Dramarama (10 page)

We shook our heads, no.

“Then take ‘Mink’ again from the top and give it some old-fashioned sex appeal,” he said. “And what I mean by that is when Tamar has told you to stick your bottoms out,
stick them out
. When she’s choreographed a jiggle, don’t give me this tiny, afraid little shimmy— ‘Ooh, I’m only sixteen, I don’t know if I should be doing this’—don’t give me that, because you’re
dancers
, no one cares about your inhibitions, it’s your job to make the thing sparkle. Dance it big!” he yelled. “Or there’s no reason for you to be here.”

We did the number again. Doing everything he said. And it was much better. We could all tell.

But did he have to be so mean? And kind of gross?

Morales wasn’t done. “Another thing. The altos sound off. Girls, tell me. Who’s off?”

Iz and the other girl singing alto both shook their heads.

Was it me?

Was it?

I didn’t think it was me.

“Altos, sing your part,” said the music director in an even voice. “Sopranos, stay quiet.”

We sang. It sounded odd without the sopranos singing the melody. I concentrated on the exact notes I was supposed to hit.

“It’s that one!” Morales pointed at me. “Tall Hot Box. Get her on her notes,” he said to the music director, “or have her lip-synch if she’s never gonna get it. We can get someone in to do vocal filler from backstage if we have to. We’ve only got five days left.”

The music director nodded.

“Oh, and Nanette?” Morales added. “You look great, sweetheart. You sound perfect. But I want you to see if you can give the whole thing another level by showing us that Miss Adelaide’s bored and miserable with her job in the nightclub. She’s sick of hoofing around in front of a lot of slimy guys at the age of forty, okay? She wants to get married and quit the business. Can you be bored out of your mind and make it funny?”

Nanette nodded.

“Okay,” Morales said. “I gotta go look at ‘Luck Be a Lady’ in the next room.” He nodded at Tamar. “When I get back, I wanna see ‘Bushel’ again. ‘Mink’ is okay, leave it till the clothes get here. Then we’re gonna dismiss the girls, and Nanette will show me how ‘Lament’ is coming along.”

“Check.”

With Morales gone, the music director played the alto part on the piano for me three times, until it looked like I had it. But I never felt sure. Singing notes that weren’t the melody wasn’t easy for me—though everyone else seemed to do it just fine.

(click, shuffle)

Sadye:
It’s July second, after
curfew. Iz and I are in bed.
Nanette and Candie just came in.

Iz:
Hot Box Girls get out earlier
than principals.

Sadye:
Nanette is naked.

Nanette:
I’m getting in the shower! I smell, people!

Sadye:
Candie is lying on the floor.

Candie:
Don’t mind me. I’ll just die of exhaustion right here.

Sadye:
How was it?

Candie:
Good. But hard. It’s like, he doesn’t just want me to sing the notes, he wants me to sing the feelings at the same time. Only, the things she’s feeling she doesn’t know she’s feeling, which makes it impossible to do right. It’s like this character never says what she’s truly thinking--except when she gets drunk.

Iz:
You sound good. Did you see us listening in the door? Before they kicked us out.

Candie:
I had to kiss Demi, also. Because we did the Havana scene. And like, I didn’t have any mints. I haven’t taken a shower since dance class this morning, and I ate the pepperoni pizza at dinner. I was scared he’d like, barf on me.

Iz:
There should be a rule that they have to tell you when you’re gonna be kissing. It sucks so bad if you’re not prepared.

Candie:
I haven’t kissed anyone since my boyfriend from
Jekyll
, either. My ex-boyfriend. Anyway. And only one other guy before that. So it was bizarre.

Iz:
Is he a good kisser?

Candie:
(giggles)

Iz:
What? Does that mean he’s good?

Nanette:
(coming out of the shower wrapped in a towel)
Or did he barf?

Sadye:
Nanette, he did not
barf
. That was an expression. Be nice.

Nanette:
Okay, then what did he do? She’s not telling us anything!

Iz:
Weren’t you there?

Nanette:
No, I was doing “Sue Me” down the hall.

Candie:
(giggling again as she strips off her clothes and heads into the shower)
He stuck his tongue down my throat, actually.

Nanette:
He did
not
, he did
not
!
Candie:
He did!
Nanette:
In the middle of the
rehearsal room? With Morales and
everyone looking on?

Candie:
(yelling from shower stall)
Yeah! Like he didn’t know you were supposed to, you know, stage kiss!

Sadye:
He did the jumbo pounce.

(laughter, all round)

Iz:
(to Sadye)
Do you think he’s
ever kissed a girl before?

