Colors

by Russell J. Sanders

  I laugh, hearing him use the word I was just thinking about my own feelings: passion. And laughing too, because he is so incredibly dramatic, so over the top.

  I say, “Well, I’m open to theater anytime. I love it too, and I never get to talk about it.”

  “Good. Then I’m glad we met. It makes moving here just a little easier to take. The only other good thing about moving here,” Zane says, “is next year I can audition for MusicTheatreMidwest.”

  Now’s your chance to impress him, Neil. But be cool.

  “I’m going there.”

  Zane’s eyes widened. “What?”

  “I’m going to MTM,” I repeat. “I auditioned for Scott Scheer and was accepted.”

  “I bow in humble adoration, oh Wondrous One.” Zane dramatically lowers his head.

  “Stop it.” I shake my head. “It’s no big deal.” But it is a big deal, and I’m glad he’s suitably impressed. Makes me feel like I measure up to Zane in some small way.

  Being idolized—even if he is only teasing—feels pretty good. But what a goofball.

  Then I realize something. Zane’s being weird, wacky, goofball, and gay as he can possibly be. And I don’t care if any of the other choir guys see. They can just suck it up. Zane’s in the theater, as he would no doubt say, adding a grand gesture. That doesn’t make him anything but a colorful character, as Aunt Jenny has said before, describing a lot of her artist friends.

  “Oh, yes it is,” he bubbles. “Scott is one of the greatest directors Broadway has ever known. And you’re going to work with him. Fab-u-loso!”

  Before I can fend him off, Zane thrusts his arms across the table and grabs my hands, gripping them with devotion, I guess you could say. I pull away before the spiders start dancing on my arms.

  Seeing the hurt look on Zane’s face, I wish I’d let his grip linger a split second more. Maybe I could have stood it. After all, it was a gesture of friendship from someone I want to be my friend. And we are becoming friends. I hope. I’ve never had a guy friend. New feeling. Good feeling. Maybe a feeling I need. About the only closeness I’ve let in in the last nine years is from Aunt Jenny. I love her hugs. I wonder what a hug from Zane would feel like? Could I stand it? I get all those hugs from Melissa. I have to make myself like those. I have to struggle, tell myself Melissa is not Brother Gramm. She’s the girl I love. It doesn’t take long to convince myself to let her hug me, let me hug her back. After all, a stiffie is a powerful convincer.

  Maybe I’d like a hug from Zane.

  What am I saying? Now, that definitely sounds gay, and I’m definitely not gay. Just the thought of a guy doing things to me thrusts me back to age nine, the sanctuary, our gross preacher doing things to me no little boy should ever have to experience.

  Still, I do want Zane for a friend. I switch topics to something he’ll like, plus I think he can be of help.

  “Look, Zane, Melissa—you know, Melissa Watt, from choir?—the soprano soloist? She—”

  “Yeah,” Zane says, “your girlfriend.”

  “Not officially.” I feel a twinge, like I’m betraying Melissa. But for some reason, I don’t want Zane to think I’m chained to her. “We just sing together sometimes.” Now I’m just out-and-out lying to the guy. She is my girlfriend. Isn’t she? Even if we haven’t said the words. And why do I care if Zane thinks Melissa’s my girlfriend or not?

  “Somebody”—Zane pokes me in the arm—“needs to tell her that. I’ve seen how she looks at you.”

  “Just listen, Zane.” Do I need to have a talk with Melissa? Wait. Why? What I need to do is come clean with Zane about Melissa and me. I brush the thought from my mind and continue, “Melissa and I are doing a thing for her church. We’re rehearsing it tomorrow morning before school. Do you think you could come by and listen to us? Maybe give us a few pointers?”

  “Sure,” Zane says.

  “Great. See you at 7:15 in the practice room outside the choir room.”

  MELISSA’S SOPRANO soars as I sing my phrase, “Worship him,” forming a final chord. As Melissa finishes the piano accompaniment, Zane bursts into applause, Satine’s smile plastered on his face, under that curl that has a mind of its own.

  “C’est magnifique!” he exclaims. “You two are maavelous.”

  “You really think so?” I ask. “You don’t think we’re overdoing the middle part?”

