The Love Curse of Melody McIntyre

by Robin Talley

  “Please call me Sean. And by the way, Odile, we’d love it if you could join us for dinner next Monday.” What? Dad doesn’t look my way, so he doesn’t see me trying to frantically communicate a loud No! with my eyes. Whatever this crush thing I have on her is, I’ve got to rein it in before it gets worse, and her coming over for dinner will not make that easier. “Charlie and I don’t cook much, but Will—Mr. Green—is coming over, and you haven’t lived until you’ve tried his braised carrots.”

  “Whoops!” I say, hoping he’ll pick up on my tone. “You forgot, Dad. Next Monday’s when Dom and Jasmin are coming for the mentorship dinner.”

  “That’s perfect!” Dad grins. “Sorry, Odile, I should explain—Mr. Green feels strongly about shepherding the next generation of theater professionals, so Dominic and Jasmin have been coming over for the past couple of years to talk shop. But it’s only fitting that we have another actor join in now that Dom’s switched teams on us. I’ll tell Mr. Green; he’ll be delighted.”

  I pray Odile will say no, but she’s already smiling at him. “It’s very kind of you to invite me, Sean. I’d like that.”

  Dad gets his coat, and Odile gives me one last soft glance. A minute later, they’re gone.

  I start down the basement steps, trying to plan out what I’m going to say to the crew, but focusing is impossible. For the first time I can remember, I don’t want to work. All I want is to still be sitting out on that cold porch again, sharing a blanket with Odile Rose.

  TODAY’S SCHEDULE MONDAY, FEBRUARY 17

  Time

  Called

  Task

  Location

  3:00–3:45 p.m.

  Full cast

  Music rehearsal: “Epilogue”

  Choir room

  3:45–4:30 p.m.

  Thénardier & Madame Thénardier

  Character work

  Auditorium

  3:45–4:30 p.m.

  Marius, Cosette, Éponine

  Music rehearsal: “A Heart Full of Love”

  Choir room

  4:30–5:15 p.m.

  Marius & Cosette

  Character work

  Auditorium

  4:30–5:15 p.m.

  Éponine

  Music rehearsal: “On My Own”

  Choir room

  Note: End times are approximate. Actors should be prepared to stay later if needed.

  Written on the portable whiteboard in Mel’s handwriting and stationed at the entrance to the performing arts wing.

  Scene 8—Beaconville High School Choir Room

  DAYS UNTIL SPRING MUSICAL OPENS: 73

  “Very good, everyone!” Ms. Qiao forces a smile as Jasmin trills out the last few instrumental notes on the piano. She plays for rehearsals sometimes, partly because it’s good practice but mostly because she enjoys getting to observe the actor drama. Early rehearsals, especially when the entire cast is here, are actor-drama central. “Let’s go through that last chorus together one more time and then we’ll incorporate a few solos.”

  “Mel? Are you ready to check this?” Gabby whispers, holding out a stack of purchase orders she collected from the crew heads at lunch.

  “Sure.” I reach for the papers while the cast struggles through the chorus. Ms. Qiao likes to start music rehearsals by having everyone practice as a group. The problem is, most of the cast doesn’t know the lyrics yet, so they’re staring straight down into their music stands, and their voices get drowned out. They’re still working on enunciating, too, so words get lost here and there. The principals and some of the featured ensemble members are on the bottom riser, and a few of them, Christina and Leah in particular, keep glaring at the people behind them who are messing up.

  They need to stop doing that. We’re all supposed to be one team, and we have to support each other.

  But it’ll all come together by opening night. Right now, the song sounds ragged and uneven, but in two and a half months it’ll smooth out. It has to.

  I flip through the pages in the stack Gabby gave me, checking each one off as I go. As I pass them back to her, a movement on the front row of risers catches my eye. Odile, turning the page in her script, half a second before everyone else does the same thing.

  I look away before she can notice me watching her. I’ve been doing my best to act like nothing’s changed between us since the party, but it’s too late for that. I’ve finally met the real Odile, the one with actual fears and vulnerabilities and tear ducts, and I don’t know how to go back.

  But I have to. I’ve got a love curse to worry about.

