Dramarama

by E. Lockhart

  And at that moment, I hated her. She had everything I wanted.

  Everything.

  “Candie got Audrey in Little Shop,” I said quietly. And I hated myself as I said it, even though I knew Nanette would find out eventually, because she stopped dancing and the hardness came back into her face.

  I could see I’d taken away her moment of happiness. It was the part she had wanted.

  “Someone had to get it.” She shrugged.

  But she wasn’t that good of an actress.

  I gave her the rest of the rundown. Demi as the rock star in Bye Bye Birdie. Iz as the fiery Latin secretary who dreams of a split-level house and marriage. Blake was playing a boring part in Show Boat.

  Then I told her about Midsummer. “Lyle’s in it with me,” I said as cheerily as I could. “He’s playing Bottom, so it should be kinda fun.”

  But underneath I was in a downward spiral, thinking, Everyone who can dance at all is in Cats, except me.

  Am I not the dancer I thought I was?

  Is my singing so bad that they won’t even let me leap around in a stripy unitard because I’ll pull the whole chorus off-key?

  Why do they think I should play a man? I don’t look like a man.

  Do I?

  Do I?

  I shouldn’t be here. My name got mixed up with someone else’s, and some poor girl with loads of talent is sitting home somewhere in Ohio, rejected, when she should be here instead of me.

  “Earth to Sadye,” barked Nanette. “What about the ten-day wonder, sweet pea? Are we in it?”

  I was startled out of my misery. I didn’t know.

  How could I not know? How could I not have checked?

  “We have to go find out,” said Nanette. “Come on!”

  So back we went, and heard that Reanne hadn’t posted the ten-day wonder cast until eight thirty— explaining to the cluster of Wilders who stood around the bulletin board that Morales had left his final decisions until the morning, which is why it went up late.

  Nanette was the long-suffering cabaret performer, Miss Adelaide. Candie had the other female lead: Sarah, an upright mission worker who falls in love with a handsome rake of a gambler, Sky Masterson—to be played by Demi.

  Lyle was small-time thug Nicely-Nicely Johnson, and Blake played a police officer, Lieutenant Brannigan. Theo was Benny Southstreet, another gambler who opens the show singing a trio, “Fugue for Tinhorns.” James was Rusty Charlie.

  And there, down at the bottom under Dancing Hot Box Girls, was my name. Sadye Paulson.

  I was in.

  In the ten-day wonder. Directed by Jacob Morales, of the Broadway big time.

  And for that moment, though it was short-lived, I didn’t care if I didn’t have a speaking part, didn’t care if I wasn’t a lead, didn’t care. Because in was in was in was in.

  WILDEWOOD SUMMER INSTITUTE SCHEDULE

  Sadye Paulson

  8 a.m. Breakfast

  9 –10:30 MWF: Advanced Dance (Sutton)

  T/Th/Sat: Acting (Morales)

  10:45 –12 MWF: Pantomime (Ellerby)

  T/Th/Sat: Singing (De Witt)

  12 –1 Lunch

  1– 5 Afternoon Rehearsal

  5:15–6:30 MWF: Stage Combat (Smith)

  T/Th/Sat: Restoration Comedy (Kurtz)

  6:45 Dinner

  8:30–10:30 p.m. Evening Recreation/Evening Rehearsal

  11:30 p.m. Curfew

  I HAD MORALES for Acting, nine a.m.—but I was late. I had been looking forward to the class since I’d first seen my schedule, and was even more excited now that I knew I was in his show—but the lines at breakfast were long, because everyone had stayed outside waiting for the Guys and Dolls list to go up. We only had twenty minutes to get food and eat, and I knew I wouldn’t make it through my classes if I didn’t eat at least a yogurt.

  It was 9:05 when I got through the door. Morales was seated on a stool, lecturing a crowd of twenty students who sat on the floor of the classroom. He stopped when I entered.

  “We’ve done the introductions already.” His eyes were steely. “And you are?”

  “Sadye Paulson.”

  “Sadye, please join the group.”

