Jack & Louisa: Act 1 (5 page)

–LOUISA–

Thump. Thump. Tha-thump. Tha-thump-thump.
Another thing about the universe: It has a wicked sense of humor. Here it was, my first Saturday morning since school started, and not only was I up at 8:30 a.m.—
8:30 a.m.!
—but the reason I was up was Jack Goodrich. Jack was kicking a soccer ball against his garage door, over and over and
over
again. It didn’t matter that he lived two houses down from us. The unfortunate position of my bedroom window made it seem as though he was kicking the ball inside my room.
Tha-thump.
I lay in bed waiting for one of his parents—heck,
anyone—
to tell him to stop—that maybe he should pursue a quieter hobby, like chess, or scuba diving. That he was disturbing the neighbors—
one neighbor in particular
.
But I was not to be satisfied; no one said a word. Apparently I was the only one in our subdivision who liked to sleep in on weekends.

Truthfully, I was less troubled about not getting my ten hours of uninterrupted slumber than I was about Jack’s behavior during the past week. While I no longer felt as if I needed to avoid him (thankfully, since we had the same class schedule), I also felt like I couldn’t really talk to him (since he had chosen to deny everything about himself). Our cafeteria conversation on the first day of school was the last exchange we’d had, punctuated in not-so-subtle fashion by his signing up for soccer-team tryouts.

After that, I’d spent the rest of the week watching him impressively dodge questions from our other classmates. Tanner asked him what kind of music he listened to, and he said Green Day and Duncan Sheik.
I
knew that was code for
American Idiot
(a musical adapted from Green Day’s concept album) and
Spring Awakening
(score by Duncan Sheik), but obviously Tanner wasn’t going to make that connection. All he’d said was “Green Day? That’s so old school.” Jack had replied, “I guess,” then sighed with what I perceived to be relief as Tanner turned his attention to hassling Isabelle Montstream for Sour Patch Kids.

Of course I couldn’t observe Jack without Jenny noticing.

She had happily mistaken my Jack-fixation for love, and proceeded to have a little too much fun teasing me about my “new crush.”

“‘I mean, he
is
cute, but that is completely different from me
thinking
he’s cute,’” she’d whispered to me during science class on Wednesday, quoting what I’d said weeks earlier in the privacy of her bedroom.

“Shhh!” I’d hissed.

“
She’s a small-town girl; he’s from the big city,”
she cooed breathlessly.
“Will they overcome their differences and find true love in each other’s arms?
”

Jenny liked to turn unremarkable moments into commercials for made-for-TV movies. Most of the time, they made me laugh. When they were about my love life, they made me squirm.

“Gross! Stop it!”

Admittedly, I
had
been staring at Jack a little too long, but it had nothing to do with love. I knew there was more to his story than he was letting on, thanks to a productive Google search I’d made the night before: “Jack Goodrich Broadway.” While the links I’d clicked on didn’t fill in all the details, I’d unearthed enough information about him to suspect that being the new kid wasn’t the only thing making his transition into Shaker Heights difficult. But because he had practically begged me not to talk about his life in New York, I didn’t know how to approach him.

Whatever. Jack’s unrelenting soccer practice at eight thirty on a Saturday morning made me feel a lot less curious, and certainly less sympathetic toward him. That stupid soccer ball! And its repetitive
thump-thump-tha-thump
against his garage door! I rolled over in bed and reached for my iPod then scrolled until I found “Forget About the Boy” from
Thoroughly Modern Millie
and channeled my frustration through the lyrics:

“Pull the plug,

Ain’t he the one

Who pulled the rug?”

I must have been singing along louder than I thought because all of a sudden I heard my mom calling from downstairs.

“Lou? Are you
up
?”

“Sort of.”

“Wow. It’s early for you,” she called, stating the obvious.

“I
know.
”

“Well, come down to the kitchen when you’re
up
up. There’s something I think you should see.”

