Dramarama

by E. Lockhart

  Sadye: I think we gotta pounce at lunch.

  Candie: Why lunch?

  Sadye: You’ve got some energy, you’ve got a little free time, you’re not in rehearsal. It’s impossible to pounce in rehearsal.

  Nanette: I’m with you, there. But I can’t pounce when I’m covered in French-fry grease and I smell like sweat. I’d repulse the guy. I need to take a shower before the pounce.

  Candie: (getting into bed) When do we get to shower when we’re not like, immediately going to sleep?

  Sadye: That’s my point. The guys here have gotta accept that the sweaty, French-fry pounce is all they’re going to get.

  Nanette: Have you been pouncing, Sadye? Is that what you’re telling us?

  Iz: And wait, did you pounce Kenickie James or Theo?

  Nanette: One is covered in butter! Don’t forget!

  Iz: Ooh! Did you do the lunchtime jumbo pounce?

  Sadye: Just because I’m friends with Demi does NOT mean I do the jumbo pounce.

  Iz: Okay, okay.

  Sadye: I’m talking out my back end, all right? I haven’t pounced. But I still think it’s a good idea.

  Nanette: So you should do it. Show us how it’s done.

  Iz: But which one will she pounce?

  Nanette: Covered in butter, that’s all I’m saying.

  Sadye: I’m turning this off now.

  Iz: Ooh, I forgot you were recording.

  (click)

  ON NIGHTS when the Hot Box Girls got out early, we stood at the door of the main Guys and Dolls studio for a few minutes after, watching the principals rehearse their scenes. It was amazing to see Morales in action. For example, one evening we watched Demi and Candie sing “I’ll Know”—a love duet.

  Early in the scene, when Candie says “Chemistry?” and Demi says, “Yeah, chemistry,” Morales told Demi to look at Candie for one long beat before speaking— and suddenly Demi seemed like he really was in love, rather than just talking about it. The director also asked Demi to slow the phrasing down a tad—and the song sounded more sincere. He had Candie look up at the sky and keep her feet together while she sang, and she became a devout mission worker, rather than a shy high school student.

  The man knew what he was doing. Everything he said to the actors made the show stronger. He wasn’t gentle and he wasn’t kind; he was eminently practical. He had a clear vision and he was a master at getting the actors to execute it. “Bushel and a Peck,” which we’d run a few more times until we got the Morales seal of approval, was a hundred times better with Nanette hinting at her boredom and exhaustion than it had been when she was unreservedly perky.

  Now, I liked Reanne, I did. But she was no Morales. She was, in fact, losing control of her cast.

  I was doing my best with Peter Quince. I had a few funny lines, at least, and Reanne was nice about my natural delivery of Shakespeare’s language. Quince is trying to get his group of foolish layabout friends to rehearse a play—and he’s a bit bossy, a bit shrill, full of frustration. But the first day we stood up to block it, the bad energy from having been trees all week made most of the mechanicals downright punchy. Flute and Starveling kept forgetting their movements, and Lyle and Snug were making jokes throughout the rehearsal. Snout was bouncing up and down and mouthing other people’s lines, trying to get Flute to laugh. And succeeding.

  Reanne asked them to “channel that chaotic energy into the chaos of the scene,” but seemed unable to quiet them down enough so that we could get anything done. We started over with my initial speech, but Lyle was muttering behind me: “Maybe parents will object to my character’s name. Should we change it to Eugene? To avoid offense. Or maybe Engelbert? Because we don’t want our parents to think it’s racy and pull us out of the institute.”

  I was standing downstage, script in hand, knowing I wasn’t doing a good job, and I thought, This show is going to be another Bedsheet Oedipus. Nobody wants to be in it. People aren’t concentrating. Teenagers wrapped in canvas with their arms sticking out do not create a fairy atmosphere, even if the teenagers are truly thinking about Mother Nature and struggling to convey her essence through posture. In fact, the teenagers are so sick of being trees they no longer give two cents about the whole production.

