Moody added, “For second semester Mass Media,” like Rakoff was an idiot for not specifying.
“For thecond themethter Math Media,” he echoed, “and we were wondering if you wanna be in it.”
I hesitated a moment. Not because I didn’t welcome the opportunity to work on my craft, but back in 10th grade, me, Jack, Lou, and Alyssa had a saying: “Dare to be different—but not like Rakoff.”
Not that they’re not nice people, but did I really wanna spend time outside of school with Zack Rakoff and Claire Moody? I could just imagine what Jack would say if he heard I was hanging out with them. Only I remembered that me and Jack are no longer friends, and my acting career is the most important thing right now.
So I said, “Fuck yeah, I do!”
Geek #1 and Geek #2 gawked at me, all perma-grin.
“We’ll get you a script by Christmas,” Moody promised.
Rakoff added, “We thoot over Winter Break.”
“Bitchin’,” I replied.
Where did that come from?
Claire looked at me with puppy-dog eyes. “You wanna know what it’s about before you sign on?”
“Not really.” As long as I got to act, I didn’t care what the project was.
“Well, it’s called Faded Flowers,” Rakoff went on.
Moody interjected, “After the Shreikback song,” even though I just got thru telling her I didn’t need to know anything else.
“‘These eyes are blind, this is a pure thing…’” Rakoff started singing. “‘These hands I kiss, tragic as anything.’”
I realize he’s in Chorale and all, but I didn’t need a vocal demo.
“Whatever…I said I’ll do it.”
What the hell is a Shriekback, anyways?
“Mr. Dayton…What can I do you for?”
Sure enough, I found Mr. Dell’Olio sitting behind his gray metal desk around the corner in The Hazel Parker office. I don’t know why, but I expected him to be wearing a PRESS visor and chomping a big cigar. Instead, he chewed a red felt tip, checking over what looked like an article written by one of his staff reporters.
“Would you mind doing me a favor?” I asked, a bit apprehensively, barely using my voice.
Dell tucked the wet pen behind an ear. “Depends on what it is.”
I didn’t mean to be nosey, yet I couldn’t help but notice a few of the black words typed on the white piece of paper: cops, tickets, smoke.
There’s been a heated debate in the pages of The Hazel Parker between the Preppies and the Burn-Outs over whether smoking should be banned on Skid Row. The Preppies being pro, the Burn-Outs con. If you ask me, the whole thing’s totally lame. If people wanna kill themselves, why should anybody else give a shit?
“Would you mind writing me a letter of recommendation for my Juilliard application?”
Dell took one look at the forms I held out in front of him, and without the slightest hesitation replied, “You got it…When’s the audition?”
“Sometime in January.” I mentally calculated the number of weeks I had left, realizing it wasn’t many. “I gotta go to New York for it and everything.”
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windowpane separating the main part of the classroom from the back office area, where I assumed Jack was, editing the H-E-double-L outta some reporter’s article, if not Claire Moody’s. I had on what Pam Kli-maszweski calls my poet outfit: black pants, black mock-turtleneck, black cardigan. The second I seen my curls sticking out from beneath my black beret, wilder than ever, I made a note to self: call Lydia Cardoza about a haircut.
Dell flipped thru the pages outlining the entire audition procedure. On top of the two monologues, and the letter of recommendation, I had to write a Statement of Purpose, i.e., Why I Want to Go to Juilliard by Bradley James Dayton…Lord help me!
“This is exciting.”
“Totally,” I agreed. “Too bad I don’t know how I’m gonna afford a plane ticket.”
My deadbeat dad still hasn’t paid a cent of child support, and with yet another Christmas around the corner, there’s no way I can ask Mom for any money. What sucks is no matter how many hours I bust my ass at Big Boy’s, I’m barely making any tips. I might seriously have to get a second job over the holiday break. I heard the Gap at Oakland Mall is hiring, but the last thing I wanna do is fold goddamn sweaters all goddamn day.
Dell looked up and smiled. “I’m sure you’ll work something out.”
I could’ve sworn I seen him wink.
