“I’d like you to be,” I say haltingly, quietly. This is tough. If I’ve read him wrong, I am cooked. I expect him to let out a howl, twist his face wickedly, and scream out, “Got ya, baby girl.” I can hear him draw out that last word like an eternal curse.
But he doesn’t.
Just a glimpse of his old demeanor comes back. “I’m your friend, girl!” he shouts, as he stands. “’Specially if you keep bringing me cookies.” Then he bounds away.
Did I just make a friend? Or dodge a bullet?
The morning goes like clockwork. The new piece in choir is going very nicely.
As the bell ends history class, I gather up everything and walk out into the hallway. I hear a familiar voice. “Dewey, wait up.”
It’s Lisa. She comes running up to me. “Why have you been avoiding me? Did I do something wrong?” Her blue eyes sparkle. Lisa is beautiful. And she does look a lot like Audrey Hepburn with her dark hair and pink complexion. I’ll give her that.
“I was told, and I use your words exactly, ‘If you don’t stop looking at me in history class, you’ll ruin my chances with Charles.’” I stare at her, delivering this without emotion, frigidly.
“That?” She grabs my hand. “That was just a joke.”
I roll my eyes. “Didn’t seem like it at the time, Lisa.” I pull my hand away.
“Dewey.” She grabs my hand again, gripping tighter. “You know I love you. Besides, Charles is a queer. Didn’t you know that?”
I scrunch up my face at that word. Everybody calls them that, but it sounds pretty harsh escaping Lisa’s pouty lips. Besides, how would she know that? About Charles?
“Lisa, you don’t know that. And it’s best not to spread nasty, unfounded rumors.”
“It’s true. My cousin saw him at the movies with another guy, and my cousin said they weren’t acting like just friends.”
“Which cousin? And how does he know Charles?”
“Jamey. Brenda’s brother. You know, Brenda in choir? Jamey came to the Christmas Choir Concert when Charles did that solo. That’s how he knows him. And Jamey’s in college. College boys know things. Jamey says he knows a queer when he sees one.”
I remembered meeting Jamey after the show. As I remember, this might be a case of “it takes one to know one.” That is, if Charles really is that way.
“Quit using that word. And don’t believe everything you hear,” I say.
Hearing the disdain in my voice, no doubt, she switches topics. “What time are you picking me up Saturday for the Sadie Hawkins Dance?”
Sadie Hawkins is a dance where the girls ask the guys. But Lisa had never asked me. I guess she just assumed.
“I’m not,” I say. I don’t know why I’m being so cold and cruel. But Lisa rubbed me the wrong way with her Charles comment the other day, and I’ve had time to think. Lisa and I have been together a long time. It was easier to stick with her than to find someone else. Someone I might like better. Someone who might suit me better. “You never asked me.”
Most girls would be pissed right now. Not Lisa. She just keeps talking. “I just figured we’d go together. You want to be asked? Okay, I’m asking. Will you go to the Sadie Hawkins Dance with me?” She’s all bubbly. It’s hard to break Lisa down.
“Can’t.”
The look on her face. It’s like I’ve just taken a hatchet to her forehead.
“What do you mean, can’t?” she says, her voice trembling.
I take a deep breath. As Neil Sedaka sings, “Breaking up is hard to do.”
“Maybe can’t is the wrong word. Don’t want to is more like it.” Mother would not like how cruel I’m being, but it’s now or never, and if I’m not blunt, Lisa won’t get the message.
“Dewey! If we don’t go to the dance together, people will think something is wrong.”
She is so hardheaded. She still doesn’t get it.
“Then they can think that.”
“But I can’t get another date this late in the week,” she whines.
And the truth is told. I’m convenient. And that is exactly what’s wrong with “us.” I’m tired of being convenient, there for her every whim. I want someone who wants to be with me for me.
“Well, you better get crackin’,” I say. Forgive me, Mother, but this is the only way to handle her. “And while you’re at it, see if you can line up dates for the rest of the month—shit, the rest of the year. We’re through.” It feels good to get it out, and it feels good to use the word Jeep taught me.