  “Very good, everyone.” Ms. Qiao lifts her hands as the chorus winds down, glancing back at the whiteboard agenda I put out at the start of rehearsal and clicking her tongue. “Let’s take a quick break, and then we’ll do an abbreviated version of the solos. We’ll pick up with Fantine’s ‘Come to Me’ reprise. That’ll give us a sense of how the transition to the group portion will sound. Nick, Odile, Leah, will you be ready?”

  Odile nods. She looks as calm as she has all afternoon, but beside her, Nick is shifting his weight from foot to foot, and Leah looks absolutely petrified. These will be the first solo rehearsals of the show, and if I were them, I’d be petrified too.

  Ms. Qiao dismisses us for the break, and as I’m setting my timer, Dom plops down in the empty seat on the other side of Gabby. “Hey, you two. Mel, can I borrow the nail clippers?”

  “Sure.” I haul out the tackle box from under my chair and pull out the clippers, plus an alcohol wipe.

  “Wow. What else do you have in that box?” Alejandra asks. She and Malik, it seems, have followed Dom over to our corner. Jasmin came over to sit with us, too. That isn’t a surprise, but actors don’t usually hang out with us during breaks. Or at all. “Is it like a traveling pharmacy?”

  “It’s her SM kit.” Dom stretches his arms over his head. “She’s got first aid stuff, breath mints, mechanical pencils, mini Sharpies, paper clips, highlighters, condoms . . .”

  “Condoms?” Alejandra’s eyes widen.

  “Yeah, they’re the best way to seal up mic packs. Plus I’ve got rulers, Post-its, rubber bands . . .” I open the tackle box again so she can see. Inheriting the official BHS SM kit was one of the high points of my career to date. “Needle and thread, lint roller, clear nail polish, hair ties, tampons, full water bottle, screwdrivers . . .”

  “Screwdrivers?” Malik asks. “As in, more than one?”

  “Well, yeah. You always need a flat-head and a Phillips on hand, at least.”

  “For sure,” a familiar voice echoes above us. Odile’s come over to our corner, too. “During the first Steel Magnolias stumble-through, the sink fell apart in the middle of a monologue. Estaban came onstage and screwed it back together, and we didn’t even have to pause the scene.”

  The others look astonished, probably at hearing Odile say so many words that aren’t in her script, but I smile up at her. “I remember that. I’d wanted to use glue, but I got overruled.”

  “Clearly, they should’ve listened to you to begin with.” Odile grins.

  That’s when I spot Jasmin watching us through narrowed eyes. I stop smiling, but Odile doesn’t seem to notice.

  “SMs always have whatever you could possibly need,” she’s telling Malik and Alejandra. “I did a show once where the director had the whole cast go barefoot onstage, and my friend got a splinter in the middle of the first act. As soon as he exited, the ASM was standing in the wings with tweezers in her hand. She had him all set by his next entrance. That was when I first learned you can count on the tech crew for absolutely anything.”

  “Hi, Odile!” Christina bounds up while everyone else is still staring at her, dumbfounded. I’m pretty sure this is the first time an actor at our school has ever said anything that nice about the crew. “You sounded amazing during that rehearsal. I learned so much about how to use my chest voice just from standing next to you.”

  “Thank you, you’re so nice to say that.” Odile
’s smile shifts completely as she turns to Christina, her lips spreading into that sunny look I’ve come to think of as her feigning-happiness costume.

  “Maybe you two should go somewhere and compare notes.” Jasmin glances from Odile to Christina to me. “I bet you have a lot of acting tips to share, Odile.”

  She shifts her sunny smile to Jasmin. “That’s nice of you to say, but I don’t, not really.”

  That’s when we hear the whistling. It’s soft and half-hearted, but still—it’s whistling.

  Everyone turns around at once. Even Christina looks stunned. So far—knock on all the wood ever—rehearsals have been running pretty smoothly, but to straight-up whistle in the middle of the performing arts wing is seriously tempting the curse’s wrath.

  Yet I’m not surprised at all when I spot Nick sitting on the top riser, peering down at his script and whistling the tune to his “Epilogue” solo.

