The Fall Musical (16 page)

She found a single in her pocket, loaded it into the machine, selected a pack of Sun Chips, then headed back to the auditorium.

As she eyed the girls' room door, which was still shut, she ripped open the chips and popped a few into her mouth. From inside the auditorium, she could hear Mr. Levin's voice booming: “Props? PRO-O-O-OPS!”

That was her. Casey ran. “Sorry!” she called out as she pulled open the auditorium door and hurried toward the stage.

“Casey, where are the canes?” Mr. Levin demanded. “We're running the soft-shoe number,
and we're supposed to have canes today
! Right? These guys have been using umbrellas.”

Casey had to think. She had ordered four telescoping vaudeville canes, the kind that look like small wands until you tap them and they spring out to full size. “I'll get them!”

She ran backstage, where the Charlettes had formed a little sewing factory to make the “costume” for a huge beast made of garbage in one of the later scenes. “Guys, where are the canes we ordered?” she asked.

“They sent them to 763 Bayview Avenue, not 163,” Vijay said. “So they got sent back.”

“I have learned my lesson,” Charles said. “I will never allow Vijay of the Woeful Handwriting to fill out a requisition form again!”

“I called them,” Vijay said. “They said three to five business days.”

Casey stepped back onto the stage and relayed the news to Mr. Levin.

“Three to five days is what they said the first time!” Mr. Levin slapped his hand on the piano, which made a muffled
tonnnnng
. With a disgusted sigh, he turned his back and said, “Let's do it with umbrellas again.”

Casey stepped back, nodding, retracing her path, until she bumped into Charles.

“Ooh,” said Charles.

“Sorry,” said Casey.

“No, that felt good,” Charles replied. “Do it again.”

“He hates me, too,” she said, her back still to him.

“Mr. Levin?” Charles said. “He adores you. He's just a little wigged out. You would be, too, if you had to deal with Miss Diva, fend off the comely Liesl Gunderson, and go home to grade thirty-one reports on
Hamlet
.”

Casey turned. Charles was grinning impishly. No one did impish grins better than Charles. Which somehow made her even more depressed.

“Uh-oh, I think we need a change of venue,” Charles said, taking her hands and leading her back to the costume/ prop room. He shooed away the couple of Charlettes who were inside, sat her down in a puffy leatherette lounger, and shut the door. “There,” he said, kneeling beside her. “Now forget the rest of them. Let it all out, babe.”

He was reading her mind. He knew she was a mess and he was still totally on her side, and the combination undid her. She couldn't hold it together any longer. Casey took a deep, shuddering breath and gave in.

“I can't do anything right, Charles,” she said between sobs. “I can't stop eating, I can't leave the auditorium without something going wrong, and everybody's mad at me!”

“I'm not mad at you,” Charles said, handing her a tissue.

“
Yet
. You wait. I'll do something to piss you off, too. I can't help it.” Casey wiped her eyes and looked away. “I never should have said yes to this job. I'm not cut out for it. You guys picked the wrong person.”

“Oh, dear Lord, Casey, if you quit, this whole clambake will fall apart. Come to your senses, girl. Something's bothering you. Something deeper than this. Talk to Father Charles, my child.”

Casey blew her nose. “Father Charles? Am I supposed to confess something?”

“Confess, confide, whatever. I'll take it juicy or dry. Talk to me.”

Before anyone could respond to the knock, the door swung open and Dashiell poked his head in. “Oh! Sorry. Didn't mean to interrupt. You two just go ahead. I didn't see anything—”

“Come in, Dashiell,” Charles said. “What's up?”

“I was going to ask about the blue gels . . . ” He gave Casey a curious look. “Are you all right, Case?”

Casey composed herself to answer, but his confused expression just made her cry again.

“Guys, can we please—”

Now Mr. Levin was in the room. He stopped in the middle of his sentence when he saw Casey. The three deep frown lines vanished from his brow, his shoulders loosened, and he let out a sigh. “Um, I think we've all had a long day,” he said softly. “I'm calling rehearsal. We could use a break.”

