Carter Finally Gets It (22 page)

We do what they call a “table read” with the whole cast. We don’t have a table big enough for thirty-two kids and ten adults, so we’re smashed into a giant circle of folding chairs, reading the play out loud. I’ve never liked reading in front of people, so this is going to be painful. But Abby’s here. I thought she’d run up to congratulate me, or say thank you, give me a big kiss, show me some boob . . . something. But she didn’t say a word. Ms. McDougle made her sit on my right because most of the talking is between her (Sarah) and me (Sky). Jeremy is sitting on my left because he’s playing my best buddy, Nathan Detroit (Sinatra). Everyone is shoulder to shoulder in the circle, but I’ve got elbow room to spare. In fact, I think this whole circle hates me. I try to look like I don’t care and just read the script. My head is buried in this sucker like I’m a pro actor who can’t be bothered. Dang it! I have sooo much to say. Too much! Good lord, we’ve got to cut this down, McDougle. Give some of my lines to the fat guy. He loves to talk.

I don’t have any lines at the beginning, so I’m trying to figure out what’s going on in the show. I’m also very busy sweating and shaking in anticipation of reading my lines. Is it hot in here? My first scene is with Jeremy. We make a bet that I can’t get Abby to go with me down to Cuba. I’m supposed to be all cool. Well, Sky may be cool as a cucumber, but Carter is a mess! My mouth is full of dust and I’m dyslexic all of a sudden. I can’t stay with the lines. I’m going all slow but still screwing everything up. Everybody is staring at me like I’m an idiot, including Abby and Ms. McDougle. Sweat is pouring off my face when we get to the scene between Abby and me. Finally I know what’s going on, and we’re off and running! I don’t even have to look at the script; I still remember it from yesterday. We’re going at it. Back and forth,
bam, bang, boom
. It’s great. People are laughing. This is fun. Abby looks all serious at first, but I get her to crack a smile a couple of times.

The helper girl says, “Skip the song and go to the top of page twenty-one. . . .”

I flip to page twenty-one, and the first words are
Sky kisses Sarah
.

So I slide over and plant one on her.
BAM!
It shocks the hell out of her, and the whole drama department gasps. It’s in the script, people! They gasp again when she slaps my face . . . as hard as she can. Everyone claps, so I do a little bow in my seat, which makes them laugh. They’ve instantly stopped hating me. Hell yeah! So this is THE THEATER!? What the hell was I doing screwing around with football, swimming, and baseball? This is where it’s at! I do another scene with Jeremy about gambling, and it goes great. He and I are joking around and he gives me a playful shove, and the whole room seems to be having a blast. What a great place this drama wing is! I want to run out onto that baseball field and laugh at my boys running wind sprints and scratching their crotches. They have no idea how miserable they are, or how much fun being in the spring musical is.

I’m so proud, my face hurts from smiling. I’ve never felt this kind of pride. Of course, I can’t really tell my boys about any of it, because they’d make fun of me endlessly; but secretly, I feel great.

I’m almost as stressed about my boys finding out about the play as I am about learning all the lines, dance moves, and lyrics. My sister has everyone under strict orders not to talk about the play to anyone, but it’s difficult to keep something like this under wraps.

I’m walking down the hall with EJ and Bag when the hottie who works at Blockbuster walks right up to us and yells, “Way to go, Sky!”

I just walk right by her like I don’t hear a thing. I want to smile. I want to say, “Thank you!” I want to say, “We should hook up sometime,” but I just look like a deer caught in headlights as I duck into the stairwell.

EJ asks, “What the hell was that?”

“H-h-how should I know?” I say. “That chick’s always walkin’ up to people and saying random junk. Like, ‘Way to go, clouds!’ or ‘How about the moon?’ I think she’s on drugs. Um, I’ll see you guys later. I got detention.”

“Again?” EJ asks.

“Yep,” I say, without even looking at him.

“You’re a degenerate, Carter!” Bag laughs.

He has no idea. I’m not just a degenerate, I’m a gangster! A singing, dancing, kissing gangster. The drama department hit man. Belting out the hits from three o’clock to six o’clock, every night. Firing out jazz hands and slapping down
pas de bourrées
—I love it! I just go for it down in the drama wing. I like these kids, no matter what Lynn says.