  I sat down, and Morales waited until I was settled before he continued talking. “I see we are going to have to begin at the very, very beginning, instead of at the advanced level a group like this should be operating on. Why?” He looked at me directly. “Because, Sadye, when an actor is even five minutes late for rehearsal, the way you were late for class today, that actor is being unprofessional. She is compromising the forward momentum of the production she’s been cast in, not only because she’s wasted the five minutes of every member of her cast, the director, the choreographer, the assistant director, the assistant choreographer, and the stage manager, which easily amounts to wasting more than an hour— more than an hour, people!—but also because she’s creating an environment where people don’t care about what they’re doing.”

  Demi, sitting next to me, patted my arm.

  “If the spear-carrier in the back row is less than fully committed,” continued Morales, “a production suffers. The ensemble creating the theatrical work begins to erode—and that erosion, that lack of total commitment, can be detected by the audience. Do you understand me?”

  We all nodded.

  “And the same holds true for acting class. For dance, for voice, for singing, for everything you do here, and for everything you do when you return home. The starting place must be your commitment, because without that, we cannot work. I cannot help you. That commitment exists in your heart, or even deeper—in your cells—but it also has to be in your feet. Because they get you here on time. Every day. The commitment exists in your shoulder bag, because you carry your scripts and your dance shoes, and everything else you need to learn your craft and create your art. It should exist in your memories, because you learn your lines days before you’re required to be off-book. In your body, as you eat well and get enough sleep so you can participate to your best ability. That is the starting place. That is what you need to learn, and I’m sorry to see you starting off the summer like beginners instead of professionals”—at this point, several people gave me dirty looks—“but I hope and trust you have the drive and motivation to learn.” Morales looked at his watch. “Because now we’ve lost fifteen minutes of our class period on this remedial lecture I’ve had to give you, and we don’t have time for the acting exercise I had planned. Instead, I want all of you to find a space on the floor and lie quietly, using this time to think over what I’ve said, and renew your commitment in your cells. At the cellular level, people.”

  We stood up in silence, shuffling to find spaces on the cool rehearsal room floor, and lie down. I wanted to curl into a ball and cry from embarrassment, but everyone else was peacefully on their backs, so I swallowed hard and did the same.

  Morales, once we were settled, walked out of the room.

  I lay there, my face still hot.

  Then I got cold. The air-conditioning had been running for a while. I lifted up my head and looked at the clock. We lay there twenty minutes. Thirty. Forty.

  Morales wasn’t there. The girl next to me was asleep, but other people were looking at their hands, or stretching a bit. I wanted my sweatshirt out of my bag, but I was too scared Morales would come back in and chastise the whole group because I was uncommitted enough to move out of position. So I lay still, staring at the clock and hoping that Singing (next period) would be better.

  At ten fifteen, Morales reentered the room. “You may sit up,” he announced.

  We did.

  “I’m pleased to see you all still here, where I asked you to be,” Morales said, gazing down at us. “That’s a hopeful sign. A sign of trust and the beginning of our ensemble knitting together to make theater as a collective. See you again on Wednesday.”

  And with that, he walked out again.

  (shuffle, bang, click)

  Sadye: (in a whisper) It’s J
une twenty-eighth, 11:35 p.m. After curfew on the first day of classes.

  Demi: (too loudly) She’s in the boys’ dorm!

  Sadye: Quiet!

  Demi: (more quietly) We’re in the laundry room, with the light off, so we won’t get caught by Farrell. Sadye climbed in like a ninja.

  Sadye: Your room is on the ground floor.

  Demi: Okay, I’m just giving you some credit. She ninja’d into my room and scared the pants off Steve and John.

  Sadye: Mark slept through the whole intrusion. He was literally snoring while I climbed in the window, and he never even moved. I was like right next to his head!

  Demi: Then we scurried down the hall and hid in here.

  Sadye: And why? For you, O posterity. We vowed at lunch to record the events of today, so important for documentary purposes, but then Demi forgot.

  Demi: I didn’t forget. Rehearsal went over.

  Sadye: We’re both in the ten-day wonder, but I had to go to the dance studio to learn “Bushel and a Peck,” while Demi did--what did you do?

  Demi: We read though the whole script and then the music director started work on “Luck Be a Lady.” Hey, did you have Advanced Dance? Sadye is an advanced dancer and is in the advanced-type dancing class.

  Sadye: No, it’s tomorrow. I had Singing.

  Demi: I had regular dance second period.