  “No, no, no, es perfecto. Don’t change a thing!” Zane screams. “And you, girl,” he says, pointing to Melissa, “have a glorious voice. So pure and bell-like.”

  “Thank you,” Melissa says, smiling. But, knowing Melissa like I do, I see it is a strange, thought-filled smile.

  “You are made for Oklahoma!. You’re trying out, aren’t you, Melissa?” Zane continues to gush.

  “Me? An actress? I don’t think so.” Her tone is haughty, dismissive.

  “You have to audition. You are perfect for Laurey. I can’t see anyone else around here who could even come close.”

  Looks like he’s handpicking his leading lady. I wonder what Scott Scheer will say when he finds out I lost the lead in the senior show to a newcomer.

  Zane grabs my head and pushes it down onto Melissa’s shoulder, a huge grin slashing his face. His hands are warm. “With cowboy Neil, here, as Curly and you as Laurey, the show can’t miss.”

  “Wait a minute.” I don’t believe what I just heard. I pull my head up and stare at him, begging for an answer. I want him to repeat that, just to make sure I heard it right. “I figured you’d be trying out for Curly.”

  “Curly? Not me. I’m going for Jud Fry. I need a villain on my resume. I want all kinds of roles to impress Scott Scheer and MusicTheatreMidwest.”

  Can a shirt suddenly lose its starch? Can a raging bull suddenly stop to smell a rose? Can an ice cube instantly melt? Can a wayward curl suddenly spring forth and kiss you? Just like that, the tension leaves my body. He’s not after my role.

  “You’re going there?” Melissa asks. For a second, I’ve lost the train of thought. Then I remember Zane said he was going to MusicTheatreMidwest. And her tone of voice registers.

  Why does she sound so disgusted? Zane hasn’t done anything to her.

  “Hope to,” Zane says, not detecting her change of tone, just as he didn’t notice her earlier strange smile. “I’m building my resume for next year’s audition.”

  “Well, let’s hope you prove to be as talented as Neil. He got a scholarship, you know,” Melissa says. She almost swells like a puffer fish.

  “Scholarship?” Zane looks at me. “You didn’t mention any scholarship.”

  “Neil got a full, four-year scholarship.” Melissa closes the lid of the piano, the slam almost saying to Zane, Don’t expect as much for yourself.

  Why are you doing this? I wonder, searching her face for clues.

  “They were very impressed,” Melissa adds, a little too quickly.

  “They must have been. Do you know how many scholarships they give out each year? Two—only two. Why didn’t you tell me, Neil?”

  I bow my head, feeling a bit embarrassed—momentarily forgetting Melissa and basking in Zane’s adoration. “Aw, I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it.”

  “It is a big deal.” Zane grabs me, and this time it happens: he hugs me. “Merveilleux!”

  “Let’s do the song again, Melissa,” I say, pushing Zane away, but gently. Did I like his hug? “It’s almost time for choir to start.”

  “Oh my gawd.” Zane looks at his watch. “I jumped out of bed and threw on my clothes this morning. Now I’ve got ten minutes to make myself beautiful.” And he runs from the practice room.

  “He is so gay,” Melissa says, sitting back down at the piano.

  “Nah,” I try to sound nonchalant. There was that word again, the one I’d almost pinned on myself just yesterday. I shiver. “He’s just a little over the top. The theater, you know.”

  “Neil, Neil, Neil,” Melissa shakes her head. “Any boy who says things like magnifique and
maavelous and has to go make himself beautiful has to be gay.”

  “No, Melissa, you just don’t understand the theater.” Am I trying to convince her—or me? “Zane lives and breathes it. He’s a professional.”

  “Well, professional or not, I’d watch out for him. I saw the way he looked at you. He’s after you. If he thinks he’s taking my boyfriend from me, he’s got another think coming.”

  Chapter 7

  PICNIC TABLE. Cafeteria courtyard. Daily lunch ritual. Zane, his curl, and me. Sitting across the table, Zane has the snack bar special—today a fish sandwich—while I’ve got my fiesta. I’m spork-wrestling with spaghetti when Zane lifts his head at something, looking over my shoulder….

  “Looks like we have company,” Zane says.

  I turn to see Melissa coming across the courtyard, carrying some yellow call slips and wearing her Office Aide badge. A smile cuts across her face. It’s not a loving smile, more a cunning smile.

