Dramarama (16 page)

But he didn’t take my side.

I guess he couldn’t.

He was so far in at Wildewood, and so rewarded for being so far in—everything was going his way, he was the king and the true believer, both—that he laid into me all of a sudden. “Sadye,” he said, “can I just say? No offense, but your attitude is bad.”

“What?”

“You know I’m not the only one who thinks it, either. Lyle says you’re always disrupting
Midsummer
—”

“What? I thought he liked my ideas.”

“He does, but you’re not a team player, you’re always trying to say what you think instead of committing to the ensemble. And I’ve seen you sulking around in Acting, pouting when you don’t get something right away, and you seem to think the world should
come
to you, like you shouldn’t have to work for it. That’s the whole point of this place, Sadye. You’re here to work. To be humble. Not to have attitude and be all defensive all the time.”

“But—”

Demi wouldn’t let me. “You haven’t had a great deal here, I know,” he said. “But did you ever think that you bring that on yourself? You do well in dance class, and you give it your all, and what happens? You get the Hot Box Girl, you get Rumpleteazer. But everywhere else, you rock the boat. You complain and you criticize the people who are supposed to be teaching us, who are dedicating their time to teach us. In acting, in rehearsals, in a lot of situations, you act like you think you know better than everyone else.”

“You don’t know what it’s like,” I spat back. “You have no idea how it is not to have your talent. Not to have red carpets stretching out for you wherever you choose to put your feet.”

“Yes, I do!” he answered. “I take dance class, where everyone’s better than I am. I take Pantomime. I don’t know what I’m doing in those classes at all! And yeah, Morales is tough, and he’s mean sometimes. But you know what I do? I shut my trap and I listen. I figure he’s tough because the business is tough, and he has something to teach us. I dance as hard as I can. I don’t prance around criticizing.”

“It’s not the same for you,” I said. “You’re Conrad Birdie. You’re Sky Masterson.”

“You don’t have to be so bitter, is all I’m saying. You’re complaining all the time and ruining experiences for other people.”

“I’m not complaining!” I said—although I knew that sometimes I had been. “I’m trying to have a conversation. I think we need to be critical of what’s going on here, not just lie back and accept whatever happens. Because otherwise what kind of artists are we?”

“We are
student
artists, Sadye. We’re here to learn, not to disrupt everyone’s experience because we feel insecure.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” I cried. I wanted to explain that I disrupted
Midsummer
because I wanted it to be better. Because I had concrete ideas for how to make it better. That I wasn’t settling for mediocrity. And—

“Look,” Demi said, before I had collected my thoughts. “Maybe this isn’t the best time to tell you this, but I don’t know when else to do it.”

“What?” My skin felt cold and the roof seemed suddenly quiet.

“I’m staying,” said Demi. “Here at Wildewood. I’m not going home to Brenton.”

“What do you mean?”

“I filled out an application form, and they accepted me for the school year. I’m going to spend my senior year here with Lyle.”

“No.”

“Sadye, I’m sorry. You know I love you, but—”

“When did you decide?”

“I knew I wanted to stay here the minute classes started. I think I asked for the application at the end of the first week.”

“Without telling me?”

“I—”

“But how can you leave me like this?” I went on pitifully. “I can’t go back to Brenton without you.”

“I can’t go back there
at all
,” said Demi.

“What do you mean?”

“Think about it, Sadye. My dad can’t stand to look me in the face, and my mom is hardly any better. I have to fake who I am every minute I’m at school, and come home to people who wish I was someone else.”

I nodded.

“Here . . .” Demi walked to the edge of the roof and looked down at the campus. “Here is like the family I was meant to have. I can be who I am. Do you see?”

“And there’s Lyle.”

“Yes, Lyle. And acting classes. And music. And theater history. And just . . . this place. I am never going back to Brenton.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.

“I only found out I was in a couple days ago. I guess—I guess I wasn’t sure you’d be happy for me, and I didn’t want to spoil it by getting you all upset. You’ve been so judgmental about everything.”

“I have not!”

He looked at me. “So jealous, then.”

“I don’t want you to leave me!” I yelled.

