The Fall Musical

by Peter Lerangis

  “I’m not feeling it,” Corbin fumed. “I’m supposed to be funny, but I’m not funny. Can I use an accent?”

  Sitting in the fifth row next to Casey, Brianna massaged her forehead.

  “Should you give him direction?” Casey asked.

  “I will,” Brianna said. “After Mr. Levin gets through with him.”

  She missed acting. When you were onstage, you could ignore other people’s neuroses. When you were a director, they were rubbed in your face.

  From the row behind them, Dashiell leaned forward. He had been hanging around Brianna all day, promising to give her something but never doing it or even saying what it was. Then again, Dashiell was the last of the absentminded geniuses. “Interesting,” he remarked. “I guess you can’t always predict which of the cast members will emerge as the diva.”

  “They usually emerge after the first rehearsal,” Brianna said, “not during.”

  The other actors were gathered in a circle at center stage, standing around Reese, who was wearing a bright blue French-cut leotard and trying to demonstrate a dance move. She strutted across the stage, took Corbin by his shirt collar, and dragged him into the circle. “Corbin, we just had a read-through. We’re not running lines right now. We are dancing. Exploring our psychedelic inner seventies flower children! Now, loosen up. Hippify yourself!”

  Brianna watched in disbelief as the actors began jumping around the stage with huge smiles, arms flailing, eyes wide.

  “ ‘Hippify’?” Casey said.

  “Reese’s concept for the show is ‘Hippie Potfest meets Medieval Morality Play,’ ” Brianna said. “She picked up that last phrase on Google. She’s trying to impress Harrison.”

  “I see,” Casey said. “Well, they look . . . energetic.”

  “They look like they just escaped from the loony bin,” Brianna added.

  “Have you seen the movie? They looked the same way.” Dashiell shrugged. “It’s quite fun to watch. All the Afros flying around.”

  “So maybe our cast, their hair looks . . . I don’t know . . . too twenty-first century?” Casey said. “Maybe we could work on that, I think.”

  “What are you suggesting?” Brianna said. “Hair doesn’t grow that much in two months.”

  “Right. You’re right,” Casey said. “But there are wigs? You know, seventies-style wigs? We had a theatrical-wig store where I used to live. I’m sure we could find one here . . . ”

  Brianna laughed, picturing Harrison with an Afro. “Might work. I like it. And yeah, there is a shop in Ridgeport on Sunrise Highway. It’s called Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow. I don’t know the phone number.”

  “Brianna, that’s an excellent idea!” Dashiell exclaimed. “You’re a certified genius.”

  “It was Casey’s idea,” Brianna said.

  “I’ll call.” Casey scribbled something on a sheet of paper. “Oh—Dashiell! The school has Wi-Fi, right? What if you rigged the new lighting computer to it? If I keep a laptop backstage, we could network them and both work the cues.”

  Dashiell nodded. “Depends on the software. I’ll check.”

  “Great.” Casey stood up, pulled a cell phone out of her pocket, and made her way across the seats toward the aisle. “Ridgeport, please. The number for Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow . . .”

  “She is the bomb,” Dashiell said, but his approving grin quickly vanished. “I mean, after you. You have, um, the greater bombness.” He edged toward the aisle. “I’ll . . . go check the software now . . . ”

  Brianna watched him go. Lately, Dashiell had been acting like this a lot. Maybe he was crushing on Casey. . . .

  Casey was impressing everyone. She was sharp. She had spine behind that timid exterior. Mr. Levin was beaming. Charles was in raptures. She even forced Dashiell into grammar hell.

  Could this possibly be the same person? Casey obviously had had some leadership experience somewhere. But Brianna didn’t ever remember her talking about it. Which was weird. Wouldn’t it be one of the first topics of conversation?

  “Peace and love!” came Kyle’s voice from the stage. “Make love, not war!”

  “Kyle, put me down!”

  Brianna looked up. Kyle had lifted Lori high over his head and was trying to get her to sit on his shoulders. Brianna fought back the pit-of-the-stomach feeling that said, That could have been me.

  Lori, however, looked scared.

  “Cut!” Reese called out. “Stop!”

  “Let her down, Kyle,” Mr. Levin called out, standing at the lip of the stage. “Look, guys, this play is not just goofy movement, dumb jokes, and nice songs. It’s not That ’70s Show. It means something.”