  The concept doesn’t work, I thought, because Midsummer is not really an ensemble play. We’re not all supposed to be one with the fairy forest—lovers, sprites, mechanicals. We’re supposed to be contrasting elements and counterpoint story lines. It’s confusing this way, with everyone trying to channel the spirit of magic and not being sure what their speeches even mean. And here I am, trying to be a good sport and think like a tree and act like a man, trying to figure out my scene and what my character is thinking—and Lyle and Snug won’t even shut up long enough for us to learn the stupid blocking.

  How could Reanne work side by side with Morales every summer and not absorb a single ounce of his directorial skill? Wasn’t there something I could say or do to make this show turn out better?

  But then I remembered what Morales himself had said the night of orientation, and what Lyle and Demi had both said, in their own ways: actors have to be in bad shows all the time. They have to soldier on and do the best job they can do, because that’s what a good actor does. He doesn’t question the director or undermine the process, no matter what he thinks. He subdues the ego.

  He commits.

  * * *

  JAMES, THEO, and Lyle had a trio at the start of Guys and Dolls called “Fugue for Tinhorns.” It’s three gamblers boasting about the horses they’re betting on, sung like a round, with voices overlapping. We got to hear it at the start of rehearsal one evening. Morales stood up in front of the whole cast and said this number set the tone for the whole show. He wanted us to watch it and catch the mood.

  As they sang, I looked at James and Theo. One tall and blond, undeniably Timberlakian. The other shorter and darker, suddenly stripped of all teenagery awkwardness—a gangster and a gambler with a hard edge and a thick Brooklyn accent. Theo became his character, Benny Southstreet.

  Demi was sitting next to me. “Did you decide which one?” he whispered when they were done. “Because I vote for the tall blondie.”

  “That’s because blonds are your type,” I said.

  “I don’t have a type!”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I don’t! I am open to a full half of the human race. Have you talked to him any more?”

  “James? Not much. He sat with me and Iz the other day at breakfast, but I was scared of being late for Acting, so I cut out early.”

  “Well, there’s my answer,” said Demi.

  “What?”

  “You like the other one.”

  “Shut up!”

  “You do. I can see it.”

  “Don’t talk about it with Blake and Lyle, okay?” I said. “It’s not gonna go anywhere.”

  “You underestimate your gawky-sexy powers, my darling Sadye. I bet if you flutter those eyelashes, that short Asian boy will be all over you like a dog.”

  “I think we’re just friends.”

  “That’s your choice,” said Demi.

  THE NEXT NIGHT we ran Guys and Dolls as a company for the first time. During Lyle’s show-stopping number, “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat,” Morales hopped up and gave Lyle three gestures—arm movements that fused the Nicely-Nicely Johnson gangster persona and the gospel revival flavor of the song he was singing. Almost like magic, the number turned from a pleasant tune into a rollicking celebration.

  When Lyle finished, Morales called out to him. “I want you to add something in for me. Give me that fat man jiggle, the belly, the whole thing.”

  And Lyle did it, rolling and jiggling his round body across the stage in an unbelievable expression of ecstasy and delight. It was hilarious. But I could just see him register those words as Morales gave him the direction. Like “Oh, I’m nothing but the fat man now. I’m only seventeen, but this is my box, and I guess I’ve got to stay in it.”


  I don’t think you call someone fat like that. Even if he is. Fat.

  It wasn’t just Lyle. We all jumped when Morales said “Jump.” Like puppets. Not like people. He was so good at what he did, and at the same time so uninterested in communicating with the actors, hearing our ideas, considering our feelings, or doing anything but getting his singular vision onto the stage.

  He didn’t even remember my name; called me “Tall Hot Box,” which made me cringe. But I watched him with total attention—shifting tiny pieces into place; making a joke funny, reblocking a scene to give it more energy, demanding absolute perfection and total attention from every member of his cast.

  I could see why people idolized him. He was the opposite of Reanne, who was so involved with her idea of process and ensemble that she failed to step back and see the big picture. Reanne was kind and quite interesting to talk to, but she was translating Shakespeare’s poetry into a muddle onstage.

  Morales was bossy, decisive, and visionary. He was looking for results, and he expected professionalism from everyone. He wasn’t thinking about the actors and their inner lives at all. He was thinking about the audience. He wanted us to deliver what he needed as a director as quickly and seamlessly as possible—whereas Reanne wanted us to search inside ourselves for truths and then translate those to stage gestures that felt organic.

