All You Need Is Love

by Russell J. Sanders

  An explosion. The entire group bellows happiness, like a well-tuned choir of angels.

  “I take it that means you’re willing? Nobody has a conflict?” Ben points quickly to each of us; affirmative nods answer his pointing finger. An enormous smile breaks out on his face. “We are officially held over. Now, go meet your fans.”

  As we head for the lobby, LuLu spouts, “Way to go, Brando. Thanks to your genius talent, we’re a hit.”

  “No, girl, thanks to everybody. You’re pretty amazing too.”

  “You know what’s amazing? That cake. You done good. What makes it even better is I can just picture you, all decked out in your frilly little apron, baking away.” She slyly grins.

  I refuse to respond to that. Instead, I change the subject. “What did the doctor and his wife say about the review?”

  “Same ol’, same ol’.” She squinches up her mouth and imitates a shrew. “I don’t care what some whitie in a white newspaper says, a black girl is not going to make it in the movies. Not in this day and age. I don’t care how much things are changing.” She’s imitating the wife, no doubt.

  “And the doctor?”

  “You know, Dewey, he kinda bucked the trend for a minute. He actually told me he was proud of me. But then he added, ‘But your mother is right.’”

  “So—let me reply here—you said, ‘I don’t care what you think.’ Right?”

  “You know me well, oh wise little gay boy.” I wince. “But he did get to me a little. After all, it’s been a long time since he’s said anything that nice to me. What I actually said was, ‘I don’t care what she thinks.’ Then I walked out of the room.”

  “That’s my LuLu.”

  Chapter 13

  MONDAY MORNING, and I’m right where I’m always at: the bench in the foyer. This morning, though, I’m cradled by the warmth of shows being held over and good reviews and Mother and Daddy and their celebration. I’m so lost in thought I’m not studying my devotional script. I’ll wing it today. After all, I’m a star.

  “Earth to Dewey.” Butch hovers, waving his hands. I fight myself back to reality. He hasn’t done his signature hog call in a long time. Oddly enough, I miss it. Not the nasty ones, but the ones after we started becoming friends. They were special, somehow.

  Butch sits and says, “The cake was a giant hit.” He is carrying a paper grocery sack. “Here’s the clean pan back, and my mom wrote your mom a note to thank her for the ingredients.”

  I take the bag and laugh. “What? No thank-you note for the baking professor?”

  “Oh, she wanted to write you one, but I stopped her. I thought my bringing you a note like that would be kinda gay.” He laughs at his joke. I cringe inside.

  “You shoulda seen the kids. Chocolate frosting all over their faces before everything was said and done. Made me so happy. I did that. My cake. Daddy even liked it,” Butch says.

  “I knew he would,” I say, looking at Butch. There is a look on his face that’s hard to read. What I see says Butch wants to look happy but somewhere in that smile is hurt as well.

  “So,” Butch says quickly, “how did Saturday’s performance go?”

  “Sold out. Six curtain calls.”

  “Wow, that’s fantastic, Dewey.”

  “Yeah. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “We’re held over. Another weekend. Phone was ringing off the wall, so Ben asked us if we’d do another three performances.”

  “And I know you said, ‘Oh, no, I just can’t do that. I’m busy next weekend.’” He punches my arm when he says that.

  “You got it, Butchie.” It’s the first time I’ve used his little kid name, and I regret it, fearing he may turn on me.

  But he grins.

  “Only my friends call me that. I’ll make an exception, though, for Fort Worth’s newest star of stage and… well, stage.” We both laugh at his joke.

  “When I left your house, I went by Mr. Sims’s. You know? The barber shop.”

  I knew Mr. Sims well. Daddy took me there the day it opened, and I’ve been going ever since. “Why’d you go there?”

  “There’s always a newspaper layin’ round there. Wanted to tear out your review. Show it to Mama.”

  His look says he’s proud of me. Makes me feel good. “And?”

  “Mama read that thing, and you know what she said?”

  “No, what?”

  “She said, ‘I knew when that boy was just a tiny thing he’d make his mark on this world.’ And she just grinned to beat the band.”

