D Is for Drama (10 page)

He was decked out in baseball gear, cleats and all.

“I just came from practice,” he said. “Why? Do I look weird?”

He actually looked cute, but that wasn't something you told your best friend.

“No,” I said. “The people of London are going to be confused, though.” I nodded at the
Mary Pops In
cast.

“I'll tell them it's my cricket uniform,” he said with an exaggerated wink.

I smiled and bumped his shoulder with my fist. “Have fun tonight.”

“I will,” he said. His cheeks colored, and he ran a hand over his hair. “Hey, I had a question.”

I gave him a worried look. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. It's just . . .” He cleared his throat. “My dad gave me tomorrow night off from baseball, and we don't have show practice.”

“Good!” I said with a smile. “You deserve a break.”

He nodded and turned even redder. “If you want, we can go out and do something or whatever.”

Go out?

I took a step back.

Chase and I had
hung
out plenty.
Going
out implied an entirely different wardrobe, diligent breath freshening, and kissing practice. Not that I was opposed to it, but—

“So?” he asked. “Do you want to hang out?”

My thoughts screeched to a halt.

Which one did he mean? Go out or hang out?

Aloud, I said, “Sounds great!” Then, hoping to get a better read on things, I added, “Where are we going on this . . . uh . . . outing?”

If he said the mall, we were hanging as friends. If he said a restaurant, we were going on a date.

“There's a new restaurant at the mall,” he said. “I thought we could try it.”

“That doesn't help me!” I blurted.

Chase's eyes widened.

“I mean . . . that doesn't help me decide what to
wear
,” I said. “What are
you
going to wear?”

If he said jeans, we were hanging out. If he said khakis . . .

“Jeans or khakis,” he said.

I wanted to punch him.

Instead, I smiled and said, “What time?”

“Six?”

“Perfect,” I said. I decided to make one more effort. “How much money should I bring for dinner?”

If he made me pay, it was a friend thing. If
he
paid, it was a date.

“My dad actually has a coupon for a free meal there,” said Chase.

I bowed my head in exasperation.

“Awww.” He clucked his tongue and squeezed my shoulder. “Getting tired?”

I looked at him. “Incredibly so.”

Before I was tempted to knock the answer out of him with a baseball bat, I said good-bye to Chase and hurried
toward the exit. Ilana was waiting just outside. In the world's tiniest attempt to make amends, I gave her a passing nod.

“That rehearsal was a joke,” she said to my back.

I paused and turned around. “It was a table reading,” I replied. “And you were spying on us?”

Ilana leaned against a chair. “No, I was showing the finance advisor from the STARS program around, and we popped in to see the theater.” She leaned closer. “If I were you, I'd shape up.”

I pressed my lips together. “Or what?” I asked.

She smiled at me. “I think you've got bigger worries,” she said. “Like where to find a car big enough for all your clowns.”

With so many people around, she knew she could get away with that, and I knew it too. I stormed out without a word, not even noticing the guy jogging beside me until he stuttered my name.

“S-Sunny?”

I yelped in surprise, and he raised both hands.

“Sorry! I—I just wanted to talk.” It was Cole, the guy I'd cast as the Wizard of Oz.

I put a hand to my chest and smiled. “It's okay. You just startled me. What's up?”

His eyes dropped to the ground. “About mmme as the wizard. I don't . . . I don't think I'm the right guy.”

“What?” I frowned. “Why?”

Cole's eyes shifted to the ceiling. “It's too m-much talking. E-everyone's gonna laugh.” He blinked a couple times. “You should—you should pick someone e-else.”

“Uh . . . no,” I said.

Cole glanced down at me in surprise. “What?”

I took his arm and pulled him over to a bench. “You wanted a speaking role to help with your stutter,” I reminded him.

“I wanted a smmmall speaking role.” He held up his script. “Look at all m-my lines! Like—like—like this part.”

Cole then proceeded to read several lines of dialogue in a row. Almost flawlessly.

