Fourteen
Within minutes of her arrival, Clara was angrily pacing his bedroom, and Dune realized they were on the verge of their first argument, and although he didn’t have experience in these matters, he was pretty sure their first argument should not happen this soon.
Clara arrived idling at ninety, going on and on about some late-night creative impulse, and after an overly long windup, she’d revealed her choice of audition song.
“‘Send in the Clowns’?” Dune said, perplexed. “I don’t see how it can work for the audition.” He’d set Clara off.
“Well, let me draw a picture,” she said, putting the Judy Collins album on the record player and choreographing a performance where she mimed blowing up a series of balloons, tying them into a bunch, and being pulled around the room by the balloons.
Clara tugged the balloons in one direction and the balloons pulled her back.
She’d sit and the balloons would lift her back up.
“See?” she said, dropping the pretend balloons and turning to him triumphantly. “Like that.”
“Okay. Cool. But I do have a technical question.”
“Shoot.”
“Those balloons wouldn’t have helium in them, so how could they float up by themselves and pull a, you know, fully grown human?”
Clara sighed. Pursed her lips. Looked away. Looked annoyed. “Creative license,” she said. “Remember when Mr. Goodwin said we should think of the apostles as clown-like? Remember how they all dressed in the movie?”
“I don’t think he meant us to be so literal.”
“Well. Do you have a better idea?”
“I don’t have one. Not at all,” Dune said, even though he had about ten better ideas.
He wanted to kiss Clara. He was afraid of Clara.
“If we brainstorm together, we’ll figure something out.
” She sat on the edge of his bed. She seemed to soften.
“I mean,” he said, “I’m thinking out loud, but maybe we should stay away from show tunes.
I think everyone else will sing something from a musical, and if we don’t, Mr. Goodwin would appreciate it. ”
Clara nodded. “Interesting.”
Dune was so relieved he almost capitulated. But he loathed “Send in the Clowns.” What did it even mean?
“What about,” Clara said as Dune held his breath, “something by the Beatles?” She knew Dune loved the Beatles, and he recognized this as an offering. “Which song?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Something we can have some fun with.” She stood and started pacing back and forth, brow furrowed. She snapped her fingers. “Beatles. Godspell. ‘My Sweet Lord.’”
“Interesting,” Dune said, instead of what he was thinking: No. “A George song could work. But for the record, technically, it’s not a Beatles song.”
“What?”
“I mean, George wrote it, but not while he was in the Beatles. It was his first solo single. The Beatles were basically over in April of 1970 and George released the song in November.” He watched the enthusiasm leach from her face with every word he said.
What was he saying? What was wrong with him?
But he couldn’t stop. Clara was stone-faced.
“Everyone thinks it’s a Beatles song. It’s a George song, but it’s—it’s not”—his voice started to fade—“a Beatles song. For the record, I mean.”
“By all means, let’s keep the record straight on these things.”
“He probably started writing it while he was still a Beatle. I guess it doesn’t matter.”
“Okay,” Clara sighed. “What do you think about the song ‘My Sweet Lord,’ written by the Beatle George Harrison but released by the former Beatle George Harrison?”
“I mean—I think—good? Maybe?”
“Too on the nose?”
“Maybe, yeah,” he said, relieved.
“I’ll think of something else.”
“You just keep thinking, Butch. It’s what you’re good at.” He was pleased he remembered the line from the movie; he knew it would make her laugh. It did.
“You’re funny,” she said.
“I am?”
“And cute. I don’t care what song we use. As long as it’s something fun and we get the parts we want.” Dune was looking at her, but she could tell he wasn’t listening to what she was saying. “Is that a new top?” he said.
“Kind of.”
“It’s really nice. You look really pretty. I really mean it.”
“Three reallys. You must really like me.” This kind of flirting was still new to them and the charge in the room was thrilling. “How come you’re sitting all the way over there?”
He jumped up and walked over to the record player and put on a song he knew she loved, Elton John’s “Your Song.” He reached out to her as the first notes filled the room.
—It’s a little bit funny
—this feeling inside
She took his hand. She didn’t think anyone had ever looked at her so pleadingly in her life. “Come here,” she said, linking their pinkies and pulling him back toward the bed. “Come kiss me right this second.”