Chapter 14
FOURTEEN
Olly
Thank the theatre schedulers for their good timing. We’ve been thrust into the dress rehearsal at the exact right moment: no chance of Zeb probing me about ‘what I’m keeping from him’.
Because the top of the show is sufficiently busy enough for our group – opening number, full costume change, and then our medley performance – no one has chance to chat.
On stage, I belt out the biggest line of my minute-long solo from ‘The Music of the Night’, holding my long note on an e vowel. I’d normally splay out my hands, showing my passion, but I keep them firmly planted to my sides today. As Marty said, this needs to be a performance of restraint.
It feels stiff and wrong, like there’s a broom shoved up my back to keep my posture straight. I try to focus on painting the words as best as I can with my face, rather than demonstrating the meaning with my physicality.
That is until I hit a word ending with ‘s’, and then all 230I think about is throwing the tip of my tongue to the roof of my mouth rather than between my teeth, aiming to reduce any hiss.
I know I’m coming in and out of my performance, thinking about the effect I create rather than just telling the story like I normally would, but it has to get more natural before tonight’s performance. I can’t give myself away.
My moment in the spotlight finishes, closing out our medley, and I hold back all judgements of myself as we wait for the pitiful applause from the ten or so people out in the empty auditorium to finish.
‘Well, wasn’t that fantastic?’ Rob Harrison asks the unresponsive crowd of lighting programmers, box-office staff and Elaine, which is our cue to turn sharply and exit the stage.
There are so many things I want to criticise about my performance, but they’ll have to wait until I’ve walked off stage without mincing, keeping my arms straight and strong, making sure they don’t swing too much.
Zeb’s right behind me and turns to me once we’re in the safety of the wings. ‘What were you doing just then? Are you trying to throw the competition or something?’
‘What? No…’ I say, looking around at the next group lined up in the wings, shaking out their nervous jitters. ‘Why would you say that, Zeb?’
He looks up at me, his frowning face at severe odds with the gingham dungarees he’s wearing to play 231Theodore, a gender-switched version of Dorothy in his school’s production of The Wiz. ‘Where’s all your expression gone? It’s like a plank of wood has swapped bodies with you.’
‘You can’t say that!’ I snap, though I know exactly what has caused him to perceive my performance in that way. ‘I got a note from Marty that I’m putting into action. I think he knows what he’s talking about…’
‘Any note that pulled that performance from you was a bad note, I’m telling you.’
‘Well, I’m working on it, okay? We’ll agree to disagree,’ I say, folding my arms.
‘Or maybe we’ll just disagree…’ he says, with the savage intensity that I’ve only ever seen sent at our sworn enemies, never at me. He storms off, unbuttoning the straps of his dungarees.
How can he not get it? See it from my professional perspective? Okay, maybe I’ve not given him all the context, but to tell me I’m bad on stage hours before the final that he knows I need to shine in? That’s not the action of a good friend.
I wait until he’s come out of the quick-change booth, arm around Hugo’s shoulder and wishing him ‘break a leg’ for his medley, before heading in to change into my costume for the end of act one. Coming out, group three have finished, and Tarun’s medley has started.232
His performance of ‘Red and Black’ has come on leaps and bounds since yesterday. He fully conveys now what the words mean rather than just singing nicely. If he feels the daggers Oisín is sending through his back, Tarun isn’t affected by them at all.
Once his solo’s done, he does his best to freestyle dance at the back of Hugo’s solo of ‘Lay All Your Love On Me’.
He’s a lone sweatshirt being thrown around a tumble dryer, tossing his inhibitions away, bringing a smile to my face.
By comparison, Oisín’s taking himself far too seriously, throwing as many pirouettes as he can into a four-bar section.
Although his dancing’s not a chief reason I’m attracted to him, Tarun definitely comes across cooler for just going with the flow.
‘Nailed it,’ I whisper to Tarun as he dashes off stage, but he ignores me, running straight into the quick-change booth.
Have I upset him as well? I hope not. With Zeb gone, I feel like Brandy in the film of Cinderella we watched on Monday, wishing for someone by my side, ‘In My Own Little Corner’.
Tarun
I’m panting as I enter the curtained-off booths where we’re doing our costume changes.
My performance went 233well, but my group has a few minutes before we have to be back on stage in a different outfit.
I’m so focused on making it back on time that I didn’t even acknowledge Olly’s lovely, stupidly encouraging face congratulating me as I ran off stage.
