Colors

by Russell J. Sanders

  “Your lips,” I mutter.

  “Huh?”

  “Your lips—ketchup all over them.”

  The new guy wipes his mouth, then extends his hand for me to shake. “Zane—Zane Jeffrey.”

  He must have thought that was an invitation to talk. I just wanted him to wipe his mouth. Oh, well.

  “Neil Darrien.” I shake his hand, feigning enthusiasm, but trying not to be too friendly. Then a bell in my head rings. Something’s not right. “Wait a minute,” I blurt out. “I thought Jeffrey was your first name.”

  A grin crosses his face. “Well, the official birth certificate reads Jeffrey Zane Jacobson. But Zane Jeffrey”—his hands sweep across the air above him—“looks better on a marquee, don’t you think?”

  “Marquee?” My head does a little shake, like you do when suddenly the lemon is too sour, or the breeze is too cold, or a bullet whizzes past your head.

  “Yeah, I’m an actor,” this Zane character says. “Or at least I plan to be.”

  And suddenly, my interest is piqued. Maybe that bullet just did whiz past my head. Nobody, but nobody else at Cawton County is like me, planning to be an actor. Two nerds meet in a silent wood.

  “What have you done?” My question may be a little too loud, a little too probing, a little too won’t you be my friend today, a little too I like your curl. I straighten my mask of indifference. Cool it, Neil.

  “What haven’t I done? My first role was Winthrop in Music Man. I was nine. There’s a dinner theater in my hometown called The Carnival. I tried out and got the part.”

  “You’ve done professional work?” Wow. Maybe I misjudged this guy. But I don’t want him to think I’m too eager. A friend who thinks like me would be nice. But, then again, is he going to be major competition for me?

  “Pro, huh?” I say, chill in my voice. “That’s nice. What else have you done?”

  Zane rattles off his credits. When he gets to Cornelius in Hello Dolly!, I can’t stand it. This is too much.

  “You’re kidding. I did Cornelius!” And I hear it in my voice… my calm, cool, collected cover is blown.

  “Where?” Zane shrieks, his excitement bubbling over.

  “We did Dolly! last year at the Cawton County Playhouse.” I match his excitement, then I’m hit by this thought, which I voice: “Of course, it was just community theater,” feeling my own accomplishments don’t measure up to his professional ones.

  “So?” Zane says. “You did it; that’s what’s important. And it sounds like you got a good stage name out of the deal.”

  “Stage name?” My eyes widen. What is he talking about?

  “Come on—that name,” Zane gushes. “Neil Darrien? It’s meant to be up in lights. How’d you come up with it?”

  I laugh. It’s a laugh at his comment, but it’s also joy—joy that a friend has just entered, stage left.

  “My parents gave it to me. What was it you said? Official birth certificate name.”

  “Awesome.” Zane stuffs another ketchup-drenched fry into his mouth, once again leaving that ring, like Satine’s lipstick. “Have you done anything else?”

  “Mouth,” I say, then continue, “Tommy in Music Man, Rolf in Sound of Music, Albert in Birdie, El Gallo, Troy in High School Musical, Marius, and I did Billy Bigelow here at school last year.”

  “This school did Les Miz?” His question is muffled by the napkin wiping Satine’s luscious lips. I’ve got to quit doing that. I can’t keep picturing Satine whenever I see Zane. How gay is that?

  “No, Les Miz was community theater too. But we do a show a year here at Cawton County.”

  “What are they doing this year?” Zane asks. He doesn’t even try to contain himself. Like I would be if I was forced into a new school, he is crazy over the idea we do a musical here.

  “This year’s show is Oklahoma! and tryouts are in about three weeks.”

  “Fab-u-lous. I’ve always wanted to do that show. It was the pioneering show of American musical theater, you know. Wow. Rodgers and Hammerstein made history. Their first show together. 1943. St. James Theater. Agnes de Mille….”

  The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and stopping Zane’s history lesson in its tracks.

  “Enough, Library of Congress—lunch is over,” I say, wishing we could stay and talk the afternoon away.

  Zane leaps up, grabbing his tray. “Yeah. Gotta go chase down my next class. Great talking to you, Neil.”

  “Yeah, Zane.” I smile. “Good meeting you too.”

