Chapter Twenty-Three
On Monday, Mr. Roland stands in front of thecast and crew.
“It took some time,” he says, “but I figured out the problem with this musical. And luckily for all of you, I know exactly how to fix it.” He grins like he’s cooking up an equally devious and genius plan.
No one speaks. They all wait to hear the issue and the solution. I, however, have a feeling the problem is me and my lack of musical theater experience. When Mr. Roland looks at me, I get confirmation. Simultaneously, everyone turns to me.
I’m used to this by now. This morning, my walk through the hallway involved the same dose of attention. Eyes shifted to me and Davi as we walked side by side. News of our date had gotten out, and I suspect by means of Esosa.
On Saturday night, after my date, shortly before Auntie Sara picked us up, Esosa squealed when she heard how things went.
“Only two weeks into the school year and you’ve already gone on a date with one of the hottest guys in school.” She beamed with pride. “He’ll probably ask you to be his girlfriend any day now. Then you’ll join the cheerleading squad, and you guys will be a power couple.” She sighed, starry-eyed. “It’s the American teenage dream.”
“Oh my gosh. Yeah,” Bethany added. “You should join the cheer squad.”
“No. Absolutely not,” I said.
I wonder, though, if that’s still a thing—the romantic pairing of a jock and a cheerleader. I’ve seen it enough in the movies, but I choose not to fixate on that cliché. Davi hasn’t asked me to be his girlfriend yet. He probably wants to take things slow. I can respect that, but if he had asked me to be his girlfriend on Saturday night while we sat on Bayer’s Cliff swapping milkshakes, I would have said yes.
But whether we are officially a couple or not, going on a date with Davi Santiago, a.k.a. Mr. Popular, has put a spotlight on me. Though when I mentioned this to him earlier today, he strongly disagreed and handed me a copy of the school’s biweekly newspaper. The first thing I did when I looked at it was gasp. Then I wanted to cry strictly out of terror because, to my utter surprise, my face was on the front cover.
“Looks like you’re famous.” Davi chuckled. “First you go viral and now you make the front page of the school paper. I think it’s safe to say I’m getting all this attention today because of you.”
I gawked at the newspaper, mortified. When Sybil asked to write a story about me, I thought it would be a small article on the last page. I never, ever expected my face in print with the headline COMING TO AMERICA. Clever? Yes. Fitting? Absolutely. But why? Why? Why? Why? The article talked about my move to America, my audition, and the viral video. It’s a well-written article. Sybil is both a talented photographer and writer. But again, why?
“Enore,” Mr. Roland says now. “Are you with us?” He squints, leans forward, and examines me. “You seem a little spacy.”
“Um… I’m fine.” The tepid smile on my face is likely telling a different story.
“Right.” He taps his chin slowly, a gesture he does too often. “Anyway, the issue with this musical, as I was saying, is—”
“Me! It’s me!” I finish his sentence before he has the chance to. It’s better this way. If I’m the one calling out my shortcomings, it’s less embarrassing.
“You?” Mr. Roland presses a hand to his chest and laughs. “Honey, no. My goodness, you’re the solution.”
“Huh?” I tilt my head, so his words go in from another angle.
“Well, as I was saying before you interrupted, the issue with this musical is that it’s boring. We all know the Cinderella story; we know how it begins and ends. It’s a classic and a goodie and always a crowd-pleaser. With our original script, the story is fresh—modern. But it could be better… so much better. Enough to really wow the crowd.” He arches his eyebrow. “That’s where you come in, Enore.”
“Me?” I gesture to myself for confirmation.
“Yes, you.” With his hands behind his back, he strolls toward me. Cheryl follows him with a clipboard. “I read the school newspaper today. Well, it was especially hard to miss with your face on it.”
I cringe.
“An interesting article. ‘Coming to America.’ It was…” He looks up at a spot in the air and stares at it for a long while. “Inspiring,” he says finally. “It certainly sparked some ideas.”
“Ideas?” I ask, then glance at Cole, who shrugs, equally clueless.
“I spent the day rewriting parts of our original script—making it even more original. Now, here’s what’s going to happen. This play is going to focus on you, Enore.”
“Um… but didn’t it always?” Cole says, echoing my confusion and likely everyone else’s. “She’s Cassandra—the star of the play.”
“Yes. But now it’s going to reflect her reality—a life-imitating-art situation,” Mr. Roland explains. “Cassandra, a recent orphan, moves to America from Nigeria to live with her aunt and cousins. We infuse culture and diversity into this version. I can see it now.” He stares into space again; his eyes are wide and dreamy. After blinking sharply and shaking his head, he turns to me. “Of course, Enore, I would need your help to incorporate the Nigerian culture into the script. Is this something you’ll be up for?” He watches me closely, and I’m not really sure what to say.
The concept is interesting. In every teen movie I’ve watched, people of color were eliminated or reduced to secondary or background characters and sometimes caricatures. But here I am, not only a Black girl but a Nigerian immigrant, starring in the school play with the chance for my culture to play an equal part in the lead.
I smile and nod. “I think it’s a cool idea. I’d love to help you.”
“Oh, wonderful.” He sighs, relieved. “Now, for the new script. It isn’t finished quite yet. So let’s take today off and meet tomorrow. Enore and I will take today’s rehearsal time to go through the script and incorporate parts of the Nigerian culture. Sounds good?” He frowns and looks around, daring an objection. When none comes, not even from a very displeased Ara, he turns to me. “Shall we get started, then?”
I nod, and the rest of the cast and crew leave the auditorium.
It’s certainly strange, sitting beside Mr. Roland and having him ask about my culture—the food, the clothes, the customs. It’s not a position I ever thought I would be in.
Thirty minutes into what I call a culture consultation, I squint as a thought occurs to me. “Um… Mr. Roland, I was wondering…”
He stops typing on his laptop and turns to me. “Yes?”
“It’s about my character. She just emigrated from Nigeria, so I’m guessing she’ll have an accent like I do?”
“Well, yes. I thought that was obvious.”
I exhale. To do justice to Cassandra, the main character who was originally an American girl, I’ve been privately working on adapting a believable American accent, as advised by Mr. Roland on the third day of rehearsals. It hasn’t been easy to resist what comes naturally to me. I don’t know how Esosa does it. I basically break a sweat in my pathetic attempt. But now, with this new setup, I don’t have to twist and bend my tongue to get into character. This art-imitating-life situation certainly has its perks.