I don’t talk to them in the halls or anything, but I wish I could. They’re all smart. They discuss movies and books. I can’t say anything about the books, but I can throw in my two cents when it comes to movies. They debate
themes
and
character arcs
and stuff I’ve never even thought of. The only thing my boys talk about these days is baseball, and I hate being the only one without a hat.

I’m still an outsider down here, but then, I feel like an outsider everywhere I go. It’s cool because Sky Masterson’s an outsider too. He hangs out on the outskirts of society and doesn’t know how to deal with people on the
inskirts
. Usually he just uses dames for sex, but he accidentally falls head over heals for Sarah, and he cleans up his act for her. He sacrifices his tough-guy reputation to prove he’s worthy of this chick. He’s all about honor and not letting people down. When Sky gives his word, he always comes through, whether he’s making good on a bet or making himself good for Sarah. I wish I could drop all this wisdom on my boys, but they’re too busy learning how to hit a curveball.

After a month, Abby still won’t talk to me outside of the lines in the script. My favorite person and damn near best friend lately is Jeremy. He’s a bit girly, but he’s really cool. He has a sweet car, and I try to copy his hair and the clothes he wears (a little). He’s a great dancer, and he helps me out after rehearsals. He kind of translates the moves into thoughts and ideas instead of all those funny words and counting. I’m starting to get it.

I know all my lines with Abby like I know my own name. I won’t give her the satisfaction of hearing me yell “Line?!” when I forget. I did it a bunch at first, and she’d always smirk. So I study them like a madman now. I have to leave enough time to space off, so I don’t have any free time at all. I haven’t seen a movie or been stuffed inside Hormone’s CRX in six weeks. Weekends, nights, mornings—I’m working on this play. I want to be great. I want to show those drama nerds who think a freshman could never handle the lead part in the spring play that they’re wrong. And I will!

Thankfully, my ADD is keeping pretty quiet these days. I tend to drift off when I don’t have lines, so that’s my main battle right now. Most of the time, when it gets dead quiet onstage, I’ll know that I’ve missed my cue and rack my brain for where the hell we are and what it was I was supposed to say. Sometimes I just flex my jaw like a tough guy taking a dramatic pause and fire out the missing line like I was keeping it a secret. After the rehearsal, Ms. McDougle tells me, “Carter, take out the pauses in the group scenes.” Like I’m not trying to stay focused harder than I’ve ever tried to do anything in my life. If I could concentrate on the junk I’m supposed to, life would be a breeze.

Rehearsals are especially tough now that the Hot Box Girls have gotten their skimpy costumes. In one of their numbers, they play farm girls and wear Daisy Dukes that show the bottoms of their butt cheeks. Does the costume designer want me to fail?!

I’m supposed to say, “I’ve got a little more than dough riding on this one,” and then the music starts for my toughest song, “Luck Be a Lady Tonight.” But all I can think about are those girls wiggling around offstage. The piano man probably notices what I’m gawking at, because he starts playing, snapping me out of the daydream.

This song is about gambling, and it goes really fast. I usually get lost somewhere in the middle, but I’m keeping up so far. I’m singing to the dice, so that when I roll them, they’ll do what I want them to do. And so that Lady Luck won’t be a coldhearted bitch tooo-night!

I roll the dice and kind of walk around all cool with my hands in my pockets. The leotard lady wants me to prance and gallop more, but I keep telling her, “This gangsta’ don’t gallop. I strut!” She’s starting to get it. Abby just shakes her head.

I wish I could sing as well as Abby when we sing “I’ve Never Been in Love Before.” It’s a love song, and I feel it deeply. I look into her eyes, and in that moment, I really believe she loves me, too.

There are a few places where I’m certain she’s
not
in love with me. She gets to slap me twice in the first act. She lives for those moments. Ms. McDougle is into realism, so we don’t do “stage slaps” in the Merrian drama department. Which is great for the audience, but I’m going to be one of those old boxers who gets loopy from taking too many shots to the head. Abby lets me have it every time—HARD! One time she hit me so hard, it knocked the next line out of my head. I see little birds flying around, and Ms. McDougle goes, “Carter! ‘I’ll drop in again.’ Say the line today, please!”

I know the line, lady. I just need a standing eight count before I can deliver it!

I shake it off, and Ms. McDougle says, “Okay, guys, take it again from the slap, please.”

Before I can even get myself together,
WHHAAACKKK!
Abby lets me have it again. DANG IT, woman!

“I’ll drop in again in case you want to take a crack at the other cheek!” I scream.