  “Hey, no whistling,” Malik calls before I’ve even said anything.

  Nick stops, but he glances around, looking confused. “Come again?”

  “You can’t whistle in rehearsal,” I tell him. “Do the countercurse before break ends.”

  “The countercurse? Are you serious?” Nick laughs.

  “She’s serious,” David says from the far corner of the room, where he’s talking to Leah. “You have to do it, man. Spin around three times and tell the theater you’re sorry.”

  “We aren’t even in the theater,” Nick protests.

  “We’re in the performing arts wing and in rehearsal,” I tell him. “That qualifies.”

  “I seriously can’t whistle in the choir room?” His voice sounds a little raspy, like he’s so astonished he’s getting called out that he can’t even form the words to argue properly.

  “It’s one of the oldest theater superstitions,” I explain. “Back in the day, stagehands whistled cues to each other up in the rigging. If you wandered on the stage whistling, a stagehand might think you were cueing them and drop a sandbag on your head.”

  “Are there sandbags in here?” Nick cranes his neck toward the fluorescent lights.

  “Doesn’t matter. You’ve gotta do it.” Dom crosses the room and climbs onto the riser next to Nick. “Here, I’ll do it with you.”

  “I will too.” Now Malik’s hoisting himself up.

  “Let’s all do it!” Julio claps his hands and thunders up the steps to join them. David heads over, too. Soon there are a dozen actors all spinning and apologizing in unison, and it’s actually pretty funny. Even Nick is laughing, and the curse is officially countered.

  With perfect timing, my phone starts buzzing. “We’re back, everyone!” I shout.

  The actors climb to their places. Jasmin goes to the piano bench, giving me another pointed look. I pretend not to notice, but when she turns toward her sheet music, I shift in my seat.

  A few of my friends have been acting weird since the party, but Jasmin most of all. She texted me all through yesterday, asking what Odile and I were doing out on my porch for so long. I told her the truth—that we were just talking, and that we’re getting to be kind of friends, and that she isn’t as bad as the other actors—but I couldn’t tell if she believed me.

  I didn’t tell her, or anyone, about our almost-kiss. My friends don’t need to know everything. Besides, an almost-kiss isn’t the same as an actual kiss. And neither an almost-kiss nor an actual kiss means anybody’s falling in love with anybody else. I’ve been in love enough times to know what it feels like, and I’ve kissed enough people I wasn’t in love with to know what that feels like, too.

  When love hits you, it hits you all at once, and nothing’s ever the same again.

  “All right, let’s pick up at the start of the solos,” Ms. Qiao tells the cast. “Don’t worry too much about the harmonies, we’ll work on those later. Fantine, are you ready to kick us off?”

  Odile nods. Ms. Qiao tells Jasmin where to come in, and Odile lifts her chin and parts her lips. The ensemble is supposed to stay silent during her solo, so for the next few bars the only sounds in the room are Jasmin’s piano playing and Odile’s voice soaring.

  Before we’re even a few notes in, I’m already breathless. The group’s been singing all afternoon, but now it’s as though we’ve stepped through a portal into a different rehearsal altogether.

  So far, most of the cast has been shuffling along through the song, mostly just trying to get the words right, but Odile is already singing like it’s opening night. Fantine’s dead by this point in the show, and in this song she’s coming back as an angel-slash-ghost to tell the dying Valjean he’s going to heaven because he was nice to her (it sounds weird when you put it like that, but in the context of the show it’s really moving). Odile’s fully in character, and her voice is passionate and powerful, ringing out with beautiful precision.

  I can already see her onstage, a spotlight surrounding her like a halo, her voice filling the hushed, packed theater. Tears on the audience’s faces. And on mine, too, up in the booth. I’ll be the one calling the cues, making her light shine, but she’ll be glowing all by herself.

  There’s a short instrumental break after Odile’s solo. Ms. Qiao smiles a genuine-looking smile for the first time all afternoon. Then the music picks back up and she nods at Nick.

