I won a prize? I can’t believe it! I can hear JoJo yelling for me from somewhere in the back of the room, and all my friends on the team are cheering like crazy. This is so cool—I’ve never won anything before! Well, except an Etch-A-Sketch at my cousin’s birthday party when I was six. Which hardly counts, especially since I forgot it on the table when we left. I’m still pissed about that, actually.
I float up to the podium, where Julie’s face looks like an angry thundercloud of doom. I grin at her; I can’t help it. She hands me a piece of paper that looks like a diploma with a big gold sticker on it, then gives me the least genuine hug I’ve ever received, which makes me smile even bigger. This must be killing her!
“Just so you know, this award is total BS,” she sneers into my ear. “And nice tooth, by the way.”
Crap! I forgot all about the tooth!
She pulls away, giving me a super-fake smile. I keep my lips glued together as I head back to my seat. No one could’ve seen the tooth from all the way up on stage, I’m sure.
My mother picks me up at lunch to take me to the dentist. I can’t believe I made it without a single person (Julie doesn’t count, because she is inhuman) finding out about my tooth. My lips hurt from all the clamping, but it’s worth it.
The second I get in the car, it starts: the same conversation we’ve been having every moment since I came home from JoJo’s. “You know, I just loved old-fashioned root beer as a kid. We lived right near a factory that made the bottles—probably the same kind you guys had the other night—and they used to get all kinds of tourists who’d visit to see how the bottles were made—.”
“Mom, I thought you grew up in Queens.”
“And your grandma Gertie loved root beer … maybe we should pick up a case on the way back from the dentist. Did you know root beer was originally made from sassafras?”
At the dentist, Dr. York sort of glops some stuff on my tooth and then shines a UV light on it while I sit there in a lead bib and crazy mouth holder-opener. When it’s sufficiently UVed, he starts filing away at it, which is the worst noise ever and totally freaks me out. I think, What if I grind my teeth at night or something? Is the whole thing going to fall off again? I’m about to ask Dr. York, but he dashes off to see another patient and my mom is tapping her watch at me in the doorway to the exam room.
I’m afraid that my days of fearlessly enjoying Laffy Taffy are over. But at least I look normal.
On the ride back to school, my mom starts in about the damned root beer again, so I cut her off by telling her about my surprise win at the sports assembly. But that only distracts her from the history of root beer for a few minutes, so in a last-ditch effort I bring up auditioning for Fiddler on the Roof.
BINGO. That jump-starts a thrilling discussion of my mother’s college drama experience, which consisted of being in some play with a guy who later was on some sitcom I never heard of. Apparently, this makes her practically famous.
“Are you doing a monologue for your audition, Kels?” she asks. “A classical monologue? Or a modern piece—something by Edward Albee, maybe? It’s so exciting that you’re interested in the arts. I’m glad you’re finally taking after me!”
Then she starts performing a scene from her college tour de force in an insane Southern accent. I’m just about to strangle myself with my seat belt when we pull up in front of school. I haven’t been this excited to be here since the first day.
“Thanks, Mom! Great talk. Nice acting. See ya.” I start getting my stuff together to make a fast break for it, but she seizes the strap of my bag.
“Hold it, Kelsey,” she says. “Now you listen up—no more stupidity. I know you think it’s okay to act out and be Typically Adolescent, drinking till you’re sick and who-knows-what-all, but know this: I won’t bail you out if you get arrested. Do you understand me? You’ll just have to spend the night in jail. You get one pass on this kind of behavior, and you used it up on Friday. Are we clear?”
So it seems she was onto me all along. Couldn’t she have just said that instead of torturing me with root beer trivia? I’m all, “Gee, Mom, I’ll try really hard not to join a gang and murder anyone so you don’t have to deal with it. Yeah, so, that’s the bell—gotta go.” I grab my bag and run for my life.
Mothers. Le sigh, l’exhaustion.
I’m halfway to my history class, digging through my bag for a LUNA bar, which I’m planning to try to eat with the left side of my mouth only, when I almost run smack into the snarky guy from the newspaper office.