Ms. McDougle’s only note for me after rehearsal is, “Carter, you’re wincing before the slap. You can’t anticipate it, buddy.”

Oh, am I, “buddy”? Yeah, I’ll have to work on that! Maybe I could join the Marine Corps in my downtime to toughen up a bit!

Other than that, I’m having more fun doing theater than I’ve ever had doing anything else. I feel smarter and more confident, and I find myself laughing all the time. Also, it’s probably my imagination, but sometimes when people talk to me these days, there’s this weird tone in their voice I’ve never heard directed at me before. . . . I think it’s respect.

Five days before we open the show, Nick Brock is at my house having dinner with the family. It’s great when he comes over, because my sister is so nice to everybody. I can’t help but laugh at her when she says, “Mother, could you please pass the delicious casserole?” instead of the usual, “Give me some of that crap in the bowl before I starve to death!”

I’m talking to Nick about his truck repairs and how baseball is going. I tell him I haven’t seen any of the games because of my detentions, when Lynn breaks in and says, “Could you please lower your voice?!”

“Oh, am I talking too loud?” I ask.

“Yes you are, and it’s very obnoxious, so please stop,” she politely condescends.

“Lynn, he is practicing his projection, and he’s doing great!” Mom defends.

No. No helping, Mom.

“Well, Mother, all I’m saying is: it’s annoying. And he should be aware when he’s being annoying. I’m just trying to help him, like I try to help everyone,” she says.

“It’s funny,” I say to Nick, “because sometimes I’ll forget if it was Mother Teresa that did something or if it was Lynn.”

Brock laughs, takes a bite of casserole, and asks, “Hey, what’s ‘projection’?”

Oh boy. Brock is not going to like this.

Lynn jumps in with more assistance by yelling, “Nick, don’t talk with your mouth full!”

Good ol’ Lynn. Helping me. Helping Brock. Two birds, one bitchy stone.

“Nick,” my mom says, “projection is when people in the theater speak loud enough and clear enough for the people in the back row to hear what they’re saying.”

Mother, zip it!

“Why would you need to work on that, man?” he asks me.

“Um . . .” I say.

“Well, Carter doesn’t want anyone to know it, but he’s the lead actor in the spring play!” Mom blabbers.

Momma, noooo!

“Really?” Brock asks. “Lynn, why didn’t you tell me that?”

“Because it’s mortifying, that’s why! We don’t talk about his drama problem in public,” she says.

“Well, I think that’s awesome. The spring play is a big deal. You know, I tried out for the winter play when I was a sophomore, but I got cut. Congratulations,” Nick says, all seriously.

“
You
got cut from something, Brock?” I ask in disbelief.

“Yeah, I took drama classes and everything back in the day, but I choked at the audition,” Nick continues. “The play was called
The Diary of Anne Frank
. I really wanted to play this kid Peter Van something.”

My dad chokes on his water. “
Anne Frank
? The Holocaust
Anne Frank
? No offense, Nick, but you’re like, six foot five? It’d be pretty tough to imagine you as a little Jewish boy. . . .”

“William!” Mom barks. “I imagine Nick would have been very good in the part.”

Brock gets quiet and thinks about what might have been. I bet he would have been a kick-ass Peter, the little Jewish boy. It would have added flavor to the family if they’d had a muscle-bound linebacker eating all the food in the attic. I should feel bad for feeling this way, but I really like hearing that Nick Brock screws up. That he’s been cut from things and my sister yells at him too. I gain strength from his pain.

“Well, I can’t wait to see the show,” Nick says.

Oh? Nick’s going to see the show. “Cool,” I say halfheartedly.

Not cool! I don’t mind singing and dancing with the drama dorks, but I never really thought other people would come. God, if Nick Brock comes, that’ll mean my sister might come. Jeez, I don’t like that! What if other kids wander in? Like, my boys hear about the Hot Box Girls and come down to gawk. I doubt if they’ll be as supportive as Nick. I can’t worry about it, though. I’ve got to save my stress, and focus on doing better in the show.

I run into the drama wing with my backpack over my head at my usual breakneck pace, to find Jeremy laughing with Abby on the steps of the theater. His arms are wrapped around her waist, and her arms are draped around his neck. She’s cracking up and staring into his eyes. He passionately kisses her on the cheek and she squeals with delight. Well, well, well! What do we have here? A backstabbing drama nerd with perfect hair, riding the Village Bike. I thought Jeremy and I were going to be good friends, but I guess Abby has just given me my next nemesis. (Andre’s hair is growing back a lot faster and cooler than mine. He hit four home runs in a single baseball game, and he and EJ hang out sometimes now, but I don’t have time to care about him anymore.)