  “Godspell means Gospel,” Lori volunteered. “Good news.”

  “We’re supposed to be like a band of brothers and sisters,” Becky spoke up. “Sharing stuff.”

  “Stuff?” Mr. Levin said. “What stuff?”

  “Love . . . ” Jamil mumbled. “Faith?”

  “Yes!” Mr. Levin replied, leaping onstage. “Also truth and fun and uncorrupted youth—all those things in the middle of a loveless world. The first part of the play is triumphant. Innocent. Trusting. Joyous.”

  “Woo-hoooo!” Kyle shouted, kicking his good leg into the air. “Dudes. God save the people . . . et cetera!”

  “As Jesus, you enter in the middle of the first number, Kyle,” Mr. Levin said. “And you enter as a child. A representation of purity and goodness. Until your baptism, you are shirtless and shoeless.”

  “Shirtless?” Kyle said, dropping to the floor and doing push-ups. “Gotta work on my pecs. One . . . two . . . three . . . ”

  Reese began fanning herself. “I think I’m going to have a stroke.”

  “Kyle, please . . . ” Mr. Levin said. “Pay attention.”

  Charles noticed he wasn’t sneezing anymore. That was a good sign. It meant the paint in the costume/prop room was finally dry. Not that you could even see the paint job. The shelves were crammed full, and the remaining wall space was covered by file cabinets, stacked boxes, and racks. Even the revered poster of the Ridgeport High production of Into the Woods autographed by Stephen Sondheim (comment: “One of the best productions I have seen. Period.”) was temporarily put into storage. It had all happened so fast—Mr. Ippolito had had the room replastered and painted over the weekend, and Casey and the Charlettes had stacked everything before homeroom and during lunch and study halls today, Monday.

  Charles went back to his task, typing labels into the database on his laptop. Casey had bought adhesive labels, and as soon as he printed them out, every single item would be labeled, categorized, inventoried. Charles was sure that Ridgeport’s props had never come close to being this organized.

  Casey was awesome, and he worshipped her.

  Vijay stuck his head in from the hallway. “The goddess has arrived.”

  As Casey walked in, Charles grabbed a rubber chicken from the shelf and fell to his knees. “O Savior of the Stage, we give this offering in gratitude and awe.”

  “Stop,” Casey said, turning deep red. “Um, I just wanted to ask, can we make some extra space? We’re getting wigs. Like Victor Garber’s Afro in the movie? Very seventies. The wig shop is giving us two of them, three sets of pigtails, and a ponytail. They wanted to charge, but I offered them a full-page ad in the program instead. I hope that’s okay?”

  “Casey, you are the boss—of course it’s okay! You go, girl!” Charles said. “How’s the rehearsal going?”

  Casey sat. “Well, I don’t like to talk behind people’s backs . . . ”

  “Darlin’, backstage is made for gossip,” Charles replied. “Either you start now or I will have to train you.”

  “Okay. Um, well . . . ” Casey furrowed her brow thoughtfully, as if in the middle of an exam. “Kyle’s doing push-ups. Corbin seems troubled. Reese’s clothes are falling off. Ethan seems to be in slow motion. And Harrison’s on the verge of a heart attack.”

  “Ha! You’re good at this!” Charles cried out, clappi
ng his hands. “Okay, these are good signs. They mean the show will be fantastic. Bad rehearsal, great show—the old saying. But no matter what, remember, the Charlettes will make sure it all looks fabulous.”

  Casey glanced at a sheet of paper on the table, where Charles had drawn a sketch of the Jesus character, dressed in a Superman T-shirt and bound by red ribbons to a chain-link fence. “What’s this?” Casey asked.

  “The crucifixion scene,” Charles replied. “Jesus on the fence. I’m thinking lots of red, flowing ribbons, bright and symbolic without being gory . . . ”

  “Do we have a fence?”

  “The Charlettes will paint a backdrop.”

  Casey thought a moment then smiled. “I have an idea. Can I show you?”

  “I am your acolyte,” Charles said.

  She stood and led Charles into the hallway. They hurried down a corridor to the school’s rear exit, which led outside to a dark, fenced-in area where the trash was stored in three large Dumpsters. Construction debris was piled against the wall, casting ominous shadows.

