Colors

by Russell J. Sanders

  “I’ll clue you in. I invented a whole show for the song to be in. I had a character and a plot. That song was the finale of the show.”

  “You’re kidding me!” Melissa howls with laughter. The joy she’s showing lights up her face. I see an appealing quality in her she has not shown a lot lately. Give her a good laugh, and she apparently can light up a room. Forget the church, take the woman to a comedy club.

  “But, you know what?” I say.

  “No, what?” Melissa counters.

  “I think maybe I am starting to believe some of it.”

  Chapter 9

  GLASS OF milk. Chips Ahoy. Perfect after concert snack—eating plan be damned. I deserve it. I sit at the kitchen table, ready to plow into my treat.

  “So, how is the weather up there in the stratosphere tonight?”

  Midbite, I see Aunt Jenny standing in the doorway.

  “Huh?” Quickly, I slip the milk-dunked cookie into my mouth before it makes a soggy, crumbled mess.

  “You were definitely a star tonight. You blew the rafters off the church,” she says.

  Always my groupie. “You like everything I do,” I say, taking another cookie from the bag.

  “No, I mean it. I watched those people. They loved you!” she says, sitting at the table. “Give me one of those cookies.”

  Chips Ahoy are our thing. Since our first day together. She claimed she’d baked cookies for me; then, with a wicked smile, she brought out the familiar blue package. Oh how we laughed, the nine-year-old wounded orphan and the gypsy aunt. Now we loved to sit and have our “homemade” cookies.

  “You know,” I say, a mouthful of milk and cookie sliding down my gullet, “it really felt good up there.”

  “I don’t doubt it. Success like that is what you’ve been working toward. I’m proud of you, kid.” She takes another cookie from the bag.

  Proud of me? Like I don’t already know. But it’s nice to hear her say it.

  “You’re right. I do work at it all the time—to be the best I can be at my craft. Which I learned, by the way, from someone sitting very near me right now.” I pause, covering the silence by grabbing another cookie, dunking and devouring it. The silence however is cracked by Aunt Jenny’s grateful giggle.

  Then I’m ready for—as they say on game shows—the big reveal.

  “But it was something more. Oh, I was acting, all right, but it was really more. Like there was a message.”

  “I wondered when it would kick in,” Aunt Jenny says, poker-faced.

  “Kick in?” I can’t tell what she’s talking about.

  “The religion thing. I’ve felt guilty all these years, not taking you to church. Your parents were such fanatics. Sis and I used to argue all the time about that. I just couldn’t see it. She swore there was something greater out there and going to church was the way to find it. Sis bought the whole religion thing our parents pushed down our throats, hook, line, and sinker. I, on the other hand, was always like Grandma. Question everything. She wasn’t into organized religion. But she wouldn’t let me just go along with her ideas. She made me examine, question. And decide for myself. I found the whole thing turned me off. So, not being a churchgoer myself, I never pushed it on you.”

  I grab another cookie. I’m not sure how to handle this. I don’t like it when she says anything that makes her look like she did anything wrong with me. Aunt Jenny is my savior. I nibble a bit of the cookie, planning my answer.

  “That’s okay. Don’t feel guilty. I had enough church the first nine years of my life to last forever, believe me.” I smile at her, hoping the smile masks what is welling up deep inside me… a memory of Brother Gramm. I quickly continue talking, quelling the feeling. “But tonight somehow what I was feeling was different. It felt right. Maybe it was the music. I don’t know.”

  “I see your point. Sometimes when I’m working in my studio, I feel something transcending. If a piece turns out particularly good, I feel totally inspired. Maybe that’s God. And maybe the music does it for you. It’s worth exploring. Just because I don’t go to church, don’t think you can’t.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.” I stop, wait a beat, not believing what I’m about to say… “Because I think I want to keep going there.”

  MONDAY MORNING chaos reigns in the choir room. I take in the babble: choir members chatter about the movies they saw over the weekend, others pound out notes on the piano, reviewing parts of current pieces, and still others talk about the hot chick at the mall or the sexy new substitute teacher—male, but the person who is talking is a guy too. Ms. Walter’s camped out in her office, drinking her last cup of coffee. It’s a given that if she has her coffee, she is not to be disturbed. That last ten minutes before first period belongs to her and Mr. Starbucks.