Sadye:
I don’t know.

Iz:
Did he ever kiss you?

Sadye:
Ugh! No. We’re like brother
and sister.

Candie:
He sings great, though. He
truly does. I sound like a sheep
next to him.

Sadye:
You don’t sound like a sheep.
You sound like cherries jubilee.

Nanette:
(getting into bed)
Speaking of pouncing. I have had
zero pouncing opportunities
since this thing went into
rehearsal. And my
Rent
shirt boy
turned out to have a girlfriend.

Candie:
(drying herself)
We don’t
even have Sunday off. Everyone
gets Sunday off except for
ten-day wonder. We don’t even
get Fourth of July. So how can
we pounce?

Sadye:
I think we gotta pounce at
lunch.

Candie:
Why lunch?

Sadye:
You’ve got some energy,
you’ve got a little free time,
you’re not in rehearsal. It’s
impossible to pounce in rehearsal.

Nanette:
I’m with you, there. But
I can’t pounce when I’m covered
in French-fry grease and I smell
like sweat. I’d repulse the guy.
I need to take a shower before
the pounce.

Candie:
(getting into bed)
When do
we get to shower when we’re not
like, immediately going to
sleep?

Sadye:
That’s my point. The guys
here have gotta accept that the
sweaty, French-fry pounce is all
they’re going to get.

Nanette:
Have you been pouncing,
Sadye? Is that what you’re
telling us?

Iz:
And wait, did you pounce
Kenickie James or Theo?

Nanette:
One is covered in butter!
Don’t forget!

Iz:
Ooh! Did you do the lunchtime
jumbo
pounce?

Sadye:
Just because I’m friends
with Demi does NOT mean I do the
jumbo pounce.

Iz:
Okay, okay.

Sadye:
I’m talking out my back
end, all right? I haven’t
pounced. But I still think it’s
a good idea.

Nanette:
So you should do it. Show
us how it’s done.

Iz:
But which one will she pounce?

Nanette:
Covered in butter, that’s all I’m saying.

Sadye:
I’m turning this off now.

Iz:
Ooh, I forgot you were recording.

(click)

O
N NIGHTS
when the Hot Box Girls got out early, we stood at the door of the main
Guys and Dolls
studio for a few minutes after, watching the principals rehearse their scenes. It was amazing to see Morales in action. For example, one evening we watched Demi and Candie sing “I’ll Know”—a love duet.

Early in the scene, when Candie says “Chemistry?” and Demi says, “Yeah, chemistry,” Morales told Demi to look at Candie for one long beat before speaking— and suddenly Demi seemed like he really was in love, rather than just talking about it. The director also asked Demi to slow the phrasing down a tad—and the song sounded more sincere. He had Candie look up at the sky and keep her feet together while she sang, and she became a devout mission worker, rather than a shy high school student.

The man knew what he was doing. Everything he said to the actors made the show stronger. He wasn’t gentle and he wasn’t kind; he was eminently practical. He had a clear vision and he was a master at getting the actors to execute it. “Bushel and a Peck,” which we’d run a few more times until we got the Morales seal of approval, was a hundred times better with Nanette hinting at her boredom and exhaustion than it had been when she was unreservedly perky.

Now, I liked Reanne, I did. But she was no Morales. She was, in fact, losing control of her cast.

I was doing my best with Peter Quince. I had a few funny lines, at least, and Reanne was nice about my natural delivery of Shakespeare’s language. Quince is trying to get his group of foolish layabout friends to rehearse a play—and he’s a bit bossy, a bit shrill, full of frustration. But the first day we stood up to block it, the bad energy from having been trees all week made most of the mechanicals downright punchy. Flute and Starveling kept forgetting their movements, and Lyle and Snug were making jokes throughout the rehearsal. Snout was bouncing up and down and mouthing other people’s lines, trying to get Flute to laugh. And succeeding.

Reanne asked them to “channel that chaotic energy into the chaos of the scene,” but seemed unable to quiet them down enough so that we could get anything done. We started over with my initial speech, but Lyle was muttering behind me: “Maybe parents will object to my character’s name. Should we change it to Eugene? To avoid offense. Or maybe Engelbert? Because we don’t want our parents to think it’s racy and pull us out of the institute.”

I was standing downstage, script in hand,
knowing
I wasn’t doing a good job, and I thought, This show is going to be another
Bedsheet Oedipus
. Nobody wants to be in it. People aren’t concentrating. Teenagers wrapped in canvas with their arms sticking out do
not
create a fairy atmosphere, even if the teenagers are truly thinking about Mother Nature and struggling to convey her essence through posture. In fact, the teenagers are so sick of being trees they no longer give two cents about the whole production.