  “If you want to make out with me, Casey,” Charles said, “I can think of a few sexier spots. Like behind the steam tables in the cafeteria.”

  Casey blushed. Turning away from him, she leaned over a pile of bricks and rattled a chain-link fence. It was enormous, at least ten feet high. “I was thinking . . . maybe this is a dumb idea . . . do you think we can get this into the wings?”

  Charles glanced from the fence to the small school entrance door. “Uh . . . no, it’s not a dumb idea. In fact, I thought of it myself. I even talked to Mr. Ippolito about it, but he didn’t like the idea. And I think he was right. I took a closer look and I was like, ‘Gah, what are you thinking?’ (A) It’s filthy and rusty, and (B) it would stain the costumes, and (C) I doubt the school has insurance against gangrene, and (D) it would never fit through the door, and (F) it weighs a ton.”

  “You skipped E.”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “Look, we could clean off the rust,” Casey said. “There are products for that. And it would look perfect . . . . ”

  “You want to try Mr. Ippolito again? Be my guest. But take some NoDoz before you go. Unless you’re dying to hear about his experience as the Tree in The Wizard of Oz in 1492. Look, doll, the Charlettes have great artistic abilities. At least I hope they do.”

  “They do,” Casey agreed. “But the fence would be more realistic.”

  “No offense—ha, that’s a pun—but don’t get grandiose. It can backfire on you. Personally, I like that in a girl. You remind me of me, which is one of the reasons I see Dr. Fink. He specializes in grandiose teenagers. Now I have to get back. You do what you need to do.”

  “Okay,” Casey said, a little baffled. Sometimes she wasn’t sure what Charles was talking about. “See you in the auditorium.”

  Mr. Ippolito, the janitor, leaned back, putting his feet on the cracked Formica desk. “Yeah, Chasey, you’re gonna love it here.”

  “Casey,” Casey said gently.

  “I used to be an actor in this high school, too, y’know. Yep.” He leaned forward meaningfully, as if to give his words proper weight. “I played the role of Cord Elam. In Oklahoma! I owned Cord Elam. You know the role?”

  Casey nodded. She’d never heard of it. “That’s so great. So you really understand us. The custodian in my old school? He wouldn’t let us use a stepladder in Carousel—”

  Mr. Ippolito sat bolt upright. “For the Starkeeper? You gotta have a ladder for that scene.”

  “He banned plastic retractable knives for West Side Story.”

  “Awww, no!” Mr. Ippolito groaned. “What’d he expect the actors to do, slap each other to death?”

  “I’m glad we didn’t do Godspell there . . . ” Casey’s heart was fluttering so hard, she was sure he could tell. She wasn’t used to doing this kind of thing, but gentle prodding was not nearly as bad as lying, and she had been doing a lot of that lately. If she could get Mr. Ippolito invested in the idea of the best possible play . . . “He would never have let us build realistic scenes. Like in the crucifixion . . . ”

  “That’s a great scene! The movie, with the cop cars in the background, Judas selling him out . . . ”

  Casey swallowed hard. “I know Charles has already asked you about the fence outside?”

  “In the back? Yeah, but he didn’t mention what it was for.”

  “It’s an amazing scene . . . ”

  “Very dramatic,” Mr. Ippolito said, tapping his fingers on the desk. “The climax, if you will.”

  “I think if we fixed it up a bit, got rid of the rust . . . ”

  Mr. Ippolito sat back, mulling it over. For a long time he didn’t say a word. “I wanted them to use a real surrey in Oklahoma!, and a real horse. I knew where to get them. A real show horse, one that wouldn’t mess up the stage or freak out. But they wouldn’t let me do it. They used that stupid cardboard . . . ”

  His voice trailed off, and he suddenly sat forward. “You know something, Kathy? I’m going to go to bat for you on this one. Let me take a look at it and figure out the best strategy . . . ”

  He leaped from his chair and opened the door for Casey.

  As she walked out, she spotted Charles. He had been standing just outside the door, and he must have been listening in, because his face showed utter disbelief.

  10

  From:

  To:

  Subject: lost in ny???

  September 21, 6:32 P.M.