Lisa bursts into tears. I walk away. Because if I don’t, I, too, will tear up and cave in. And caving because of emotions is not what all this is about. I am now free from her clutches. And all is right with the world. I can’t wait to tell Jeep about all this.
Last period, Mr. Waters reminds me of the first cast meeting tonight. After what happened earlier with Lisa, I feel free and empowered. I’ll go to that first rehearsal completely revved up.
I get home and decide to make dinner. Mother likes it when I do that. She taught me to cook when I was little, so any chance I get, I put together a meal or bake a cake or something. Daddy likes to eat as soon as he gets home from work, but Mother’s job keeps her a half hour later than his keeps him, so if I have dinner on the table when she gets home, everybody’s happy.
Mother breezes in and as soon as she’s changed out of her work clothes, we sit down to the fried chicken I’ve made. It’s Daddy’s favorite.
We finish up, and I get up to leave. Daddy quizzes me. “Why are you in such a rush?”
“I’m going to a play rehearsal. New theater, doing a new show. Mr. Waters got me a part. They’re friends of his.” I gulp down the last of my sweet tea, put the glass back on the table, wipe my mouth.
“What kind of show?” Daddy asks. Daddy can play the Twenty Questions game all day if I let him.
“Tell you later. I need to get on the road.”
I head straight to the back door, not giving him a chance to ask more. The less he knows, the better it will be for me. Daddy has this weird sense of commitment. If I’m knee-deep into rehearsals, even if he finds out what the show is about, he won’t make me quit. I hope.
“Be careful,” I hear Mother say as the door shuts. I never leave the house without her saying that. It’s her mantra. She’s not into transcendentalism like the Beatles, but she does have her mantra. And every traveler gets to hear it.
I pull up to the storefront address Mr. Waters gave me. I don’t know what used to be here, but inside the entrance is an area that is about twelve feet deep. Across is a wall with double doors. I head through the doors, and a big room awaits. It’s not a theater, just a space. Must have been a stockroom at one time. Several folding chairs are placed around a table.
I sit in one of the chairs, facing the entrance. I want to see whoever comes in that door. This afternoon I was feeling empowered, but tonight the butterflies are back.
Not long after I sit, a beautiful black girl enters. She has a cream-colored peasant blouse on over a deep pink miniskirt. Her wiry hair is pulled back with a headband that matches the skirt. She wears her clothes well. They look good against her skin. I’ve not seen many colored girls my age up close, except when I shop at Leonard Brothers. A lot of them shop there. This girl comes straight for me, a giant smile creasing her face.
“We the first ones here?” she asks.
I mumble, “Yeah.” Since our school isn’t integrated yet, I guess I’m a little afraid of her. That’s stupid, but it’s true.
She sits right next to me. “I know you. I saw your picture in the Star-Telegram. You made State All-Star Cast last year.” The paper ran my picture when I won. “This is going to be a good show if all the talent is like you.” She bubbles with enthusiasm as she holds out her hand. “Lucretia Belton. But my friends call me LuLu.”
I shake her hand. It feels weird, shaking a colored—no, I think they like “black” now—person’s hand for the first time. “Dewey Snodgress,” I say.
“So Dewey, you ready to kiss me?”
My eyes grow wide; my heart starts racing. “Kiss you? Right now? Right here?” I know she can hear the tremble in my voice.
She lets out a giant laugh. “No—in the show, silly. Will you kiss me in the show?”
Well, now, I guess I’ll have to disappoint Mr. Waters because my daddy will not stand for that. “I have to kiss you in the show?” I say each word, measured. I don’t want to sound terror stricken, but that’s the way it comes out.
She pushes my shoulder. “I’s just funnin’ you. You don’t have to lock lips with the cullud gal.” She bellows what I can only describe, but have never heard, as a guffaw. “The look on your face. Priceless. You better go get you a drink of water. Compose yourself. There’s water fountains in that lobby there,” she says, pointing. “Be sure you drink from the Whites Only. You don’t want to be catchin’ no black plague, now do you?” She laughs and laughs and laughs.
I saw only one water fountain in the place when I came in, so I’m reasonably sure she is still “funnin’” me. I don’t know how to take it. I’m getting more and more uncomfortable sitting here.