  “Hey, Neil,” she says, sitting next to me, a little too, too close. “I only have a few minutes because I have to deliver these call slips, but I had to talk to you, Neil.”

  “And, Zane, hello to you too,” Zane says, sarcasm dripping from his voice.

  “If I hadn’t been late this morning,” she continues, focusing on me, “we could have talked in the choir room. But you ran out as soon as the bell rang, so I couldn’t even talk to you after class.”

  “How wonderful to see you again, Zane.” The words slide off Zane’s tongue as if he is having a wonderful time talking to himself.

  “I have some great news for us,” Melissa gushes.

  “Are you happy here at Cawton County, Zane?” Zane continues his conversation with himself.

  “Melissa.” I stop her. “Can’t you see you’re ignoring Zane?”

  Melissa looks at Zane and impatiently says, “Hello, Zane.” Then she turns back to me, rolling her eyes.

  “And a gracious hello to you, Melissa.” Zane tosses the words at her, a verbal sparring match beginning.

  “Brother,” Melissa spits.

  “What?” Zane spits back. “You don’t like gracious?”

  Melissa sneers, never taking her eyes off me.

  “Come on, guys….” I hate having to play the referee here. “Stop it. Make nice. Melissa, say you’re sorry. Zane, say you’re glad she’s sorry.”

  They both huff disgust, then Melissa sputters, “Okay, I’m sorry,” her tone less than gracious.

  “Apology accepted,” Zane mumbles as he goes back to eating.

  “Good, good, good,” I say, glad a major blowup has been averted. “Now, Melissa, what did you want to tell me?”

  “I talked to Brother Kenny last night—”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask,” Zane says, “how did the big performance go Sunday morning?”

  “Augh!” Melissa says a little too loudly. But her whole being says she is trying to control her anger, for my sake, I suppose.

  “Melissa,” I warn, “we’re making nice now, aren’t we?” A faint, wicked smile crosses Zane’s face as he leans a bit toward me. He doesn’t look at me, but it’s obvious he wants me to see the triumph on his face.

  “It was great,” I tell Zane, all the while giving Melissa a look. “I think they really liked us.”

  “Of course they would,” Zane says. “You two are awesome.”

  “We are pretty good, I think.”

  “Well, aren’t we humble?” Zane says with a chuckle.

  Melissa expels a loud humph sound at Zane. “Would you let me talk, please?”

  Zane waves at her as if to say, Take it away.

  Melissa sighs, her impatience almost exploding.

  “Neil,” she says, “I’m trying to tell you something good, here.”

  “What’s up?” I spork a meatball and pop it in my mouth.

  “Kenny. He says a lot of people have talked to him about us. He wants us to do a complete concert. He’s giving us the Sunday evening service in three weeks, and he wants us to do a forty-five-minute program.”

  “You two must have really wowed ’em.” Zane crams the last bite of his sandwich into his mouth.

  I hope you choke on that blooms in Melissa’s eyes as she jerks her head toward him.

  I’ve got to do something about this. She’s getting out of control here. Zane’s my friend, and she’s going to have to accept it.

  “I don’t know, Melissa….” I stall by stuffing a huge bite into my mouth. Sunday morning. The colors. I almost tanked up there. A whole concert might be impossible.

  Melissa stares at me, waiting for an answer. I point to my mouth as I laboriously chew and chew a bite that is long past swallow-worthy, giving myself time to think.

  Of course, I did make it through that second time, even though the colors bothered me a little. But what would happen if I did freeze up? How embarrassing would that be?

  What am I thinking? Embarrassing? It’s not about embarrassment. Those colors brought back too many memories. Of his hands. His mouth. His hugs.

  I feel the creeping spiders. I don’t think I can put myself through that again, not for a whole concert.

  I swallow, then take a gulp of tea to wash it down.

  “Neil?” Melissa’s impatience with me is growing.

  Then again, it is a great chance to perform. And for a huge audience. Can I get through it?

  “So-o-o-o….” Her annoyance draws the word out, giving me a moment to swallow once again. “What do you think?” Melissa screams, exasperation boiling over and spilling from her. “Do you want to do it or not?”

  “You’d be a fool not to,” Zane says.