  Stavros,

  When are you gonna be back on the buddy list? Are you getting these e-mails? Let me hear from you. How’s the new apartment? Papou and Yiayia can’t wrap their minds around the fact that you moved from Long Island to “Brooklee.” They think all moves are supposed to happen the other way around. I think they feel sorry for you.

  Oh, guess what? I am playing Judas in Godspell. It’s the lead. He doubles with John the Baptist. The alpha and the omega. I love playing bad guys, mwah-ha-ha. It’s a much better role than Jesus.

  I’ll send jpegs.

  H

  “Hold it right there!” Ms. Gunderson said. “Kyle, you have to sing while you do the soft-shoe. You can’t let Harrison do it all. This is a huge number, a showstopper.”

  Kyle grimaced as he set down his rolled-up umbrella. He and Harrison were supposed to be using canes, but the canes hadn’t arrived yet from the supplier. “Yeah. Sorry. It’s the ankle.”

  “Are you going to be okay?” Reese the Patient Choreographer asked. “Because we can change the number and make it easier.”

  “Nah, I’ll get it,” Kyle replied. “I’m a football guy. Football is all about managing pain.”

  “And knowing left from right,” Harrison added.

  Kyle grinned. “Dude.”

  “Okay, then,” Reese said, “now remember, swing the cane to the right first, then move your left leg. If you get it wrong, you will kick Harrison and knock him off the platform. And we don’t want to see either of you guys injured and bedridden. Well, injured.”

  Backstage, Casey drummed her fingers on the wooden surface of the school lectern, where her laptop was set up. She fiddled with her IM settings, hoping Dashiell had finally figured out how to get his lighting-board computer onto the wireless network.

  She loved watching the rehearsal from the wings. The best part was seeing Kyle sing. From the side, you didn’t have to worry about his noticing you watch him.

  “ ‘All for the Best,’ from the top,” Ms. Gunderson said. “One, two, three, four . . . ”

  Harrison and Kyle jumped into place on a narrow platform. They grabbed top hats like two vaudeville performers. Two rolled-up umbrellas materialized out of nowhere. Casey grinned.

  “Now . . . kickline!” Reese cried out.

  Harrison lifted his hat and kicked sharply, crisply to the right.

  Kyle kicked to the left.

  “Yeoowww!” Harrison f
ell to the stage, clutching his ankle.

  “Crap!” Kyle said, throwing his hat to the floor in frustration. “Sorry about that.”

  “No problem, I have another one,” Harrison said bravely.

  “Break!” Ms. Gunderson called out. “Kyle, may I work with you alone, please?”

  As the actors headed offstage, Harrison struggled to his feet, gave Kyle a supportive thumbs-up, and fell in step with Ethan. “Let us gather like sheep, not goats, fellow traveler!” he said, clapping his arm wearily around Ethan’s shoulder.

  “Will you knock it off?” Ethan said.

  Harrison was the kind of actor who liked to stay in character offstage. He also liked to give advice. Casey had seen him teaching Kyle to make gorilla noises and walk with his arms scraping the floor, insisting that this would help his acting skills. Casey wasn’t sure it really helped.

  Now he was talking to Ethan. For all four days of rehearsal, Ethan had been lifeless, mumbling his line readings and songs. The two guys were speaking softly, until finally Ethan exploded: “Um, wait. Are you the student director? Huh? Are you? Levin and Brianna both know what I’m doing.” With that, he turned and walked offstage.

  Brianna, noticing the commotion, had come backstage. She, Reese, and Harrison all converged at Casey’s station. “Hey, student director, can we replace that jerk?” Harrison said to Brianna.

  Reese nodded. “I agree. You know what he tells me? He’s ‘marking.’ He says a good actor doesn’t go all out at the beginning. That’s ‘unprofessional.’ You have to rein it in. Explore the inner life of the character slowly . . . ”

  “Slowly? He’s comatose!” Harrison said.

  “Harrison,” Brianna said patiently, “you know you’re not allowed to direct and act in the same play. Don’t worry. We’re on him. We’ll talk to him again.”

  They all turned to the stage as Kyle began singing “God Save the People,” and hitting a few clams until Ms. Gunderson stopped him. “Sweetie, your sound is amazing,” she said. “Just one teeny thing—the high note is an E-flat, remember? You’re singing the wrong note on the word save.”