“Come on, Dewey,” she pleads, “can’t you take a joke? If you’re gonna work with LuLu Belton, you’re gonna have to loosen up, guy. Must be some uptight folks up in there at your school. We ’uns over at I. M. Terrell knows how to have fun. We have to laugh. It’s a good school, but it’s as black as your school is white. My daddy’s a doctor, my mama’s a nurse, but they insist on my going to public school, and I. M. Terrell is the only choice for us black folks. Praise the Lord for Martin and for President Johnson. Someday Texas is going to catch up with those new laws. But right now, you’re white and I’m black, and never the twain shall meet. Not at school anyway. But here, right here, is where the meetin’ begins. And don’t be afraid of me. I’ll let you in on a little secret, Dewey. Inside, my blood’s just as red as yours.” She smiles. It’s as wicked a smile as I’ve ever seen. But it’s a friendly one.
My tension goes away. I decide I am going to like working with this strange girl. Did I just make another friend?
The rest of the cast trails in, one by one. Eventually, two older guys and a woman come through the double doors, arms full of mimeographed packets.
“Okeydokey,” one of the guys says. “Let’s get started. First let’s all introduce ourselves. I’m Ben Klein, your director.” He points to the other guy. “This is Paul Morris, my friend, set and lighting designer, and most of all the love of my life.” Wait a minute. Did he just say what I think he said? Before I can process, he continues, “And this beautiful creature is Anna Maria Entonces.” He points to the woman, who is indeed very beautiful. She has flowing black hair and skin that is the color of a deep tan. Her black eyes sparkle as she smiles. “Anna Maria wrote this masterpiece.” He starts handing out scripts.
“Now, we want each of you to tell us your names, and when you do, I’ll let you know your character’s name.” He looks straight at me.
“Dewey Snodgress,” I dutifully say.
Ben declares, “You’ll be Randy.” I look down at the script and see Randy and a colon. After the colon, it says “Gay.” There are other words after that, but my eyes stop reading. What have I gotten myself into?
LuLu gives her name, and Ben says, “Molly.”
“Don’t tell me,” LuLu bubbles. “Black girl, right?”
Everyone at the table laughs.
As Ben goes around the table, we get everyone’s name. I hope I can remember, but I know I won’t. It will take a rehearsal or two. But everyone seems friendly, so I know this is going to be fun. Besides LuLu, there is also a black boy. There are three Jewish characters. I don’t know if the actors are Jewish or not, though. It’s hard to tell, I guess. There are two girls and a guy, all my and LuLu’s age. Then there are two other white guys and a white girl, all a little older than us, probably college-aged. Rounding out the cast are three older men.
“Now,” Ben says, “before we start our first read-through, I’ve asked Anna Maria to talk about the play some.”
“Hey, everybody. As Ben said, I’m Anna Maria, and you can call me that. This is a process. The friendlier we all become, the better the performance can be. My words are not written in stone. This is living, breathing theater. If you have a question or a suggestion, don’t hesitate to come forth. Of course, eventually I will totally set the script, and Ben will set the show. After that, no changes. But for now and the next week or so, I want to know what you think. I may not agree with you. I may not put your ideas into the show. But, then again, maybe I will. That’s what living theater is all about.”
I am awestruck. Every show I’d ever done was from a published script. You’re not allowed to change anything. It’s in the production contract. This may prove to be a challenge. If the book changes all the time, how will we ever set the show and feel confident being off book? Yep, a challenge. But a fun challenge.
“I hope that whoever brought you here tonight—us, your teachers—explained the gist of the show,” Anna Maria says. I see all the actors nodding. “I’m passionate about this. This war is killing our boys; it’s killing our country. And the government is letting it happen from the very top all the way down to local police. My play is in two acts: the first tells of a diverse group of students who plan a peaceful rally against the war; the second is that rally and how, because of overzealous, right-wing, brutal police, everything goes horribly wrong. But there is a ray of hope in it all. One of you gets killed, but the others rise up, determined to fight against the unjust and reclaim their right to free speech.” She is so revved up when she finishes I am ready to get on with it all. This is going to make history, I’m convinced.
