“I’ll drop in again in case you want to take a crack at the other cheek!” I scream.
Ms. McDougle’s only note for me after rehearsal is, “Carter, you’re wincing before the slap. You can’t anticipate it, buddy.”
Oh, am I, “buddy”? Yeah, I’ll have to work on that! Maybe I could join the Marine Corps in my downtime to toughen up a bit!
Other than that, I’m having more fun doing theater than I’ve ever had doing anything else. I feel smarter and more confident, and I find myself laughing all the time. Also, it’s probably my imagination, but sometimes when people talk to me these days, there’s this weird tone in their voice I’ve never heard directed at me before. . . . I think it’s respect.
44. Springing Leaks
Five days before we open the show, Nick Brock is at my house having dinner with the family. It’s great when he comes over, because my sister is so nice to everybody. I can’t help but laugh at her when she says, “Mother, could you please pass the delicious casserole?” instead of the usual, “Give me some of that crap in the bowl before I starve to death!”
I’m talking to Nick about his truck repairs and how baseball is going. I tell him I haven’t seen any of the games because of my detentions, when Lynn breaks in and says, “Could you please lower your voice?!”
“Oh, am I talking too loud?” I ask.
“Yes you are, and it’s very obnoxious, so please stop,” she politely condescends.
“Lynn, he is practicing his projection, and he’s doing great!” Mom defends.
No. No helping, Mom.
“Well, Mother, all I’m saying is: it’s annoying. And he should be aware when he’s being annoying. I’m just trying to help him, like I try to help everyone,” she says.
“It’s funny,” I say to Nick, “because sometimes I’ll forget if it was Mother Teresa that did something or if it was Lynn.”
Brock laughs, takes a bite of casserole, and asks, “Hey, what’s ‘projection’?”
Oh boy. Brock is not going to like this.
Lynn jumps in with more assistance by yelling, “Nick, don’t talk with your mouth full!”
Good ol’ Lynn. Helping me. Helping Brock. Two birds, one bitchy stone.
“Nick,” my mom says, “projection is when people in the theater speak loud enough and clear enough for the people in the back row to hear what they’re saying.”
Mother, zip it!
“Why would you need to work on that, man?” he asks me.
“Um . . .” I say.
“Well, Carter doesn’t want anyone to know it, but he’s the lead actor in the spring play!” Mom blabbers.
Momma, noooo!
“Really?” Brock asks. “Lynn, why didn’t you tell me that?”
“Because it’s mortifying, that’s why! We don’t talk about his drama problem in public,” she says.
“Well, I think that’s awesome. The spring play is a big deal. You know, I tried out for the winter play when I was a sophomore, but I got cut. Congratulations,” Nick says, all seriously.
“You got cut from something, Brock?” I ask in disbelief.
“Yeah, I took drama classes and everything back in the day, but I choked at the audition,” Nick continues. “The play was called The Diary of Anne Frank. I really wanted to play this kid Peter Van something.”
My dad chokes on his water. “Anne Frank? The Holocaust Anne Frank? No offense, Nick, but you’re like, six foot five? It’d be pretty tough to imagine you as a little Jewish boy. . . .”
“William!” Mom barks. “I imagine Nick would have been very good in the part.”
Brock gets quiet and thinks about what might have been. I bet he would have been a kick-ass Peter, the little Jewish boy. It would have added flavor to the family if they’d had a muscle-bound linebacker eating all the food in the attic. I should feel bad for feeling this way, but I really like hearing that Nick Brock screws up. That he’s been cut from things and my sister yells at him too. I gain strength from his pain.
“Well, I can’t wait to see the show,” Nick says.
Oh? Nick’s going to see the show. “Cool,” I say halfheartedly.
Not cool! I don’t mind singing and dancing with the drama dorks, but I never really thought other people would come. God, if Nick Brock comes, that’ll mean my sister might come. Jeez, I don’t like that! What if other kids wander in? Like, my boys hear about the Hot Box Girls and come down to gawk. I doubt if they’ll be as supportive as Nick. I can’t worry about it, though. I’ve got to save my stress, and focus on doing better in the show.