• • •

Dad was sitting at the kitchen counter holding the Arts section of
Sun Press
as I shuffled in, a small smile curling the edges of his mouth. Mom had a similar look as she poured herself a cup of coffee.

“What should I see?” I asked.

Dad handed me the Arts section, folded back on itself to reveal a story about the expansion of a local pottery studio, movie times, an advertisement for ballroom dancing classes . . . and an announcement for the Shaker Heights Community Players production of
Into the Woods
. I looked at my parents.

“I thought . . . I thought they were doing
Chess
,” I stammered.

“Looks like there’s been a change of plans,” Mom said, sipping her coffee. I looked back at the newspaper ad in disbelief. Auditions were going to be held on September fifteenth. Six days from now. Rehearsals would start September twentieth. Opening night: November first. I think I stopped breathing for a few seconds.

“You okay, Lou?” my dad asked.

I took a gulp of air.

“Do you think I have a chance?” I whispered.

“Why not?” Mom said, reaching into the pantry for a box of pancake mix. “I’m sure you know that part better than anyone in town.”

“But Little Red is usually played by a grown-up,” I said, suddenly doubtful.

“So go prove to them that she can be played by a real kid,” urged Dad. “Leave Cinderella and Rapunzel and the rest of the parts to the adults.”

“Doug, I’m so proud of you!” Mom gushed. “You’ve been paying attention!”

“Well, Hannah, when one is forced to listen to
Into the Woods
as much as I am, one can’t help but retain—”

“Still, honey, I’m impressed . . .”

“Glad I can still impress you after all these years . . .”

Their words overlapped and fell away as I pictured myself in a cape and holding a basket, skipping across a stage and delivering lines with a perfect blend of pluckiness and sarcasm.

I felt tingly. Here was a chance—a real chance at living a dream. A calendar of the week leading up to Friday’s audition began to map itself out in my mind. Today would be all about familiarizing myself with Little Red’s songs (like I didn’t know them by heart, but still—I wasn’t going to take
anything
for granted). Tomorrow I would try to squeeze in an appointment with my voice teacher, Maureen, who would help me identify the right places in the music to breathe, as well as the best way to support my sound while also making sure my diction was sharp.

According to the newspaper ad, the audition sides were already posted on the Players’ website, so on Monday I would start working on Little Red’s scenes with Jenny, who always liked to help me prepare. She had terrible stage fright when it came to speaking in front of people, but alone with me, she was a real ham. I could already hear her reading the part of the Wolf. Tuesday through Thursday would be a repeat of Saturday through Monday. I was an unstoppable force; the role would be
mine
. Total
Into the Woods
immersion would begin in three . . . two . . .

THA-THUMP!
I was snapped out of my concentration. Had that stupid soccer ball gotten
heavier
?

And suddenly, just as clearly as I’d pictured myself wearing a red cape, I now pictured Jack—my Broadway-star-in-hiding-neighbor Jack—holding magic beans, growing a beanstalk, and singing about giants in the sky.
Ugh
. He would be
perfect
as Jack, their shared name a mere coincidence. But destiny was being challenged by a soccer ball. And I was instantly annoyed.

“Why the frown?” Mom asked, once again reminding me that I had the worst poker face.

Why the frown?
Tha-THUMP
. That’s why.

“Uh . . . Nothing. This is great. I’m going to practice all weekend.” I grabbed the Arts section, turned from the kitchen counter, and started marching down the hallway toward the front door, a conversation forming in my head.

“Should I just put the
Into the Woods
soundtrack on a loop?” Dad joked.

“It’s a
cast recording
, and
yes
,” I said, sliding on my flip-flops and opening the door.

“Where are you going? I’m making magic get-the-part pancakes!” Mom called after me.

“I’ll be back in a couple minutes. I just have to talk to Jack.”

“Who’s Jack?”

“Our neighbor!” I called over my shoulder. As I stepped off our front stoop, I heard Mom say to Dad, slightly bewildered, “I didn’t realize she’d met him.” It was probably time to fill them in. Right now, however, I had something that demanded immediate attention.

