by E. Lockhart
“That’s a joke, right?” he said, pointing to my T-shirt.
“Natural blonde?”
“You’re not really.”
I shook my head.
James smiled. “I thought maybe you dyed it or something.”
“No. I’m as brunette as they come.”
“I saw you dancing inside.”
“I’m Sadye—roommates with Iz. She said you were Kenickie last year.”
He nodded. “They called me Greased Lightnin’ all summer.”
“I don’t think that’s so bad.”
“Not as bad as the guy they called Jesus.”
“From Godspell ?”
“No, that was the year before. Jesus Christ Superstar. He got into the part a little too much, know what I mean?”
“I can guess.”
There was a lull in the conversation.
“Where are you from?” I finally asked.
“Somewhere I’d rather not go back to,” he said.
“I know what you mean,” I answered. “I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours and I feel like I’d die if I had to go back.”
James chuckled. “There’s not a lot of places like Wildewood.”
“There’s New York City,” I said optimistically. “There’s Broadway.”
He looked at me, up and down. Like he was deciding whether I was attractive or not. And then he pounced. “Do you want to dance?”
“I always want to dance,” I said.
And so we did, until the lights came up and one of the teachers barked that there were only five minutes until curfew.
THE NEXT morning was the Meat Market—otherwise known as Summer Institute Preliminary Monologues and Songs, otherwise known as auditions. They took place in the Kaufman Theater, and Nanette, Demi, and I got there early. We were each given a large paper number and a pin so we could attach it to our shirts. Farrell, Demi’s hall counselor and a voice major at Carnegie Mellon, stood by the door with a clipboard and made sure that our names and numbers matched up properly. “Keep your number through tomorrow!” he barked loudly. “You’re going to need it! Don’t throw it away or you’ll have to have a makeshift one and everyone will know you lost it!”
When we had all assembled, Tamar taught the whole school an easy jazz combo, and then had us come up in groups of twenty to perform it four times, each time sending the front line to the back so new people could step up. Nanette was number fourteen, Demi was fifteen, and I was sixteen—so we were in the first group.
Nanette was good. I couldn’t see her much out of the corner of my eye, but I could tell she had years of lessons behind her.
Demi was his usual ridiculous self, sticking his butt out and wiggling it like a lunatic when he messed up the steps.
I nailed it—if I do say so myself. We took our seats again, flush with the thrill of dancing to Kander and Ebb (the song was “All That Jazz”) in front of more than a hundred people—and glad to have gone early because now we could watch the meat.
Blake from Boston was in the next group, and he looked ridiculous.
“Oh, I have to shut my eyes!” whispered Demi. “I’m losing all desire for that poor boy.”
“Maybe you should keep them open.” Lyle smirked, sitting a row behind us.
Demi covered his eyes with his hands but made a show of peeking through. “Oh, dear! Poor Blake. Maybe he can sing.”
“He doesn’t need to sing,” said Lyle. “He just needs to stand there and the part of Conrad Birdie will fall at his feet.” (Conrad Birdie is a slightly degenerate 1950s rock star—the title character in Bye Bye Birdie.)
“Why?” asked Demi.
“If he can’t sing, won’t they put him in the straight play?” I prodded, turning around to look at Lyle.
“They won’t want to waste those looks on Midsummer, that’s my prediction,” said Lyle. “Nobody really attractive gets shunted off to the straight play at Wildewood.”
“But why will he get Conrad?” I asked.
“Think it over,” said Lyle. “He can’t dance, so no Cats. The male leads in Little Shop are dorky or demented. In Show Boat it doesn’t matter if they’re cute or not, and that leaves Birdie. They need a guy a million teenage girls will wet their pants over. Singing is secondary.”
“Birdie has big numbers,” objected Nanette.
“Cute has power here,” explained Lyle. “Wildewood is not always a meritocracy. Very often, it’s a cute-ocracy. At least when it comes to the musicals.”
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry.” Lyle pointed at Demi. “You’ll do just fine.”
“Thanks a lot!” Nanette hit Lyle’s knee playfully.