45. Dance Fever, Punk
I run into the drama wing with my backpack over my head at my usual breakneck pace, to find Jeremy laughing with Abby on the steps of the theater. His arms are wrapped around her waist, and her arms are draped around his neck. She’s cracking up and staring into his eyes. He passionately kisses her on the cheek and she squeals with delight. Well, well, well! What do we have here? A backstabbing drama nerd with perfect hair, riding the Village Bike. I thought Jeremy and I were going to be good friends, but I guess Abby has just given me my next nemesis. (Andre’s hair is growing back a lot faster and cooler than mine. He hit four home runs in a single baseball game, and he and EJ hang out sometimes now, but I don’t have time to care about him anymore.)
Granted, Abby and I never actually speak outside of the dialogue in the play, but it should be pretty obvious that she’s my girl, Jeremy! How do I kick this guy’s ass? Do I outdance his punk ass? Whack him singing-gangster style and haul him off in the imaginary trunk of my cardboard Cadillac? Man, I don’t want to hate Jeremy. He’s, like, my best friend lately. He’s always showing me how to dance, sing, and dress better, and he drives me home after late rehearsals. The Andre feud almost killed me, so I’ll just let him have her. If anybody is good enough for my Abby, it’s Jeremy. I can live with this.
“S’up?” I ask through clenched teeth.
Abby doesn’t respond; she never does. But Jeremy projects, “Hey, hey, Mr. Car-ter!” Like that knife in my back shouldn’t hurt a bit. But I’m okay with this!
We do a run-through of the second act, and I’m totally off. I know these lines—I do!—but I can’t seem to remember them at the right time today. I grab the script whenever I get offstage and look them over. I have most of my scenes written on my arms, but I’m still having trouble with them. The last scene in the play where everybody gets married is up, and I see Jeremy and Abby look at each other and share a knowing giggle as we chassé into position. My blood starts to boil. Are they laughing at me? That’s my imaginary girlfriend you’re mackin’ on, pretty boy! She’s about to become my pretend wife! For the first time in my life I wish I was at football practice and I could smash his junior, dance-fever punk ASS into the fake walls! I hate these older dudes and their stupid cars, and . . . (dead silence).
Dang it! I bet it’s my line. I’m missing my line. What is it? Where the hell are we? The show’s almost over. Everyone is looking at me. A skinny kid named Tony is standing in front of me dressed like a priest.
I flex my jaw and say, “Uhhh?” all smooth.
Abby whispers angrily, “You do!”
I do what? When? You’re not helping . . . LIGHTBULB! I yell, “I DO, DO!” really fast, and we break out dancing again. But the music stops just as we get going, and Ms. McDougle jumps up onstage like a pro wrestler.
She throws her clipboard down and yells, “Carter, you are killin’ me!”
Dang it! No one is safe when I’m around. Football, swimming, math class, you name it and I’m there, like a ninja assassin.
“What the hell is with you today?” Ms. McDougle barks. “Concentrate, please! We have two days. Two rehearsals until five hundred people fill those seats! All of your friends and family will be watching. How are you going to react?”
Family maybe, but I don’t think my friends will be a problem.
She yells, “Everybody out! Carter, Jeremy, Tony, Kara, and Abby—do the wedding seq
uence until you drop! I’ve got to work on the latest costume catastrophe. And Carter, please, stay focused!”
As she stomps out of the auditorium, I give her an awkward wave and say, “You got it, Ms. McD, I’m focused like a Nikon camera!”
“Killin’ me!” she cries as the door slams.
“Okay, what the hell are we doing, guys?” I ask.
Everyone glares at me. We rehearse the wedding scene and the final dance number for three more hours. Man, this stuff is tough. I’ve worked as hard as I possibly could on this show. It’s all I’ve done for two months, and I’m still screwing up. I haven’t done homework in forever. Good thing I never do it, or I’d really be screwed.
I’m exhausted as I unlock my bike to ride home in the dark. I feel someone watching me, and turn to find Abby about twenty feet behind me leaning against a lamppost. She is so pretty, and she doesn’t look away when I meet her gaze, so I ride over to her and say, “Hey.”