The concept doesn’t work, I thought, because
Midsummer
is not really an ensemble play. We’re not
all
supposed to be one with the fairy forest—lovers, sprites, mechanicals. We’re supposed to be contrasting elements and counterpoint story lines. It’s confusing this way, with everyone trying to channel the spirit of magic and not being sure what their speeches even mean. And here I am, trying to be a good sport and think like a tree and act like a man, trying to figure out my scene and what my character is thinking—and Lyle and Snug won’t even shut up long enough for us to learn the stupid blocking.

How could Reanne work side by side with Morales every summer and not absorb a single ounce of his directorial skill? Wasn’t there something I could say or do to make this show turn out better?

But then I remembered what Morales himself had said the night of orientation, and what Lyle and Demi had both said, in their own ways: actors have to be in bad shows all the time. They have to soldier on and do the best job they can do, because that’s what a good actor does. He doesn’t question the director or undermine the process, no matter what he thinks. He subdues the ego.

He commits.

* * *

J
AMES, THEO,
and Lyle had a trio at the start of
Guys and Dolls
called “Fugue for Tinhorns.” It’s three gamblers boasting about the horses they’re betting on, sung like a round, with voices overlapping. We got to hear it at the start of rehearsal one evening. Morales stood up in front of the whole cast and said this number set the tone for the whole show. He wanted us to watch it and catch the mood.

As they sang, I looked at James and Theo. One tall and blond, undeniably Timberlakian. The other shorter and darker, suddenly stripped of all teenagery awkwardness—a gangster and a gambler with a hard edge and a thick Brooklyn accent. Theo became his character, Benny Southstreet.

Demi was sitting next to me. “Did you decide which one?” he whispered when they were done. “Because I vote for the tall blondie.”

“That’s because blonds are your type,” I said.

“I don’t have a type!”

“Oh, yeah?”

“I don’t! I am open to a full half of the human race. Have you talked to him any more?”

“James? Not much. He sat with me and Iz the other day at breakfast, but I was scared of being late for Acting, so I cut out early.”

“Well, there’s my answer,” said Demi.

“What?”

“You like the other one.”

“Shut up!”

“You do. I can see it.”

“Don’t talk about it with Blake and Lyle, okay?” I said. “It’s not gonna go anywhere.”

“You underestimate your gawky-sexy powers, my darling Sadye. I bet if you flutter those eyelashes, that short Asian boy will be all over you like a dog.”

“I think we’re just friends.”

“That’s your choice,” said Demi.

T
HE NEXT NIGHT
we ran
Guys and Dolls
as a company for the first time. During Lyle’s show-stopping number, “Sit Down, You’re Rockin’ the Boat,” Morales hopped up and gave Lyle three gestures—arm movements that fused the Nicely-Nicely Johnson gangster persona and the gospel revival flavor of the song he was singing. Almost like magic, the number turned from a pleasant tune into a rollicking celebration.

When Lyle finished, Morales called out to him. “I want you to add something in for me. Give me that fat man jiggle, the belly, the whole thing.”

And Lyle did it, rolling and jiggling his round body across the stage in an unbelievable expression of ecstasy and delight. It was hilarious. But I could just see him register those words as Morales gave him the direction. Like “Oh, I’m nothing but the fat man now. I’m only seventeen, but this is my box, and I guess I’ve got to stay in it.”

I don’t think you call someone fat like that. Even if he is. Fat.

It wasn’t just Lyle. We all jumped when Morales said “Jump.” Like puppets. Not like people. He was so good at what he did, and at the same time so uninterested in communicating with the actors, hearing our ideas, considering our feelings, or doing anything but getting his singular vision onto the stage.

He didn’t even remember my name; called me “Tall Hot Box,” which made me cringe. But I watched him with total attention—shifting tiny pieces into place; making a joke funny, reblocking a scene to give it more energy, demanding absolute perfection and total attention from every member of his cast.

I could see why people idolized him. He was the opposite of Reanne, who was so involved with her idea of process and ensemble that she failed to step back and see the big picture. Reanne was kind and quite interesting to talk to, but she was translating Shakespeare’s poetry into a muddle onstage.

Morales was bossy, decisive, and visionary. He was looking for results, and he expected professionalism from everyone. He wasn’t thinking about the actors and their inner lives at all. He was thinking about the audience. He wanted us to deliver what he needed as a director as quickly and seamlessly as possible—whereas Reanne wanted us to search inside ourselves for truths and then translate those to stage gestures that felt organic.