  Strangest thing. He walks backward from the table. His eyes are locked on me, his smile gracing his face. My gaze is on that curl. And I feel a little somethin’ somethin’.

  Lordy, lordy me… another of Aunt Jenny’s signature phrases. I wag my head in disbelief. Crazy as a loon, but I like the guy. Then, feeling the stirring growing, I shut down. No, this can’t be happening to me. I think of Brother Gramm, and any feelings I may have had for Zane vanish.

  Any of those kinds of feelings. The unnatural kind. Unnatural for me, anyway. But lingering in my thoughts is the idea I’m glad someone like me has joined the choir today.

  I chomp the last of my tacos.

  No wonder the guy just waltzed right into Show Choir. He’s got the chops to really stand out. Finally, maybe Ms. Walter will focus on him for a change and back off of me a little.

  But is that what I really want?

  THE SAVORY saltiness and soothing crunch of potato chips fill my mouth as I sprawl on Melissa’s couch and gulp Diet Coke. Aunt Jenny is heavily into organic this and macro that, so she cringes every time she sees me with a diet anything. But it’s all part of the body training. Aunt Jenny spouts, “Your body is your temple.” Well, who wants a fat temple?

  I know there’s nothing healthy about the chips, but they’re so good. Almost as good as the kisses Melissa and I shared before the snack break. Knowing her mother and dad would not be home for at least a couple of hours, Melissa succumbed. We spent a hot and heavy fifteen minutes on her couch.

  “Let’s go to your room,” I pleaded, wanting ever so much to make this little make-out session complete.

  “You know that’s not gonna happen,” she mumbled through our locked lips.

  “Come on, Melissa. I’m dyin’ here,” I said as I pulled away.

  “Do you want me to take care of it?” she said with a wicked smile.

  I knew what she meant. She’d done it for me lots of times, out there in the hidden swing. But today, if I couldn’t have it all the way—and Melissa only ever went so far—I might as well steer us back to the present task. After all, one thing I’ve figured out about Melissa: she will never give herself totally to me until we are locked together, legally wed before the eyes of her God. It’s a pain, but I guess I have to accept it.

  Frustrated, I said, “I’m starving. Got anything to munch on?”

  And that was how I substituted chips and Diet Coke for what I really was starving for.

  Snack over, Melissa plays me about a dozen songs. Nothing calls out to me. With the last one ending, she walks over to the CD player and pushes Stop.

  “What did you think of this one, Neil? I like the beat, and the melody is kinda catchy.” She sits opposite the coffee table, facing me. She is so hot looking. How can I feel like this about someone who is so caught up in church? I will be eternally frustrated. Here I am, sitting across from this vision, the zipper on my jeans trying to burst apart, trying desperately to concentrate on Christian songs. Stop it, Neil! Get it to-ge-ther, you fool.

  “Yeah. It is a good one, but I don’t know, it just doesn’t say, ‘sit up and listen to Neil and Melissa,’ you know?”

  “I guess you’re right.” She stands. “Let’s see what else we have.” Melissa goes to a shelf filled with CDs. I watch her cute butt sway as she searches. Stop it, Neil you’re only hurting yourself. As she thumbs through them, she asks, “So, why do you suppose the new guy—what’s his name? Jeffrey?—got to just waltz in and join the Show Choir? Th
e rest of us had to try out first.”

  “It’s Zane.” My mind’s eye instantly sees Zane’s curl. Damn. Stop it, Neil. First you’re lusting after Melissa, now you’re stuck on Zane and his curl. What’s wrong with you?

  “Zane?” Melissa jerks her head around. “Ms. Walter said Jeffrey—I heard her.”

  “Well, he goes by Zane. It’s his middle name, and he uses it for a stage name.”

  “Stage name?” I see a look of annoyance on Melissa’s face, like she doesn’t approve of anything so pretentious, so silly, as anyone sixteen years old having a stage name. Or does she think Zane having a stage name sounds gay?

  A reason, besides the not gonna happen, for me to drop Melissa. She’s not really into my interests. After all, she thinks having a stage name is weird. And it’s pretty obvious she thinks there’s something wrong with being gay. There isn’t; it’s just not for me, thanks to Brother Gramm. But I like Melissa, despite her faults. And she is offering another chance to perform. I never turn down an offer. Practice makes perfect, as they say. So I simply reply to her.