  He clutches his music stand and squints down at the script. As soon as he starts his first line, it’s obvious something’s wrong. I have to force myself not to wince, and I’m not the only one. It’s a good thing he can’t see the rest of the cast on the risers behind him, because if I were him and I saw all those grimaces, I’d cry.

  Nick is bad. There’s no other way to put it. The light rasp in his voice from earlier is still there, but it’s much worse now that he’s trying to sing. I glance at Ms. Qiao, but her face is perfectly neutral.

  Odile and Leah have to sing the next part of the song together, so they come in after Nick’s line is over. They aren’t really singing in harmony the way the actors do on the cast recordings, but they both have beautiful voices and they sound good together.

  But when Nick joins them for a short three-way solo, I swear it sounds like he’s actually croaking.

  Dom’s jaw is on the floor. Christina’s staring at Nick with horror in her eyes. I want to signal them to be slightly less obvious, but there’s nothing I can do without being even more obvious myself.

  “Nick,” Ms. Qiao says quietly, gesturing for Jasmin to keep playing as she talks. “It’s all right.”

  Now he really does look like he’s about to cry.

  He mouths the words for the next line while Leah and Odile sing without him. Finally he gives up and just stares down at his sheet music, his face crumpled.

  The rest of the cast finishes the song without him. When they reach the end Nick slumps into his seat, and Ms. Qiao quickly dismisses everyone and goes over to talk to him.

  “Looks like Nick the Dick won’t be walking the red carpet anywhere but the asshole awards,” Gabby whispers next to me. I bite my lip to keep from laughing. “What happened?”

  “I have no idea. He was good at auditions. Maybe he’s sick.”

  Ms. Qiao leads Nick out through a side door. I’m about to tell Gabby she can leave for the day when I feel a light touch on my elbow.

  “Hey.” Odile’s smiling at me.

  “Heyyyyy.” I grin like a giant dork. This makes twice now that she’s come over to me today. “Are you, um . . .”

  “Were you going to . . . ,” she says at the same time. Then we cut ourselves off, and we both laugh.

  Gabby coughs awkwardly. “So, is it okay if I—”

  “Oh, sorry!” I spin back to her. “You can leave. The teachers are only working with a couple of the principals after this, so they don’t need us for the rest of today.”

  “Okay, cool.” Gabby gives us a tentative smile and turns to go.

  Now it’s just Odile and me in our little corner. No one else seems to be paying attention to us as they pack up and mov
e toward the door, not even Jasmin. Odile tucks a curl behind her ear, and she looks like she’s about to say something more when we hear a yell from the front of the room. “Watch out, you’re gonna hit him for real!”

  The threat of physical injury is the kind of thing my ears are fine-tuned to hear. I jump up to see a cluster of guys messing around near the whiteboard while the rest of the cast stands around, watching.

  With Ms. Qiao out of the room, I’m in charge. “Hey, everybody,” I call. They either ignore me or don’t hear. “Hey!”

  “Nah, go ahead,” Julio’s saying. I step forward through the crowd until I can see inside the knot of people gathered. It’s Julio, Andrew, and a few of the ensemble guys who got cast as Thénardier’s gang. It looks like they’re trying to rehearse the robbery scene, which they definitely aren’t allowed to do without a teacher around. “Just do, like, a stage punch, you know? Then maybe I should take a swing at you, and—”

  This is stupid. The fight in this scene hasn’t been choreographed yet, and it’s not safe to mess around with moves you haven’t practiced.

  Plus, it’s bad blocking. Thénardier isn’t supposed to fight with the members of his own gang.

  “Stop it.” I raise my voice, but the guys are already scuffling. Before I can do anything else, there’s another shout.

  “Hey! Hey!”

  That’s not a playful shout. That’s a distress cry.

  I spring forward, the crowd parting for me instantly.

  Julio is sprawled out on the floor, holding his face. Andrew’s crouching next to him. Everyone’s gone silent.

  This is my fault. I should’ve made them stop.

  “Step back!” I tell the others. I can hear footsteps running toward us, and I pray it’s a teacher. “Julio, can I see?”

  Reluctantly, he pulls his hand away from his face. His chin is streaked with blood. Some has dripped onto his shirt, and there are bright red drops on the floor, too.