  I don’t want to say no. This is a full concert we’re talking about.

  I look at Zane. His eyes say, Go for it; if you don’t, you’re a fool.

  I turn to Melissa. She’s not happy I’ve looked to Zane for my answer.

  “Absolutely.” My stomach flips as I speak, despite the support Zane has given me.

  That’s the answer Melissa hoped for, I see. She bubbles. “Then we need to start working on a program. I’ll start looking for songs, and you think of some too.” Melissa jumps up from the table. “I’ve got to go, or those people in the office are going to kill me.” She plants a kiss on my unsuspecting lips, then turns and runs from the courtyard.

  “What an opportunity—you guys rock.” There’s a change in his voice. He’s not sounding as supportive as before. A tiny sad twinge overtakes his lips. But it vanishes, and Zane gives me a high five. I like it. First time. High fives are a guy thing. Never had a guy friend. Do now. Wow.

  Zane gathers up his garbage, gets up and tosses it in the can, then returns to straddle the bench across the table from me, that curl bouncing as he sits.

  “Now,” Zane’s voice is businesslike, “what songs do you plan to do? You could do an all Broadway thing.” He holds up his arms, gesturing a marquee. “Broadway Worships. What a concept.”

  “That’s a little over the top, don’t you think?” I sop a piece of bread in my remaining spaghetti sauce. “These people are a bunch of amen-sayers. Besides, I don’t think there are a lot of musicals about religion, are there?”

  “Well, there’s Godspell and Jesus Christ, Superstar. And there are other shows that have inspirational songs in them.”

  “It does sound like a good idea. Not a whole program of Broadway songs, but we could include some. What do you suggest?”

  “Let’s see. You could open with ‘Prepare Ye’ from Godspell, then segue into ‘Day by Day.’ And Melissa could solo on ‘I Don’t Know How to Love Him.’ There is a fantastic song in Spring Awakening called ‘I Believe.’” Zane begins to sing a soft rock melody with the words “I believe” over and over. “And then, of course, there is always ‘Climb Every Mountain’ from Sound of Music.”

  “I like the Godspell idea, and the Superstar number fits Melissa. And that ‘I Believe’ song sounds tailor-made for us. But instead of ‘Mountain,’ what about ‘You’ll Neve
r Walk Alone’ from Carousel? I like that number better, and it brings back good memories. And it would be a dynamite finale to our show.”

  “You’re right. Socko, boffo. Okay, that’s four numbers. What else can you do?”

  “When Melissa and I were rehearsing last week, we warmed up with a few hymns. Our harmony was perfect. Melissa loves doing hymns. It’s in her blood, I guess. I would be willing to bet she will want to do a hymn medley. And there’s Miriam Railston. Melissa loves Miriam Railston,” I say, my enthusiasm growing. “I’m sure she’ll want to do one or two of her songs.”

  “Miriam Railston?”

  “Contemporary Christian music. She wrote the song we did last Sunday. Great stuff.”

  “Wow. Great material. If that’s any indication,” Zane said, “then you’re right. Fantastic song. Now, you need a solo too.”

  “I hadn’t thought about that. It’s Melissa’s church. She deserves a solo.”

  “And you don’t?” Zane scowls. “Wipe that idea right out of your mind, guy. You need something shiny—something classic. I heard this old guy on TV once do a song called ‘How Great Thou Art.’ It had power and would show off your voice. You’d stop the show with it.”

  Great idea. I smile, remembering I’d heard that song too, and thinking about what I could do with it.

  “Okay.” I’m totally sold now. “With the Broadway numbers, the hymns, ‘How Great,’ and a couple of Railstons, we should have a whole program. We can always do an encore of the first Railston song.”

  “Encore?” Zane laughs. “I like your way of thinking, Mr. Broadway.”

  “SO, I was thinking—we ought to do a whole medley of Miriam’s songs.” Melissa’s excitement is almost heating up the phone receiver.

  “I agree,” I say. “I was telling Zane the same thing after you left today at lunch.”

  “And what did Her Highness say?” Melissa’s tone of disapproval comes through the phone lines loud and clear. “I’d bet he’s never even heard of Miriam Railston.”

  “Well, he didn’t know who she was. I reminded him she wrote the song we sang last Sunday. Then he was all for the medley.”