The door to the roof opened. It was Farrell the hall counselor. “Why is there shouting up here?” he asked. “It’s after curfew. This is unacceptable, and—hey, is that beer? Do you two have
beer
up here?”

Demi and I stared at him. Silent.

Farrell walked over and picked up the six-pack of empties. “I can’t believe you two. Don’t you have any respect for the rules of this place?”

Demi smiled his most ingratiating smile. “Hey, Farrell, we didn’t mean to raise our voices, we—”

“Don’t ‘Farrell’ me,” he snapped. “I’ve been letting it slide with you guys hanging out on the roof, and sneaking around at night, and I’ve even been lax when you broke curfew—but underage drinking is far beyond what I’m willing to tolerate.”

We nodded dumbly.

“Who bought this beer? Who bought it?”

I looked at Demi’s terrified face, and knew that if he got caught, there was a good chance he wouldn’t be allowed to go to Wildewood for the school year. Like that guy Lyle knew who got expelled for having a bottle of whiskey in his locker.

If he got caught, he’d have come back to Ohio with me.

If I let him tell the truth, I’d get to keep him. We’d be together, Lyle would be far away, we could be together all of senior year.

“I bought it,” I told Farrell.

“You did? Where?”

“The convenience store, down the way from the stone fence.”

“The Cumberland Farms?”

“Yeah.”

He squinted at me. “You’re telling me that if I went down to that store clerk with your picture, he’d say ‘Yes, I sold beer to that girl tonight’?”

I remembered what I looked like crying, and crumpled my lower lip, clenched my throat, and blinked. “Yes. The clerk was a short guy with dyed blond hair.”

“And he sold it to you, and you walked on campus with it?”

“I jumped over the stone fence, I didn’t go past the guard,” I sniffled. “I’m such a jerk, I know. Demi had no idea I was bringing it up here. Really, he didn’t.”

I stole a glance at Demi. He was looking at me, astonished.

And then I burst into tears. Real or faked, I wasn’t entirely sure.

W
HAT HAPPENED
was, they kicked me out. The next morning, Demi and I had to see Morales, Reanne, and the summer institute secretary at an eight a.m. meeting in the administrative offices, for purposes of disciplinary action. But Demi was let off with a slap on the wrist and an admonition not to let his high spirits get the better of his judgment, while I took the fall.

Morales said he’d had reports from Farrell that I’d been in the boys’ dorm after hours earlier in the summer. Reports from Reanne that I was disruptive in rehearsal. He’d found me combative in Acting, and in general, my attitude had been blatant disrespect for the summer institute and all it stood for. I was eroding the morale of the community. Now they’d found me bringing illegal beverages onto campus and getting other underage people to drink them.

They had already called my parents. I was going home that afternoon.

Yes, performances were in six days, but they’d work another actor in for both
Midsummer
and
Cats
. Reanne said she was sorry, but she knew I hadn’t been happy here, and even
Cats
hadn’t made me happy, so maybe this was a sign that Wildewood wasn’t the best place for me after all, and the universe was sending my consciousness a message.

Morales said he found my behavior unacceptable.

D
EMI HUGGED
me and said he was sorry we had our Third Official Quarrel and forget every awful thing he’d said, he didn’t mean it, he really didn’t mean a word of it. We would never quarrel again, would we? Never. And I was the most incredible girl. I didn’t have to do it. I knew that, right? Did I want him to tell Morales the truth? Because he still could.

No, no, of course not.

Did I know how much he loved me? More than chocolate cake, more than sex, more than Liza Minnelli.

Yes, I knew.

“You’re my total savior and I owe you,” said Demi, having walked me to the door of my dorm room. “Anything you ever need, you tell me.”

I said not to worry. I hadn’t belonged at Wildewood in the first place, probably.

But then I burst into tears.

I was Rumpleteazer, after all. I would miss being Rumpleteazer.

I couldn’t believe I was going to miss being Rumpleteazer.

And Theo. I would miss—I didn’t even know what it was I would miss, with Theo. Something I’d never had before.

