Enthusiasm (14 page)

Ravi was a delight to watch and listen to: handsome, lithe, with a voice like honey and butter. I could see why Yolanda had a thing for him. Ash, I thought, was lucky to have her heart already occupied, or after their first kiss in rehearsals she would have been as bad as Erin with Chris. But although Ravi clearly knew the impression he made, there was nothing wolfish or manipulative about him. He accepted admiration as his due and repaid it with friendly attention, as if to suggest that a warm admiration for Ravi was a pleasure that you and he could share.

Tensions ran high between Benjo, the director, and Barry, the playwright, who attended every rehearsal and held strong opinions about how we should deliver his beloved lines. Young Emma—as Chloe, the middle schooler playing Juliet in the laughable play-within-a-play—had an uncontrollable tendency to giggle. Unable to curb this habit, Benjo used it as a way of showing up the silliness of the middle schoolers’ production. But Barry couldn’t stand it. He snapped, “Stop giggling!” at poor Emma whenever she so much as smiled, which made her giggle even more.

“I can’t—I can’t—I c—I can’t help—!” gurgled poor Emma.

“Barry, quit messing up my actors! I mean it! You’re making her choke,” said Benjo.

“Your so-called actors are messing up my play. Can’t you control them?” said Barry, stepping closer.

“What needs controlling is
you
need to control
yourself
. Leave now, please!”

“Leave? Leave this mess with
you
?”

Both guys, I saw, had clenched their jaws and fists. Any minute they would come to blows. Fortunately, Parr saw it too and stepped in. “Hey, Barry, do you have a sec? I rewrote the chorus to ‘Queen of the Ice,’ and I want to know what you think.”

Benjo was still glaring at Barry, so I decided to distract him too. “Benjo, can I ask you a quick question? Should I exit while the dean is still singing, or should I wait till he’s done?” Benjo seemed annoyed at the interruption, but Parr repaid me with a grateful look.

Because my part was so small, I had plenty of time to observe all these offstage dramas. When not rehearsing my scenes, I made myself useful as a page turner, prop fetcher, and prompter. I learned Yolanda’s part before she did herself.

Was I foolish to watch her scenes with Parr, exposing myself over and over to their kisses? Perhaps, but I couldn’t keep away, and they seemed to find my presence useful.

One day while I was helping Ned go over the drinking-fountain song with Alcott and Kevin, Alcott threw his beaker full of love potion at the fountain with a little too much zest. It shattered.

He leaped back. “Hey, wasn’t that supposed to be safety glass?”

“Good thing it broke now, not during a performance,” said Ned. “We need to find something stronger. Plastic or metal.”

“Like a loving cup, maybe,” I joked. “The trophy room’s full of them.”

“A loving cup for the love potion—ha! Julie, that’s brilliant. Wait there, I’ll be right back.” Ned ran off.

Parr, who was nearby helping Benjo choreograph the big fight scene between Daniel and Xander, saw him go. “Oh, no, Ned, don’t do that! Quick, somebody, stop him,” he said.

“Stop what? Where’s he going?” asked Alcott.

“The trophy room, obviously. If Wattles catches him taking a trophy, that’s it for his scholarship.”

“I got it,” I volunteered, feeling responsible.

I thought I remembered the way to the trophy room, from my bathroom adventures at the Columbus Cotillion. However, it took me longer than I expected to find it. By the time I got there, Ned was perched on tiptoe on the back of a green leather sofa, trying to pry open a trophy-case door with a protractor.

Something was clearly about to snap. I hoped it would be the protractor, but the door looked more likely.

“Ned! Stop!”

“Oh, hi, Julie—give me a hand up here, will you? I’ve almost got it.”

“Stop it, Ned, you’re going to break the case!”

“No, I’m not, I’ve almost got it—”

As he levered the protractor, the case begin to tilt. I scrambled up on the sofa to pull him away before everything fell. Our joint weight made the sofa tip, and we both lost our footing on the slippery leather, landing in a tangle on the seat. Fortunately, the trophy case stayed where it was.

“Julie, are you okay?”

“Ouch!”

“Sorry, was that your leg? Why’d you do that, anyway? I almost had it!”

He tried to get up, but I grabbed him around the neck and shoulders and hung on tight. “Stop, Ned! Think of your scholarship.”

“But it would be so perfect,” he said, squirming.

Just then the door opened and Ashleigh and Erin burst in.

“Oh! Jul—Ned—forgive me, I didn’t mean to intrude,” said Ashleigh, backing out and pulling Erin with her.

“Ash, wait!” I yelled, but by the time I had untangled myself from Ned and talked him into leaving the loving cups in their cases, she was long gone.

The scene in the trophy room dashed my hopes of convincing Ashleigh that my feelings toward Ned were nothing more than friendship. “I was just trying to stop him from stealing a loving cup to use as a prop,” I protested, but it was no use. Even I could hear how lame it sounded. “You can ask Parr, he told me to go,” I added feebly.

“Did he? Did he indeed aid Ned in planning an assignation? Clearly
Parr’s
friend confides in
him
far more trustingly than
mine
does in
me
,” said Ashleigh, working up to full-blown Austenese. “No, no! Say no more! Far be it from me to pry from you a confidence that you do not willingly surrender! But if it were me, you know
I’d
tell
you
.”

“Ash, I swear, there’s nothing to tell.”

“Because we interrupted you.”

“No, because we weren’t doing anything. But what were
you
doing there, anyway?”