“But we have so much to do!” Brianna protested, striding in from the hallway.

“We're in pretty good shape,” Mr. Levin said. “And I'm giving you all an assignment. Go home, relax, and do
not
think about
Godspell
. Then dig in tomorrow, and expect a shortish rehearsal on Friday so everyone can rest up for Brianna's party. We are nearly four weeks into rehearsals, but we have a long way to go, and I will not have the disciples hating one another.”

“Home, an excellent idea,” Charles said. The others began to file out of the auditorium. Charles turned back to Casey. “Take a hot bath, drink some hot cocoa, and call me in the morning.”

“You've changed from priest to doctor, I see,” Casey answered.

“I'm very versatile, not to mention resilient,” he told her. “And so are you. So you'll take my advice?”

Casey gave a last sniffle then smiled. “Yes, Doc. See you tomorrow.”

17

“I'LL GET IT!” BRIANNA SAID. FRESHLY SHOWERED and dressed, she ran out of her bedroom. She hoped it wasn't Casey. She couldn't deal with being alone with Casey, first thing on the night of her big Friday party. Okay, at some point she would have to deal with Casey. She was furious at herself for not having the guts to be totally open with Casey, to confront her. If there was one thing Brianna hated more than hypocrites, it was being a hypocrite.

Of course, she wasn't sure if Casey would show. It depended
which
Casey she was tonight. The shy one would be too scared to come, under the circumstances. The devious, assertive one might just be here to score some more Kyle time.

Brianna swept through the living room toward the front door to answer the bell.
One does not run through the Baronial Suite
, her dad always said,
one sweeps
. It was true. You couldn't help it, in a room with a curving staircase and grand piano, complex Persian rugs, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves stocked with hardcovers that were actually read, a hearth that roared on special occasions like tonight, and her mother's one concession to her dad's strange sense of humor, a fang-toothed collared peccary named George mounted on the mantel. It was an animal something like a boar whose presence made everyone think Brianna's dad was a mighty hunter instead of a business school professor who bought it for seventeen dollars at a run-down antiques shop in Vermont.

Through the window she could see Kyle's T-Bird parked out front, and another car that wasn't familiar. She pulled open the door to see Kyle and Jamil standing there, all washed up and fresh-looking. “Hey, Brianna!” Kyle said, stepping inside.

Nothing in his eyes, in the set of his jaw, his body language, let on that anything was wrong.

Which didn't surprise her. He
wasn't
doing anything wrong. And Brianna wanted to kick herself for it. For not making it clear to him how she felt.

“Make yourself at home,” Brianna said, trying not to sound cold.

Her mom came sweeping down the curved staircase, a diaphanous black cape flowing out behind her. Brianna could never master that move without falling on her butt. But it was no problem for Evangeline Rogere-Glaser, senior manager of the famous Krok Fund (“Because We Serve
and
Return”) and owner of the perfect sexy figure and high-cheekbone model's face, both of which had been recently enhanced—er,
rejuvenated—
with utmost surgical taste. “Well, hello, I'm Angie, Brianna's mom!” she called out, her arm extended weightlessly with a line so graceful it seemed like a sin to touch it.

Which Kyle immediately did, grabbing her hand and pumping it like a slot machine. “Kyle Taggart.”

“Hello, Mrs. Glaser,” said Jamil.

She nodded to Jamil, but her eyes were focused on guess who. “Yes . . . Brianna has told me all about you, Kyle.”

“I hope it's all lies!” bellowed Professor Glaser as he rumbled down the stairs in his usual tweed jacket, just a bit small for his expanding belly, and a tie that lay too low on his shirt like one of those helpless hanging squirrels in the Museum of Natural History.

“Me, too,” Kyle said with a grin.

“Siobhan is getting Colter ready for bed, so he won't be any trouble,” Mrs. Glaser said. “Wish we could stay, but we've got the ballet, and then the board hosts the ballerinas in the Rose Room—all those big fat board members on diets and the tiny dancers eating like hogs. Great fun.”