• • •

Jack’s hair was plastered to his forehead; he was a sweaty mess. From his driveway, he saw me approaching, and rather than pick up the soccer ball and say hello, he kicked it into the garage door extra hard, as if to make a point.
Tha-thump.

I waved the newspaper in the air.

“Did you see this?” I called to him, my flip-flops sliding on the wet grass. This neighborhood was fanatical about their sprinklers.

Jack squinted at me. “What is it?”

His delivery of the question was so casual that I was instantly suspicious.

“Are you pretending not to know, or do you really not know?” What had gotten into me? I was feeling so feisty.

As I stepped onto his driveway, Jack finally stopped the soccer ball with his foot and sighed, exasperated. “
Into the Woods
?”

“Ha-
ha
!” I exclaimed. “I knew you’d seen it.”

“So what? It’s not like I’m going to audition for it.”

Jack rolled the soccer ball over the top of his foot and flicked it toward his chest, bumping it back into his hands. Unimpressed, I continued my campaign.

“C’mon, why not? You don’t want to play Jack? It’s an amazing role!”

Jack’s nostrils flared, defiant.

“
No.
I don’t.”

“You know you’d get the part. Once they see
Broadway
on your résumé, you probably won’t even have to audition.” (That last part wasn’t true, but I was certain he’d get cast—Amy Judd had grown out her hair and gained about fifteen pounds since playing Winthrop last year.)

“I don’t care,” Jack said.

“Tell me you don’t want to sing ‘Giants in the Sky.’”

At the mention of the song, I thought I saw a hint of interest flicker across Jack’s face, but then he scrunched up his mouth and inhaled sharply through his nose.

“I don’t want to sing ‘Giants in the Sky.’”

“It’s a really great song.”

Jack dropped the soccer ball, stopped it with his foot, and looked me squarely in the eye.

“Louisa, nothing you say is going to change my mind. I have no interest in auditioning for
Into the Woods
.”

I stared back at him, equally stubborn.

“I don’t believe you,” I said. I had never been so courageous in a conversation.

“What do you mean, you
don’t believe me
?” Jack said, smirking. “You hardly know me.”

Without thinking, I blurted out, “I know you were supposed to play the lead in
The Big Apple
.
You should be rehearsing for it in New York right now.”

Tha-thump.
You would have thought I’d kicked the soccer ball directly into Jack’s chest. His face went pale. I sensed immediately that I had said a terrible thing.

“Sorry,” I murmured. I had not meant to be hurtful. Unsure of what to say next, I looked down at the driveway, as if I might find the right words written across its surface. All I saw was an expanse of licorice-black asphalt glaring angrily in the hot sun.

“It’s just . . . I looked you up online,” I said, hastily, “because you were . . . You didn’t want to talk about your life in New York . . . and I was curious, so . . . Sorry.”

I looked up to see Jack’s eyes glistening. Were those
tears
?

What kind of monster was I?

Clearly the kind of monster who was really good at destroying chances for friendship. The Arts section of
Sun Press
felt like a dumbbell in my hand, heavy with shame.

It seemed like an eternity before Jack spoke.

“If you knew the reason why I’m not in rehearsals for
The Big Apple
,” he said carefully, his jaw tight, “then you would know why I can’t—why I’m
not
going to audition for
Into the Woods
.”

He picked up the soccer ball once more and stared at me in a way that I knew the conversation was over.

One thing about being an actor: You have to know when it’s your cue to exit the scene.

“Okay, never mind,” I said, wondering how I could ever repair the apparent damage I’d done. “Sorry to bother you.”

I turned and walked back to my house, hating myself not only for upsetting him, but for being more curious about Jack Goodrich than ever.

–JACK–

It was mid-July and the end of our first week of rehearsals for
The Big Apple
. The cast had gathered in the large studio to read through the entire show. In addition to the creative team, two rows of chairs had been assembled for the producers—suit-wearing men and high-heeled ladies, chatting and checking their cell phones. The yakking began to subside as a melody tinkled on the piano. The musical began with my character singing in a spotlight, a single voice cutting through the babbling of a crowded subway platform. Our music director nodded. I took a deep breath and began.

