The Fall Musical (12 page)

“Honey, people
wore
stuff like this in the seventies,” Charles said. “Well, maybe not the clown shoes or the cape. But it's not only that. The design spirit comes from ancient religious pageants. They were all about goofy costumes and pratfalls. That's how they told stories to the masses. Through colorful mythic costumes and exaggeration.”

“Well, I'm going to be toast with my teammates,” Kyle said. “They'll never let me live this down.”

“Um, excuse me—shoulder pads, masks, and padded thighs?” Charles said. “These are not ridiculous?”

Kyle let out a howl of laughter. “Okay, good point. See? I spend my life looking stupid. What do you two guys know about being ridiculed?”

“Well, is it time for confessions?” Dashiell said, “I'm six feet six, maybe one twenty-five when wet. I'm atrocious at sports, but that's all everyone ever asks me about—do you play basketball? They act like I'm a mutant when I say no. My favorite part of gym? Sitting in the stands and reading
Ender's Game
.”

“I'm a charter member of the club, too,” Charles said with a sigh. “My mom believed in fat kids and so created me in that image, which I have been trying to shake for years. Mom also managed the church thrift shop. So I got plenty of clothes—miraculously preserved from the 1980s. How do clothes stay perfect for twenty years? I figured they came from kids who had died. Maybe from being too fat. Their parents kept the clothes in drawers, weeping and caressing the material. Getting dressed was a grim experience. Going to school was an exercise in embarrassment. Nobody asked
me
if I played basketball. I was the last one picked for team sports in gym. The opposite team would laugh and say ‘You got
Scopetta
!' like it was a disease.”

“You are kind of contagious,” Dashiell pointed out. “I mean, in a good way. Hence, the Charlettes.”

Charles shot him a glare then turned back to Kyle. “Look, Kyle,” he went on, “the costume is great. You're an actor now. If you were in
Into the Woods
, you would wear tights. People don't care. Not the audience, and especially not the Drama Club.”

Dashiell smiled. “The Drama Club—geeks and freaks welcome.”

“People appreciate me here,” Charles said. “That's all I want in life. This is the best place for people who are different.”

Kyle looked at them both in amazement. “Wow, I never had
any
of the problems you guys had.”

“We suspected that,” Charles said drily. “Look at it this way, Kyle, the fact that you've never been different—that's what makes you different. Don't you see? Now, for that nugget of wisdom, leave a check with my secretary. And resist the temptation to wear your costume home.”

Kyle grinned. “Up, up, and away,” he said, heading for the door.

“Wait!” Dashiell said. All this talk had distracted him from his goal—information gathering about Brianna. More specifically, Brianna's availability relative to Kyle. If Kyle
wasn't
going with her, then the ball was in play, so to speak. “So, Kyle, um, I was wondering what you were doing on Friday night?”

The question hung in the air. Both Kyle and Charles looked at him oddly.

“Dashiell?” Charles said. “Are you asking Kyle on a date?”

“
Whaaaat
? NO! I mean, no way! I mean, I wasn't asking for . . . I just meant . . . I wanted to know this info for the sake of someone else . . . a girl!”

“Ohhh,” Kyle said with a smile. “Who wants to know? Reese? Brianna?”

“I'm not supposed to say,” Dashiell said. Actually, Kyle's response had told him exactly what he needed to know. If Kyle was asking that question about Brianna, then logically, that suggested he
wasn't
going out with her.

“Actually, someone else I know would like the same information.” Charles laughed. “I guess we've had a few inquiries.”

“Just hanging with my football buds that night.” Kyle shrugged. “Yo, this may be my last chance. They won't want to know me after they see this costume. No offense, Charles. I
am
cool with the costume. You did a good job. But I know these dudes.”

“Well, good luck and godspeed,” Dashiell said, quickly backing out of the room.

Mission Possible was under way.

Day by Day

October 1

12

 

Dashiell carefully lit each candle. Vanilla/jasmine, for Fantasies. Cedar/spruce/rosemary, for Love. Moroccan rose/chamomile, for Positive Energy. Awesome.

He sniffed his armpits. Sweet. As well they should be. He had deodorized them in the morning, then again after gym, and just before this study period. Still, you never knew for sure. There were rules of self-preservation, hardwired from the dawn of time. You can't blink when you hammer your own nail. You can't sneeze with your eyes open. You can't smell your own bad breath. Maybe smelling your own BO was part of that, too.

He pulled a bottle of Old Spice from his desk drawer. He had already put some behind his ears, but a little under each pit wouldn't hurt. Dab, dab.
Voilà
.

Okay, three minutes to go.

Dashiell flicked on his iPod docking system—Jeff Buckley, “Hallelujah,” soft and low!—and shut the lights. The projection room went dark, save for the dancing shadows on the walls made by the candlelight against the audiovisual equipment.

Perfect.