Okay. He’s exactly as cute as I remember, and probably just as aggravating. Please, God, don’t let my new tooth fall off while I’m talking to this guy.
“Hey, it’s The Reflector’s angriest subscriber,” he says, grinning in his maddening way. “Kelsey, right?”
I scowl at him. “I’m not a subscriber, I’m a victim of circumstance. And I’m not angry, I’m—”
“Ecstatic to be part of the periodical landscape?”
“Oh, yeah, well,” I reply. Oh, good, Kelsey, that’s a terrific comeback. Well, less talking is better—don’t want to disturb the tooth. “I’d rather just view the, uh, landscape from, uh—what are you talking about?”
He laughs, his dark eyes squinting almost closed. “I’m just playing with you, chill. Hey, how’s your friend? She get an assignment yet?”
“You mean Lexi?” He remembered my name but not hers? “Yeah, I think she’s working on an article or something.”
“Good. And, hey, congrats on the award this morning. Nice job.”
“Oh. Well, thanks. It was a big surprise, let me tell you.”
“You looked pretty psyched about it.”
He stares at me. I stare at him. I should say something now. Um. “So, did you tell your editor about the picture thing?”
Oh, perfect. Get back to being the angry girl.
“Yeah, don’t worry; I mentioned it to Kate. She felt bad about it, so it’s a good thing you stopped in. I was glad you did, anyway.”
You were? “Oh, were you?”
“Yeah, it can get pretty boring working during lunch hour. Not every day an outraged young lady barges in and threatens the life of a staff member, you know?”
“Oh. Well, right. So … thanks? I mean, you’re welcome? I mean, uh—”
“Hey, dude, you coming or what?” A voice shouts from down the hall. I see a trio of older guys I don’t know heading toward us.
“Nice, man—taking time out for the laaaaadies.” A second guy smirks, giving me a lame once-over. “Speaking of which, Val’s looking for you. As usual.” The other two laugh, at what I don’t know, and then all four erupt in some standard arm-punching and pseudo-wrestling. I decide to get out of the way before I lose another tooth.
I sneak a peek behind me as I walk away. Newspaper Guy is looking right at me. Dammit! Now I feel even more like a tool. He lifts his eyebrows at me mischievously, then smoothly turns and heads off with his friends.
Hot or not, that guy thinks he is way too awesome.
I definitely shouldn’t have turned around.
24
Audition day for Fiddler arrives before I have time to blink, but since I spent two whole hours last night practicing the song from Wicked in front of my bathroom mirror (when not procrastinating by reenacting the run-in with the newspaper guy, only with me sounding less like a dolt), I feel pretty confident about the whole audition business. I also decided it would actually be best not to listen to the original version of the song or look it up on YouTube, so I wouldn’t be influenced by anyone else’s dramatic choices.
The school day finally grinds to a halt and I head to the drama building with Em. It seems that Cassidy auditioned at lunch because she had a voice lesson right after school, and afterward she loudly proclaimed in history class that she definitely will be getting a lead role in the show. Well, we’ll just see about that, Ms. Freshman Theater Wannabe.
Em and I sit down in the hall outside the theater to wait for our t
urns; she closes her eyes and I can see her lips moving as she mentally rehearses her song. I sort of pretend to do math homework while going over my song in my head at the same time, which I think makes me look less nervous. But after seeing how nervous everyone else is, it’s suddenly occurred to me that this play audition thing might be the worst idea I’ve ever had in my life and I should definitely head home immediately. What was I thinking? Maybe I’ll go over to the Reflector office and offer to organize their photo database. Or start a Save the Manatees Club. Anything, really, but stand up alone on a stage and sing in front of people.
Mr. Zinner comes out and calls Em’s name. I squeeze her hand and she goes into the theater. Now it’s just me and a bunch of people I don’t know. Waiting. I’m just about to start hyperventilating when JoJo comes dashing down the hallway.
“JoJo, what are you doing here?” I slide over so she can sit down next to me.
“I decided to audition after all. Why not?”
“What? I just saw you last period and you didn’t say anything! When did you decide, like five minutes ago?”
