And there we are, the four of us, just like we've been since junior high.
We met at the auditions for
Guys and Dolls, Junior
before Cameron knew he was gay or Suzanne decided her talents lay backstage, but not before Elliot was cool and I was fat. We just happened to plop down next to each other and something clicked -- like we were the perfect cast in a four-man show. We started eating lunch together and then going to movies together and then doing almost everything together. It was strange after so many years of resenting the cliques that had excluded me to suddenly be a part of my own and to have the pleasure of excluding others -- not that people were scrambling to hang out with us, but at least it felt exclusive.
Suzanne is the quietest -- totally at home with a wrench in her hand, dangling thirty feet above the stage adjusting a light, but never quite comfortable making conversation, even among friends. I remember one afternoon we were hanging out at Cameron's, just joking and laughing and Suzanne didn't say a thing all day and when we left, just before she got in her car, she turned and gave me a hug and said, "That was the best afternoon ever!" That's Suzanne -- always in the wings and loving it.
Cameron, needless to say, is the flamboyant one. He has a wicked sense of humor, and can sing pretty much every song ever written for Broadway, but the degree to which he lets people see all that -- the degree to which he's out of the closet -- varies widely depending on the company. With us he'll practically put on a drag show, sans the actual drag; with his parents he's the good, studious, son who just can't seem to find a girlfriend; with everyone else, it's something in between.
Elliot's the one of the four of us who actually has other friends, too. He's as comfortable with football players as he is with drama geeks. He's also the most relaxed person I've ever seen on stage. He got the male lead in everything until Roger Morton started auditioning last winter -- but since Elliot was the one who convinced Roger to try acting, it didn't bother him that he was suddenly playing second fiddle. To this day I'm not sure if Elliot invited Roger into the theatre because he genuinely thought he'd like it, or because he knew I'd had a crush on Roger since the third grade at James K. Polk Elementary School. Either way, I'm OK with it. And I'm very OK sliding back into the couch to watch a movie with my three best friends and forgetting about the outside world for a couple of hours.
It turns out
Sunset Boulevard
is all about this washed up silent movie actress who nobody needs anymore -- possibly not the best karma for a senior who's up for the part of her life against Cynthia C-cup, but at least we weren't watching
All About Eve.
After the film I decide maybe it's OK
to talk about my audition again, as long as I make it clear that it's
just
the audition I'm talking about.
"So did anybody else sense that connection during my audition today?" I say, as nonchalantly as I can.
"I mean, forget it was Roger. It's just that something happened in that audition that has never happened to me on stage before, and as an actress I'm interested in figuring out what it was."
"I saw it," says Cameron, "and you're right, there was a connection that you don't usually see. Like for a few seconds you weren't actors, but you actually were Dolly and Horace."
"Sometimes it just happens," says Suzanne. "I saw the same thing when Pam French was reading for Madge in
Picnic.
But I never saw it again after the audition, not even on closing night."
"Yeah, well that's what happens when you cast a gummy bear," says Cameron. That's what he calls someone who auditions well but then never gets any better, or even gets worse. "Because when I see a bag of gummy bears," he explained one time, "they look like a really good idea, but the more I eat, the more I regret it."
"It doesn't 'just happen' if you know what you're doing," says Elliot, back on the subject of the connection Roger and I made. "Read your Stanislavski. In the beginning of
An Actor Prepares
it happens almost by accident -- that total surrender of actor to character -- but the rest of the book is figuring out how to do it on purpose. 'Look for what is fine in art, and try to understand it.'"
Leave it to Elliot to break up the party by quoting Stanislavski. It's no wonder he got into Duke early decision.
I wait calmly behind the chaos until the crowd notices me and slowly begins to part; and they have to part quite a bit because, as you know, my hips require some respect. But they do part -- they step back almost in awe, which I figure is a good sign because it probably means I got cast as Dolly and they are intimidated by me already. I glide up to the board all stately, like the Titanic or something, and pick up the pencil that's hanging there by a piece of string so I can initial my name next to the words "Dolly Levi."
Only it's not my name. It's Cynthia Pirelli.
And now my stomach is sinking like a rock and I'm thinking that the Titanic was sooo not the right metaphor and I have to keep my super cool exterior because being the fat kid in front of everybody is bad enough without being the devastated fat kid in front of everybody, and then I see my name next to the word "Townsperson."
Townsperson! My character doesn't even have a name.
Every actor but me has initialed their parts, and now everybody is standing there looking at me, waiting to see what I'll do. They all know I didn't get the lead, and probably most of them think I should have gotten the lead, but all they can think now is "What's she gonna do?"
You can feel the anticipation -- if people were sitting down, they'd be on the edge of their seats. And for a second my stomach stops sinking and I think,
I'm on stage.
I'm the star of the most dramatic moment of the day. I've got everyone holding their breath and leaning every so slightly forward to watch me. It's kind of powerful, if you think about it.
So slowly, with great grace and dignity, trying my best to channel Katherine Hepburn, I step slightly to the side so everyone else can lean in and watch as I write, next to my name, "No F-ing way."
I write it just like that, so they can't get me for profanity. "No F-ing way," and this little gasp goes up from my audience.
Oh, I play the tragic heroine with aplomb. And then I gently set the pencil down and glide back through the crowd and down the hall, and when I am about ten feet away, I hear it.
I was expecting giggles and that gossipy sound that usually permeates the halls, but instead I hear someone clapping. And then suddenly, like someone had just turned up the volume, the whole hall is full of applause.
I walk a few feet further, then turn, and curtsey elegantly to all the drama geeks standing there by that profane cast list and applauding me. For the end of my life, it's a pretty good moment. Keeps me from crying until I get around the corner, at least.
