by Robin Talley
“Or I could sling you over my back.” Nick bends down like he’s going to pick Malik up around his knees. Malik jogs backward out of his reach, and the others keep laughing.
“You could carry him up on your shoulders,” Julio calls.
“I’m supposed to be totally passed out, though,” Malik says.
“Try piggyback. And you can, like, pretend to sleep on his neck.”
“Bury your face in his hair,” Andrew says, which makes them all laugh harder than ever.
That’s when I remember what Will said, about being careful. There are no teachers out in the hallway, so I’m in charge. “No unsupervised stunt practice,” I call.
“Sorry, Mel.” Malik grins sheepishly. “Won’t happen again.”
Nick doesn’t say anything. He’s still laughing.
“Melody?” Ms. Marcus steps out into the hall. “A quick word?”
I hurry back to the choir room. “Of course.”
“Thank you. I’d like to look over the notes you made during the rehearsal.”
I take out my binder and we go through them quickly. She nods approvingly and gives me a few more things to add to my list. I tell her my idea about renting a star drop, and she nods, tapping her chin.
“It’ll depend on how much we wind up needing to allocate to the final costume budget,” she says after a moment, “but it’s a wonderful idea. Go ahead and work with Fatima and Jasmin on the research and let me know what the rental costs would be, and we’ll take it from there.”
“Awesome. I will, thank you.”
“And now . . .” She reaches into her bag with a flourish and produces a thick metal ring loaded with keys. “This is for you.”
I squeak. “Seriously?”
She’s giving me the keys to the theater.
I’ve never been this close to them. The previous SMs wouldn’t let anyone else so much as touch them, and during R&J I was still too new to the role to be allowed my own set. I had to text a teacher every time I needed to get into the performing arts wing after hours.
“This one goes to the house, this one to the costume closet, this one to the prop room . . .” Ms. Marcus goes through each key as I do my best to commit it all to memory. “They’re yours until strike. Remember, you can never loan them to anyone, under any circumstances. I know I don’t need to tell you how important that is.”
I nod somberly. “You have my word.”
Gabby’s by the door as I head out, taking down the shoe bags. “What’s the homework tonight?” she asks as she passes me my phone.
“I’m writing up the rehearsal report, but you can have the night off. Maybe do some actual homework, if you want.”
She scrunches up her face. “Is it wrong if I’d rather do theater paperwork than read about isotopes?”
“If it’s wrong, I don’t want to be right.”
“Party’s still tomorrow night, Mel?” Estaban calls from the hallway. Odile walks past him, her chin lifted, and he steps back to make room like she’s the Duchess of Sussex or something.
“Yep!” I call back. “Seven, my house. Bring your scripts!”
Estaban waves, and Gabby leaves after him. The last of the others are trickling out. I spot a few more bouquets of Valentine’s flowers piled up around the door, but I do my best to ignore them. The last thing I have time to think about right now is romance.
I don’t actually need to leave through the auditorium exit—my car’s all the way on the other end of the parking lot—but I can’t resist going the long way so I can try my new key in the main door.
It fits. This theater’s officially my domain now. With or without the stupid curse.
CAST LIST—ALL NAMED ROLES
Prepared for distribution by hard copy and email to all cast, crew, and directors following first rehearsal.
—Also stored on BHS performing arts department shared drive.
Created by: Melody McIntyre, stage manager, class of 2021
Viewable to: All cast, crew, and directors
Editable by: Current SM ONLY
Scene 6—The McIntyre-Perez House
DAYS UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 75
“Hey, you two!” I step out onto the porch to hug Fatima and Jasmin. “Thanks for coming! You can head on down to the basement. The schedule’s up on the wall, so assemble your groups and start brainstorming. Make sure you pull your teams into separate corners and don’t let them talk too loud, because we don’t want anyone’s ideas to influence the other teams until we merge for the cross-team debrief.”
“Nice to see you too,” Jasmin says, but she’s laughing. “Don’t worry, I’m sure you’ll stop us before we break any rules.”