She replies, “Hey,” and I try not to smile too big.
“Do you need a ride?”
She looks at my axle pegs, shakes her head, and says, “No, my mom’s on her way.”
“I’m sorry I keep screwing up the show. . . .”
“You’re not screwing up that bad,” she replies. “I think it’s the same with me and Jeremy and everybody else; you just need to get out of your own way.”
I nod my thanks and try to think of something funny to say or a question I can ask, when her mom’s headlights come into view. Abby picks up her backpack and walks to the car. Her mom glares at me from the driver’s seat like she’s figuring out how much trouble she’d get into for “accidentally” running me over. I hop on my bike and ride off in the other direction, to be on the safe side.
46. Let Yourself Go
Opening night! I can’t believe it’s here. Man, I’m more nervous than I’ve ever been in my life. It’s not that I’m worried I won’t do a good job; I’m worried that I’m going to die. A heart attack at fourteen . . . is that possible? You’d think I’d been eating out of Taco Bell’s Dumpster for the last week the way I’ve got diarrhea. Only one boys’ bathroom in the drama wing, and the dorks are a little fussy that I’m murdering it. I’ve got my fly gangster suit on, my hair is just long enough as of yesterday to slick back, and I look so cool! I’m dressed for the funeral if I do croak.
I watch Jeremy put on his makeup and just do what he does, but when I try to put on the mascara, my hands are shaking so bad that I keep poking myself in the eyeball. Abby must have seen me struggling, because she’s fighting back a smile when she takes the wand out of my hand and orders me to “look up” before applying the junk to my eyelashes. I thank her as Ms. McDougle yells at us to come into the classroom for a pep talk.
Fifteen minutes before the curtain goes up
Everybody involved in the show, from the lighting guys to the mothers who helped sew the costumes, are all holding hands. Jeremy calls it the Dildo Circle—so many hands are trembling it sends a vibration all through the line. Ms. McDougle talks to us with a shaky voice about what a great thing it is to do a play, and how THE THEATER matters. How live theater is the closest thing people get to living out their fantasies. She tells us to enjoy this moment because we may never get to experience anything like it again. How proud she is of us and how we should reach for the stars tonight, and stay relaxed and let ourselves go!
She wouldn’t be so proud of me if she knew what I was about to do to this bathroom. DANG IT! The door’s locked. Crap! I’m not just saying that; I mean “Crap!” I’m going to ruin my fly gangster suit if I don’t find a toilet now. I break out of the drama wing, sprint up the stairs and down the hall. I think it’s a no-no to be outside of the wing in my costume, but I’d rather not do Guys and Dolls with a runny steamer in my pants.
The school is empty, and thank God the boys’ restroom is too. If it had a hundred people in it a minute ago, they would be long gone the second I start letting myself go. WHEW! That is terrible! And that is it. Nothing left in the tanks, Captain; you’ve got a show to do.
I look in the mirror on my way out, and I may be a little pale and shaky, my eyeballs may have sunken into my head a bit from dehydration, but I have never looked so cool! I love this. I’m ready for this. For the first time in my life I have no reason to second-guess myself. I’ve worked way too hard to possibly get all caught up in my head and fumble through this play and wreck it all. Nobody would be shocked if I did, because, “It’s just Carter up there, and that’s what Carter does.”
Well, not tonight! Not this Carter; I’m going to do it right. I’m going to be great. I kick the bathroom door open like the singing gangster I am. I step out into the hall like the biggest badass this school has ever known, when I hear a chillingly familiar voice. Not the voice of God, not my own voice, but a voice I know almost as well.
“Carter, what are you doing?” EJ asks in disbelief.
I look over at the last guys you’d ever expect to see at school at 7:55 p.m. on a Thursday night. Eight matching baseball hats, same matching expression: profound dumbfoundedness. EJ, Bag, Doc, J-Low, Levi, Hormone, Nutt, and Andre.
“Hey guys, w-w-what’re you doing here?” I ask as I walk by.
“Just came to see if it was true,” Doc says.
“Abby said you were in the spring musical, and we told her she was crazy,” Bag adds.