  “Yeah, I was wondering myself how he got into Show Choir so easily until I talked to him at lunch. You won’t believe what he’s done. He worked at some dinner theater where he played all kinds of roles, with stars even.”

  “Stars?”

  “Barry Williams, Molly Ringwald, John Davidson.”

  A blank look takes over Melissa’s face. “Who are they?”

  “Greg from The Brady Bunch? That’s Barry Williams. Zane was in The Music Man with him. Ringwald was in Pretty in Pink—the old movie. You’ve seen it, haven’t you? Davidson was on TV too. The point is, Zane worked with real professionals.” And, like a rock band groupie, I hear my voice get higher and my heart quicken. I can’t help it. I envy the guy.

  “So that’s why Ms. Walter let him in without an audition,” Melissa says, pulling a CD from the shelf. “Aren’t you worried?”

  “Worried? About what?”

  “Well, tryouts for Oklahoma! are soon. You may have some competition this year.”

  “Yeah, the thought already occurred to me. When I told him we were doing Oklahoma!, he said he’d always wanted to do the show. ‘Said’ is a little mild. He practically gave me the first lecture of Musical Theater 101.” Suddenly, recalling it all, defeat creeps in. “Looks like I may not be Curly after all.”

  I shift my weight on the couch, trying to relieve the pressure of that last idea.

  “Oh, poo.” Melissa gestures at me, totally dismissive. “I was just teasing. You know Ms. Walter will give you the lead.”

  “It’s not Ms. Walter I’m worried about. The drama teacher also has a say in the casting, and he’s new this year. He’s never seen me perform. What if Zane does a better audition?”

  “Nobody could be better than you, Neil,” Melissa strolls over, puts her hand on my shoulder, leans down, and pecks my cheek. “You just remember that.”

  I smile. It’s nice to be comforted. But then I glance at her hand. Lingering. One second more and the spiders will be crawling. It’s a tough thing, to be continually reminded of Brother Gramm and what he did to me. And it’s weird. I can touch her first—no problem. Let her touch me first, and spiders.

  I’m grateful when she takes the hand away and goes back to the shelf. She returns with CD in hand. “Here’s my favorite. I saved it for last.”

  I look at the jewel box.

  “Miriam Railston? Who’s she?”

  “Who’s she?” Melissa gasps. “Who’s she? Only the best Christian singer alive!”

  “So she’s the queen, huh? Well, let’s hear it.”

  Melissa puts the CD in the player, punches in a number, then pushes Play. A velvet voice emerges from the speakers, laying down a soft melody with a gentle backbeat, caressing the air with soothing words of peace and love.

  I jump up. “That’s it. This is the song we need to do. It’s fantastic. Can we get the sheet music to it?”

  Melissa casually walks to the piano and pulls a song sheet from the music rack. A smug look on her face, she deposits the song sheet into my hands.

  “Can You Feel His Love?” is emblazoned across a picture of a beautiful young woman.

  “You had this all along?” I say, my eyes narrowing, accusative. “Why didn’t you bring it out sooner?”

  “What?” Melissa grins. “And miss spending a whole afternoon with you?” Melissa’s a tease in more ways than one.

  She puts her arms around my neck.

  For a moment I want to squirm from her grip, and then a nanosecond later, guilt kicks in. This is a beautiful girl, here, Neil. You love her—what’s wrong with you?

  Text Messaging: Zane and Cara

  Cara: howz it hangin, zane babe?

  Zane: liza darling, fabulous to hear from u. howz trix? everyone in the old home town still mourning my departure?

  Cara: u know it. streets flooded with their tears. but i’m mighty fine

  Zane: always, babs. when u gettin skype? i want to gaze pon u

  Cara: no webcam. parental decree. u know that

  Zane: still with the parent controls?

  Cara: extreme. checks computer daily. knows sites visited

  Zane: poor baby. dad from dark ages. and he lets you work at carnival. weird.

  Cara: just shake my head and go on. crazy man.

  Zane: nuff bout him. what’s cookin?

  Cara: got the part

  Zane: knew u wud, dearest ethel. who’s doing mama rose?

