Dramarama (17 page)

A
FTER THE
winter holidays, Demi left to go back to Wildewood.

Something changed in me then. Like I wasn’t waiting for him to come home anymore. He might return the next summer, or he might not. Maybe he’d be looking for a New York apartment with Lyle. In any case, he’d always be visiting.

We’d never be home together again, and nothing would ever be quite the same as it was.

I
SHOULD
tell you what happened to everyone after I left Wildewood. Demi and Lyle called me after the performance weekend and gave me the rundown of all the shows.

Birdie
was the smash of the summer. Demi, Iz, and the other leads were personally congratulated by Morales afterward.
Show Boat
was old-fashioned but Nanette was great.
Cats
was better than anyone had thought it could be. And
A Midsummer Night’s Unitard
was a tangled two hours of pretension and Lycra that fully rivaled
Bedsheet Oedipus
in laughability. Even Lyle’s boatload of talent couldn’t save it.

The only upside was that Starveling didn’t faint.

Despite some continued difficulties with the mechanics of the giant man-eating plant in
Little Shop
, Candie’s crystal soprano broke everyone’s hearts. She went back home to New Jersey happy and well-assured of her cherries jubileeishness. Nanette told me the
Jekyll
poster came down once the dentist said the L-word, and Candie and her boyfriend went home promising to write every day.

She sent me a card in September with a picture of Jesus on it, saying they’d all missed me and now she was playing Laurie in her school production of
Oklahoma!

I didn’t know what to say, writing back, so I drew a goofy sketch of her in a gingham dress and a cowgirl hat, kissing Hugh Jackman as Curly. Not that I’m that good of an artist, but I labeled all the parts of the drawing so she could tell what it was supposed to be.

Candie never wrote back.

It’s funny that someone you lived with for a whole summer could disappear out of your life; someone you saw naked, someone who told you all about her inner life, even when you didn’t want to know, someone meek who turned out to be someone brave.

Funny how suddenly, there’s not too much information—there’s none.

Nanette went home and slept on her parents’ couch for a couple weeks, and did a callback audition for
The Secret Garden
in New York. She e-mailed me that her dad was barely talking to her—they hadn’t driven out to see
Show Boat
because her sister was in callbacks for a film—but when she got the role of Mary Lennox, he loosened up. With Nanette’s family, a lead role at La Jolla erases a lot of sins.

Within a week, she’d been shipped out to California with her Professional Children’s School laptop, where instead of living in theater-sponsored rental apartments like the other actors from out of town, she lived with Iz and her family in downtown San Diego. Iz found out that Nanette was coming and invited her; Nanette was grateful because she didn’t want to live alone.

Once she was there, Nanette e-mailed me that nothing Iz had said about herself at the start of Wildewood was true. She didn’t go to a specialized arts high school; just an ordinary public school. She took dance classes at the local Jewish community center and private voice once a week. She hadn’t been in
Born Yesterday
,
Kiss Me Kate
, or
Damn Yankees
, and she’d never drooled on herself during auditions. Her school didn’t allow anyone to even try out for the plays until they were seniors. What’s more, Wolf—Iz’s older boyfriend with the motorcycle—didn’t exist.

Iz broke down and confessed all this two days after Nanette arrived, saying she’d wanted Nanette to stay with her so badly she’d decided it was worth coming clean.

“I picked her up at school on Monday when I didn’t have rehearsal,” wrote Nanette, “and she was standing there alone, not talking to anyone. I think she’s kind of a freak at school. Like nobody knows what to make of her. When she got in the car—that’s when she told me. I guess because I saw her standing there by herself. Next week she’s coming up to watch a rehearsal at La Jolla.”

I was furious at Iz for lying to us. I couldn’t believe Nanette was so mellow about it, though I guess I understood, since she was practically being adopted by Iz’s family. I stomped around and complained to my mother.

“But didn’t you do the same thing?” she asked me.

“No.”

“It seems to me you did.”

Since when did my mother get analytical about my life? Since when was she even focusing on anything to do with anything besides kitchen gadgets? “I never lied,” I told her.

“Of course not.”

“She was operating under false pretenses. She lied to everyone for three consecutive summers.”

“That’s not what I meant, anyway,” my mother said. “I meant, you reinvented yourself—when you first tried out for Wildewood. Cut your hair. Got all those new clothes. Changed your name.”

“Oh.”

“Your friend Isadora”—my mother spelled the name out with her hand—“did the same thing you did.”

“Not exactly the same,” I argued. “In fact, not the same at all. Because she
lied
.”

“Fine.” My mother sighed. “I need to check my e-mail. Something’s coming in from work.” She opened her laptop on the kitchen table, moving her eyes away from me so she couldn’t read my lips or see me sign.