I would miss doing vocal warm-ups before a show. Putting on makeup. I would miss the Advanced Dance evening presentation with live drummers, and the Stage Combat demonstration in which I was scheduled to single-handedly defeat six boys, fighting first with swords and then with bare hands.

I’d miss hearing Candie sing “Somewhere That’s Green.” Nanette as Julie in
Show Boat
. Iz and Demi in
Bye Bye Birdie
.

I would miss seeing Lyle in his donkey’s head and unitard.

I would miss the show-offy competitiveness. The big personalities. The smell of the rehearsal studios, the costumes hanging in the hallways, piano music from behind every door. The glitter and the sweat.

“We’ll miss
you
,” said Demi. “It won’t be the same without you here.”

I
SPENT THE
morning packing my bags. I talked to my father briefly on the telephone. He was stern, but not too mad. I had never been in any trouble before, and it is always hard to get him to emote. He did seem surprised at this new development, but ah well, there are always bumps in the road, and no use getting too dramatic about them as they’re not the end of the world.

He said he was coming to get me in the van and would be there around one o’clock if there wasn’t any traffic.

* * *

A
T LUNCHTIME
, I told people I was leaving. I hugged everyone good-bye: my roommates, Jade, Starveling, Flute, Snug, and Snout. Theo kissed my neck and said he’d write.

I cried some more and told myself over and over that I’d made the right decision. Then Demi and Lyle walked me out of the cafeteria to get my stuff, and insisted on carrying my bags out to the driveway near the front gate.

My dad drove up. He got out and shook hands with the boys. I heaved my bags into the backseat and got in.

They waved at me as we went down the long, curved driveway. Lyle and Demi, Demi and Lyle.

I tried not to be jealous.

Before Dad drove out of the gate, they had already turned around. They didn’t want to be late for afternoon rehearsal.

(click)

Sadye:
It’s August first, and we’re in the car going back to Ohio. I have been kicked out of Wildewood for buying a six-pack--but really for being opinionated.

Or disrespectful. Or not good enough. I don’t know which.

Can I just say? It is one thing to be heroic in the moment, and another to take the real consequence and go back to Brenton when everyone else gets to stay, including your new almost-boyfriend.

Mr. Paulson
(driving)
: You were coming back in eight days, anyhow. I had it on my calendar.

Sadye:
That’s not the point, Dad.

Mr. Paulson:
Sarah, why are you so down about Brenton all the time? We have a nice life there.

Sadye:
It’s fine, Dad.

Mr. Paulson:
You talk like it’s prison, when we have a yard and three bedrooms.

Sadye:
I said, it’s fine.

Mr. Paulson:
Your mother and I thought you’d be happy if you went away to this drama program; we only sent you because we thought you’d like it, and then you go making trouble.

Sadye:
I’m sorry, Dad. I know I wasted your money.

Mr. Paulson:
(keeps driving)

Sadye:
Can I go in the backseat, Dad?

Mr. Paulson:
You’re gonna climb over while I’m on the interstate?

Sadye:
Yeah, I’ll just have the seat belt off for a second.

Mr. Paulson:
Okay. But don’t kick me as you climb over. I’m going fifty-five, here.

(shuffle, bang, shuffle, bang)

Sadye:
(whispering)
Okay, I’m in the backseat. Dad just shoved a CD in the stereo and it’s
Cabaret
.

Mr. Paulson:
This has been in the car since I drove you up. It’s actually pretty good! I’ve listened to it a few times. This “Wilkommen” song is in German and French, did you know that? He’s saying “bienvenue.” That’s “welcome” in French.

Sadye:
It’s not pretty good, Dad.

Mr. Paulson:
What?

Sadye:
It’s insanely brilliant. Not pretty good.

Mr. Paulson:
Okay, okay. I just thought I’d tell you I liked it.

Sadye:
(whispering again)
I keep telling myself I did the right thing. I saved Demi and me, right? I saved us. I saved him.

Because a friendship, a real friendship, should survive all the stuff that comes at it--boyfriends and competition and different opinions and secrets. Shouldn’t it?

Demi Howard is my best friend, so it’s okay to tell a lie to keep him in school; it’s good to make a sacrifice. That’s what he would do for me.

