Colors (6 page)

Melissa nods in agreement.

“We need something newer to show off our style,” I continue, getting more and more fired up. “Do you know any modern church music?” The excitement of getting to perform again is bubbling up, a shaken pop trying to explode its cap.

“Sure,” Melissa says. “I’ve got tons of contemporary Christian CDs. You want to come over this afternoon to listen? I know we can find a song we like.”

“Deal. This afternoon at 3:30.” The thought of performing gives me a rush bigger than the performance itself.

The warning bell to begin first period sounds.

“We’d better get in there before Ms. Walter comes looking for us.” I rush from the practice room, straight to my place on the risers, leaving Melissa in the dust. My mind is reeling with the possibilities of this newest performance opportunity.

A flash: that church again, with the colors.

Satine again:
What are you, Neil? A wuss? Gonna let a few colors get you down?

Luckily, immediately after the final bell, Ms. Walter bounds from her office into the choir room. Following her morning ritual, she heads straight to the piano, sounds a single note, assumes the choir director stance, and we are off, vocalizing on the tone she had just sounded. The next ten minutes are filled with mind-numbing
me, may, mah, mo, moos,
and
ah-woo, ah-woos,
and
ting-a-ling-a-ling-a-ling-as
. Others complain all the time:
I hate vocalizing. Bo-o-o-ring. Give me a break.
But I revel in it. And I love the way she just takes control of the group.

When we finish, the Cawton County High Golden Hawk Show Choir is ready to sing.

“Good morning,” Ms. Walter chimes.

“Good morning,” the singers echo. Sometimes fake. We all know if we don’t show enthusiasm—feigned or real—Ms. Walter will have a do-over of the morning’s greeting. She demands complete devotion from her choir.

“Let’s work on the Brahms first, shall we?”

As we search for the Brahms piece in our folders—well, I don’t search, because I’ve already memorized it—there is a knock on the door. Ms. Walter turns. Mrs. Wolf, the junior counselor, stands in the doorway, a new student in tow. The kid slouches against the doorjamb, staring at the choir. I stare back. I see it.
Her
mouth.
Satine’s
mouth. I shake my head to clear this illusion from my vision. My eyes are playing tricks on me. I look again. My God… it’s definitely
her
mouth on this guy. Weird.

Ms. Walter strides to the door and takes the new kid’s hand. As they talk a few seconds, I focus on him. He looks to be a little bit younger than me and Satine. But he’s a good-looking guy, tall, willowy even, like the beautiful Satine.
I could tap that.
Where did that come from? I’m not gay. Even if I had feelings like that, I could never go through with it. Brother Gramm saw to that. I come back to reality when Ms. Walter turns back to the group, dragging the new guy forward.

“Choir,” she announces, a grin lighting her face, “this is Jeffrey Jacobson. He’s our newest member.”

I raise one eyebrow, not believing what I’ve just heard. Each of the current choir members had to pass an audition to become a member, yet here is this new guy just waltzing in. Either something is up, or this guy comes with a golden résumé. And where does that leave me? Can I measure up? Should I cozy up to him to size him up, or should I just steer clear?

“Neil,” Ms. Walter says, “could you help Jeffrey get started?” She walks over and slips her hands between me and the guy I usually stand next to, then motions for Jeffrey to move onto the riser.

So much for steering clear. And, of course, I’m once again singled out. So this new guy now knows I’m the teacher’s pet. She’s forcing me to make nice with him and putting me in a bad light all at the same time.
Ms. Walter, if you really like me, don’t do this to me all the time.

I don’t say anything, but I hold my folder over, quickly pulling out the Brahms, so Jeffrey can look on. Rattled by previous thoughts, I don’t lean toward him, don’t step a step closer.

“Brahms, huh?” Jeffrey whispers. “I just love Brahms!”

I nod. Nothing shy about this guy.

Ms. Walter gives the pitches for us to start.

T
RAY
IN
hand, I emerge from the fiesta line. Today, Monday, is taco day—or Fiesta Mexicana Day.
¡Arriba, Arriba! ¡Olé!
Every day is a different fiesta. Tuesdays are Fiesta Italiana—
Ciao, bambino,
have-a spaghet and meatballas
; Wednesday, Asian Fiesta—
food in, food out, Grasshoppa
, egg rolls and rice; Thursdays bring Fiesta Mexicana back for an encore, this time with taco salad; and Fridays are,
yummy, yummy, yummy
, leftovers—or Fiesta Garbagina, I’ve overheard some of my more creative classmates dub it. There are other lunch lines, but I like the fiesta line the best—maybe because it feeds my need to quote ancient movies. I’m drawn to them like I’m drawn to the fiesta line.