  I wasn’t sure who was right.

  Maybe Reanne was right in her philosophy but also a bad director. Which would mean Morales was wrong but also good.

  MISS ADELAIDE was the best part in Guys and Dolls, and Nanette wasn’t typecast for it. Her Adelaide glittered with freshness, at least to anyone who’d seen the movie or listened to the cast album. Usually small, childish, and sharp-looking, in this show Nanette was bawdy and pushing forty. Her edge became Adelaide’s hard-spent years on the nightclub circuit. Her tiny figure became a surprising ball of fury when she yelled at her gambler fiancé. She had a Broadway voice and the experience to do whatever Morales asked of her the first time he asked.

  It wasn’t fair.

  We were jealous. All the Hot Box Girls. Not just because she had what we wanted. But because she deserved it.

  (shuffle, click)

  Sadye: I’m here in wardrobe with the Hot Box Girls: Iz, Jade, Kirsten, Bec, and Dawn. Say hello, ladies.

  Ladies: Hello!

  Bec: Hello, Sadye’s recorder thing.

  Sadye: We’re doing second fittings for ‘Mink’ costumes. They put Velcro down the sides of the gowns so we can rip them off, and now we’re making sure they work.

  Jade: Mine wouldn’t come undone, I don’t know, I got mighty-Velcro.

  Sadye: Nanette got fitted first, so she’s gone back to class. The rest of us are missing Pantomime, or whatever.

  Iz: They’re fixing Jade’s dress right now.

  Sadye: Dawn, tell posterity what we’re wearing.

  Dawn: Okay. Um. Black tights, character shoes, slips covered with gold sequins.

  Kirsten: It’s what we wear under the evening gowns.

  Jade: Red garters, don’t forget, red garters.

  Sadye: And wigs! We all have black wigs.

  Iz: For “Bushel and a Peck” we’re redheads, right?

  Jade: Yeah, that’s what they picked. And Nanette will be white blonde.

  Dawn: Did you see her wig?

  Bec: Yeah, didn’t you?

  Jade: Why does Nanette get to be platinum? I want to be platinum!

  Kirsten: Because Nanette gets everything.

  Dawn: Because she’s Nanette.

  Jade: Maybe someone will shoot her.

  Sadye: Or maybe she’ll get sick and go home.

  Dawn: I’m her understudy. I can’t shoot her, or they’ll be suspicious. Bec, you should do it.

  Bec: Maybe I’ll poison her lemonade.

  Kirsten: Oh, that lemonade, all the time. “I have to drink lemonade for my throat. Do you mind if I just get some lemonade?” Uggh.

  Dawn: Did you hear her telling Morales about what her Annie director said? Annie, Annie, Annie--if I hear any more about that stupid touring production, I’m gonna barf.

  Sadye: She was only the understudy.

  Dawn: No!

  Sadye: Yes. She makes it seem like she was the lead, but most of the time she was just an orphan. Iz, back me up.

  Iz: It’s true.

  Dawn: Oh, that is so rich.

  Kirsten: I’m in Showboat with her, too, and I’m sorry, but that girl has got to rein in her attitude.

  Sadye: What bothers me is that she’s here, competing with students. She’s been on Broadway already. Can’t she give someone else a chance?

  Iz: (annoyed) This isn’t elementary school, Sadye. It’s not about everybody getting a turn.

  Sadye: I know.

  Iz: It’s about talent. People who have talent get what they deserve. That’s how it is in theater.

  Sadye: What are you saying, then?

  Iz: Nothing. I’m not talking about you.

  Jade: Ooh! You guys, check me out in this fringe thing.

  (shuffle, click)

  I KNEW IZ hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. But it hurt just the same.

  THAT NIGHT, after Hot Box rehearsal was over, I stopped to buy a candy bar from the vending machine outside the studios, letting the other girls go on ahead.

  “Hey, Peter Quince.” It was Theo.

  “Don’t call me that, ugh!” I said it playfully.

  “Sorry. How about Tall Hot Box?”

