. The piano carries out t
he last note and fades to silence. I guess that’s it. Nobody is saying anything, though. I’m just looking at Abby, who’s staring back at me. I look down at my script, and it says Sky kisses her. So I do. BANG! No leadoff peck, either. I just give it to her. None of the other hundred kids must have seen this in the script, because nobody kissed anybody all night. She’s not expecting it at all when I crush the script into her boobs. I miss kissing Abby. She’s shocked at first, but then I feel her give in to me. She’s into it because I’m that guy. Gangsta!
We kiss for about a minute, and it’s so nice. I could care less if Ms. McDougle and her helper are uncomfortable and they want to go home. I’m kissing ABBY! We break apart for some reason, and I slowly open my eyes just as she opens hers. That’s a look of love if I’ve ever seen it. Then her eyes get a little smaller and a little more serious. Her mouth crinkles up and her body leans to the left. Then she spins really fast to the right and I hear a loud SSSLLLAAAAPPP! and feel a sharp pain in my face. Bitch just slapped me! My jaw drops open from the shock.
“OOOWWWW!” I say as I grab my face. “What the hell was that for?”
Abby may be skinny these days, but she still hits like a heavyweight. She just glares at me. I look down at my script, and there it is, in black and white: Sarah belts him one across the chops. Dang it!
Abby drops her crumpled script and says, “Jerk” under her breath.
Now, I know that’s not in the script! The audition must be over. I have no idea if that was good or not, but it was definitely fun. Ms. McDougle’s not saying anything, though. She’s not scribbling. She’s just staring at us . . . kind of mean, actually. I bet she’s mad I kissed Abby. She should be pissed at Abby for clocking me. But Abby definitely sang the song better than any of the other chicks.
Ms. McDougle opens her mouth to speak. I should just say it for her: “That was great, thanks for coming. . . .” But she doesn’t say that. She just stares at us with an open mouth for a minute. Then she starts chewing her pencil like a woodchuck. Well, this is uncomfortable. I guess we should go? I walk past Ms. McDougle and her helper. Abby is behind me.
“Hey, when can I sign up for the light crew?” I ask.
Carter Finally Gets It Page 21