I went into the living room and put
Wicked
on the CD player, skipping ahead to “Popular,” and putting it on repeat.

A
N HOUR LATER
, I realized I wasn’t mad anymore. I went to the drugstore and bought a bunch of silly presents to make a care package for Iz and Nanette. Paper crowns, some glitter lip gloss, a paperback romance novel with racy bits, a package of water balloons, and a box of Oreos. I packed it all up in bubble wrap.

Hey, Wonder Women.

Did I ever tell you that home in Brenton my name used to be Sarah? Well, it was. And I hated it.

So I changed it to Sadye. But I never told anyone at Wildewood.

Anyway, since you guys were my best friends there, I wanted you to know.

Hope you are POUNCING as much as possible in your spare time. Brenton sucks the suckiness of Suckville, and I miss you both.

XO

Sadye.

AKA Sarah.

AKA Peter Quince.

AKA Tall Hot Box.

AKA Mint Chocolate Chip

P.S. Read page 159 of the enclosed book if you need instructions on the jumbo pounce.

F
OR A WHILE
after that, we e-mailed every couple days—but when Nanette went into tech rehearsals for
Secret Garden
, our correspondence petered out, and I didn’t hear from them all winter and spring.

I SENT THEO a postcard I found of Marlon Brando as Sky Masterson in the movie of
Guys and Dolls
—and gave him my e-mail address.

Like I said, he didn’t reply.

I don’t know what I would have done if he had, anyway. It wasn’t like we could go out long distance. But I also couldn’t believe he just disappeared out of my life. As if we’d never kissed.

Still, he was the first boy who found me a pounce-able, deliciously mint-chocolate-chip girl. To James, I was someone who was there, in the moonlight or on the dance floor. I could have been anyone. We hadn’t really talked.

But Theo got me. So I know there are people who do. Get me. Even if they’re hundreds of miles away.

T
HE END
is in sight now. The end of Ohio, I mean. The end of this razzle-dazzle–deprived town.

This is my senior year, and after graduation I am going to get out of Brenton and out of this quiet house and out of the suffocating sameness, and I will never look back.

No one here is going to save me. I haven’t heard from Demi in months.

So I am going to save myself.

I know what I think is good, and why. Though not everyone will always agree with me.

I think of things—like singing on the roof, or “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” at the break of dawn, or people being flavors of ice cream, or staging
Midsummer
in a forest of roses.

I see stage pictures in my mind. And sometimes dances.
Godspell Pillowcase
.
Sexy Fiddler
.

I make up songs and people laugh. I am bossy and outspoken.

I am physically strong and even imposing.

I am kind when people need it, though maybe not always. When things are broken, I can see how they might be fixed.

I am not afraid to ask questions, and I am not afraid to make people angry.

I have these talents in me, though I may not have a voice made for singing or a disposition for acting.

I am Sadye Paulson, even if some people do call me Sarah, and there is bigness inside of me. So I will figure out what to do with it.

I have to.

I will.

T
RANSCRIPT
of a telephone conversation, June 12th, nearly a year after the summer at Wildewood:

Demi:
Monsieur le petit Howard, at your service.

Sadye:
Demi, it’s me.

Demi:
Miss Sadye! It’s been like three months--no, four, I think.

Sadye:
I know!

Demi:
Sorry I didn’t call you back.

Sadye:
S’okay. Forget about it.

Demi:
No, really, I’m sorry. That was lame. I let life get away from me.

Sadye:
Listen, I’m calling you now because--

Demi:
Oh, wait, before you get into that. You won’t believe where I am right now.

Sadye:
Where?

Demi:
The center of the world.

Sadye:
Where?

Demi:
Forty-second Street. New York City. I swear to you, I am looking at the
Lion King
poster on the front of the theater.

Sadye:
No way.

Demi:
It’s true!

Sadye:
No, I mean, you won’t believe where
I
am right now. I am looking at the face of Nanette Watson on this like, enormous
Secret Garden
poster. That’s why I called you.

Demi:
What? Where? What poster?

Sadye:
I’m on Broadway and Forty-sixth.

Demi:
You are
not
.

Sadye:
Oh, but I
am
.

Demi:
You’re like, four blocks away! Ahhhh! Lyle--wait, Sadye, Lyle wandered off, oh there he is--Lyle! Sadye is on the phone and she’s at--what?

Sadye:
Broadway and Forty-sixth.

Demi:
(to Lyle)
Looking at a picture of Nanette Watson on Broadway! No, I’m not lying.

Sadye:
What did he say?