“I match 'em, cheese puff for cheese puff,” Mr. Glaser said, behind a theatrically cupped hand.

They swept through the foyer, swept out the door, swept into the car, and swept away down the street. As everyone waved good-bye to them, two more cars pulled up. Casey was in one of them, driven by her mom, who was dressed in what looked like medical scrubs. Brianna locked her face into a smile and waved.

“Time to party!” Kyle shouted.

From the top of the stairs, the wet, freshly combed head of Brianna's five-year-old brother, Colter, popped down between the railing supports. “Time to
poopy
!”

“Pay no attention to the boy behind that banister,” Brianna said, picking up a remote on a table just outside the living room and pointing it menacingly toward Colter, who raced upstairs with a squeal of laughter.

Then she pointed the remote at the sound system. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart politely stopped, and a Jay-Z track made the lampshades vibrate.

 

“Praying!” Reese blurted out.

Dashiell stopped praying and shook his head. He pointed to his ear.

“Sounds like . . . ” Charles said.

Licking his lips with glee, Dashiell pantomimed spooning something out of a tall container.

“Eating!” said Becky.

“Ice cream!” said Jamil.

Dashiell nodded, waved his arms, and continued the mime.
Keep going . . . guess again . . .

Casey racked her brain. The game was Charades and the topic was Broadway—anything to do with Broadway shows. The music had been turned down, the polished living room surfaces were covered with cartons of mostly eaten take-out Chinese food, Ben & Jerry's ice cream, and empty bottles that would all have to be cleaned out before the Glasers came back. George the collared peccary was wearing a bowler hat and sunglasses, and the antique grandfather clock was about to strike midnight.

She almost hadn't come. But that would have made matters worse. She would have looked guilty, and there was no reason for that. Casey
hadn't
done anything wrong. At some point she would have to talk to Brianna. If not tonight, then soon. She had to keep the channels open. It was all a misunderstanding anyway, and true friendships withstood that.

In the meantime, Casey had put on a good face. It hadn't been easy for an hour or so, and Brianna had barely looked at her. Still, Casey had actually managed to enjoy herself.

“Ben! Jerry!” shouted Lori.

“Yum! Or . . . yummy?” guessed Aisha.

“Scoop!” shouted Ethan.

“Dessert!” Corbin piped up.

“Sundae!” Kyle said.

Dashiell clapped his hands and pointed at Kyle.

“That's it!” Brianna said. “Sundae. Sundae what?”

Dashiell looked around, thinking. Suddenly he pointed to the stuffed animal on the mantel.

“Pig!” said Charles. “
When Pigs Fly
. . . on Sunday!”

“
When Pigs Fly
was Off-Broadway,” Harrison said.

“That's no
pig
,” Brianna said indignantly. “George is a collared peccary.”

“
Sunday in the Park with George
!” Casey blurted out.

“YES!” Dashiell shouted.

“Go,
Casey
!” Becky shouted.

Casey stood up to take her turn, and Kyle pretended to pass out. “I give up,” he said.

Casey felt herself blushing. She had already gone twice, and maybe her choices—
The Lieutenant of Inishmore
and
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum
—had been a little too hard.

“Well, it is kind of late . . . ” Casey suggested diplomatically.

“How about a different game?” Corbin said.

“Spin the Bottle?” Kyle suggested.

“Now you're talking,” Reese piped up.

“How about Truth or Dare?” Brianna blurted out.

Everyone fell silent, mulling it over. Casey felt Brianna's eyes on her. Casey turned to meet her glance, but Brianna looked away. “Let's do that,” Brianna said decisively.

“I know a theatrical version,” Dashiell said. “All the questions and the dares have to be related to the theater. For example, I say, ‘Aisha, what is your deepest fear about doing
Godspell
?' And you either tell the truth or you have to do whatever I dare you to do. Like put a piece of ice down Ethan's back, or kiss George.”

“Don't you dare,” Aisha said.

“Hostess goes first?” Brianna said sweetly.

“Sure,” Dashiell replied. “Now let's form a circle . . . ”