  “Well, tell your mama thank you for me, okay?”

  “’Kay.”

  The bell rings, and Butch jumps up. “Off to Shop Class. I’m building you a display case for your first Oscar.” And he leaves.

  I’m still in shock that a simple utterance on the intercom could stop years of abuse and spark a good friendship. And I also marvel at Butch’s sense of humor. Who knew?

  I gather all my stuff and point myself toward the intercom room. The devotional goes okay, but I should have looked at the script. I get totally tongue-tied over the name of the poet I’ve just quoted. Some Russian or Hungarian or something. I’d tell Mr. Waters he needs to warn me if he does this to me again, but that would just be admitting I didn’t rehearse. And Mr. Waters is big on rehearsal. The first six weeks I had him for drama, Jimmy and I teamed up for a duet scene. We ran lines over and over, but we never got off our butts to actually rehearse. Mr. Waters gave me a C that six weeks. First time I’d ever gotten a C in my life on a six weeks grade. And in drama, no less. I talked to Mr. Waters, and he told me he felt I just wasn’t very interested. That hurt more than the C. I cleaned up my act right fast.

  From the intercom room, I hurry to my locker. I need to get rid of this cake pan and get my book for second period because I never have time between choir and second period class to go to my locker.

  On my locker is a gold glittered star with DEW spelled out in red glitter in the middle. I stop in my tracks. I can’t believe he did this. There is only one person in the world who calls me that. My heart is about to burst.

  I quickly open my locker, stow the sack with the pan in it, and grab my book. But as I close my locker, the tears start. I’m such a baby sometimes. I duck into the restroom nearest my locker and hole myself up in a stall. I will myself to stop crying. But with each internal stop it comes a vision of Jeep’s goofy smile, and the sobbing continues. I take deep breaths. Think of sunshine. Rainbows. Lollipops. Soon, thank God, the tune of Lesley Gore’s song is stuck in my brain. My psyche is singing, “Sunshine, Lollipops, and Rainbows,” and I’m able to control my tears. Of sadness. Of joy. Of what? Damn. Jeep.

  Luckily, Miss Zelko knows I get hung up in the office sometimes after I do the devotional. So I’m not worried I’m tardy. Although it does bother me the choir will be knee-deep in warm-ups when I arrive and take my place on the risers. I guess this morning, I will just have to give a little bit less blood, sweat, and tears.

  This thing with Jeep. Blood, sweat, and tears it is. Like Miss Zelko says, you have to be willing to give all three. And I’m giving it my all to make this work. I am not like him. I thought Jeep realized that. But he goes and does such a sweet, loving thing as make me that star. Shit.

  As I figured, the choir is doing a round of me, may, mah, mo, moos as I squeeze into my place. I’m rarely late, but the two guys I stand between never leave space for me. I know they know I’m at school because I’m on the f-ing intercom every single morning. I think they just like to mess with me.

  I part them with my outstretched hands, and the guy on the right whispers, “’Bout time you got here, honey.” What does he mean by that?

  Choir is fun, as always. Miss Zelko works us hard. It seems weird, but I’ve usually worked up a sweat by the time we finish each morning. She always smiles when she sees my perspiration. She’d probably be in ecstasy if I was crying or bleeding. It would just prove her adage.

  The morning’s a breeze.
No pop quizzes. No big project assignments dropped on us. No boring lectures. In fact, in history class, there is a movie. That’s always fun, no matter how boring the film might be. And this one didn’t win any Oscars, that’s for sure.

  I decide to skip lunch and read. I do that sometimes. Besides, the crying jag is still in check, but I’m in no mood to eat. So I take my bench in the foyer.

  I take out my book, open it, and bury myself in it. I’ve been reading Kurt Vonnegut’s Welcome to the Monkey House. Quirky, weird, and funny. Nothing like Vonnegut to keep me from thinking of this morning. Of Jeep.

  “Did you like my star?”

  So much for distraction.

  I look up, and he’s standing over me. Grinning to beat the band. How can I be mad at him when he’s so loveable?

  “Thanks, Jeep,” I say, hoping he’ll go away but knowing he won’t. He plops his butt right beside me.