“Is Mr. Green here?” Fatima tries to peer behind me into the kitchen, where Dad is opening a bag of chips. Pops is hiding in the pantry. “I watched a bunch of videos about turntables yesterday and I still have no idea how to actually build a set that fits on one.”
“Not yet, but he will be soon.”
They go downstairs, where the speaker’s already blaring the original Les Mis concept album. The people who take French are trying to sing along with Gavroche, badly.
“Is that the last of them?” Dad asks, stepping out onto the porch and rubbing his arms.
“No, there are still a few stragglers.”
Pops comes out too, pulling on an old Harvard sweatshirt. “How long do you think before it’s warm enough to eat out here?” he asks, gazing fondly at the dining set on our front porch. We have a comfy couch and table and chairs, but we don’t get to use them for most of the year.
“A couple of months, at least.” Dad turns to brush snow off the railing. “Sometimes I really don’t like living in New England. Speaking of which, Mel, I hit send on your registration. Another summer at the Providence Theater Institute.”
“You didn’t!” I wrap my arms around his torso in a massive hug-from-behind. He straightens up, laughing. “I didn’t know camp sign-ups were even open yet!”
“Yeah, you’ve been busy.” Dad grins. “So we decided to look it up on our own.”
“You’re so awesome! Thank you!” I can’t stop grinning. “Another summer of getting to do nothing but eat, sleep, and breathe theater.”
I wonder what shows PTI will do this year. I’ve been crossing my fingers every summer for Les Mis, so now I don’t even know what to hope for. Spring Awakening? Dear Evan Hansen, if they can get the rights?
“That’s actually something we’ve been meaning to talk to you about, Mel.” Suddenly Pops has his serious face on. My good mood evaporates in an instant. “This isn’t the time, but we might as well mention it now and we can discuss it later.”
Uh-oh. “What?”
Dad moves over to stand next to Pops, the two of them opposite me on the porch. Whenever they make a point of talking to me as a united front, I know they’re going to say something I won’t like.
“We know you love working on these shows, and going to drama camp,” Pops begins.
“And we’re thrilled you got the stage manager job,” Dad says. “But it’s spring of your junior year, and it’s time to start thinking seriously about college.”
“I’ve been thinking about it. I told you my plan, remember? Ms. Marcus thinks I’ll get in to UMass Amherst. They have the best technical theater program in the whole state.”
“Yes, well, UMass is a great school.” Pops folds his arms across his chest. “But—”
“But what? Pops, please don’t try to act like UMass isn’t good enough just because you went to—” I point to his crimson sweatshirt.
“That isn’t what I was going to say at all.” Pops sighs.
“Listen.” Dad holds out his hands in his best look-how-reasonable-I’m-being move. “We don’t have time for a big discussion about this. All we wanted to say, Mel, is that we should talk more about college.”
“And it’s not that we don’t want you to look at theater programs,” Pops adds. “You should definitely apply to UMass,
but there are a lot of other great schools you haven’t even considered. You have excellent grades, and there are plenty of colleges where you can major in an academic field and do theater as an extracurricular.”
“What do you want me to do? Study engineering just so I can say I did? I already know what I want to do for my career. There are thousands of professional stage managers. People do this their whole lives!”
“We believe you, sweetie, we really do, but keep in mind that you’re sixteen years old.” Pops still has that maddening I-know-better tone in his voice. “You’re too young to make a decision like that. When I was sixteen, I wanted to be—”
“A rock star. I know.” I roll my eyes. “Just because you had unrealistic goals doesn’t mean I—”
“Hey, relax, everybody,” Dad jumps in, which is a good thing because Pops’s eyes look like they’re about to bulge out of his head. “Let’s talk more when—”
“Sorry I’m late.” Gabby bounds onto the porch. She isn’t really late—it’s seven on the dot—but on time is almost-late for stage managers. “Do you need help with anything, Mel?”
“Hi, Gabby, it’s nice to see you.” Dad smiles at her. Pops does, too, but I can tell he’s still fuming. “Charlie and I were just going inside. We’ll talk later, Mel.”
