Chapter 41
The next morning, I'm working on memorizing my lines when my bedroom door bursts open and Dinah flies in, her legs bent like she's about to faint. She pats her knees joyfully.
“TWO HUNDRED,” she beams. “That's how many orders we got, Wade! If only Cal could see me. I can get an American Express Platinum Card! Now, come and help me because I've got so many packages to send, I don't even know where to begin!”
I manage a quaint smile as I turn the page of my script. “Glad you are getting the attention you've craved.”
“So none of your gay shit, okay?” she adds. “Keep it in your mind, your pants, your wherever!”
I look awkwardly at the script and roll it up. “There's a slight hiccup, though.”
She holds her rictus grin, but her eyes blink slowly in dread.
“I'm still in Pansgender!” I say.
“WHAT.”
“I told you last semester I was, and now it's back on.”
“Well, you have to quit. Obviously!”
Clint shows up behind Dinah and yawns as he wraps his arms around her.
“Can you believe this kid?” she says after briefing him on the bad news.
“I need it because I want to move to California after graduation and there's a talent agent coming from LA to see the show. If I'm good enough, she'll sign me on and I can get the kind of work I need to make a living there.”
She tears herself away from Clint and stomps toward her room.
“Fucking LGBTQ-LMNOP-XYZ-plus-at-sign-backslash wackos, always overcomplicating every single thing because you can!
Fine. But you don't tell a soul you're in that abortion of a spectacle. And you better be the best bottom Peter Pan that ever existed so you get that agent and get out of my sight for good. Christ, I need a massage.”
She motions for Clint to join her in her room, and he rubs her shoulder. “Do you see how open-minded I am, Clint? He's lucky he didn't end up in foster care. He'd probably be with some nutjob who locks him in an attic and feeds him fish heads from a bucket.”
“You're like Sandra Bullock in The Blind Side. Respect!” he says, then shuts the door behind them.
___________
After school, I walk to the first rehearsal since the community theater is close enough to it. The auditorium is the same size as our school's, but the red upholstery on the chairs and the red curtain give it an old theater vibe.
Everybody sits in the front three rows. Meg colors a comic book she's created, then holds it up and proudly displays it to us.
“It's called Ludwig van Beethoven: Alien Invasion. It's about Beethoven composing beautiful symphonies and kicking alien ass.”
Slow footsteps approach from backstage. Byron appears, looking solemn.
“This theater is cursed,” he says.
He burns sage and wafts it across the stage and into the wings.
“Lord, bless this stage. Help your humble creative servant Byron Marquis Murphee transmit this work of art to the unenlightened masses. Let me soar with the angels of music, with Jennifer Holliday, with Audra McDonald, with Patti LuPone. Keep us safe from the spirits in the wings that mean to harm and sabotage. AND GIVE CARSTEN SELESKY WARTS ALL OVER HIS DICK.”
Ms. Easterling steps up to the stage.
“Thank you for that touching and beautifully unhinged exorcism, Byron.
We're not merely putting on a show. We're making a statement that everyone's voice matters and representation in art matters.
Art shouldn't get silenced because somebody is uncomfortable with it.
When I was your age, I didn't see anybody like me onstage or in the movies or in my community. This could be the lighthouse for any person out there who is different for whatever reason. The show is going to open March first,” she explains, which is my birthday!
“Now, school rules don't apply here anymore, but mine still do.
Be on time, be prepared, and be kind to each other.
I need Naz, Mike, Daisha, and Travis for blocking the first scene in the Darlings' bedroom.
Wade and Byron, I need you to go with Luis in the dance room.
Jarell's your understudy, so he'll go with you.”
Luis leads us to the dance room, which is surrounded by mirrors and feels like some kind of interdimensional, Narnia-like space. The floor is all wood. He tells us to take our shoes and socks off.
“So today we learn the crocodile death roll and the tango!” he says with dramatic flair, then demonstrates a spin that is so professional-looking it could only be done with decades of practice.
“I'm going to have to do that in a costume? What if I slip?” I ask. Byron looks at Jarell and groans.
“Because you're working with the best there ever was, baby. Now imagine a spot in the audience,” Luis says, pointing to an imaginary group of seats. “Focus on that spot as you turn.”
“How am I supposed to see when I'm wearing the crocodile costume?” I ask.
Luis flips his hand dismissively. “Mi amor, don't think about that right now. Now plié.”
“What?”
“Put your left foot forward and bend your knees! Engage your core!” His accent gets thicker with each instruction.
“I don't have a core,” I tell him.
I try to bend while keeping my back straight.
“Now push into the floor and turn!” Luis demonstrates, spinning perfectly with his arms in an oval shape.
I push off and immediately stumble sideways into a music stand. Byron calls me pathetic under his breath. I think the tornado caused me to live in a permanent state of vertigo, and maybe I should have mentioned this to Ms. Easterling before taking on a role that requires this kind of spin.
“Mmmm. No good.” Luis pinches the bridge of his nose. “Again. This time, imagine you are a beautiful spinning top. Have you seen Michael Jackson's ‘Billie Jean' video? Watch him spin. Watch his attitude. That should be you!”
I bend my knees again.
“More! More plié! Like you are sitting in a tiny hobbit chair!”
I squat lower.
“Now turn!”
I spin and crash into Jarell, who's been watching with increasing horror.
“Luis,” Byron says, “how about a different approach for the crocodile's spin? If he crashes into me like that, I'm going to rage-kick him into next century. He already crushed my toe last semester.”
I can't deal with his drama while I'm trying to focus. “Does Byron really have to be here? Should he even be dancing when a wisp of air would demolish his foot?”
“You two must tango together. It is your scene d'amour, you know?” Luis's voice has lost some confidence. “Again, Wade! This time, think about butter melting in a hot pan. Smooth, sí?”
More like butter that's been dropped on the floor, I think as I shuffle back into position.
“Plié! Core tight! Now spin—ay, no, no, no!” Luis covers his eyes as I windmill across the dance room. “Perhaps… perhaps the crocodile can just… turn menacingly for now?”
Byron snorts. “At this point, I'd settle for walking without falling.”
I can feel the bruises forming all over my body as I pick myself up off the floor. “I really don't know how this is going to work when I'm in the actual costume.”
Luis stares at me for a long moment. “We will work on walking first. Small steps. Very small steps.”