Demi:
He doesn’t believe me. Stay where you are. Okay, we’re walking north. Oops, wait, we have to go the other direction. No, Lyle! Okay, now we’re walking north. Don’t move! We’re going to be there in like two minutes.

Sadye:
We have to get tickets. Wait. Why are you here? I had no idea you were going to be here.

Demi:
We’re staying with Lyle’s brother till I can get into the dorms in September.

Sadye:
For Juilliard?

Demi:
No, those fools didn’t let me in. I’m going to NYU. It’ll be okay. Lyle’s going to Carnegie Mellon. Wait, why are
you
here?

Sadye:
I got a summer internship
with New York Theatre Workshop.

Assisting the assistant artistic director.

Demi:
Getting coffee?

Sadye:
Exactly. And it doesn’t pay, so I’m waiting tables in the evenings.

Demi:
Still, that’s cool.

Sadye:
I’m cat-sitting for this banking friend of my dad’s who’s at his country house for the summer.

Demi:
Okay, we’re on Broadway and
Forty-fifth now.

Sadye:
Oh, I’m so excited. The box office is open. Should we buy tickets?

Demi:
Yes. Can you go tonight? Wait--oh, what? Lyle wants to go too.

Sadye:
Excellent.

Demi:
Okay, oh, is that you in the red skirt? I think I see you, but I’m not sure.

Sadye:
Reddish-pinkish skirt.

Demi:
Okay, here I am, I’m waving.

Sadye:
I’m hanging up now. Oh, there you are!

Demi:
Lyle, there she is.

Sadye:
You wave funny. Do you know that? You’ve got to work on your wave.

Demi:
I see you! I see you!

Sadye:
I see you, too.

1. Wondering what to watch? Here are Sadye’s favorite movie musicals:

West Side Story
unrated

Cabaret
PG

Chicago
PG-13

Singin’ in the Rain
G

Hair
PG

Fame
R

Grease
PG

Little Shop of Horrors
PG-13

Sweet Charity
G

Kiss Me Kate
unrated

Damn Yankees
unrated

2. To hear some of the songs Sadye talks about in this book, go to www.theboyfriendlist.com

Look at the right column and find Sadye’s iMix. You can download the playlist into iTunes or another MP3 player.

3. Wildewood Academy does not exist. I made it up, along with all its faults. However, I did go to three years of summer drama camp, five hundred years ago. The schools to which I went shall remain nameless, and one of them has closed down. If you’re interested in attending a summer theater camp, the following are the best known:

• Stagedoor Manor, www.stagedoormanor.com

• The National High School Institute at Northwestern University, www.northwestern.edu/nhsi/

• Interlochen Arts Academy, www.interlochen.org

T
HANK YOU
a zillion times to Benjamin Ellis Fine, for letting me steal his drama school anecdotes for this book, and for taking the time to tell them to me. I have transfigured many a Ben Fine story in these pages. There are also several other people who shared their stories and feelings about acting at my request: in particular, Lisa Burdige, Jenna Jolley, Rebecca Soler, Trevor Williams, and Ayun Halliday.

Many thanks to my agent, Elizabeth Kaplan, because she is awesome. And to my editor, Donna Bray, who took me out to lunch, listened to several ridiculous stories about unitards—and signed me up to write this book, pushing me to make it better and better through more drafts than it should have taken. Also to Brenda Bowen, Arianne Lewin, Emily Schultz, and everyone at Hyperion, especially designer Beth Clark, who worked so hard on the jacket.

Novelist Maryrose Wood endured several e-mails in which I probed her exquisitely theatrical brain for tidbits, trivia, and ideas. She also read a first draft with great insight. Zoe Jenkin answered questions about
Wicked
and
Rent
and other shows about which she is far more expert than I. She also took me to see Kristin at Carnegie Hall, and
Wicked
on Broadway (though Big Len paid for the tickets—thank you!), and she kept me company for a number of other, less thrilling, productions.

Some years ago, the members and leaders of the BMI Musical Theater Workshop gave me a four-year education in musical theater history and writing that can’t be beat. I hope they will not hold the meatball, knee-high, and Tyrannosaurus rex songs against me too much. The members of my YA novelists newsgroup contributed real and thoughtful comments on the question of talent and the appeal of the theater world, helping me sort out what I wanted to say.

My parents paid for me to go to summer drama camp for three years, and always encouraged my theatrical endeavors despite a relatively obvious lack of talent. My father took me to see
West Side Story
,
Peter Pan
,
Cats
, and
Annie
on Broadway and introduced me to cast albums for
Hair
and
Guys and Dolls
(among others)— little dreaming what a monster he was creating.

My husband endured the David Hasselhoff
Jekyll & Hyde
without complaint. I don’t think I can convey his support any more succinctly than that.