Everyone stands and applauds her. It lasts a full five minutes, it seems; then we all sit.
“Take a minute to look at your character description,” Ben says, “and then we’ll begin reading.”
LuLu grabs my arm and says into my ear, “Isn’t this amazing?” She is all smiles and enthusiasm.
I nod and look at Randy’s description: Gay. Sixteen years old. White. Bullied at school for being gay. Wants to change the world. Ready to fight against oppression. A bit effeminate, but strong.
I don’t know if I can do this. It will take some research. And I’ll have to work on being girl-like, but I really, really want to do this.
“Now,” Ben says after a few minutes. “Ready? Act 1.”
The play is powerful. Basically, the first act is the bonding act. We each tell our stories as we establish the common ground that has brought us together. My character Randy is tired of being the outsider. He is looking for a cause. Other characters at first suggest he join a gay liberation movement, but after they see how passionate he is against the war, how he is terrified of being drafted to fight in a war he doesn’t believe in, they accept him into their group.
We finish the first act; Ben commands, “Take five.” Everyone stands, and LuLu and I go into the lobby. As I remembered, there is only one water fountain.
“So where is the black plague water fountain?” I chuckle, proud I’m feeling loose enough to throw some of her grief back at her.
“Good one, Dewey.” She pushes my shoulder playfully. “So what do you think of your character?” she asks as we stroll into the fresh, crisp, cold air outside for a quick break.
“I like him. He will be a stretch. I don’t know if I can do the effeminate part, though.”
She looks at me. Strange look. Disbelief? Why? Before I ask about it, she speaks.
“Molly will be fun. She’s a hell-raiser. I like that. I don’t do much hell-raising around the doctor and his wife.”
The way she refers to her parents is weird. I would have said “Mother and Daddy.” But again she speaks before I can question.
She shivers. “It’s freezing out here. We’d better head back in. Time for Act 2, Burton.” I catch that. Richard Burton, as in celebrated actor and infamous Elizabeth Taylor h
usband.
Act 2 flits along. We instinctively pick up the pace of our reading as we get into the conflict. The police are indeed brutal. One of them is on my—Randy’s—case immediately. He calls Randy queer, pansy ass, baby girl, fag. It’s brutal. But it gets even more brutal because Randy, with a burst of righteous rage, starts to fight back. The policeman beats him with his billy club, hitting him over and over and over as the others try desperately to pull him off their friend. Meanwhile, the other police (and we are assured by the script there will be many of them, not just the three who have lines) beat back Randy’s friends. When all is said and done, Randy lies in a heap, a bloody pulp. With a grin as wide as Texas, his attacker pulls off him and walks away. Molly falls down upon Randy, her ear to his chest. She looks up and shouts through her tears, “You killed him. He didn’t do nothing to you that deserved that. You are a vicious pig.” The other protestors pull her off Randy as she screams, “He was just a sweet kid, just a boy who thought he could change this stinking world.” As two of them pull her off stage raving at the cop, “You can beat us, you can kill us, but you can’t stop us,” the others pick up Randy and carry him off. Randy’s murderer stands, center stage, smiling.
There is total silence as we close our scripts. I hear snuffles, see tissues being pulled from the boxes strategically placed on either end of the table. I glance at the hands pulling the tissues. Some of them are male. I can understand. Tears are escaping from my eyes, but I let them fall. I want to experience this for all it’s worth.
A few minutes of silence, and quietly Ben says, “Tomorrow. Seven. Bring a pencil for blocking.”
And silently, we all rise to leave the room, still enveloped by this powerful play. As we reach the sidewalk, LuLu turns and hugs me. She doesn’t say anything. She just hugs, like she’s hugging Randy, like she is hugging humanity. Like she is filling her soul with courage.
I cry all the way home. As I park the car, I wipe the tears. Luckily it’s a few minutes after ten. My parents go to bed right at ten, so I won’t have to see them. As I head to my bedroom, I pick up the phone from its nook in the hallway. I hear my mother, calling from their dark bedroom, “Good rehearsal, Dewey?”
All You Need Is Love Page 4