  Sadye: How was it?

  Demi: My buns are hurting. I’m not used to all those pliés and stuff.

  Sadye: Ha-ha!

  Demi: (loudly) I’m serious! I have extremely sore buns.

  Sadye: Shh! Keep it down!

  Demi: (whispering) Okay, it’s down. Now, for posterity, what was your elective, and what is your evaluation of it?

  Sadye: Restoration Comedy. We tried on corsets.

  Demi: On the first day?

  Sadye: Yeah. We put on corsets and then walked around, trying to get the flavor of movement in the Restoration era.

  Demi: What did the guys do?

  Sadye: There was just one. He watched our heaving bosoms with considerable interest. What was yours?

  Demi: I don’t have bosoms.

  Sadye: Your elective.

  Demi: Audition Prep, and we had to list our three most castable qualities.

  Sadye: What?

  Demi: Our most castable qualities. So we can capitalize on them to find the best songs. Like: Comic Relief, Tough Guy, Ingenue, High Soprano, stuff like that.

  Sadye: And yours are?

  Demi: I said Joie de Vivre.

  Sadye: Good one.

  Demi: And Falsetto. But the instructor said that was too narrow. I could have an audition song with falsetto, she said, but I wouldn’t always want to use it.

  Sadye: And what was your last one?

  Demi: Not telling.

  Sadye: (pinching him) What do you mean, not telling?

  Demi: Ow, ow!

  Sadye: Tell!

  Demi: Okay, it just sounds dumb. I said Leading Man Quality.

  Sadye: And what did she say?

  Demi: (pausing) She actually said that was fine, but I should replace Falsetto with Black.

  Sadye: Why?

  Demi: I’m black. Don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed!

  Sadye: What?

  Demi: I’m b-l-a-c-k, black.

  Sadye: That’s a mean thing to say.

  Demi: Well--

  Sadye: Why would you say that to me just now?

  Demi: --because you act like you never noticed.

  Sadye: What? You mean all the time?

  Demi: Basically.

  Sadye: How else am I supposed to act?

  Demi: (silence)

  Sadye: What, you want me to mention it every now and then, like, oh, you’re looking especially black today, Demi? Or what?

  Demi: No.

  Sadye: Then what?

  Demi: Don’t get all huffy.

  Sadye: I don’t know what you’re saying to me.

  Demi: Other people mention it. Like they’re not afraid to have it come up.

  Sadye: Like who?

  Demi: Lyle. We had a whole conversation after M-TAP today. Or like Candie, who--

  Sadye: Candie’s ridiculous.

  Demi: Maybe so, but she came out front and asked if I was gay, didn’t she? And later she told me she’d never had a black friend. She’s being open about where she’s coming from, even if she’s clueless.

  Sadye: But I don’t notice that you’re black. I don’t.

  Demi: That’s what I’m saying. It’s a huge part of me, and you don’t notice.

  Sadye: But isn’t it good that I don’t notice?

  Demi: It’s a fact. Hello, Sadye.

  Sadye: Okay, it’s a fact. And it’s a fact I’m white. It’s a fact I’m tall.

  Demi: Not the same.

  Sadye: Why not?

  Demi: You can’t say it’s the same. You have to know that.

  Sadye: (silence)

  Demi: Anyway.

  Sadye: Anyway.

  Demi: The teacher said that people will consider casting me for certain parts because I’m black, and I should have a song in my repertoire that puts me in consideration for those roles.

  Sadye: Oh.

  Demi: Like a number from Ragtime. Or Porgy and Bess.

  Sadye: Oh.

  Demi: Whatever. I wonder what Brian Stokes Mitchell auditions with.

  Sadye: Let’s talk about something else.

  Demi: Acting class. We had it together, with Mr. Morales.

  Sadye: Oh, that was awful.

  Demi: What?

  Sadye: Hello? I was like five minutes late and he laid into me in front of everybody.

  Demi: I thought you liked the man. You liked him after orientation.

  Sadye: I do like him. That’s why it was so bad. He’s like this amazingly talented director, so it makes it all worse.

  Demi: But why was it awful?

  Sadye: Couldn’t he cut me some slack? I was recovering from the Midsummer horror. And we were all late for breakfast because of him putting up his cast list late. I would never have been late if I wasn’t waiting for him in the first place.