  Sitting on the risers, I finish up some homework I didn’t get done, thanks to the Sunday night concert. I’d intended to tackle it when I got home, but I was too keyed up.

  Then came the cookie party with Aunt Jenny. And after that, I didn’t want to think about homework. My mind was too full of everything else.

  Zane bounds through the door. It’s almost a leap. Dancers call it a jeté. And if I know Zane, that’s exactly what he was going for, his curl leaping with him.

  “Man-o-man, you were awesome last night,” he shouts from across the room.

  I motion for him to sh-sh, then beckon him closer. No point in everyone hearing.

  “You think?” I say when he is hovering over me.

  “Think?” Zane whistles. “I know. You had them eating out of the palm of your hand. They were groveling for more. You needed an encore number.” He plops down beside me.

  I laugh, thinking about bursting into an encore at church.

  “Wait a minute.” I look at him. “If you were there, why didn’t you stick around?” Suddenly, I’m a little hurt he didn’t talk to me last night.

  “With all those holy rollers? Not my scene.”

  “If it’s ‘not your scene,’ then what were you doing there?”

  “You think I would miss your big show?” Zane shakes his head. He puts his hand on my arm. “No way, Jose.”

  The weight of his warm hand is anchoring. Feels good. My mind is reeling. But in a good way. Why aren’t I pulling away?

  I dismiss the previous thoughts. The idea’s too new. Too strange. So I change the subject. “Melissa was fantastic too, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah, she was good, but you were gooder.”

  “Well, if it isn’t the new Michael W. Smith.” Melissa is suddenly standing before us. Did she just magically appear—like a fairy or a witch? Or was I too caught up in Zane?

  “Who?” we say, in chorus, almost harmonizing in perfect thirds.

  “Michael W. Smith,” she repeats. “Big, big Christian music star. Believe me, after last night, the people at my church are buzzing. You left before you heard everything they had to say last night,” she says, directly to me, obviously excluding Zane from any hopes of joining the conversation.

  “Really?” I feel a blush begin to rise, forgetting for a moment she is once again being rude to Zane.

  “After the service, it took my dad and the other deacons forever to put everything away. Well, anyway, while I was waiting for Dad, more and more people kept coming up to me, telling me how inspiring you were. For a while there, I wondered if I had even sung last night. Over and over, I heard things like, ‘That boy is fantastic,’ and ‘We need to hear more from him,’ and ‘The Lord truly blessed us tonight.’”

  “You’re a hit, Neil, babe.” Zane plants an arm around my shoulders.

  “Yeah, I guess so.” I’m flustered. Is it the arm or the praise? Instinctively, in my time-honored self-protective way, I pull myself from Zane’s grip. Why? If I liked his hand on my arm, then why pull away from him now?

  “‘Babe’?” Melissa repeats, raising her eyebrows. I look at her and realize I should defuse this Melissa bomb right now. But I do nothing. Zane’s a big boy. Let
him take care of himself.

  Zane ignores her disapproval. He also doesn’t seem to be bothered by my pulling away from him. Or is he? This is so confusing!

  Quickly, he blurts, “What you thinking about, bro?”

  Zane’s bro is so out of character I feel slapped. “Nothing,” I say, putting my confusion aside, locking it into that deep box where I’ve kept so many of my thoughts these past nine years. “What’s with the bro, bro? You practicing a scene from In the Heights?”

  “Oooooo!” Zane spouts. “I just adore that show. So much energy, so now.”

  Melissa huffs—something she’s doing a lot lately—at Zane, then speaks once again directly to me. “So how about it? You want to join the church? I know Kenny wants you in the choir full time. He told me so.”

  “Join the church?” Zane blurts.

  “Stay out of this, Zane,” Melissa barks without even taking her eyes off me. I frown at her, and she immediately lightens, knowing why I’m pissed at her. She forces a smile. “Well, what do you think?”

  “Funny you mention it,” I say, appeased. “Last night after I got home, I was thinking about that.”