Ripping off my waistcoat, cravat and shirt that I wear as Marius, there’s an intense focus from all the boys in my group as they get changed. I reach out to where I left my purple shirt earlier, but there’s nothing there. Shit.
‘Has anyone seen my shirt?’ I ask, trying to keep my voice calm. They all shrug in response and carry on changing. ‘Oisín?’ I ask, unable to ignore the easy leap that he’s pulling the same stunt on me that he did on Olly last year.
He rolls his eyes and shows me the tag of the shirt he’s holding which has his name scrawled on the label. ‘Not me! I don’t have time for shirt mishaps.’
Feck feck feck.
I scramble to the ground, searching for any signs of purple.
‘Hope you find it, mate,’ Hugo says, rushing off to the wings with all the other boys.
I’m by myself, stumped as to how I’m going to get myself out of this.
The lurching feeling of going up a rollercoaster and knowing you’re about to plummet downhill that precedes a panic attack is spreading from my stomach up to my throat. 234
‘Is something wrong?’ Olly asks, storming in past the curtains. I indicate to my bare torso, words failing me in my worried state.
‘Not Oisín again?’ he asks, clenching his jaw.
‘No. He’s definitely wearing his own.’
‘Okay.’
He gets straight to work in pursuit of my shirt, the image of a knight in shining armour. I’m back on the floor searching under the other boys’ chairs, becoming desperate.
‘Aha!’ Olly says, reaching behind a fold in the curtain and pulling my purple shirt off a hook on the wall. ‘Get it on!’
He throws it to me, and I pull it over my head, scrambling to get my arms in. As my head pops through, he plants a kiss on my lips.
‘Olly!’ I say, turning pink at the cheeks. ‘We’re about to miss our cue!’
He grins. ‘But we found your shirt! Had to be celebrated.’
He takes me by the hand to lead me out to the wings, where the curtained-off entrance is softly swaying, as if recently disturbed. The twinkly introduction to the song starts though, and we race into our positions, just in time to step on stage.
Throughout the song, I can’t help but keep meeting 235Olly’s eye, both of us high on the adrenaline of the drama in the wings.
We sing ‘You Will Be Found’ to each other, meaning every word of the sentimental lyrics about letting sunlight in even at the darkest times, and not being afraid to reach out and accept help.
The song ends and we’re still gazing at each other. The small applause from the team in the audience breaks our trance. I look around at the other contestants and meet Zeb’s eyes as he looks between Olly and me like he’s figuring out a particularly complicated scientific equation.
‘Hold there everyone!’ DSM Lauren shouts from the stage-left wing. ‘We’re going to get a group picture of this year’s finalists! Bunch together, give us some levels, and the photographer will get the shot!’
Olly pushes me forward to the middle row so I can be seen, and I look behind to where he stands on the back row, the tallest of all the tall people.
As we prepare for the photo, he doesn’t give his million-dollar smile and opts instead for the kind of moody glare that you’d see on the marketing for a grizzly new detective series.
‘Say cheese!’ shouts the photographer, a blur in the dark of the Stalls, and we shout it back to him, Ella on one side of me and Ewan on the other.
‘Great!’ they call out, giving us permission to all relax and congratulate each other for a successful dress rehearsal.
‘Olly? Tarun?’ calls Marty from where his head pokes 236out at the front of the stage, where he’s conducting from the orchestra pit.
Olly gives the nod that we should go over and join him, and we trot to the front and crouch down to be closer to him.
He raises an eyebrow. ‘Now boys, I’m not accusing you of anything but …
you were doing so much better Olly, fully taking on my note, until that last song when it looked like you were singing a very romantic declaration to Tarun.
Do you not rather think that defeats all the work you’d done up to that point? ’
Olly’s eyes widen. ‘I, uh, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.’
‘Good,’ Marty says, looking only at Olly. ‘Don’t throw this away for silly reasons. Okay, off you go.’
He turns back to the band under the stage, starting to give them notes. Olly hurries to his feet and I follow him.
‘Was he saying…’
‘That I gave away my sexuality because I was…’ he looks around, dropping his voice, ‘singing to you? Yes. Fucking hell, how could I be so stupid?’
The pit of my stomach caves in. All the hard work he’s put in – the care he’s given to preparing for the final was overshadowed because I allowed him to be swept up in the rush of finding my stupid missing shirt.
‘That’s a break for lunch! Everyone back in an hour!’237
I want to say sorry to Olly, but as I reach out to speak to him, Zeb takes his wrist.