Chapter 1 #3
‘Les Misérables… I’m nominated for Marius, but I was one of the students for most of the performances,’ he says, relaxing a bit, and letting me hear his Northern Irish accent.
‘Oh fantastic! SUCH a great show – people overlook how much of a masterpiece it is because it’s a long runner.’
He nods slowly. ‘Yeah … it has good songs.’
‘Have you heard the cut song for Cosette? “I Saw Him Once”?’ I ask, excitement bubbling at exchanging the cultural nuggets I get to at the Larrys, but he looks blankly at me.
‘No…’
‘Oh! Well you should give it a listen, it’s beautiful!’
‘Yeah … I will,’ he says, still looking uncomfortable, unlike everyone else who has greeted me like an old friend.
‘What was the first show you were ever in? Mine was Seussical when I was three!’ I say, trying to open him up a bit.
‘Were you Horton the Elephant?’ asks a voice behind me. I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
‘No, Oisín. I was Yertle the Turtle…’ I say through a 17plastered-on smile as I’m reunited with my arch-nemesis: the too perfectly handsome boy who slithered his way into my life with his charming demeanour and then sabotaged me at last year’s awards.
‘I see you’ve met my Les Mis castmate,’ he says, matching my smile, but it’s not reaching his soulless eyes. I look between him and Tarun, surprised that this quiet, distant boy could be any sort of mate of Oisín ‘Evil Eyes’ McIlhenny.
But I can’t lose my focus now. I pull my shoulders back, take a deep breath and prepare to give the performance of my career: one that will prove to Oisín that he can’t get into my head like last time.
This year, the show must go on.
Tarun
The giant boy with swept-up, sandy-brown hair and a tanned white face looks crazed as he smiles broadly at Oisín, the two of them seeming to be in a war for who can smile the most at the other.
‘I was just introducing myself,’ Olly says. ‘You’re from the same am-dram? How long have you been doing shows together?’
I’ve always called it ‘Performing Arts Club’, but I nod 18because that’s what both Oisín and this Olly – who I remember now messaged me – are calling it. I never got back to him, after typing Hi a hundred different ways and then hating them all and deleting my message draft.
‘Tarun joined the Foyle Players for The Sound of Music last year,’ Oisín answers, thankfully not bringing up that I played a pretty non-Aryan member of the Nazi Party. ‘And then he was my understudy for Les Mis.’
‘I was just ensemble most of the time…’
Olly gasps, dramatically putting a hand up to his chest. ‘There’s no such thing as “just ensemble”! They’re the most important part of a company.’
From his response, you’d think I’d said something awful like … pineapple belongs on pizza. ‘I … I didn’t mean anything – just that I wasn’t front and centre.’
‘Until I got sick, and Tarun stepped in as Marius for opening night,’ Oisín says, putting his arm around my shoulder and causing a whole new set of butterflies in my belly.
‘Oh, how cool!’ says Olly in his broad Yorkshire accent with the enthusiasm of the eager-to-please St Bernard that charges around the corner shop back home. ‘You’re a real-life Peggy Sawyer!’
‘A what?’ I ask before I can pretend to know what the hell he’s talking about. Olly’s eyes flash to Oisín, I think for back up.19
‘You know? From 42nd Street? She goes out an understudy and comes back a star!’
Oh feck – another reference that I have no idea about… I don’t want to panic… I don’t want to be scared… But from the way this over-exuberant, second-time finalist drops musical-theatre titbits, it’s clear that I’m out of my depth. These guys know way more than the few musicals I know and like.
‘He certainly did that,’ Oisín says, letting go of his hold on me. ‘Talk of the town was how good he was! And how much star quality he had.’
‘Star quality!’ Olly sings at the top of his lungs, making me want to hide behind my hands as people look our way. It’s like he’s trying to deliberately expose what a newbie I am.
He’s constantly ‘on’, which would be easier to get away with if he didn’t take up so much space.
It’s not just that he looms half a foot above me – he’s broad and stocky as well, like the rugby players I used to do my best not to drool over when Dad had matches on the TV on a Sunday afternoon.
He fills the entire rehearsal studio when he uses his hands with every point he makes, clearly even more comfortable being visibly gay than Oisín is. It’s a lot.
‘Thought I’d better come check out what’s got you singing Evita this early on a Monday morning, Ol,’ says a short Scottish boy with deep-brown skin, edging his way 20into our circle and double taking when he spots Oisín opposite me. ‘Hello, Oisín…’
‘Zeb…’ says Oisín with the same fixed smile he had when he first saw Olly. ‘Was just introducing Olly to my mate from home, Tarun McCarthy.’
‘Oh it’s … it’s Tarun Attri now,’ I say, the name still feeling new on my tongue. Taking Mum’s name after the divorce felt like the right thing to do, but getting anyone back home to shake the habit of saying my dad’s surname from the Irish half of my family isn’t proving easy.
‘Nice to meet you, Tarun Attri,’ Zeb says, putting enough emphasis on my surname like he’s making a point to Oisín. ‘How you both doing?’
‘All grand cheers,’ Oisín says, answering on behalf of both of us. ‘I’m glad to be back.’
‘Us too,’ says Zeb, linking arms with Olly. ‘Hoping there’ll be fewer theatrics this year, what with you and Olly focusing on getting into drama school…’
Olly’s face is so expressive that it’s easy to read that he’s keen to hear Oisín’s response. ‘Aye, for sure! There’s no need for last year to interfere with us doing our best.’
I’m in the dark about what any of them are talking about, but Olly seems to relax. ‘Good… Sorry, Tarun, we’re being as veiled as a bunch of people who know the cast list for the next big MT opening but refuse to tell you!’
‘MT?’ What does that even mean?21
‘Musical Theatre,’ say Olly, Zeb and Oisín in unison, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
‘Oh.’ I fold my arms, scolding myself for how little I know. ‘No worries…’
But really, lots of worries. I’ve come because I like the musicals I’ve been in, and people said I was good in Les Mis.
But this veteran, who’s been doing shows since he was three, is making it obvious I am completely in over my head.
I don’t belong here, and it’s only going to be a matter of time until people find out what an imposter I am.
The room has now filled with loud, confident teens, each one speaking over the one next to them, and it’s becoming clear that I’m the boy from the reserve list with no clue what he’s in for.
The chaperone who checked me in downstairs comes to stand in the doorway and claps loudly three times, turning the overwhelming chatter into complete silence as all eyes turn to her.
‘God, I love the discipline of you kids…’ she says with a shake of her head. ‘Everyone’s here, so leave your bags and head on into Studio Three so we can get rehearsals started!’
The noise starts back up straight away, conversation and singing filling the room as bags are left behind in excitement for the next stage of the competition.22
‘What happened last year with you and Olly?’ I can’t help but ask Oisín once Olly and Zeb have skipped out of earshot.
Oisín turns his head sharply, surprised I’m still next to him it seems and takes a moment to word his answer. ‘Don’t worry about it. Olly … told me he had a crush on me, and it was awkward when I turned him down.’
‘Oh,’ I say, surprised Oisín would turn down someone so clearly comfortable in this theatre world when he was at least willing to kiss me. It would be calming if he’d acknowledge that soon.
‘Shall we get going?’ Oisín says, taking in the nearly empty studio. My stomach flips a few times over once again, but with much less excitement and a lot more nerves than when I was with Mum. I check my guitar’s safely resting on top of my bag before turning to him.
‘Sure,’ I say, despite the fact I’m deeply unsure about heading into the next stages of the competition.
There’s no way I’m good enough, knowledgeable enough, ready enough for The Larry Awards to begin.