  “Joining the church?” Melissa shouts. I see a spark in her eyes, something like what I saw last night when I made her laugh so much. “Great!”

  “Now, now, now.” I try to bring her back to ground zero. “I’m not ready to go that far. Can’t I just join the church choir for now?”

  Her face falls a little. “Okay. Thursday nights at seven.” Then she brightens once again and gives me a quick hug, so quick I can’t react. “You’ll see, though. The Church of Shelton Road is right for you.”

  A look of disapproval clouds Zane’s face. I know that look—I see it in Melissa’s face all the time when Zane says something. Now why is Zane echoing her? Over my going to church? Why would he care? Or is it the hug she gave me?

  “So,” Zane says, “are you ready for Oklahoma! tryouts? They’re not far away. I’ve been working on ‘Lonely Room.’ We could work on our tryout songs together, Neil, if you want.”

  “Good idea, Zane. How about tomorrow after school?”

  A huge smile lights Zane’s face.

  “Sure,” he bubbles. “Wonderful idea.”

  “Have you learned ‘Out of My Dreams’ yet?” I ask Melissa. “With his experience, Zane could help you a lot with your tryout number.”

  “I still don’t know if I’m going to try out,” she says, giving Zane a dirty look.

  “I know you don’t like me much, Melissa….”

  “Zane.” I stop him. Not because, like an oracle, he speaks truth, but because I don’t want to hear it. These are my only friends. I need them to get along. And the theater can bring us together. I know that power. So I say, “Melissa likes you, don’t you, Melissa?”

  Silence. Total, mind-numbing, tension-filled hot air engulfing us and filling the space silence.

  But Zane is unstoppable. He plows on. “But Oklahoma! could use you. You’ve got the perfect looks and voice for Laurey.”

  The good of the show. The good of the show. Zane is willing to put up with Melissa’s attitude for the good of the show. I like that.

  “Just come tomorrow. We’ll work with you,” I beg her.

  I turn to Zane, lift my eyebrows, pleading for his help in convincing her to come to our session tomorrow.

  A strange look—is it disappointment?

  Text Messaging: Zane and Cara

  Zane: gypsy, darling! howz rehearsals?

  Cara: z! luving it. val’s a doll.

  Zane: america’s sweetheart. but can she cut it?

  Cara: not half bad. she’ll be swell, she’ll be great… and u?

  Zane: ok

  Cara: u know what i mean

  Zane: u mean my hunk?

  Cara: zackley

  Zane: moving along

  Cara: what zat mean?

  Zane: put my hand on his arm

  Cara: oh-h-h… heavy petting already?

  Zane: u don’t understand. he always pulls away. this time, he didn’t

  Cara: good, good. any more news?

  Zane: working on tryout numbers together

  Cara: progress 

  Zane: his girlfriend will be there, 2

  Cara: girlfriend? as in girl, girlfriend?

  Zane: yeah. a real bitch, but they’re not serious

  Cara: watch out, z. don’t get hurt.

  Zane: i won’t. it’s just that neil’s a hottie

  Cara: neil, huh? first time u spoke his name. last name?

  Zane: darrien

  Cara: neil darrien. great stage name. neil darrien, star of stage and screen. mrs. neil darrien. zane darrien. nice ring to it

  Zane: stop it. u’ll jinx it

  Cara: honey, the gf’s already jinxed it

  Zane: don’t think so. i think he wants me. but i did slip up today

  Cara: how so?

  Zane: called him babe. girlfriend heard. he didn’t. or at least he pretended not to. maybe he liked it.

  Cara: just watch out, ’k?

  Zane: yes, mommy

  Cara: gotta run. rehearsal’s in 15

  Zane: ciao, babe

  Chapter 10

  I’M RUMMAGING through my locker, searching in vain for my calculus book. Aunt Jenny is always ragging me about how disorganized I am. I guess I put all my discipline into my art.

  “Now, don’t forget this afternoon,” I say. Melissa, through the magic of locker lottery, is right beside me, retrieving her own textbook from her locker. “Zane will be a big help with our tryout numbers.”