“Bonne chance!”
Today after French III Independent Study, me and Stacy Gillespie spent ten minutes speaking with Mrs. Carey, even though I don’t think she understood a word either of us were parlez-ing. ’member what I said before about her major in college being Latin? I got a feeling at this point in time, me and Stacy both comprendre more français than Mrs. Carey ever will.
I’m guessing she got the part about me going to my audition since she wished me good luck…I should probably find out the French translation for “Break a leg!”
“What time’s your appointment?” Stacy asks, after we bid Mrs. Carey “A demain!”
“Not for another half hour,” I answer, “but I wanna get down to the aud a little early to check out the competition.”
I decided I am gonna read for Scrooge, even though I don’t think I’m right for it. I mean, I’m what can be considered boyishly cute, not an old-man-type. But it’s acting, right? It’s all about transforming yourself into something/somebody you aren’t. Besides, I figure that out of the Senior guys, I got the most experience. Dell’s gonna wanna cast somebody he knows can handle playing a lead.
“Well, I hope you get a good part.”
Stacy stops by somebody’s locker, slips a folded-up piece of notebook paper into the slats on the door. It must belong to her boyfriend, Luis Sánchez. His family’s Cuban or Puerto Rican or from some Spanish-speaking place. He’s very cute with dark hair and dark eyes and skin that always looks tan, and he always dresses super sharp…Too bad he’s only a Sophomore.
“What are you doing now?” I ask before moseying on my way.
Stacy rolls her eyes and groans. “Shellee Findlay wants me to go to the mall with her, and Jamie Good, and Betsy Sheffield.”
“So…?”
“So…The last time I hung out with those cheerleaders,” Stacy spits, “I wanted to kill them!”
Something major must’ve happened if she’s getting this heated. Stacy Gillespie’s usually such an easygoing person, I can’t imagine what Shellee, Jamie, and Betsy did…So I ask her.
Wanna know what she says?
“They called me Killer.”
I can’t help but laugh, she’s sooo fucking cute!
Hard to believe how much Stacy has changed since Sophomore year. When I first met her in French I, she was a Total Punk. She used to sit in the back of Mrs. Carey’s class with a can of Aqua Net in one hand and a Bic lighter in the other, trying to set the curtains on fire. She had this haircut that was super short in back and long on top and it stuck up and off to one side. Jack used to say she looked like she got hit on the back of the head with a board.
Looking at her now, all dressed up in a long black skirt with a charcoal gray turtleneck and these gorgeous pearls draped around her neck, Stacy Gillespie has become a mature young woman. In fact, all my friends are growing up. I stopped at 7-Eleven the other day to buy a pack of cigarettes and I ran into Max Wilson…I barely recognized him without a single zit on his face.
“Try not to let those cheerleaders get to you,” I say, offering my best advice.
“Just to be on the safe side,” Stacy replies, “I think I’ll get high first.”
I wish I had time to join her, but it’s off to the auditorium I go!
AUDITIONS IN PROGRESS—DO NOT ENTER
Despite the sign posted on the double doors, I sneak inside, making my way into one of the back rows. My eyes take a moment to adjust, the only light coming from on stage where I look up t
o find none other than…Cute Sophomore Guy.
I see he’s chosen to dress for the occasion. Pressed khaki pants worn with a pale blue Polo shirt, perfectly matching his eyes. You should see the way they sparkle. Like sapphires.
Be-stilling my beating heart, I listen as CSG’s about to begin his audition.
“What’ve you got for us today?” Dell asks from his usual spot, front row center.
Sitting beside him must be this semester’s Sophomore Student Director, a slightly chubby girl with curly brown hair and glasses who I think I recognize from somewhere.
“I’m gonna be doing a scene from The Breakfast Club,” CSG informs Dell and the dozen Drama Queers scattered about the auditorium. Instantly, we perk up since we all love this (and every other) John Hughes movie ever made.