“One song. One song worth singing. One voice, like a bell that needs ringing.”
The room was quiet as a museum, all eyes staring directly at me.

“One song, and I sing it for youuuuu.”
My throat tightened as the note came out strained. “
One song
,” I soldiered on, “
all you need to break through.
”

As the show continued, I only got worse. Passages that had never tripped me up suddenly twisted in my throat. I struggled to hit my high notes and could feel my voice getting weaker with every number.
As the finale came to a close, I could tell there was a shift in the room. The producers began chatting, this time in low whispers. The director huddled next to the composer and lyricist and pointed aggressively to places in the score. Worst of all, my cast,
my new family
, who just days earlier talked and laughed with me on breaks, now avoided my eye contact, quickly packing up their rehearsal bags and hurrying out of the room.

• • •

Much had changed at Shaker Heights Middle School since my run-in with Louisa in front of my garage. I no longer had to worry about her blabbing my secret to the entire school. In fact, her whole demeanor seemed to have changed overnight. Her feistiness and sarcasm turned into sympathy; she became almost apologetic with every little interaction we had. I’d finally gotten what I’d been praying for—someone to feel as sorry for me as I had been feeling for myself. It was incredibly sweet. It was also driving me insane.

When I took a seat in homeroom, I spied her from across the room giving me an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up.
What for?
I wondered.
Remembering where my assigned seat is?
In science I caught her gazing at me during Mr. Buckshaw’s lecture on magnets, a sad look on her face. In Spanish class she sat two chairs in front of me. When Señora DeGuzman asked the class “¿
Cómo se dice
 . . . an apple?” Louisa immediately snapped her head back, her wide eyes seeming to apologize on Señora’s behalf for bringing up anything
Big Apple
related.
You must be joking
, I thought, raising my hand.

“Señor Goodrich.”

“
Manzana
,” I answered, rolling my eyes.

After class I decided to nab her in the hallway.

“Louisa, we gotta talk.”

“Is this about what happened in music class when Mrs. Wagner brought up
singing
, because my heart went out to you.
Too soon
, I know, but she didn’t know that you’re in a delicate place right n—”

“No, look,” I cut her off forcefully. “I know you’re being sensitive and feeling sorry for me, and that’s awesome, but I’ll be honest, it’s driving me crazy.”

“Oh.” She looked slightly offended.

“Look, here’s the story.” I paused, deciding to be totally straight with her. “I got fired from that show
The Big Apple
. My voice started changing, and it was really embarrassing.”

“Omigosh, Jack,” Louisa said softly, her eyes becoming glassy.

“Yeah, no, I mean, it’s fine.” I suddenly felt like
I
was the one who needed to do the comforting. “I’m okay,” I said, brushing it off. “It’s just, I’m not really looking for a pity party or anything.”

“Okay, yeah, I totally understand. I’m so sorry.”

“No. It’s cool.”

We stood there for a moment. The sound of slamming lockers filled a very long, uncomfortable pause.

“You know what you need to do, Jack?” she said, suddenly seized with excitement. “What would make you feel better? You need to audition for
Into the Woods
!”

“No, Louisa. That’s not a good idea—”

“Yes! The best thing you can do is get back on the horse!” she said, grabbing my arm.

“
No, Louisa.
I told you, it’s not gonna happen. Besides, soccer tryouts are the same day, and I really want to make the team.”

A bell rang, signaling we were late for class.

“Okay, whatever,” she said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and whizzing past me. “Hurry up, slowpoke, we’re going to be late.”

As I chased her down the hallway, I grew thankful that Louisa’s bleeding-heart friend act was over, but as the school day continued, I realized I’d ignored the very first lesson of
Into the Woods
: “Be careful what you wish for.”

It started in the computer lab. Our teacher, Ms. Stark, was leading the class in a typing lesson.