“No offense,” returned Lyle. “You’re extremely cute, too. Demi can be the king, and you can be the queen of the cute-ocracy. And maybe the meritocracy, too—if what I hear about your voice is true.”
Nanette turned around in her seat, pleased.
Me, I knew better than to ask Lyle for a compliment. I’m a lot of things physically, and a lot of them are nice—but I am not cute.
“Now that he’s not dancing, he looks better,” whispered Demi, tilting his head toward Blake, who was back in his chair with his feet on the seat in front of him.
We watched dancers 41–60 go through the combination.
(click . . . buzz of people whispering, sound of piano in the background thumping out “All That Jazz” over and over)
Demi: (sotto voce) Ooh, you brought the minirecorder!
Sadye: (whispering) Micro.
Demi: Whatever. Okay, the date is June twenty-sixth, and we’re watching the dance combinations that go before preliminary monologues and songs.
Sadye: In other words, we’re at the Meat Market.
Demi: But I know what meat I want already. I want that Boston meat.
Sadye: Gross!
Demi: You’re right. That did sound gross.
Sadye: Don’t get distracted by meat. Tell posterity what is happening.
Demi: People are dancing onstage. Monsieur le petit Howard has decided not to sing “Manchester, England.”
Sadye: You what?
Demi: I brought extra sheet music, in case I needed to change.
Sadye: I would never have thought of that. What are you changing to?
Nanette: (leaning in to look at the microcassette recorder) Is that machine on? What are you doing?
Demi: We’re recording our experiences for posterity.
Sadye: In case we’re famous some day.
Demi: Because we’ll be famous some day.
Sadye: It’s like a document.
Demi: I’m a seat away from Nanette . . . Hey, what’s your last name?
Nanette: (no response, watching the dancers)
Sadye: Nanette, Demi wants to know, what’s your last name?
Nanette: Wypejewski, but I go by Watson. It’s easier to remember.
Demi: Maybe she should just be Nanette, with no last name.
Sadye: That’s a bit much, don’t you think?
Demi: Anyway, Nanette Watson is here with us, and behind me is Lyle, former first mate of the Jolly Roger.
Sadye: (watching the dancers, too)
Even the best guys lose their appeal when you see them trying to dance. It’s skewing my Meat Market experience.
Nanette: You are so right. Is that your Theo guy?
Sadye: Number forty-three.
Nanette: So do you like him, or what?
Sadye: What do you think? Do you think he’s cute?
Demi: You asked me that yesterday.
Sadye: So?
Demi: He dances like a straight boy.
Sadye: That’s because he’s straight.
Demi: He doesn’t have to dance like it. There’s no call for that.
Sadye: But do you approve, is what I’m saying.
Demi: Miss Sadye, you act like personality isn’t important. You act like I’d judge a book by its cover!
Sadye: Yeah, yeah, yeah. What do you think o
f his cover, though?
Demi: His pants are too baggy. I can’t see his buns. Maybe he’s hiding something under there.
Sadye: Demi!
Demi: You asked!
Sadye: He’s not hiding anything, sheesh.
Demi: How do you know? He is most certainly keeping the shape of his buns a secret.
Sadye: He can play anything you want on the piano. Anything.
Demi: I’m reserving judgment until he wears some tighter pants.
Sadye: Shut up.
Demi: I can tell you like him. That was a test just now, to see if you got upset. If you got upset that meant you really liked him.
Sadye: Right.
Demi: You passed, by the way.
Sadye: I need a plan to make him notice me. It’s like he noticed me, noticed me again, and then un-noticed me.
Nanette: He un-noticed you?
Sadye: Exactly. Reverse noticing. Anti-noticing.
Nanette: So now you need him to re-notice you.
Sadye: Yeah.
Nanette: One thing I do when I’m auditioning is wear this long scarf, see? It helps give directors a way to remember me easily. The girl in the scarf, if they can’t remember my name.
Sadye: I’m not going to wear a scarf. It’s like eighty degrees out.