  Demi: For what it’s worth, I think you were shafted with that Peter Quince part.

  Sadye: Thank you. But what I’m saying is, given that it’s the first day and the cast lists went up and it was like the biggest drama for everyone, not just me, so we were all vulnerable, was it really necessary for Morales to single someone out for humiliation and give us all a lecture?

  Demi: Well-

  Sadye: What?

  Demi: Don’t think I’m being mean, but-

  Sadye: What?

  Demi: Yes, it was.

  Sadye: What do you mean?

  Demi: That was his whole point, wasn’t it? That it doesn’t matter if the cast lists went up, or your landlord kicked you out, or your wife left you, or whatever; a professional actor shows up on time and doesn’t let personal life get in the way.

  Sadye: Maybe. All right. But he didn’t have to cancel the acting exercise and force us to lie on the floor for fifty-five minutes.

  Demi: That was amazing. I had to pee so bad, but it was still amazing.

  Sadye: What?

  Demi: Nobody, not one single teacher, ever made me just think for an hour before. Really think about what’s important.

  Sadye: I wanted to learn something. Not lie on my back, wondering, When is he coming back, and did I ruin the class for everybody?

  Demi: You didn’t ruin it. He would have done that anyway, because that was like his whole point.

  Sadye: What?

  Demi: Trust. You have to trust your director, trust your acting teacher. He’s the one who can see the whole picture, who can see how what you’re doing fits into the scene, or the show. We had to trust that he hadn’t forgotten us. Keep doing what he told us to do, even if it seemed bizarre. He was showing us we had to trust his vision.

  Sadye: But he was probably outside smoking cigarettes and reading magazines while
he was supposed to be teaching us acting.

  Demi: He was teaching us acting. That’s what I’m saying.

  Sadye: It was a waste of time.

  Demi: That’s because you didn’t do it properly.

  Sadye: Why are you being so mean to me today?

  Demi: What, are you still huffy?

  Sadye: You’re being mean.

  Demi: Me? I’m the one who should be mad. (There is a loud knock on the laundry room door. More like a bang.)

  Sadye: Ah!

  Demi: Hide, hide!

  Sadye: Where?

  Demi: There’s nowhere--Farrell, the hall counselor:

  (opening the door and flipping on the overhead light) What have we here?

  Demi: It’s not what it looks like.

  (shuffle, bang, click!)

  FARRELL barged in on us.

  We made excuses.

  He kept shaking his head. But fortunately, he was the assistant director on Bye Bye Birdie—so inclined to be lenient with Demi. He let us off with a warning and marched me back to my dorm room, promising that he wouldn’t report me for this first infraction.

  * * *

  DEMI AND I made up the next morning at breakfast. “Sorry I was such a pissant,” he said, hugging me from behind as I stood in line for pancakes.

  “Sorry I was such a wench.”

  “We okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Good. Does that mean I can eat some of your pancakes?”

  “Stand in line yourself!”

  “Oh, don’t you want to give me a goodwill pancake? After we had our First Official Quarrel?”

  “Okay, okay. But go get me some orange juice, all right?”

  “Your wish is my command.”

  And we were back to our usual selves—but still. It was our First Official Quarrel—and it wouldn’t be the last, it turned out.

  THE NEXT few days were a blur of scripts, rehearsals, new classes, sweat, music, and dance. So much dance my feet bled and our bathroom was draped in dripping leotards we had rinsed out by hand. So much energy expended we gobbled two or even three peanut-butter sandwiches at lunch.

  In Midsummer rehearsals we weren’t spending much time with the script. We were bonding with trees.

  Reanne’s concept for the show, she told us, was that Midsummer was the ultimate ensemble piece.

  Our set would be a large, raked circle covered with brilliant green canvas, and together we would create the magical forest of Shakespeare’s imagination. In the story, two pairs of teenage lovers lose themselves in the wild woods, where mischievous fairies enchant them. A group of “rude mechanicals” (laborers) are also in the forest, led by a dorky fellow called Peter Quince (me). One of the mechanicals, Bottom (Lyle), gets turned into a donkey and is seduced by the fairy queen. A night of madness ensues. Love, fury, mistaken identities, magical spells.