  “Made it myself.”

  “Do tell. I thought for sure Mott’s five-and-dime carried glittered stars with DEW written on them.” My voice is too nasty. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. I put a smile in “I knew you made it. It’s great.”

  “I had to do it after I read that review. Of course, you’re always my star, but the article made it very clear—you’re everybody’s star now.” He brushes his hand on my arm as he says that. I look around as I quiver. And hate myself.

  “How’d the review go over at the theater? Bet your director and the cast were whoopin’ and hollerin’.”

  “Matter of fact, we are held over.”

  “Fan-f-ing-tastic!” he bellows.

  I look around to see if anyone has heard, but, as I just found with my momentary surveillance when he touched me, no one else is in the foyer with us.

  “I’m so proud of you, Dew. We should celebrate. Let me buy you a piece of pie. They have that cherry pie today you like.” The cafeteria ladies make a cherry pie with a marshmallow cream topping to die for.

  But I can’t lead Jeep on, so I say, “I’m not hungry, Jeep. I think I have a stomach bug. Nothing bad, but the thought of eating makes me wanna puke.” Liar! I scream inside. And I hate myself.

  “Do you need to go to the nurse? I’ll walk with you.” So, the lying didn’t work. He’s not leaving. What next, Dewey?

  “No. I’ll be fine. You go ahead and get your pie. I’m just going to read my book and relax. Some quiet time will work wonders for my stomach. It always does.” Oh what a tangled web we weave….

  “Well, I’m starving, so if you’re okay, I’ll duck into the cafeteria and gobble down some pie before lunch period’s up.” And he leaves. Finally.

  I watch his quirky walk. Sort of like an ape dancing to a soft rock beat, and I feel warm inside. Jeep is one in a million.

  My classes after lunch are as easy as before lunch.

  I get to drama class, and I’m assaulted by Jimmy. “You nervous?”

  “Why would I be nervous?”

  “Tryouts.”

  With all that had been going on—the review, the hold-over, the star on my locker—I had completely blanked out that today, after school, were the tryouts for the contest show. What’s wrong with me? Forgetting tryouts? I need to get a grip. I have one hour to get inside Henry II and win the lead.

  “Oh, that,” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, “I’m ready. Henry’s mine.”

  “Not if Charles has anything to do with it.”

  I do a double take. “Huh?”

  “Charles. You know, tall, handsome, brute of a man? At least that’s what my girlfriend says about him. When she wants to get my goat. Which is about all the time. I don’t know why I stay with her. But she does have those cute dimples, and that silky….”

  I stop him. “Calm down, Romeo. What’s all this about Charles? What have you heard?”

  “Not much except his name is on the tryout sheet.”

  I rush to the Call Board, and there his name is. Under Henry and Richard. I’d completely forgotten he might try out. Especially since he hadn’t signed the sheet before today. He must have come in before school or rushed in between classes. I’m just listed as auditioning for Henry. That’s the only role I really want. And I thought I was a shoo-in, judging from the other names under Henry. But now I’m not so sure. I quickly grab a pen and sign under Richard, John, Geoffrey, and Philip, all four. Cover my bases. This is my senior year. I have to be in the one-act. I plan to win best actor.

  “Kind of overkill, don’t you think?” Jimmy says. He is so close to me I feel his hot breath on my neck.

  “You know Mr. Waters won’t let us read unless we’ve declared which roles we want to read for. He’s big on paperwork.”

  “Tell me about it. He had a three-page form to volunteer for stage manager. I sat after school yesterday for twenty minutes, filling it out. I handed it to him, and he said, ‘Thanks, Jim. I’ll probably give you the job. After I look over your application here. Besides, so far, no one else has applied.’ He flashed that evil grin of his.”

  We both laugh. Mr. Waters can be a pain, but both Jimmy and I worship him.

  We get through class. I sit to study The Lion in Winter. I need to quickly formulate my approach to five characters now, not just one.

  Jimmy and everyone else have left. Mr. Waters too. He probably needs to check his teacher mailbox before we start the tryouts.