I beamed at him. “Cole, that was great!”

He chanced a small smile. “Yeah, well, m-my stutter's nnnot as bad when I—when I read or sing.”

I held my arms out. “Then it's perfect that you're in a musical!”

“M-maybe,” he said.

“Cole, if you mess up a couple lines, who cares?” I asked. “At least you're onstage. A lot of kids aren't even brave enough to get that far.”

Cole sat up a little taller. “Yeah.”

“Besides.” I leaned closer. “Who's to say the Wizard of Oz
didn't
have a stutter?”

Cole grinned and got to his feet, offering me a hand up. “M-Miss Director,” he said with a slight bow.

I laughed. “I'm not the director. Just an actress.”

But as we said our good-byes, his comment made me think. Without a director, would the show make any progress?

I brought it up with my parents at dinner . . . though I had to word things carefully.

“Can a show be successful without a director?” I asked.

My parents glanced at each other.

“What happened to Ms. Elliott?” asked Mom.

“Did she flutter off with those fairy wings you told us about?” asked Dad with a smile.

I grinned at him. “No, Ms. Elliott's around. But she's taking a hands-off approach to the show. And I don't know if I'm . . . uh . . .
we're
 . . . up to the task of running everything.”

“I'm sure you're all capable,” said Mom, spooning vegetables on my plate. “You've seen and been in enough productions to know what goes on.”

“You just have to apply the knowledge,” added Dad.

“What if there's fighting?” I asked.

Mom and Dad both laughed.

“It's theater, honey. There's always fighting,” said Dad. “You just have to work through your differences.”

“But we don't have
time
to arm wrestle every day,” I said.

Dad gave me a quizzical look. “What?”

“Don't worry,” Mom told me. “Someone always steps up and takes charge. They may not
want
to, but they do it because it has to be done.”

She brushed her hands together as if it were as simple as that.

But of course, nothing ever is.

TEN

B
EFORE I COULD EVEN REACH
my locker Friday morning, Holly bounded over on invisible springs.

“Sunny! Sunny! Sunny! Ms. Elliott wants you ASAP!”

Warning bells went off in my head. “She does? Why?”

Holly shrugged. “She just asked me to tell you.”

I nodded. “Okay, thanks.”

She flashed me a thumbs-up and continued to stand there, doing lunges while she watched me.

“Right now?” I asked.

Holly giggled. “I think that's the definition of ASAP.”

“Okay,” I said with a sigh. “Let's go.”

“Want to gallop?” asked Holly. “We'll get there faster.” She dashed forward a few paces and came back to me. “See?”

It was like taking a small child to the zoo.

“I'm not really in a rush to see Ms. Elliott,” I said.

Holly slowed to a walk. “Why not? She's super nice.”

“I know.” I glanced behind us to make sure nobody was following. “But I think someone's been telling her bad things about the show.”

Holly frowned. “Ilana? She can be a pain in the butt.”

I busted out laughing. “Holly! I can't believe you said that!”

She looked pleased with herself.

I leaned closer. “And I can't believe you guessed right.”

Holly shrugged. “People think that super peppy means super stupid, but they're wrong.”

“Clearly,” I said with a smile.

We stopped just outside Ms. Elliott's office, and Holly sidled up along the wall like a cat burglar.

“Do you want me to go with you?” she whispered.

I shook my head. “Thanks, but the show was my idea. I should deal with whatever happens.”

“Good luck,” she said solemnly. “And FYI, Ms. Elliott's prop budget got cut today.”

I closed my eyes. “Great. Thanks for the warning.”

Poking my head around the corner I could see Ms. Elliott stabbing numbers on her calculator and furiously scribbling on a notepad.

In the quietest voice possible, I asked, “You wanted to see me, Ms. Elliott?”

Her head whipped up so fast that her glasses slid down her nose. “Sunny!” Her smile was tight. “Sit down, please.”