“You have ten minutes to finish your exercise,” Ms. Stark said, plopping down at her desk.

Piece of cake
,
I thought, swiftly tapping away at the keys like a concert pianist. Even though I was only twelve, I considered myself pretty computer savvy. In the past month I’d redesigned my mom’s food blog,
Tale as Old as Thyme
,
and scanned my dad’s vintage map collection to his hard drive. Finishing my lesson early, I slyly shifted my gaze to Ms. Stark, who at the moment seemed occupied, uncoiling a tangled mess of cords. I discreetly minimized the typing screen and clicked on a web browser. As my email page loaded, I immediately noticed a new message from someone named [email protected] with a link and two words: “for you.”

I clicked on the link. “There Are Giants in the Sky!” blasted from my computer, causing me to jump in my seat. I began fake coughing and scrambling to
x
out of the window just as Ms. Stark peeked up from her wire nest. “You all right, Jack?”

“Yeah, fine,” I wheezed. “Allergies.” I patted my chest with my fist. The video I’d opened must have been from the Broadway-recorded video of
Into the Woods
. There was only one person this could have come from . . . I looked across the room at Louisa. She sat hunched over, banging on her keyboard, seemingly oblivious to the eruption of Sondheim.

Tuesday brought another surprise, this time in math class. Early in the hour I excused myself to go to the bathroom. When I got back, our teacher, Mr. Breslin, asked us to open our textbooks to Chapter 3: Percentages. I unzipped my backpack and found a strange binder I’d never seen before. I pulled it out, flipped open the cover, and immediately rolled my eyes. The first page read clearly,
INTO THE WOODS: Libretto
(which is just a fancy word meaning
script
). I looked over my shoulder at Louisa, sitting two rows behind me. Head dropped, she was scrutinizing a math problem. Refusing to give her the satisfaction of a successful heist, I slipped the script back into my bag.

The hint-dropping continued for the rest of the week. Wednesday was met with a downpour of Facebook messages and wall posts containing pictures and articles about Stephen Sondheim. Thursday, my locker had been crammed with little pieces of paper, each bearing a different quote from the show. While I was pretty sure this girl was clinically insane, I couldn’t help but be a
little
impressed by her enthusiasm and knowledge of theater.

Finally, it was the day of soccer tryouts. It was also the day of the
Into the Woods
auditions. Soon enough I’d be a part of a club, and Louisa would have no choice but to give up her crusade. I opened my locker cautiously, half expecting tree branches to fall out. Nothing. I walked into homeroom and immediately checked under my desk. No audition flyers or sheet music. As the day progressed, I began wondering if Louisa had actually called it quits. Without the anticipation of her next move, morning classes seemed to drag on forever. Finally the lunch bell rang, and I hurried to the cafeteria. I pushed through the doorway with the other kids but was intercepted.

“
Jack, Jack, Jack. Head in a sack
,” Louisa said, leaping up from a nearby lunch table.

“What is it now?” I said, crossing my arms, secretly amused. “Do you have some magic beans you plan on sneaking into my lunch bag or something?”

“I do not.” She frowned. “They were sold out at the Stop & Shop, but I
am
glad you’ve noticed. For a while, I was beginning to think you hadn’t been getting my little messages.”

“How could I have missed your messages? You wrote in chalk on our driveway:
Check your Facebook!
”

“Yeah, that may have been too much.”

“Well, spill it,” I demanded. “I need to go talk to the guys and see what to expect at tryouts this evening.”

“You’re seriously still going through with the soccer tryouts?” She groaned. “Jack, you’re not like them.”

“Wow, thanks for the encouragement—”

“No, I mean,
you’re not like them
. You’re special,” she said, tilting her head. “You got cast in a Broadway show! What are the chances of that, like, one in a million? A lot of people must have really believed in you. You’re seriously going to trade that to be just another jersey on a field?”