“When did she tell you?” I ask.
“About three weeks ago,” EJ explains.
“Why didn’t you ask me about it?”
“Because we never see you anymore, dude,” Bag adds.
I just look at them with my hair slicked back, gangster suit on, and makeup applied, when Nutt asks very seriously, “Well, are ya?”
I have to laugh. “No, dumbass, I just get dressed up like this sometimes and come up to school to goof around.”
The guys laugh like they’ve forgotten why we’re all standing here uncomfortably. Hormone adds, “Ms. Holly is givin’ extra credit for seein’ your play.”
“Makeup, huh?” EJ asks.
“Yep,” I say, without a hint of embarrassment.
Andre looks like he’s doing the potty dance, he wants to burn me so bad. He finally comes up with, “Doin’ a play is gay.”
I nod my head and say, “Yeah, that was a good one. Well, you guys better take your seats. The show’s about to start.”
As I walk away, I hear them chattering like a gaggle of hens. And I don’t care. I can’t believe it, but I don’t. This is it. This is me for the first time in my life not caring. Because I’m not doing this for them, or my family, or Ms. McDougle, or even Abby. I’m stepping out onto that stage tonight for one person—me—that’s it. Because this is who I want to be. Not, like, an actor or a singer or dancer, but a guy who does what he wants to do because he wants to do it. Life has made, and will make, me do a lot of stuff I don’t want to do: football, swimming, studying, parties, work, etc. So I think when you tap into something that you really want to do, you have to fight for it, even if the fight is with yourself. I just overcame my one true enemy, and I feel like a new person walking down this hallway. One week and six days before the end of the year, and I finally feel like a fresh man. This is the person I’ve been creating with every step and misstep that I’ve taken this year. I’ve worked harder for this feeling than I ever imagined I could, but these steps are completely effortless.
As I look out onto the stage, the lights come up, the music starts, and the show begins. It’s going better than it ever did in rehearsals. I think back to how bad we were at the beginning—to how everything was so clunky and retarded. I never thought we’d get to this place. The fat guy and his pint-size sidekick are cracking everybody up. The show is better than perfect so far, and it’s amazing to watch. It makes me feel good to know that everybody screws up, but if you just keep going you can get through anything, and you just might be great when you get there. I never thought I’d live through this year at all, and here I am, about
to star in the spring musical! I’ll probably always care what people think of me, and want to impress them, but when I walked away from my boys to do a singing, dancing, gangster musical, I realized it didn’t need to be the driving force of my life. I felt a shift, and it feels great. Like, I’m ten feet underwater, looking up at a perfect blue sky in late June. It feels like freedom.
“CARTER, you are killing me! Get on stage,” Ms. McDougle whisper/yells.
She can’t see the epiphany that just happened here. All she can see is that Jeremy said my cue line and I’m staring up at the lights smiling. I step out onstage with my heart racing like I’ve just sprinted a hundred yards on crack, but I know I’ll be okay.
That’s about all I remember. I’m suddenly staring at the back of a curtain, and the audience is going wild with applause. I’m trying to catch my breath and figure out what’s going on. I know I stepped out there and said my first line. I know I talk/sung pretty much when I was supposed to, and I danced up a storm, because I’m drenched in sweat. We just did the wedding scene and sang the big finish number really well.
We step into the curtain-call position, and I take Abby’s hand in mine. She smiles at me as the curtain rips open. The audience jumps to its feet, and I realize that the show is really over and we must have kicked ass, because EJ and the rest of my boys (even Andre) are clapping their hands off! Pam is cheering two rows behind my dad. Mom’s crying, and Brock is jumping up and down like a girl. My sister grabs Brock by the shoulders and shuts down the jumping with brute force.
We finish the bowing, the curtain closes, and Abby tries to let go of my hand. I squeeze it tightly and look over at her. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want this feeling to end. When she finally looks up into my eyes, they’re filled with tears. She gives me a smile, and I release my grip. Abby turns to walk away, then spins around and jumps into my arms. She’s squeezing me so tight that my ribs might break, but I’d let her break every bone in my body before I’d let her go.
Carter Finally Gets It Page 23