“Yeah,” she says, grinning. JoJo Andover strikes again. “What did you decide to sing?”
“This song called ‘Defying Gravity,’” I tell her. “It’s from—”
“From Wicked?”
“Yes! Why, have you seen it?”
“Yeah, my mom knows the makeup designer or someone and we got house seats. But Kels, did you listen to the album or anything? That’s a really hard song.”
I sigh. “JoJo, I played it about a million times on the piano. It’s not really that hard.”
She looks at me like, Okay, it’s your funeral.
“Maybe I’m just very musical. Has that ever occurred to you?”
“Well, at least your tooth looks normal again. So that’s good, right?” I thwack her on the arm. “Sorry! You’ll be great. I have total faith in your amazing musicality!”
Em comes out and Mr. Zinner calls for JoJo to go in. “How was it?” I ask Em.
“Not so bad, actually. You know, you just stand on the stage and sing and they say thanks and that’s it. No big deal, really.”
But a few minutes later, JoJo comes out, shaky, pale, and looking like she’s about to vomit. And before I have a chance to ask how it went, I am summoned.
I walk to the piano and hand over my music, then climb up onstage. I try to pretend that this is actually a reality show that I’m watching instead of the most terrifying moment of my life. It helps a tiny bit.
Mr. Mackler, the music teacher, kind of gives me a funny look when he sees my song selection, which is annoying, but whatever. Does no one have faith in me? Geez.
He starts to play the introduction. I have to say, the song sounds a lot more complicated with all those extra notes in there. I feel this huge gush of nerves in my stomach, and I realize I’m not entirely sure where to look while I’m singing. At Mr. Zinner’s combover? At the empty chairs out in the audience? Do I pretend I’m talking to someone on the stage?
Then it’s my cue … I come in for my first note, but for some reason the guy’s playing it, like, an entire octave up from where it belongs. I stick to the way I’d practiced it—nice and low. I keep going, throwing in some arm movements for good measure (and distraction?), but I’m thinking, Is it possible I practiced this an octave below where it should be? No. That’s ridiculous. Right? I soldier on. Hmmm. The end sounds like it should be much bigger than I thought with Mr. Mackler playing the piano all high and swirly like that with big chords and arpeggios and things. Ugh, just let me out of here already!
Finally, it’s over; Mr. Zinner and the others sort of look at one another and then at me. Are they smiling? Is that an at-me or a with-me smile? Not sure. I quickly mumble thanks and bust out of there. And just like that, my first theatrical audition is over.
Em is waiting outside. “How’d it go?”
I grimace. “Not sure. I think I might have stunk, actually.”
“Oh, come on—I’m sure you were awesome! You think we might both get cast?”
“I dunno,” I reply. “I guess we’ll find out soon enough, though. Hey, where’d JoJo go?”
“Bathroom. She thought she was going to puke and didn’t want an audience.”
“Em, I seriously don’t think I’ve ever seen JoJo nervous before!” I shove the Wicked score into my backpack.
“I know. So, should we check on her?”
“Well, I have seen JoJo mad. So, no—definitely not. Better to call her later.”
Em laughs, linking her arm through mine, and we head for the subway station.
When I get home, I go onto YouTube immediately. There are about a thousand entries for this song, with a whole bunch of different actresses singing it. I click on one.
Gulp. Um, JoJo was right—the song is impossibly high and hard. No wonder Mr. Mackler looked at me funny! I sang the whole song an octave down from where it belongs—and maybe two octaves below at the end. Why didn’t he stop me? I am mortified. Mortified!
This revenge plan may not turn out as well as I had hoped.
25
A week goes by. Nothing. Evidently we are going to be kept in suspense about the cast list for approximately forever.
Every time I walk past the bulletin board between classes, I see Ned Garman frantically checking it. He and his drama groupies go racing up to the board like the Holy Grail is going to be thumbtacked there if they just keep looking every five seconds. I’m tempted to stick up a random piece of paper just to watch them hustle over to read it.
But I have to admit—I’m curious, too.