I opened my mouth to respond, but she cut me off. “Look. I know you said you want to see if there’s something else that will make you happy, but do you really think it’s going to come from lying about who you really are?” She was relentless. “If you’re looking for a group of people who are
actually
cool and will understand you and aren’t going to judge you for nerding out about rare cast albums or shaky bootlegs of
Rent
, you’re not gonna find them on the field. You’re going to find them with the Players.

“Here,” she said, handing me a packet of paper. “It’s the audition scene. I already highlighted your lines, and I printed off directions for your parents.” I took the papers from her. She’d highlighted my lines in green.

I could tell she was a desperate. “Well, thanks, I guess . . . ,” I said, looking down at the sides. A wave of nerves and excitement rumbled in my stomach, just like it always did before an audition or first rehearsal. The last time I felt it was in July, meeting my cast for the first time and feeling (stupidly) like I was a member of a new family.

“But there’s another reason I can’t audition for your show,” I said, swallowing hard. “I don’t think I want to perform anymore.”

A look of total disappointment washed over her face.

“Getting fired from a show kinda put things in perspective, if you know what I mean. Like, when I first started doing musicals it was all about playing and having fun, but during
The Big Apple
I was suddenly scared to go to work. I’d stay up all night staring at the ceiling, wondering if tomorrow would be the day they’d tell me not to come back.” As the words came out of my mouth, I realized these were things I’d never shared with anyone. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much time you’ve spent learning your lines or how hard you’re trying to make everyone like you. If your best isn’t good enough, they can always find someone to replace you.”

Louisa stood there in stunned silence.

“And honestly, I don’t even know if I can sing anymore,” I mumbled. “So while I appreciate all your enthusiasm and everything, I just want . . . I
need
to find something else I’m good at.”

I looked into her eyes. Her face bore a familiar look. It was the same one I’d gotten when I told her I was in
Mary Poppins
and then again when I performed the letters in “Supercal.”

“Okay,” she said finally. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

“Yeah.” I shrugged.

“Well, at least do me a favor.”

Oh no
,
I thought, bracing for a ridiculous request.

“At soccer tryouts,” she mumbled, “try to kick some butt.”

• • •

The rest of the day flew by. Before I knew it, I was cramming my textbooks into my locker and grabbing my duffel bag packed with soccer shorts, a jersey, a set of shiny white shin guards, and a pair of black cleats. It felt weird staying at school while the rest of the kids were hopping on the bus or piling in with their car pools. The parking lot had pretty much emptied out by the time I walked from the back entrance to the soccer field. As I got closer, I spied a dark green minivan parked by the fence with unmistakable New York State plates. I approached the car and knocked gently on the driver’s window.

“Dad, what are you doing here?” I said through the glass.

“Oh hey, Jack Sprat!” my dad said, enthusiastically rolling down his window.

“You know the tryouts aren’t over till five thirty, right?”

“Yeah, I know.” He nodded. “But your mom said that she might have forgotten to pack your water bottle, so I drove over to bring you one just in case.”

I looked down at my duffel bag, the outline of a bottle clearly visible against the nylon fabric.

“Nope, she definitely packed it.” I smiled.

“Huh.” My dad shrugged. “Well, just in case you need a second one I’ve got it in the back.” He began fidgeting with his seatbelt. “I know how sometimes you get thirsty and—”

“Dad,” I cut him off. “It’s okay if you just wanted to come and watch.”

“Oh!” he said after a short silence. “Well, that might be nice. But I know you sometimes get weird about performing in front of us, so if it’s all right with you, I can just watch from the car.”

“Sure, Dad.” I smiled. “That would be fine.”

I looked over to the field, where a man was making his way to the guys trying out for soccer. I recognized him as Coach Wilson, the man in the tracksuit pushing the projector in the cafeteria on the first day of school.

“Okay, I should probably go,” I said. “I’ll see you at five thirty.”

“Break a leg, Jack Sprat!” my dad called as I jogged toward the field.

The closer I got, the bigger and scarier the guys seemed to appear. They were stretching and lacing up their cleats with grunts and growls of effortless masculinity.
Break a leg
, I repeated in my head. That expression never seemed like a threat until now.