  “I hate how he still doesn’t know my name.”

  “He doesn’t know mine, either,” Theo said, falling into step with me as I headed down the path. Theo had the front of his hoodie zipped all the way to the top, and he walked with a comical spring to his step. I liked that about him. I was suddenly conscious of the sweat that had dried into my leotard and soaked into my hair. I had talked big about the sweaty French-fry pounce, but now that it seemed like a possibility, I had my doubts.

  “You, um. You looked amazing doing that, that mink dance yesterday,” Theo mumbled.

  “Oh, thanks.”

  “Yeah. I, ah, I hadn’t seen it before.”

  “‘Fugue for Tinhorns’ was great,” I told him. “It’s gonna be a phenomenal opening.” I kept talking, babbling about the show, when I realized Theo was looking at me, in the light of the streetlamps on the path. There was no one else around. He was staring, with his eyes all soft, like the mink dance had done something to him.

  Theo had re-noticed me.

  Okay, forget the sweat. It was clearly time to pounce. I grabbed Theo’s elbow flirtatiously, leaning into him while we talked about what our costumes were going to be. I could feel the hard muscles of his arm through the cotton of his hoodie.

  “Demi told me they fitted him for a lilac suit,” I said. “And a light-blue one. Did you have costume fittings yet?”

  “They’re going against type.” Theo nodded. “All the gangsters will be in white, cream, and tan. With Demi in blue and purple, and Sam in shades of green.”

  “Ooh, swank,” I said. “But Demi is having a hissy fit because he looks washed out in lilac,” I said. “He thinks it makes his skin look ashy.”

  “He’ll be fine. Your friend Demi’s good, I gotta give him that,” Theo said.

  “He gets up there and light bursts out of him.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t have said that, exactly, but yeah.”

  “He was in a boys choir when he was little. That’s where he learned to sing.”

  Theo looked at me carefully. “You two are close, aren’t you?”

  “He’s the most talented person I know.”

  We were outside the boys’ dorm. Theo stopped and looked at me, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Well, I guess it’s good night, then,” he said quietly.

  Okay, pounce again. I took a step toward him.

  Standing too close.

  I mean, I thought I had a right to hope, after what he said about the mink dance. After the s
oft staring he’d been doing in the light from the streetlamps.

  But he didn’t kiss me. Or do anything. He just gave a little wave and took off into the dorm at a run.

  IN THE TECH rehearsal, Morales had decided at the last minute that the yellow-feathered dresses the Hot Box girls wore during “A Bushel and a Peck” weren’t funny enough, and reduced the costume mistress to tears by demanding seven chicken hats in two hours.

  “What do you mean, a chicken hat?” she had shouted at him, coming out from the wings and standing near the edge of the stage.

  “A hat with the head of a chicken on it!” he bellowed. “A big chicken. Use those chickens from the Our Town set last year. You can find them. The girls need to look like sexy, sexy chickens, or this number will go in the toilet! And while you’re at it, get Nanette a farm girl dress instead of this shorts thing.”

  “So you want six chicken hats, then, because you’re keeping Nanette in farmer clothes? Six, not seven?”

  “No. Give me seven, in case. Seven of everything. I might want Nanette to be a chicken, too.”

  The costume mistress crossed her arms, squinting in the harsh stage lighting while Morales sat in the audience. “This is not what we discussed, Jacob.”

  “No, it is not,” he said. “But this is what we’re doing.”

  She stomped away, furiously wiping her eyes, and disappeared through a side door.

  But within an hour and a half, Morales got his hats. Nanette got a new outfit. And ridiculous as it sounds, they made the number better. Morales was like a mean magician—everyone he touched quivered in fear, but they were all transformed once he turned his attention to them.

  After tech we ran the first half of the show, and after “Bushel and a Peck,” Morales announced he was calling in some singers to augment the sound of the Hot Box Girls from backstage. Two altos and two sopranos would learn the song tomorrow morning and sing with us at the dress rehearsal.

  As we all dispersed, the music director beckoned me over. “Sadye, I hate to ask you this, but when the new voices come in tomorrow, I’m going to want you to lip-synch.”