I perched on the edge of one of the chairs. Ms. Elliott shoved the adding machine and paper in her desk and pulled out a single piece of notebook paper with a list of names on it.

“Yours, I believe.” She pushed it across the desk, and I saw it was the audition results from my show.

“Yes, ma'am,” I said. “You told me if other people wanted to be in my show, I had to let them in. And I did.”

Ms. Elliott leaned back. “But from what I hear, it's quite a motley crew you've got, punching each other in the face and starting fights during rehearsal.”

I gritted my teeth, silently cursing Ilana.

“That punch was accidental and the fight was resolved,” I said.

But Ms. Elliott wasn't listening. “I've also been told you have no director. No guidance.”

“We're working on that,” I said.

Ms. Elliott stood and paced the floor around me and her desk. “Sunny, when I agreed to let you do this, I trusted you'd be all right on your own.”

“We will be,” I said. “We just need time to get our . . .
act
together.” I smiled, hoping she'd like the pun.

She didn't.

“You're not taking this seriously,” she said with a frown.

“We are, I swear!” I said. “If you want, you can supervise our rehearsals.”

Ms. Elliott sighed. “No, I don't have time. We've had our budget cut
after
the props were ordered, and I now have to come up with money another way.” She dropped into her seat, hair gone wild and glasses crooked on her nose.

“I'm sorry that happened,” I said. “But I
can
make my show work.”

“I hope so,” she said with a smile. “Because if I'm not impressed by your progress next Friday, I'm pulling the show.”

“Next Friday?” I repeated in my most casual tone. “No problem.”

“Good.” Ms. Elliott returned to her calculations and I backed out gracefully.

But the second I reached the hallway, not even a cheetah could've outrun me.

“Breeeeee!” I shouted when I tracked her down in the math lab.

She looked up from her notebook with wide eyes. “I'm working on the letter to myself right now, I swear!”

“No, it's not you. It's Ilana!” I growled.

Bree dropped her pencil. “Oh no. Is it something with the show? Is it canceled?”

“It will be if we can't impress Ms. Elliott by next Friday,” I said.

Bree's skin turned paler than her paper. “How impressive do we have to be?”

“Level Two impressive,” I said.

“Level Two.” She swallowed audibly and put her notebook away. “What do you need?”

“Meet me in the cafeteria at lunchtime. Spread the word to the rest of the theater group . . .” I held up a finger and corrected myself. “
Our
theater group.” I rubbed my chin. “We should really come up with a name. Like ‘Broadway Bound' or ‘The Talent Troupe.'”

Bree grabbed my arm. “Sunny.”

“Right. Focus. I'll see who else I can track down. And don't breathe a word to anyone outside the . . . group.” Then I darted out of the room.

I was able to get the message to five other people before
lunch, and when I reached the cafeteria, I was pleased to see that word had spread to everyone. They were all sitting at a corner table in the art crowd, whispering nervously and glancing around.

Bree was the first to spot me and wave me over.

“We figured this was the best place to sit,” she said, “since artists and actors don't really get together and gossip.”

“Good idea,” I said, unrolling a large piece of paper and taping it to the table. To the rest of the group I said, “Guys, we have a little problem. Ms. Elliott heard how bad our first reading went—”

“I thought it was great,” interrupted Suresh.

Bree turned to him. “Really? Was that before or
after
the arm wrestling?”

“
Anyway
,” I said. “She's afraid we're not taking this seriously, so next Friday she's going to evaluate us. We've got to be up to Level Two standards.”

Bree nodded, and Suresh and a few others groaned.

Anne Marie raised her hand. “What's Level Two?”

I held up a black marker. “Good question.” On the giant sheet of paper I wrote the numbers one through seven. Then I wrote the following:

1: Lines

2: Songs

3: Memory

4: Costumes and props

5: Blocking and lights

6: Dress rehearsal

7: Performance

“According to friends of mine, every CAA theater production has seven levels to completion,” I said. “One for each week. Level One is reading lines.” I underlined the word.