“Erin was looking for Chris, and Kevin said you’d gone to the trophy room. I thought you might need protecting. Little did I imagine what scenes we would interrupt! Next time, tell me and I’ll guard the door for you.”

Chapter 12

I keep up my grades
~
My father grouses
~
A Turkey again
~
Rehearsals
.

H
ave you ever noticed how once teachers get an idea into their heads, it’s easier to interrupt a bus of kids singing “100 Bottles of Beer on the Wall” than to change their minds? This is why, if you have limited time for study, it’s best to apply it at the beginning of the semester. If you do, most teachers will dismiss you early on as a good student and not look too hard for mistakes.

What with
Insomnia
and
Sailing to B
., my hours available for homework plummeted. My grades, however, rose. My B-pluses puffed up to A-minuses, my A-minuses to full-out A’s. One would think such a state of affairs would please my father. But no: he considered two time-consuming extracurriculars one too many. “You want to appear well rounded, not dilettantish,” he said. “If you had more time to study, you could push those minus marks up to straight A’s.”

Dropping
Sailing
was tempting, but it seemed unwise. By putting me in the good graces of the Nettle, my work on the magazine probably saved me hours that I would otherwise have had to spend preparing for class by second-guessing her opinions. And although I half longed to give up
Insomnia
, I felt I couldn’t let down the other actors. I explained to Dad that I had plenty of time, really, now that the fall foliage-viewing rush was over at Helen’s Treasures.

Amy rolled her eyes slightly at the mention of my mother’s business, but she took my side. “Julie’s learning follow-through, Steve. Colleges value that,” she told my father. She even volunteered to drive me to and from rehearsals when they met on Tuesdays.

One Tuesday, then, in the middle of November, she dropped me off half an hour early on her way to meet a client. It was unseasonably warm. I unbuttoned my coat and sat on the steps of the Robbins Center to wait for Benjo or Mr. Barnaby, who both had keys.

The first person to arrive at the center that afternoon, however, was not the director or faculty adviser, but Turkeyface from the Columbus Cotillion. When he saw me, his face turned red—or rather, redder.

“What are you doing here, young woman?” he spat. “Don’t you know this is a boys’ school?”

“I’m just waiting for Benjo Seward,” I said. “He’s—”

He cut me off. “Don’t go trying to implicate Benjamin Seward. He would never sneak a girl onto campus. He’s a responsible young man. He knows the rules.”

As Turkeyface lectured me, Grandison Parr appeared over his shoulder. “Hello, Julia,” he said.

Turkeyface spun around. “I knew it!” he gloated. “Not only is your girlfriend here on campus illegally, but she was trying to blame Seward!”

“But Julia’s—” began Parr.

“Not a word! One word buys you three demerits. You’re both coming with me to see the dean.”

He took us each by a shoulder and marched us to the administration building.

Dean Hanson’s door was ajar. “What’s up, Matthew?” asked the dean, looking up from his computer. “Oh, hello, Julie—Grandison. What can I do for you? I
have
been practicing—I promise—listen:

If you force me to be harsh, I’ll
Try my best to be impartial,
But a carrot’s always better than the most effective stick.

I sang back the next verse:

My dear dean, you’re much too soft—when
I remember just how often
Your supposed angels misbehave, I swear, it makes me sick!

“Cool beans, Julie! Sounding good!” said the dean.

“You know this girl?” sputtered Turkeyface.

“Of course I do—she’s Headmistress Lytle.”

“Headmistress?
Headmistress
?”

“Yes, and an excellent one too. Way better than my dean. Of course, she rehearses way more. You look puzzled, Matthew.
Midwinter Insomnia
. The musical, man, the musical! What’s up—is there a problem?”

“Well! No, not if you know this girl. I expect you know your own business. Forgive me. I would never interfere.” Turkeyface made his exit.

The three of us waited until the door clicked shut before laughing. “Matthew obviously agrees with Miss Lytle that I’m much too soft,” said Dean Hanson. “But actually, you’re the ones who are too soft on
me
. Barnaby’s right, I should make it to more rehearsals. Come on, let’s get down to the theater.”

“Are girls really not allowed on campus?” I asked as we walked back along the gravel to the Robbins Center.

“No way—did Matthew tell you that? I guess, technically, nonstudents aren’t allowed except under special circumstances—which covers things like playing the headmistress in the school play, so you’re okay there. And, of course, girls tend to be nonstudents at a boys’ school. But there’s nothing in the charter forbidding girls per se. Matthew gets a little carried away with rules. He’s a—well, a—hmm . . .” Dean Hanson trailed off, evidently remembering his position as a member of the administration speaking about a member of the faculty to students (or, in this case, a student and a nonstudent). He collected himself and began again: “So, Grandison, what do you think of the Saberteeth’s chances against Groton this season?”

“I’m a little worried, actually. The Teeth are facing some serious competition. Groton’s got Dashwood now, so of course that gives them an edge over last year. I can’t really blame him for transferring—coed’s a temptation,” said Parr, glancing at me. “But I wish he’d waited another year. Bloom and Coe are going to be killer once they get their footing, but they’re not there yet.”

The Saberteeth’s prospects took us the rest of the way to the Robbins Center, where the cast was waiting for us somewhat impatiently. Ned was delighted to see the dean, whose presence kept me busy, for once; the two of us worked hard on our duet all through the rehearsal. “Nice, Julie—you’re sounding very disapproving,” said Ned. “You could even pump up the resentment, if you want. Go ahead and squeak on that high G. Mr. Hanson, you’re doing well with the sheepish expression, but if you could find the time to rehearse more, you might remember more of the lyrics.”