It was crucial not to let this seem too calculated.
Oh, just listening to my playlist
.
Picked up the candles during lunch and wanted to try them. Just a way to make the projection room feel like my bedroom.

No. Not bedroom!

Like my own personal space
.

He sat by his console screen and reviewed the social flowchart—every scenario that could possibly happen this evening neatly laid out on pathways, with alternate strategies for each. When he was satisfied he had it memorized, he exited the document, leaving only the lighting-cue spreadsheet on screen. He would appear to be busy—he was always busy—and when the door opened, he would swivel casually on his wheeled office chair.
Oh, we had a meeting? I almost forgot. . . .

The knock on the door nearly made him jump. “Come in!” he squeaked.

The door opened, letting in a column of harsh fluorescent light. “Dashiell?” a familiar voice called out.

“Oh, we had a—?” He swiveled toward the door a bit too fast. His size 14EE New Balance 991s caught a dangling ethernet cable It was attached to a router, which slid inexorably to the edge of the table.

Dashiell lurched forward. His chair reacted with an equal and opposite force, rolling backward and throwing him to the floor.

“Ahhhhh!” He reached out desperately. The router plopped firmly into the palm of his right hand—just as Brianna entered the room.

“What the—?” she said.

“Alas, poor Netgear,” Dashiell said meekly, lifting the router to eye level. “I knew him, Brianna.”

Brianna stared at him in utter bafflement.

“
Hamlet
,” Dashiell explained.

“Um, Dashiell?” she said, her eyes now taking in the whole room. “What a piece of work is this?”

What a piece of work. That was another saying from
Hamlet.
This was Brianna's game. He should have anticipated it. Three seconds into the meeting, and already two things that were
not
on the flowchart. “All the world's a stage?” he offered.

Brianna burst out laughing. “This room appears no other thing to me than a foul and pestilent congregation of vapors.”

Ouch. “Don't you like the scents?”

“The candles are nice, but I think someone spilled aftershave on the floor.” Brianna sat in the vinyl cushioned chair, whose surface Dashiell had carefully repaired with duct tape. She leaned forward. “Dashiell? Are you wearing
hair gel
?”

“A little. And it's Dash.” Dashiell smiled and opened a file cabinet drawer, where he had stored a wooden cutting board that contained a chunk of Kraft Cracker Barrel circled impeccably with Ritz crackers. “Would you like some? I have some Vitamin Water in here, too.”

Brianna gave him a funny look. “Sure. And then we'll talk about the problems with password protection for the lighting cues?”

“What?” Dashiell said.
Knife.
He had forgotten a knife! How was he going to cut the cheese?

“Wasn't that the reason for this meeting?” Brianna asked.

“Oh. Right . . . ” Dashiell pulled open the pencil drawer of his desk and rummaged around until he found a plastic knife. It still had a little caked residue from last Tuesday's banana-walnut muffin on it, so he wiped it clean with the corner of his shirt. Cutting Brianna and himself each a generous hunk of cheddar, he put them on Ritz crackers and handed her the bigger one. “Better to talk on a full stomach.”

“Uh, thanks.”

“Vitamin Water? I have Energy and Balance.”

“I'm okay.”

As Dashiell scarfed down his snack, he noticed she was just holding hers with a strangely reluctant expression. Duh. A napkin. He reached into the drawer and pulled out a stack of napkins he had hoarded from the deli. The top one had some kind of stain on it, so he threw it out and gave her the next one. Then he made sure to carefully swallow before he spoke. “So, the show is going pretty well, huh? That Kyle is an awesome singer.”

“Very talented,” Brianna said.

“Popular, too. He's going out with his football cronies on Friday, I hear.”

“I wouldn't know. I'm busy. Friday's unfortunately a homework night.”

Okay. Her story jibed with Kyle's. Just double-checking. That was the response he expected. The branch of the flow-chart he had outlined in gold. Now for the payoff pitch. He would angle for the
next
Friday, October 11.

Despite himself, Dashiell began to shake. “W-well, I was w-wondering—”

“Actually, I hope he doesn't have a date with his buds a week from Friday,” Brianna interrupted, “because that means he couldn't come to my party on that night. Which everyone is invited to.”

“P-party?” Dashiell said. “Friday? The eleventh?”

“Oops, study hall's almost half over. Got to go.” Brianna rose from the chair, smiling. “You'll be there, won't you? Or did you have other plans?”

“No!” Dashiell nearly shouted. “I mean, I'll check. If I don't, I'll come.”

 

Kyle groaned. “He
didn't
.”

“He did,” Brianna replied, putting a dollar into the juice machine. As the bill buzzed into the slot, she looked behind her. The crowd in the cafeteria was sparse, most of the kids sitting over by the window. Mr. Mansfield, the eighth-period study hall teacher, looked at her sternly and put his fingers to his lips. “I don't know why I'm telling you this,” Brianna whispered to Kyle. “You have to keep absolutely quiet about it. He is the sweetest guy.”