I wasn’t sure who was right.

Maybe Reanne was right in her philosophy but also a bad director. Which would mean Morales was wrong but also good.

M
ISS ADELAIDE
was the best part in
Guys and Dolls
, and Nanette wasn’t typecast for it. Her Adelaide glittered with freshness, at least to anyone who’d seen the movie or listened to the cast album. Usually small, childish, and sharp-looking, in this show Nanette was bawdy and pushing forty. Her edge became Adelaide’s hard-spent years on the nightclub circuit. Her tiny figure became a surprising ball of fury when she yelled at her gambler fiancé. She had a Broadway voice and the experience to do whatever Morales asked of her the first time he asked.

It wasn’t fair.

We were jealous. All the Hot Box Girls. Not just because she had what we wanted. But because she deserved it.

(shuffle, click)

Sadye:
I’m here in wardrobe with
the Hot Box Girls: Iz, Jade,
Kirsten, Bec, and Dawn. Say
hello, ladies.

Ladies:
Hello!

Bec:
Hello, Sadye’s recorder
thing.

Sadye:
We’re doing second fittings
for ‘Mink’ costumes. They put
Velcro down the sides of the
gowns so we can rip them off,
and now we’re making sure they
work.

Jade:
Mine wouldn’t come undone, I
don’t know, I got mighty-Velcro.

Sadye:
Nanette got fitted first,
so she’s gone back to class. The
rest of us are missing
Pantomime, or whatever.

Iz:
They’re fixing Jade’s dress
right now.

Sadye:
Dawn, tell posterity what
we’re wearing.

Dawn:
Okay. Um. Black tights,
character shoes, slips covered
with gold sequins.

Kirsten:
It’s what we wear under
the evening gowns.

Jade:
Red garters, don’t forget,
red garters.

Sadye:
And wigs! We all have black
wigs.

Iz:
For “Bushel and a Peck” we’re
redheads, right?

Jade:
Yeah, that’s what they
picked. And Nanette will be
white blonde.

Dawn:
Did you see her wig?

Bec:
Yeah, didn’t you?

Jade:
Why does Nanette get to be
platinum? I want to be platinum!

Kirsten:
Because Nanette gets
everything.

Dawn:
Because she’s Nanette.

Jade:
Maybe someone will shoot her.

Sadye:
Or maybe she’ll get sick
and go home.

Dawn:
I’m her understudy. I can’t
shoot her, or they’ll be
suspicious. Bec, you should do
it.

Bec:
Maybe I’ll poison her
lemonade.

Kirsten:
Oh, that lemonade, all
the time. “I have to drink
lemonade for my throat. Do
you mind if I just get some
lemonade?” Uggh.

Dawn:
Did you hear her telling
Morales about what her
Annie
director said?
Annie
,
Annie
,
Annie
--if I hear any more about
that stupid touring production,
I’m gonna barf.

Sadye:
She was only the understudy.

Dawn:
No!

Sadye:
Yes. She makes it seem like
she was the lead, but most of
the time she was just an orphan.
Iz, back me up.

Iz:
It’s true.

Dawn:
Oh, that is so rich.

Kirsten:
I’m in
Showboat
with her,
too, and I’m sorry, but that
girl has got to rein in her
attitude.

Sadye:
What bothers me is that
she’s here, competing with
students. She’s been on Broadway
already. Can’t she give someone
else a chance?

Iz:
(annoyed)
This isn’t elementary
school, Sadye. It’s not about
everybody getting a turn.

Sadye:
I know.

Iz:
It’s about talent. People who
have talent get what they
deserve. That’s how it is in
theater.

Sadye:
What are you saying, then?

Iz:
Nothing. I’m not talking about
you.

Jade:
Ooh! You guys, check me out
in this fringe thing.

(shuffle, click)

I KNEW IZ hadn’t meant it the way it sounded. But it hurt just the same.

T
HAT NIGHT
, after Hot Box rehearsal was over, I stopped to buy a candy bar from the vending machine outside the studios, letting the other girls go on ahead.

“Hey, Peter Quince.” It was Theo.

“Don’t call me that, ugh!” I said it playfully.

“Sorry. How about Tall Hot Box?”

“I hate how he still doesn’t know my name.”

“He doesn’t know mine, either,” Theo said, falling into step with me as I headed down the path. Theo had the front of his hoodie zipped all the way to the top, and he walked with a comical spring to his step. I liked that about him. I was suddenly conscious of the sweat that had dried into my leotard and soaked into my hair. I had talked big about the sweaty French-fry pounce, but now that it seemed like a possibility, I had my doubts.