Granted, Abby and I never actually speak outside of the dialogue in the play, but it should be pretty obvious that she’s my girl, Jeremy! How do I kick this guy’s ass? Do I outdance his punk ass? Whack him singing-gangster style and haul him off in the imaginary trunk of my cardboard Cadillac? Man, I don’t want to hate Jeremy. He’s, like, my best friend lately. He’s always showing me how to dance, sing, and dress better, and he drives me home after late rehearsals. The Andre feud almost killed me, so I’ll just let him have her. If anybody is good enough for my Abby, it’s Jeremy. I can live with this.

“S’up?” I ask through clenched teeth.

Abby doesn’t respond; she never does. But Jeremy projects, “Hey, hey, Mr. Car-ter!” Like that knife in my back shouldn’t hurt a bit. But I’m okay with this!

We do a run-through of the second act, and I’m totally off. I know these lines—I do!—but I can’t seem to remember them at the right time today. I grab the script whenever I get offstage and look them over. I have most of my scenes written on my arms, but I’m still having trouble with them. The last scene in the play where everybody gets married is up, and I see Jeremy and Abby look at each other and share a knowing giggle as we
chassé
into position. My blood starts to boil. Are they laughing at me? That’s my imaginary girlfriend you’re mackin’ on, pretty boy! She’s about to become my pretend wife! For the first time in my life I wish I was at football practice and I could smash his junior, dance-fever punk ASS into the fake walls! I hate these older dudes and their stupid cars, and . . . (dead silence).

Dang it! I bet it’s my line. I’m missing my line. What is it? Where the hell are we? The show’s almost over. Everyone is looking at me. A skinny kid named Tony is standing in front of me dressed like a priest.

I flex my jaw and say, “Uhhh?” all smooth.

Abby whispers angrily, “You do!”

I do what? When? You’re not helping . . . LIGHTBULB! I yell, “I DO, DO!” really fast, and we break out dancing again. But the music stops just as we get going, and Ms. McDougle jumps up onstage like a pro wrestler.

She throws her clipboard down and yells, “Carter, you are killin’ me!”

Dang it! No one is safe when I’m around. Football, swimming, math class, you name it and I’m there, like a ninja assassin.

“What the hell is with you today?” Ms. McDougle barks. “Concentrate, please! We have two days. Two rehearsals until five hundred people fill those seats! All of your friends and family will be watching. How are you going to react?”

Family maybe, but I don’t think my friends will be a problem.

She yells, “Everybody out! Carter, Jeremy, Tony, Kara, and Abby—do the wedding sequence until you drop! I’ve got to work on the latest costume catastrophe. And Carter, please, stay focused!”

As she stomps out of the auditorium, I give her an awkward wave and say, “You got it, Ms. McD, I’m focused like a Nikon camera!”

“Killin’ me!” she cries as the door slams.

“Okay, what the hell are we doing, guys?” I ask.

Everyone glares at me. We rehearse the wedding scene and the final dance number for three more hours. Man, this stuff is tough. I’ve worked as hard as I possibly could on this show. It’s all I’ve done for two months, and I’m still screwing up. I haven’t done homework in forever. Good thing I never do it, or I’d really be screwed.

I’m exhausted as I unlock my bike to ride home in the dark. I feel someone watching me, and turn to find Abby about twenty feet behind me leaning against a lamppost. She is so pretty, and she doesn’t look away when I meet her gaze, so I ride over to her and say, “Hey.”

She replies, “Hey,” and I try not to smile too big.

“Do you need a ride?”

She looks at my axle pegs, shakes her head, and says, “No, my mom’s on her way.”

“I’m sorry I keep screwing up the show. . . .”

“You’re not screwing up that bad,” she replies. “I think it’s the same with me and Jeremy and everybody else; you just need to get out of your own way.”

I nod my thanks and try to think of something funny to say or a question I can ask, when her mom’s headlights come into view. Abby picks up her backpack and walks to the car. Her mom glares at me from the driver’s seat like she’s figuring out how much trouble she’d get into for “accidentally” running me over. I hop on my bike and ride off in the other direction, to be on the safe side.