Nanette: It was an idea. Not a scarf. Something like a scarf.
Sadye: Whatever.
Nanette: Oh, there’s Kenickie. He’s a hetero boy.
Demi: Who’s Kenickie?
Sadye: Number sixty-one. His real name is James. I danced with him yesterday.
Demi: He dances like a Timberlake. That’s not theater dancing.
Nanette: He’s the one that likes mint chocolate chip.
Demi: What?
Sadye: You missed it. I’m mint chocolate chip ice cream. As opposed to Brenton-variety vanilla.
Demi: So he has a thing for you?
Nanette: Yes.
Sadye: No.
Demi: Which is it?
Sadye: Iz thinks I’m his type. And he asked me to dance.
Demi: Oooh! The Timberlakian.
Sadye: You’re going to turn me off him if you keep saying that.
Demi: Timberlakian, Timberlakian!
Sadye: Shut up!
Demi: He’s okay, but I thought you liked the one that hides his buns.
Nanette: Kenickie has nice buns, but he’s not my type.
Demi: What do you think, Sadye? Do you like the Timberlakian buns?
Sadye: At least he danced with me.
Nanette: Go where the bread is buttered, that’s what I say.
Sadye: No one said it was buttered, though.
Nanette: Iz thinks it is.
Demi: The Timberlakian is covered in butter, Sadye! And the bun-hiding guy--he’s like dry toast, that’s what he is.
Sadye: (sighing) Let’s return to our posterity agenda.
Demi: Fine, if we must.
Nanette: If we must.
Sadye: For the record, let it show that I am doing my anti-Kristinish “Popular” and Juliet, same as before. Nanette, what are you doing?
Nanette: “Tomorrow” from Annie. And The Bad Seed for the monologue.
Sadye: And Demi, what are you doing, if you’re not doing “Manchester”?
Demi: I think I have to shake it. So I don’t get stuck with “Ol’ Man River.”
Sadye: Shake what?
Demi: My booty.
Sadye: You are obsessed with buns today.
Demi: Not just today, darling.
Sadye: So what are you singing?
Demi: Wait and see.
Sadye: What?
Demi: That’s all I’m saying.
Sadye: If you’re not going to tell your audition piece to the microcassette, I’m turning it off.
Demi: Ooh, look at Iz. She can dance. Oh, and poor, poor Candie.
(silence, with only the sound of “All That Jazz” still coming from the piano) (shuffle, thump, click)
I NEVER GOT to hear whether Blake could sing. I never heard Theo or James, either. When the dance combinations were over, we broke for lunch and returned to see Reanne at the microphone.
“Here’s the drill,” she said, pushing a strand of gray-blond hair out of her face. “When your group of twenty is called, you’ll wait in line by the edge of the stage. On your turn, you come up, give your sheet music to Robert here, and say your name and number loudly. Then start with your monologue. That gives Robert a moment to prep. The monologue is to be two minutes long. When your time is up, you’ll hear me say ‘Thank you,’ even if you haven’t got to the end. Don’t be offended, it’s a matter of keeping us all on schedule. When he hears that ‘Thank you,’ Robert will play the intro to your song. Sixteen bars, and you’re done. Collect your sheet music and exit off stage left, and back to your seat. If you don’t have sheet music, sing a capella. That’s no problem. And no, you can’t go back to your dorm and get the music if you forgot it. Too chaotic. Okay, let’s go.”
Up we went, numbers one to twenty, and sat in the red-carpeted aisle, directly in front of a short flight of steps that led to the stage. My hands were sweaty and I looked over my music again, though there was really no point. I couldn’t read the notes.
The first few people up were unremarkable—nice, on-key voices, solid acting. But nothing special. Poor number five forgot his lines and made jokes. Six, seven, eight, nine, ten—all of them could sing, though nine had picked a song with a note she couldn’t reach. Eleven was unimpressive. Twelve cried during a monologue about a dead baby but then sang off-key (“Straight play!” whispered Nanette )—and then thirteen was Bec, the brunette with the turned-up nose who flirted with Theo. And she sang my song. “Popular.”