“You, um. You looked amazing doing that, that mink dance yesterday,” Theo mumbled.

“Oh, thanks.”

“Yeah. I, ah, I hadn’t seen it before.”

“‘Fugue for Tinhorns’ was great,” I told him. “It’s gonna be a phenomenal opening.” I kept talking, babbling about the show, when I realized Theo was looking at me, in the light of the streetlamps on the path. There was no one else around. He was staring, with his eyes all soft, like the mink dance had done something to him.

Theo had re-noticed me.

Okay, forget the sweat. It was clearly time to pounce. I grabbed Theo’s elbow flirtatiously, leaning into him while we talked about what our costumes were going to be. I could feel the hard muscles of his arm through the cotton of his hoodie.

“Demi told me they fitted him for a lilac suit,” I said. “And a light-blue one. Did you have costume fittings yet?”

“They’re going against type.” Theo nodded. “All the gangsters will be in white, cream, and tan. With Demi in blue and purple, and Sam in shades of green.”

“Ooh, swank,” I said. “But Demi is having a hissy fit because he looks washed out in lilac,” I said. “He thinks it makes his skin look ashy.”

“He’ll be fine. Your friend Demi’s good, I gotta give him that,” Theo said.

“He gets up there and light bursts out of him.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have said that, exactly, but yeah.”

“He was in a boys choir when he was little. That’s where he learned to sing.”

Theo looked at me carefully. “You two are close, aren’t you?”

“He’s the most talented person I know.”

We were outside the boys’ dorm. Theo stopped and looked at me, his hands in the pockets of his jeans. “Well, I guess it’s good night, then,” he said quietly.

Okay, pounce again. I took a step toward him.

Standing too close.

I mean, I thought I had a right to hope, after what he said about the mink dance. After the soft staring he’d been doing in the light from the streetlamps.

But he didn’t kiss me. Or do anything. He just gave a little wave and took off into the dorm at a run.

I
N THE TECH
rehearsal, Morales had decided at the last minute that the yellow-feathered dresses the Hot Box girls wore during “A Bushel and a Peck” weren’t funny enough, and reduced the costume mistress to tears by demanding seven chicken hats in two hours.

“What do you mean, a chicken hat?” she had shouted at him, coming out from the wings and standing near the edge of the stage.

“A hat with the head of a chicken on it!” he bellowed. “A big chicken. Use those chickens from the
Our Town
set last year. You can find them. The girls need to look like sexy, sexy chickens, or this number will go in the toilet! And while you’re at it, get Nanette a farm girl dress instead of this shorts thing.”

“So you want six chicken hats, then, because you’re keeping Nanette in farmer clothes? Six, not seven?”

“No. Give me seven, in case. Seven of everything. I might want Nanette to be a chicken, too.”

The costume mistress crossed her arms, squinting in the harsh stage lighting while Morales sat in the audience. “This is not what we discussed, Jacob.”

“No, it is not,” he said. “But this is what we’re doing.”

She stomped away, furiously wiping her eyes, and disappeared through a side door.

But within an hour and a half, Morales got his hats. Nanette got a new outfit. And ridiculous as it sounds, they made the number better. Morales was like a mean magician—everyone he touched quivered in fear, but they were all transformed once he turned his attention to them.

After tech we ran the first half of the show, and after “Bushel and a Peck,” Morales announced he was calling in some singers to augment the sound of the Hot Box Girls from backstage. Two altos and two sopranos would learn the song tomorrow morning and sing with us at the dress rehearsal.

As we all dispersed, the music director beckoned me over. “Sadye, I hate to ask you this, but when the new voices come in tomorrow, I’m going to want you to lip-synch.”

“What?”

“Lip-synch. You’re throwing off the harmonies, sweetie. You have a tendency to go flat.”

“Can’t you teach me?” I asked. “Can’t you show me where I should put my voice? Some of these girls have had years of singing lessons.”

He shook his head. “I could teach you. Probably I could,” he said. “But not in time for opening. Not in time for this show.”

“But I want to sing!” I cried, suddenly close to tears. “I’m trying.”

He stood up and shrugged into his jacket. “There’s only one thing to want in this situation, sweetie. You need to want what’s best for the show.”

“I love this show,” I said to him. And I meant it.

“Okay, then,” he said. “What are you going to do if you love the show?”

I sighed. “I’m going to stay silent.”

“Good girl.” He chucked me under the chin and gestured for Demi and Candie to come up to the piano.

I
WALKED BACK
to the dorms alone that night, maybe ten steps behind the rest of the dancers. Thinking. About how I couldn’t sing.