On Friday, as we walk to second period together, Em and I brainstorm about what to do this weekend to take our minds off the cast list anxiety. We’re almost to our classroom when Cassidy comes dashing past us in tears, followed closely by Jordan Rothman. Everyone in the hall turns and stares at them, of course, and then the whispering starts. Not like there isn’t some kind of scene every day around this place, but it’s different when it’s someone you know.
Em and I look at each other—we know the cast list hasn’t gone up yet, so there’s only one other possibility. “You think he came clean about Lori?” she asks.
“Are you kidding? I bet she caught him red-handed! Or … lipped. Or whatever.”
“Poor Cass.” Em looks like she’s going to cry, too.
“Oh, sweetie. Are you … thinking about, you know, James?”
Well, that was definitely not the right thing to say. Em’s eyes fill up with tears.
“No. I mean … well, a little.” She sniffs, pulling herself together. “I just feel so bad for Cass. She’s so crazy about Jordan. We should probably go see if she’s okay, don’t you think?”
“You go. She’ll just think I’m there to say ‘I told you so,’ and anyway … she hasn’t exactly earned my sympathy the last couple of months.”
“Yeah, I know. But maybe now you guys can patch—”
“One thing at a time, Ms. Peacemaker. Go forth and bring cheer to the wounded. But do feel free to mention that I did actually tell her so … you know, if it comes up.”
Em gives me a disapproving look and heads after Cassidy.
The hours drag by … Econ, pointless … Math class, boring … lunch, disgusting … English, endless … and then! At the very end of the day, there’s something on the bulletin board!
The entire free world crowds around the new and official-looking piece of paper attached by assorted thumbtacks. Even if I don’t get cast, I think, I will be happy for Em and JoJo if they do. I will be supportive. Or at least I will fake it to the best of my ability.
Em wriggles up to the front and gets a peek. She gives me a thumbs-up over her head. Seriously, again with the thumbs-up?! What does that even mean?
I spy Ned Garman leaning against a locker across the hall and feigning nonchalance, but he is definitely not that good an actor, because he looks over at the board every three seconds and is practically hyperventil
ating. Julie is with him; she seems to have forgotten about me lately and I don’t want to remind her that I exist. I duck behind a tall kid with a puffy coat to stay out of her line of vision.
Two sophomore drama girls break away from the crowd and come screeching over to Ned and Julie. Apparently his brilliance is unwavering: Ned’s been cast in the starring role of Tevye the Milkman.
I see Cassidy, who seems to have recovered from the Jordan-related events of this morning, push up to the front. She takes a good, long look at the list and storms away from the board, looking pissed off. This is clearly not her day. Sweet. Um, I mean, Oh. That’s too bad.
Finally, I can’t take the suspense for another second. I push my way up to the board and look at the bottom of the list first, where the chorus members are listed—there’s Em and Cassidy. My name isn’t there. I feel a tug of despair in the pit of my stomach, but I try to ignore it.
Then I look up at the main list. JoJo is the fourth name on there, as Hodel. That’s the daughter with her own song—a major part. Wow! And … Oh my God. My name is on there, too, and it’s near the top!
I actually got a part!
Okay, okay … so, who am I? I look on the character name side … in the row with Kelsey Finkelstein, it says Lazar Wolf.
What the heck is a Lazar Wolf? Am I playing a wolf? Is that a Native American name? I don’t remember any Native Americans in the movie version of this show at all.
I’m about to call JoJo to congratulate her—and ask her if she has any clue what my part is—when Julie Nelson, with Ned in tow, looms up in front of me like the terrifying gorgon that she is.
“Oooh, Kelsey,” she croons. “Looks like you have a play now, too, not just a soccer team. Isn’t that great, Nedward? You can be in Kelsey’s play!”
Thank you, Julie. Thanks so much.
I smile weakly at Julie and say congrats to Ned (who is still trying to look world-weary but obviously can’t wait to go squealing through the streets with the news of his greatness), then I look at my phone and pretend to be composing a very important text message in the hopes that Julie will go away.
Freshman Year & Other Unnatural Disasters Page 12