  As I try to get a bead on Richard, Geoffrey, John, and Philip, I hear footsteps. Heavy ones. The sound of a tall, muscled drink of water.

  I look up to see Charles coming over to me. He sits right next to me. All the chairs lined up in rows—Mr. Waters had us do that during class—and he decides to invade my space.

  “Hey, Charles,” I say, then shift my eyes back to the script.

  “Hey, Dewey.” He pulls out a script and opens it.

  As I’m trying to get my head on straight for the scene Mr. Waters will use to choose Richard, looking over at my script, Charles says, “Which character you studying there? Richard, Geoffrey, or John?”

  “Well, right now, Richard. But I’m reading for all three. And Philip.” I’m hoping to psych him out.

  “Really? I figured you for Henry.”

  “Looks like I have some stiff competition for Henry. I need to hedge my bets.”

  Charles looks at me quizzically. “Competition? I saw the list. One of those guys might—just might—be good for John, but believe me, you have them beat a mile for Henry.”

  “Uh,” I look at him, straight in the eyes. “I was talking about competition that’s a little more in my league. And sitting right here.”

  “Me? I don’t want Henry. I just signed to give you a run for your money. But I’m not Henry material, believe me. Richard’s more my speed.”

  “Oh, really?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing. I truly have never said three consecutive words to Charles, and he’s praising me to high heaven here.

  “I’ll admit I thought of going for Henry. But I read that review of your show. I knew I didn’t have a chance then. But it doesn’t matter. Reading for Henry was my father’s idea.”

  “Your father’s?”

  He shakes his head. “Yep. Father is convinced only someone playing a leading role can win best actor at contest.”

  “But that’s not the way it works. Granted, the leads are sometimes the showiest roles. But a lot of times, they’re the leads just because they were originally played by Broadway or movie stars. The other roles can attract more attention from the judges. Like last year, the guy who won best actor at state did Friar Lawrence, not Romeo. It can happen. Tell that to your dad.”

  “You don’t know my father, do you? You can’t tell him anything. Especially when it comes to anything in his precious Charles realm. He’s had my life mapped out since before birth. If I’d been a girl, I’d be the best ballerina in the world. Thank God, he saw a boy slip out of Mother. I don’t think he could have handled a girl. He decided to make me a singer/actor. ’Course I might have made a really good ballet d
ancer.”

  I look at him and see no irony on his face whatsoever.

  “Kinda controlling, huh?” I thank my lucky stars Mother and Daddy pretty much have always supported anything I want to do.

  “Iron-fisted is more like it. So that’s why I’m reading for Henry. But don’t worry. You’re better for the role, and I would rather do Richard. He’s more like me.”

  I can see that. Richard the Lionhearted. Big bruiser of a guy. Charles fits that in size. But Charles can sometimes be a bit effeminate. I know I got into it with Lisa when she said that. But I’ve watched him in choir and history class, and yes, he does swish a little sometimes.

  “Anyway, Dewey, you just concentrate on getting Henry. It’s gonna happen.”

  “From your lips to Mr. Waters’s ears, Charles.”

  “I’ll leave you alone now. It’s obvious we’re both here to get in character before the less engaged, less career-conscious actors and actresses arrive.” Somehow, I think those words aren’t his. They’re engrained in him. By his father.

  A good, scene-studying ten minutes pass, then Mr. Waters returns.

  “Well, guys, how we gonna do a show with only two people? Two good people, I’m sure, but this show calls for seven cast members.”

  I roll my eyes at him.

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Dewey. I’m the director. The king of this place.” He loves to tease.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.” I stand and bow as I say this, knee to the floor. Charles continues to sit. Doesn’t join in my joke. But he laughs.

  As I rise, Mr. Waters declares, “At your leisure, peasant.”

  The room starts to fill.

  The tryouts start with the usual speech from Mr. Waters, and then he begins with Henry/Eleanor readings.

  Charles reads first. Unfortunately—well, fortunate for me—the girl reading with him is not very good. But then again, Charles is probably happy because if her poor reading reflects on him, he can rest in the knowledge he won’t have to play Henry.

  Three other guys and girls read the scene. Some are good, none are great.