  Cara: bertinelli! isn’t that a hoot?

  Zane: carnival’s stretchin for this one

  Cara: true. but i get billing right under her name: costarring cara carmine.

  Zane: awesome, angela.

  Cara: so howz the house?

  Zane: nice. not home, tho

  Cara: school?

  Zane: big

  Cara: and the candy?

  Zane: oh, bernadette, girl, a gorgeous hunk

  Cara: think he’s interested?

  Zane: don’t know yet. maybe. into musicals

  Cara: good sign. looks?

  Zane: tall. turquoise eyes. auburn hair. dreamy voice

  Cara: wat a catch!

  Zane: not reelin him in yet. need more time, chita

  Cara: u’ll get him, z. I have faith in u

  Zane: o! forgot! school doing oklahoma!

  Cara: looks like the move was gud for u

  Zane: we’ll see. don’t know the competition yet, luv

  Cara: u’ll blow em away

  Zane: hope so. gotta run, my dear

  Cara: miss you. xo,xo,xo

  Zane: me, 2

  Chapter 6

  “HEY.”

  Zane helicopters over my taco salad. I look around for any of the other choir guys, and then I answer, “Hey.” I guess if I’m going to be friends with Zane, I’m going to have to quit caring what the other guys think. Most of them don’t like me anyway. I could grow used to seeing that curl.

  I motion for him to sit across from me.

  “Can you believe this weather?” Zane folds his legs onto the bench. “Gorgeous day for eating outside.”

  “Yeah,” I say, swallowing a huge mouthful of salad. “How are things? You settling in?”

  “I guess so. This place isn’t bad, but I miss home. Talked to my friend Cara last night. She’s doing Gypsy, dinner-theater style.”

  “Really?” I still can’t believe this guy did professional theater. And I can’t believe how he interests me right now. Who cares about those other guys and what they think? Zane speaks on my level.

  “Really. And would you believe who they got to play Mama Rose?—Valerie Bertinelli! Carnival’s gone whack this time.”

  “My God, what were they thinking of?”

  “It’s all money. They figure she’ll sell tickets—she may be the right age for the role, but she still looks like a little girl. But the people who go to dinner theater want to see somebody they know. And it’s not like Carnival can affor
d to get a real Broadway star, so they settle. She’s not Ethel, but she’ll pull the audience in.”

  “Ethel?” I ask.

  “You’re kidding me, aren’t you?” Zane chomps on his barbeque sandwich, then wipes Satine’s—damn, I mean his—mouth. “You really don’t know who Ethel is?”

  “Don’t have a clue,” I admit. “Fill me in. You seem to know everything about my favorite subject. All I know about musical theater is what I see on TV—you know, the Tony Awards, the entertainment news shows, the movie musicals.”

  “Well, Ethel—Ethel Merman—was one of the greats—dead now. They created the role of Mama Rose in Gypsy for her. Big, big star in the forties and fifties. One of the great Broadway divas.”

  “Diva? Like Bernadette Peters?”

  “Oh! Bernadette—I saw her do Gypsy. What a performance. I remember it so well, even though I was a tiny kid.”

  “She did a number from the show on the Tonys on TV. It’s on YouTube,” I say, swelling with the experience of actually getting to talk shop with someone who shares my passion. “You’re right—she was great. Definitely a diva.”

  “Yeah. Well, she’s today’s diva, but there have been some fabulous ones over the years.”

  “Like?” Listening to Zane is fun. I’ve never known anyone else who knows so much about the theater—or anything about theater, really.

  “Well, let’s see…. Peter Pan and Dolly Levi, that would be Mary Martin and Carol Channing. Then there’s the great dancers—Gwen Verdon and Chita Rivera.”

  “What about Liza Minnelli?” I ask. “I saw Cabaret on Bravo the other day—a diva performance if I’ve ever seen one.”

  “Of course. Quoting the immortal Chorus Line song, she’s the singular sensation. What I wouldn’t give to have seen her in The Rink.”

  “How come you know so much about the theater? You talk like you know all these people personally. I’ve never met anybody else who knows so much, much less somebody my age.” This guy is amazing. He thinks like me, and he knows far more about theater than I do. Wow.

  “Theater is my life, my passion.” With a grand gesture, Zane clutches his heart.