At first, I think CSG means monologue, even though he called it a scene, since he’s probably never acted before. Sure enough, when he begins, I can tell he’s totally doing Brian “the Brain,” talking about how he doesn’t like what he sees when he steps outside himself and looks in. Only he switches character, becoming both Claire “the Princess,” and Allison “the Basket Case,” responding to what he’s just said as Brian. Then he goes back to Brian talking about getting an F on his elephant lamp, before becoming Bender “the Criminal,” having a back and forth conversation with himself over Trigonometry versus Shop.
If you ask me, it’s fucking brilliant!
The entire auditorium is pin-drop silent for one hundred twenty seconds, clinging to CSG’s every word. Even I can’t take my eyes off him, the kid is sooo fucking cute! There’s no denying he’s got talent…He just better not get my part.
Obviously Dell thinks CSG’s done a good job, judging from the way he’s grinning like a Total Geek. “Take a look at the Scrooge/Cratchit scene, would you?”
All smiles, CSG steps down from the stage to receive the sides from our Sophomore Student Director, who he must know since they’re in the same class and all.
Again, I follow his every move.
Nice butt!
I hear him say, “Thanks, Miranda.”
That’s when I realize that SSD is Alyssa Resnick’s younger sister.
One time back when Jack and Alyssa were still going together, me and Luanne stopped by Alyssa’s house, to check up on them. The four of us were hanging out upstairs in Alyssa and Miranda’s bedroom, and I remember thinking how mature Miranda was—for an 8th grader. Did I mention she reminds me of Liza Minnelli?
“Next!”
Mr. Dell’Olio stands up to stretch, surveying the room for his next victim.
I call out, “That would be me,” before making my way down the aisle, and hopping up on stage. Boy, do I feel schlumpy in ripped jeans, my Cure concert T-shirt, and slip-on shoes sans socks!
Note to self: start taking these auditions more seriously.
“Find your light!”
From down below, Dell advises me this.
A few of the older Drama Queers chuckle at my expense. Somehow, I can’t help but think Audrey and Tuesday are out there instigating. Ignoring them, I move to my right, feeling the fresnels fall on my face. I take a deep breath, ready to introduce myself the (quote-unquote) professional way Dell recently taught us.
“Hello, my name is Bradley Dayton,” I begin, even though everybody already knows this. “My selection is from Tea and Sympathy by Robert Anderson, the character of Tom.”
Dell reacts with a quick nod of the head, rubbing his chin. “Excellent choice.”
After I finished working on my Brighton Beach scene with Rob Berger, Dell decided I should find a decent monologue. Not only for this audition, but to have in my back pocket once it comes time to head out into the Real World. He suggested I head downtown to the DPL and see what scripts they got there. He told me I should look for a role I could easily be cast in (age, type, etc.), and even suggested a few different titles.
The second I came across Tea and Sympathy, I knew I found the perfect fit.
Here’s a brief synopsis…
Tom Lee is a 17-year-old student at a boys’ prep school in the 1950s. But he’s having trouble fitting in with the other guys. They all like sports, talking about girls, and listening to “pop” music. Tom prefers classical, he likes to read, he enjoys theater. In general, he seems more comfortable in the company of women…Sounds perfect for me!
Of course, all the other guys tease him about liking these things. They call him “Sister Boy,” and even Tom’s father treats him like a jerk. His jock roommate, Al, is the only one at school who’s ever nice to him. Al tells Tom that just because he’s different, it doesn’t make him a homo.
Enter Laura Reynolds, the sexy young wife of the House Master. It seems that Tom reminds Laura of her first husband, killed in World War II—and possibly also a homo. So she befriends the boy, and eventually falls in love with him…I won’t spoil the rest, but that’s the basic jist.
I don’t know if Dell meant to tell me something by suggesting I work on this play, but I’m totally grateful he did. I never connected to a piece more and felt like I was acting less in my life.
Once my two minutes are up, I tell everybody, “Thank you.”
“No, thank you,” Dell replies. “Another fine performance, Mr. Dayton.”
His trusty assisant, Miranda Resnick agrees. “Very nice.”
The way she smiles at me, I can tell she remembers who I am…I have to make sure I talk to her at some point and find out how Alyssa’s doing.