After the door closes behind them, Gabby tilts her head to one side. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re sure?”
“Totally.”
“Okay, good. Because, listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you about . . .” She trails off.
“Sure, what’s up?”
“Well . . . I’m kind of worried about the whole curse thing.”
“What, my love curse?” I laugh.
“I didn’t mean that. Although now that you mention it, maybe.” Gabby shakes her head. “The whole thing at the rehearsal yesterday, about the actors not saying the number thirteen—that’s not a real rule, is it?”
“Nah. It’s just a decoy, because we don’t want the actors to know Jasmin’s theory about my personal dramas. They already try to blame the crew whenever anything goes wrong, and we don’t need to add fuel to that fire. Plus, I mean . . .” I tuck a curl that’s sprung loose from my ponytail behind my ear and glance around to make sure no one’s coming up the walk. “It’s actually a little embarrassing, so the fewer people who know, the better.”
“I get that, but . . .” Gabby frowns again. “It’s just—we’re lying to the actors, aren’t we? Telling them they can’t say that word or bad things will happen? I thought you always said that in theater, everyone has to trust each other or the whole show will fall apart?”
I have said that. Many times. Hmm. “Well, yeah, but . . . that really matters for the crew. We have to be honest with our fellow techs. The cast’s on a need-to-know basis.”
“Okay . . .” Gabby tilts her head again. “I guess that makes sense.”
A car door slams behind us, and we turn to see Rachel climbing out and waving goodbye to her mom. I quickly change the subject.
“You and I are just floating between the groups for most of tonight,” I tell Gabby. “Stage management isn’t really supposed to come up with ideas, but we can jump in if anyone needs help figuring out what’s feasible or whatever. Later we’ll do a group debrief and put on the concert video for inspiration.”
“Can’t we watch the movie instead?” Rachel asks as she climbs the porch steps behind us. She’s carrying two tote bags, both of which appear to be stuffed full of fabric samples and thrift-store finds. I have to give her credit for coming prepared. “The costumes are way better than in any of the stage versions.”
“We’re not watching the movie.” I cut her off. “Ms. Marcus expressly forbade it.”
“I thought that was because the singing was bad?” Gabby asks. “Does it matter for costumes?”
I want to ask whose side Gabby’s on, anyway, but Will interrupts us.
“Anyone call for brownies?” he booms from the sidewalk. “I put in my customized brainstorming fuel. Or you can call them pecans, take your pick.”
“You’re hilarious, Mr. Green.” Rachel smiles.
“I try, Ms. Scott, I try.”
“Fatima’s freaking out about the turntable,” I tell him. “She has a bunch of questions.”
“Then let’s go talk shop.”
I lead the way to the basement. Rachel finds Devin and the rest of the costume team, and Will goes over to confer with Fatima while I set out his brownies. The pizza my dads ordered isn’t here yet, so everyone descends on the food table.
“Just a reminder, everybody . . .” I smile at my friends as they throw elbows to get to the brownies first. Smiling and admonishing at the same time is a big part of stage management. “You’re supposed to be brainstorming.”
“Come on, boss!” Estaban holds a brownie triumphantly over his head. “You can’t expect us to brainstorm without sustenance!”
Bryce shoves an entire brownie into her mouth. “I just had, like, eight hundred new ideas,” she tries to say, while crumbs fly from her mouth.
“Yeah, we’re good, Mel.” Jasmin laughs. “You can relax. Look, we’ve already got a whole list of ideas.”
She shows me the lighting team’s notebook, where, sure enough, there’s a long list of scribbled bullet points.
I love my crew. We’re always diligent and organized, even when we’re scarfing down chocolate.
“Besides,” Estaban adds, helping himself to a second brownie, “it’s been a week since they posted the cast list, and we haven’t had a single crisis yet. That’s got to be some kind of record.”
“True,” Shannon points out. “We made it through one whole rehearsal unscathed.”
“That’s because Mel’s averting the curse gods for us single-handedly.” Jasmin grins.