  “Zane, Zane. Zane is a professional. Zane is a natural. Zane discovered penicillin. Zane, Zane, Zane. All you talk about is him.” She slams her locker door shut, the crash reverbing above the pervasive noise of the hallway.

  “Well, aren’t we touchy today.” I shut my locker door gently and give the dial on the lock a twirl.

  “Well, it’s just I’m not all that crazy about Zane.” As we head toward class. Melissa continues her rant—and I let her. “All he talks about is theater, theater, theater. It’s creepy, is all I’m saying.”

  “It’s his whole life, Melissa. It’s like someone else I know—” I halt. Stare. Eyes bore into Melissa’s. “—someone who is always talking church, church, church.” I started out trying to let her vent, thinking maybe I could turn her feeling about Zane inside out, make her see he’s a good guy. But now I’m pissed at her. I don’t like the feeling, but I’m human. She’s got to get over this. Zane and I are going to be together a lot, and Melissa has to accept it.

  Melissa glares at me. As they say, if looks could kill….

  “Well, I think God’s a lot more important than Liza, Chita, and Bernadette.” Sarcasm cascades off her tongue.

  “Look, I refuse to get into this. Theater is important to Zane—” I pause to make my upcoming point. “—and me. That’s all.” I do a three-point turn and walk away. To where, I’m not sure, since my class is in the direction we were going in. But I know I have to get away from her.

  I’d let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, a long way off, Melissa could make a good wife. She’s a devout, churchgoing person, and isn’t that what a guy would want in a mate? After all, I may not believe all this stuff she and her fellow Christians spout, but it’s supposed to be what you teach your kids, and if we have any, somebody will have to teach them. I don’t know if I’m fooling myself or not, but spending so much time with her at church, performing with her, I’m learning to appreciate Melissa more and more. But this blind spot she has for Zane is sucking all those good feelings dry. I’d yet to admit to her—or to myself really—there might be a future with her; I might be ready to take the leap, declare myself. Not a marriage proposal, but at least a commitment of some kind, other than just high school boyfriend/girlfriend. But this consuming jealousy of hers is killing me. Her total dismissal of Zane screams she will never understand me. Zane and I, with our interest in the theater, are so much alik
e. If Melissa can’t accept him, she’ll never be completely in touch with me. Not really. Not truly.

  “Wait, Neil.” Melissa suddenly grabs my arm. “I’m sorry. I know theater is important to you. I respect that. But it’s not my thing, so I’m not going to try out.”

  I’m disappointed. I know she has to see it in my face. I wanted her to be Laurey to my Curly and Zane’s Jud Fry. If she were in the show, maybe she’d finally get it, this pull the theater has for me and Zane.

  “I’ve been trying to find a way to tell you this.” Her words are measured, like she’s rehearsed this moment. “It’s just—” She pauses. “—not… me…. Besides, I have a YFC meeting after school today, so I couldn’t come to your practice anyway.”

  “Okay.” I throw up my hands in an I surrender gesture. “Truce… theater’s my thing. Youth for Christ is yours.”

  Melissa gives me a hug before she ducks into her physics classroom.

  Spiders.

  “SO, SWINTON decides to show us Camelot. We studied King Arthur weeks ago, but it’s the end of the six weeks, so you know what that means….”

  “Video Festival!” Zane and I shriek in unison.

  “So there we were in the middle of the movie. Lancelot is singing ‘If Ever I Would Leave You.’ I’m in heaven, listening to the guy. But there’s this kid snoring in the back of the room, a drug deal going down in front, and two girls swapping nail polish right next to me.”

  “And the rest are doing homework, writing notes, and checking text messages on their cells.” I know the drill far too well.

  “You got it.” Zane points at me, emphasizing his answer. “And there’s Swinton, sitting at his desk, crooning along with Lance.”

  “And off-key, no doubt.” Zane’s story is too, too funny. Because it’s too, too true. “I had Swinton for Freshman English. Replace Camelot with The King and I, and nothing else is changed.”

  Zane sits at the practice room piano while I lean against it. We’d swapped so many stories we hadn’t gotten much rehearsing done.