“Do me a favor, would you?” Dell says to me now. “Take a look at the Scrooge/Cratchit scene…I’ll pair you up with somebody in just a sec.”
I jump down from the stage to accept the sides from Miranda.
Giddy, I tell her, “Good to see you,” partly because it’s true, and partly because I’m about to kick some Thespian butt.
“As they say in showbiz,” Dell calls out, “‘Time is money.’” Followed by, “Next!”
“Hold your horses!” I hear Audrey Wojczek howl just as I slip into the hall between the auditorium and Choir room to get a little privacy while I look over my lines.
After all of about five seconds, I hear somebody sneak up behind me.
“Hey.”
I’m about to turn around and say, Who the fuck do you think you are, interrupting an artist at work? Except as I do, I realize the voice belongs to none other than…Cute Sophomore Guy!
All I can manage to do is say, “Hey, yourself.” Then I just stand there with this totally dumb expression on my face. Same as I did the first time I seen him three days ago.
“Mr. Dell’Olio says he wants us to read together,” he informs me, holding up the Scrooge/Cratchit sides.
After we run thru the lines a couple times, Cute Sophomore Guy pays me a compliment. “Nice scene, Brad.”
Feeling like a dork, I say, “You, too.” Mouth agape, the mind boggles. “I’m sorry…What’s your name again?”
CSG regards me a moment. “You don’t remember me, do you?”
Talk about being totally put on the spot!
I nod like one of them old-fashioned bobblehead doll thingies. “From the other day in the Band room…Sure, I do.”
This guy is not about to let me off the hook. “I mean, from before.”
Before when?
I give him a hard look up and down, hoping I don’t get hard myself in doing so. “Um…” Again, blushing!
It looks like he’s about to say something, but hesitates. Then he replies, “You were my Band Aide.”
I stop to think, so hard I can almost smell wood burning. “At Webb?”
CSG smirks. “Unless you were a Band Aide someplace else.”
Okay, now he’s definitely flirting.
Why can’t I figure out who—?
I look at him again…This time directly in the eyes.
No fucking way!
“Richie Tyler?”
The faggy little 7th grader who played flute in Prep Band and carried his books lik
e a girl…He certainly isn’t little anymore.
“It’s Rich now,” he declares proudly, in a voice an octave lower than the one I remember.
Wait till Jack gets a load of this!
To make a long story short…
During Freshman year, both me and Jack served as Band Aides to Jessica Clark Putnam of “Friends hold you back” fame. We worshiped the ground she walked on since day one. To be bestowed with the honor of being at Mrs. Putnam’s beck and call, I can’t convey what that meant.
Jack lucked out and got 2nd hour Varsity Band. Me, I got stuck with 3rd hour Prep, which might as well have been remedial as far as talent is concerned, and is where faggy little Richie—I mean, Rich—Tyler played flute, and afterwards would carry his books like a girl. You know, clutched tight against his chest, as if some bully was gonna come by and snatch them away.
Well, I don’t know how it all started, but soon after the school year began, me and Jack decided to make him our whipping boy for the next nine months. I mean, it’s not like we were ever mean to him. We never actually said anything bad about him to his face. Both our moms taught us better than that.
I just think for once in our lives, it felt nice to see somebody running around who was faggier than we were, you know what I mean? I don’t even know if Rich knows what went on or how, whenever me and Jack used to mention him in a letter, we’d write his name all cursive-y with little hearts and flowers and rainbows all around it…I’d feel like a Total Asshole if he did!
“Nice seeing you again,” I say, friendly as can be.
And judging from the feeling down yonder in my nether regions…
I mean it.
I Hate Myself for Loving You
“Daylight, spent the night without you
But I’ve been dreamin’ ’bout the lovin’ you do…”
—Joan Jett & the Blackhearts
“There are no small parts, only small actors.”
Wanna know what bugs the shit outta me?
When somebody tells me something they think will make me feel better.
Case in point…
The morning after auditions, Mr. Dell’Olio posts the following list on the door outside the auditorium.
Drama Queers! Page 12