I laugh. “Or maybe our luck’s finally changing.”
“Ack! Don’t say that!” Estaban shakes his head fervently, brownie crumbs falling onto his “I’ll Sleep After Strike” sweatshirt. “You’ll tempt the spirits!”
The others go back to their groups, and I reach down to set up the concert video so it’ll be ready after the debrief. That’s when I hear Pops’s voice at the bottom of the stairs.
“Come on, the gang of teenage ruffians is down here.” Pops likes to make fun of my friends because the theater crowd at his high school all wore black eyeliner and smoked clove cigarettes. “I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you. Mel, we’ve got one more!”
“We do?” As far as I know, the whole crew is already here. I weave a narrow path through the groups only to find my father standing at the foot of the stairs next to Odile Rose.
She’s wearing black leggings and a T-shirt with “Young, Scrappy & Hungry” printed across the front, and she’s carrying a giant food container and a purse with a fancy label. She’s got less makeup on than usual, and from the way her fingers are clasped in front of her, she actually looks a tiny bit nervous.
“Oh, um. Hi.” I glance over my shoulder at the crew behind me. A few of them are eyeing Odile, and the conversations in the room are dying off.
Actors don’t step into our midst voluntarily. Even Dom knows to keep his distance from crew-only gatherings now that he’s crossed over.
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Odile’s slight accent has never sounded more adorable. She bites her lip as Pops retreats back up the stairs. “I think I misunderstood. Is this party just for the tech crew?”
“Uh . . . kind of?” I don’t know what to say. Having an actor around changes things for us. Sure, I might have a mild celebrity crush on Odile, but for my friends, having her here is very much contrary to the spirit of what we’re doing tonight.
This party’s for us. We’ll probably spend a significant chunk of it complaining about the cast. That’s just kind of what we do, the same way they complain about us.
Besides, Odile probably only showed up because she thought her friends were
coming. Now that she knows the truth, she’s bound to hightail it out the door.
Sure enough, she glances around behind me at the increasingly quiet room and says, “Well, I don’t want to be in the way.”
“It’s all right,” I say, but I can feel all the eyes on us.
“Could we . . .” Odile fumbles with the strap of her fancy purse. “I’m sorry to take you away from the party, but do you think we could talk in the hall?”
“Oh, um. Okay.” I signal to Gabby to get the conversations going again and follow Odile back up the basement stairs. I guess to say goodbye.
“This is a bit awkward.” Odile tucks a lock of wavy hair behind her ear. God, she’s cute. “I don’t have a ride home. My parents dropped me off, but they were on their way to the hockey game with my sister.”
“Oh . . .”
“I can get an Uber.” But she doesn’t reach for her phone.
“I mean, or you could stay for a while.” I don’t know exactly why I say it, but when I see the way Odile’s lips curl up into that soft smile again, I’m glad I did. “I mean, there might not be a lot for you to do—the crew’s brainstorming with their departments. But Gabby and I don’t have departments either, so you wouldn’t be the only extraneous person here. I mean, not that you could ever be extraneous, but—um. You know, uh, you know what I mean.” There I go again. Why can’t I form proper sentences in this girl’s presence?
“Really? I won’t be in the way?”
She’ll definitely be in the way, but I shake my head. “We’d love to have you. Also, there are brownies.”
“I do like brownies. But I was hoping for another one of those cupcakes you made.”
“Um.” I giggle. Ugh, I never giggle. “The brownies are better. Mr. Green made them.”
“Even so.”
Now I’m blushing. Ugh ugh ugh. I turn away before she can see and lead her back down the stairs.
It turns out Odile’s food dish has an enormous lasagna in it from the good Italian restaurant downtown. I put it on the table next to what’s left of the brownies and back away carefully to avoid getting trampled as three dozen hungry techs pounce on it. When they figure out who brought the food, some of them shout thank-yous to Odile, but a few just look at me quizzically, as if they can’t quite wrap their brains around the idea that our resident ingenue brought carbs to the crew.