Third period math
is the worst fifty minutes of my life. Not only do I not have a clue what Mr. Donahue is talking about, but math is the one class I share with Cynthia Pirelli, who is officially the last person in the solar system I want to see right now.
She's covered up today, wearing a big loose T-shirt, and she keeps staring over at me with this pathetic look on her face and trying to mouth "I'm sorry," and stuff like that, but I won't look at her. I mean, not directly -- I have great peripheral vision, so I know what's going on. She wants me to forgive her for stealing my part, but I'm not gonna do it. If it bothers her so much, why did she accept the role? Why did she even audition?
Of course everybody else in class knows what's going on and they're watching us like we're like something on
Animal Planet,
so finally, when we're supposed to be solving a problem in the workbook, I go up to Mr. Donahue and tell him I'm having "female issues," which means he'll write me a pass for the moon as long as he doesn't have to hear any details. So I guess technically it's the worst thirty-five minutes of my life. Then I go and hide in the props shed.
I stop by the supply room to collect a box of tissues. When she sees how red my face is, Miss Overman doesn't even ask me why I need them. "Allergies," I say, sniffing and willing myself not to cry again until I'm safely hidden away, face down on a couch that's musty enough that if I did have allergies it would probably kill me. Then I have a good long sob.
Even though my heart is broken and my life is over, it actually feels fantastic -- not quite good enough to make it worth having your heart broken, but close. I think it's endorphins or something, but have you ever noticed how good a cry can make you feel? Not that "catch it in your throat and try to squeeze it shut before it starts because there are people around" sort of cry, but the "I'm all alone and I can release everything I've been holding inside of me" cry.
Cameron was the one
who got the idea about the props shed. "It's full of furniture, nobody ever goes there, and Suzanne has the key," he said. So the prefab aluminum shed behind the gym became the theatre lounge -- by invitation only, of course.
Suzanne got keys made for us at Home Depot during one of her regular Saturday afternoon excursions (that place is like Mecca to her). She rigged up some lighting (don't ask me how), and Cameron and I spent a weekend rearranging everything that was crammed in there and opened up a corner where we put a sofa and two armchairs some parent had donated. I can't imagine the taste of the person who bought this furniture, much less kept it in such shabby condition, and I'm sure we'll never use it on stage unless we're doing
Pathetic Loser: The Musical,
but for crashing between classes (or for skipping classes) it works fine.
By the time break rolls around I'm all cried out and feeling a little better. I still feel like my life is over, but now instead of wanting to kill myself I just want to kill Cynthia, which is an improvement. Of course Cameron, Elliot, and Suzanne know where to find me, and pretty soon everybody has given me long hugs (you've got to admire the effort that a short, skinny waif like Suzanne puts in to get her arms all the way around me) and we're waiting for someone to break the silence.
"I talked to Parkinson," says Suzanne at last.
"You did what!" I say. Suzanne never talks to anybody voluntarily.
"I talked to Parkinson. I asked him why you didn't get the role."
"Why would you do that?" I say, crossing my arms across my chest.
"Because I knew you wouldn't," says Suzanne. "And I knew you would lie awake wondering and torture yourself trying to think of things you could have done differently. I figured it would be better if you just knew."
She has a point. "So what did he say?" I ask, pressing my back as far into the corner of the shed as I can, feeling the cold aluminum through my shirt and hoping no one can see that I'm trembling with dread.
"He said he needed someone who was physically right for the role."
"Oh, I am so sick of hearing 'physically right for the role,'" I say. "Where in the script does it say what Dolly looks like? What role am I physically right for? Not even Tracy Turnblad -- I'm too tall. But I could play her, and I could play Dolly. I'm an actress! I'm a fat actress."
"He also said Cynthia gave a really good singing audition."
And here it is -- I have a choice. I can be righteously indignant that the role I've earned over the past four years of paying my dues in the theatre department was stolen from me because of blatant sizeism, or I can admit that I'm not the strongest singer in the world and allow for the possibility that Cynthia won Dolly fair and square. I opt for righteous indignation.
"Oh please," I say, dropping onto the couch, because it's the only thing I can think of to say, and I'm hoping I slather on enough sarcasm to make myself feel better and put an end to the conversation.
"Cynthia Pirelli is a gummy bear," says Cameron, plopping down next to me.
"A total gummy bear," says Elliot. "You know Cameron didn't get cast at all," he says, after an awkward silence.
"Oh, crap, Cameron," I say, "I didn't even look at the rest of the cast list. I'm so sorry." I reach across the sofa and fold him up a hug, which probably half suffocates him, but now I feel totally guilty about how self-centered I've been. Like I'm the only person who didn't get a part she wanted (although, inside, it still feels that way).
"It's OK," says Cameron when I finally let him go. "There's really not a good part for me. Elliot's playing Barnaby."
"But don't feel like you have to come see it," says Elliot. "I mean I know the last thing you want is to see -- well, you know."
"Her," says Suzanne.
"Right," says Elliot.
"Of course I'll come to see you, Elliot," I say, squeezing his bony hand in my fleshy one. "And congratulations."
"Thanks," says Elliot, smiling at me and squeezing back.
"Parkinson asked me if I would stage manage, but I'm not sure," says Suzanne.
"Look," I say, "I didn't get the part. It's not the end of the world" (this is what I say, and I'm trying to talk myself into believing it, but it's not working so far). "Sure I'm sad and angry and I certainly don't feel like chatting with Cynthia Pirelli right now, but that's no reason for you to boycott the show."
"It's not that," says Suzanne meekly, "It's just that -- "
And then there is a knock at the door. At our door. No one has ever knocked on our door before. Who even knows we are in here? Cameron opens the door, and I swear if I were standing up you could knock my fat ass over with a chicken feather. Standing there in the door, in our door, is Cynthia Pirelli.