She was Kristinish in the extreme. Petite, soprano, a bright, clear voice. She hit every joke and every note.
I shook and looked down at my hands, trying to be calm, telling myself it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter.
“Just remember, you don’t have to be like all the others,” whispered Demi, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s not important what you sing. Because none of these girls is Sadye Paulson. Only you are her. She. Whatever. The point is, only you.”
I love Demi.
I took deep breaths, in and out.
Nanette (number fourteen) did her speech from The Bad Seed, in which she seemed like a truly evil little girl. Her acting style was broad—but she was well-rehearsed, loud as hell, and extremely confident onstage. Then she sang “Tomorrow”—and well, you already know she understudied that part in a national tour, so what else is there to say? Nanette got paid to sing onstage, and there was good reason for it.
I was so nervous I could barely breathe. I felt a cramp in my leg and stretched it out, grateful to be concentrating on something other than having to perform in front of all these people. When I looked up, Demi’s Top Dog/Underdog monologue was nearly done—he was sweaty and full of passion.
Then he sang.
A song I’d heard him sing a thousand times—on the street, on the bus, whenever he was feeling down— but not one I’d ever dreamed he’d sing for an audition.
Liza.
Demi Howard was singing a Liza Minnelli song— “Cabaret.” He’d had the pianist bring it down an octave, and he was belting it out like a total diva, singing how life is a cabaret, and you might as well live big. What good is sitting alone in your room? It’ll all be over soon enough. You’ll be dead eventually. We all will. So live wild and fast and hard while you can.
True, a few people tittered when they realized what he was singing—but they shut up when they saw how good he was.
So, so good.
It was supposed to be sixteen bars, but the pianist kept playing and Reanne didn’t cut him off. Demi sang all the way to the end, selling the song like his life depended on it—and when he was through, half the audience applauded, though we weren’t supposed to.
Demi jogged over to collect his music from Robert, and disappea
red back into the throng.
* * *
I WAS UP.
Juliet. I’d gotten into Wildewood with it. But that was in a small rehearsal room, in front of only four people. Very different from standing alone onstage in a four-hundred-seat theater.
Remember, I had no training at all. No technique as an actress. As I began the monologue—“O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?”—I could hear how thin and dry my voice sounded. I kept talking and tried to speak louder, but my throat felt closed, and then I thought, I shouldn’t be thinking about my throat and how loud I am, I should be thinking like Juliet.
I tried to remember how I wanted something—a good part, Theo for a boyfriend, a solo in a musical, a life away from Ohio—but instead of really wanting it, I was only thinking how I should want it now, and listening to how small my voice was, and wondering, suddenly, what to do with my hands.
I wasn’t Juliet. I wasn’t even Sadye speaking through Juliet.
I was just a person saying a collection of words as loud as I could in a memorized order. Words that had meant something emotional to millions of audience members over hundreds of years, but which meant nothing at all now. Because I made them mean nothing.
It was over before the two minute limit. I had timed it repeatedly at 1:45, so I knew I wouldn’t get interrupted.
The piano tinkled the opening notes of “Popular” and I struck the pose I’d planned to start with. I growled out the first few lines of the song—but it was like I could hear Kristin’s sunshine voice in my head, and beneath that, the soprano-voiced, piggy-nose Bec who’d gone before me—and I couldn’t hear myself.
Couldn’t hear how I should sing it, couldn’t find the notes.
I’d choreographed a dance, figuring to play again to my strengths, and had practiced it over and over in the mirror at home. But as I did it now, it felt mechanical. My movements didn’t come out of the music; I couldn’t feel the rhythm and let it push me along, the way any halfway decent dancer can.
The whole song was flat and awkward and plain bad. I could tell it was even as I was doing it, and that made it worse.
When Reanne finally said “Thank you,” I grabbed my music and ran off the stage, up the aisle, and out the door. We weren’t supposed to leave, but I didn’t care. I’d humiliated myself in front of all these people who would now know that I was an utter poser.