All right. Maybe he wouldn’t.

But that’s the point, too. You can’t only do things because you know you’ll get a return on it later. You have to do them out of generosity. Be bighearted because you are, not because someone will pay you back somehow.

Anyway, it was worth it. Because we were in the worst quarrel we’d ever had--the kind where maybe you’re not friends anymore afterward--and now we’re not. Now it’s good between us and I won’t lose him.

(pause, tinny sound of Minnelli singing “Maybe This Time” on the stereo)

I think that’s the end of this tape. Bye.

(shuffle, click)

B
UT I DID
lose Demi.

Home in Brenton, I spent August lying on the couch and complaining of the heat, wishing Theo would write me like he said he would, and wondering why he’d never responded to the postcard I’d sent.

I watched the clock go around. I slept. My dad, to give him credit, bought me a big photographic history of Broadway and tried to pull me out of my funk by renting
Moulin Rouge
and corralling us into “family movie night.” But I hated watching a musical with my parents; they weren’t going to wear
Moulin Rouge
outfits with me the next day, or replay “Lady Marmalade” six times and dance around the living room, or dissect Nicole Kidman’s shoddy dancing skills, the way Demi would have done. The way Nanette, Lyle, or Iz would have done. Or even Candie.

I mean, my dad had never even heard of Nicole Kidman before he saw the movie.

I spent the fall attending Brenton High, eating lunch by myself. I went back to classes at Miss Delilah’s, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her and Mr. Trocadero I’d been expelled from Wildewood, so I stopped hanging around after class was over. I took a weekend job at a drugstore to fill the empty hours, and lived for the bursts of song that were Demi’s sloppily written e-mails and occasional photographs.

He didn’t come home until winter break, and when he got there, several inches taller and with his hair grown into a halo of fuzzy locks, he spent half the time on his cell to Lyle.

We did have our usual adventures. We put the Christmas tree ornaments into pornographic positions with each other, and my parents didn’t notice. We built a snowman that looked like Liza Minnelli until one of its arms fell off, and then we called it Lopsided Liza. We choreographed a dance number that went up and down my block in the snow, and convinced my father to trail after us with his video camera, documenting it for posterity.

But we weren’t together in the same way. Demi lived at Wildewood, soaked in theater and love. He had been in
Romeo and Juliet
(Mercutio),
Sweet Charity
(Daddy) and
Master Harold and the Boys
(Willie), just since September, and he was taking acting, theater history, and lighting design, in addition to academics and private voice instruction. He and Lyle had broken up for a week around Thanksgiving—but were back together now. He wore a watch Lyle had given him—an early Christmas present—and talked in that “we” speak, the way couples do, where there’s no reason to even ask who “we” is, because “we” is always the same two people. “We borrowed a car from this guy Fernando and drove into the city,” he’d say. Or “We found a way to get on the roof of the dance studio again. You sneak out the fourth-floor classroom window and go up the fire escape. No one ever locks it.”

He asked me about my life, but there wasn’t much to tell. It was razzle-dazzle deprived—no getting around it. “My mother decided to feature both the red and the yellow kitchen timers in the holiday catalog!” I shouted with as much excitement as I could fake. “My father’s tennis game has improved! I have a new bedspread! I got a B-minus in gym for never wearing knee-high socks!” Then I sang,

Knee-high socks are not for me,
My calves and ankles want to breathe, you see!
The knee-high socks are a fashion don’t,
They can dock me down a grade, but I just won’t . . .
Wear knee-high socks!
Oh, knee-high socks!
I tell you in my own defense,
That I shall make a stand against
Those knee-high sooooooocks!

He did laugh—he was always my best audience— but I noticed Demi didn’t talk to me much about his dreams for the future. I knew he was applying to Carnegie Mellon, NYU, and Juilliard (his first choice), because his parents discussed it when I went there for dinner. But he skirted around the subject with me, as if he were scared to ask what I wanted, now that I’d been somehow excluded from wanting what he did—because both of us knew I didn’t have it in me.

He loved me. I know he did.

And he probably always will.

But Demi doesn’t need me now, at all.

* * *