A stop at the condiments bar lets me spoon on salsa, get a dollop of imitation fat-free sour cream, and load up with the always popular shredded Federal surplus cheese. Slowly, slowly, Federal guidelines are kicking in and things are changing in the old lunch lines. But it’s still garbage in, garbage out. Just doesn’t taste quite as good as the old fat-laden days. And the lunch ladies still keep the lines festive—big smiles and Mexican paper flowers on Mexican days, Chinese lanterns on Asian days, etc. Gotta love it.

The din of humanity, courtesy of fifteen- to eighteen-year-olds, assaults me as usual. There’s not a seat to be had, but then again, I have no intention of sitting in here. Too close, too cozy. Can’t stand the thought of mixing food smells with the perfumes and body odors of cheerleaders and jocks.

I head out to the wide-open spaces of the patio. Not a breeze stirring, but at least it’s quiet and almost deserted… just a few nerds, seeking serenity so they can eat in peace while devouring a chapter of the latest zombie apocalypse novel. It sounds like I’m putting them down, but I guess I sort of identify with them. They wrap themselves in fantasy, I in musical theater. Pretty much alike are we.

There’s a totally empty table off to the side. I make a beeline to it to stake out my little acre of lunchtime heaven. As I sit, I say a tiny prayer to the gods that the table will stay deserted.

But alas, as they say in Shakespeare, the serenity is not to be. I’m focusing on my taco when a voice wafts above me.

“Hey. Neil, isn’t it? Mind if I sit here?” I look up to see the new guy with Satine’s mouth, Jeffrey, a curious black curl swinging across his forehead. I stare at that curl. It’s distinctive, sets him apart. He plops down next to me, not waiting for my reply. Which would have reluctantly been
okay
, since Aunt Jenny would not approve of my being rude. This Jeffrey guy rips open the paper on his burger, that curl dancing away all the while. He picks up a french fry, slathers it with ketchup, and pops it into his mouth.

I try to ignore him, ignore that curl, concentrate on my fiesta. I want to scream
move over
—Aunt Jenny be damned—but the guy is at the other end of the table as it is. Maybe I really want to scream
go away
, but Aunt Jenny whispers in my ear. Always the whispering whenever I even consider being the bad, little boy.

“You don’t talk much, do you?” Jeffrey says, ketchup ringing
her
—his—lips. That damn curl doing its strange little dance.

“Not much,” I say, wishing this guy were anywhere but here, wishing he’d take his curl and go. All I need is for one of the other choir guys to see me with him. They already hate me. They don’t need for me to cozy up to the new guy who just waltzed in and got a place in the choir without even trying out. I can hear them adding
traitor
to their list of names for me, a list that already includes
stuck-up butthole
and
swish
.

Jeffrey swipes his fingers on a paper napkin. “This is
so
overwhelming. My
lovely
parents didn’t even tell me we were moving until two weeks ago. I guess I’m still in shock.”

“Your lips,” I mutter.

“Huh?”

“Your lips—ketchup all over them.”

The new guy wipes his mouth, then extends his hand for me to shake. “Zane—Zane Jeffrey.”

He must have thought that was an invitation to talk. I just wanted him to wipe his mouth. Oh, well.

“Neil Darrien.” I shake his hand, feigning enthusiasm, but trying not to be too friendly. Then a bell in my head rings. Something’s not right. “Wait a minute,” I blurt out. “I thought Jeffrey was your
first
name.”

A grin crosses his face. “Well, the official birth certificate reads Jeffrey Zane Jacobson. But Zane Jeffrey”—his hands sweep across the air above him—“looks better on a marquee, don’t you think?”

“Marquee?” My head does a little shake, like you do when suddenly the lemon is too sour, or the breeze is too cold, or a bullet whizzes past your head.

“Yeah, I’m an actor,” this Zane character says. “Or at least I plan to be.”

And suddenly, my interest is piqued. Maybe that bullet just did whiz past my head. Nobody, but nobody else at Cawton County is like me, planning to be an actor. Two nerds meet in a silent wood.

“What have you done?” My question may be a little too loud, a little too probing, a little too
won’t you be my friend today
, a little too
I like your curl
. I straighten my mask of indifference.
Cool it, Neil.

“What
haven’t
I done? My first role was Winthrop in
Music Man
. I was nine. There’s a dinner theater in my hometown called The Carnival. I tried out and got the part.”

“You’ve done professional work?” Wow. Maybe I misjudged this guy. But I don’t want him to think I’m too eager. A friend who thinks like me would be nice. But, then again, is he going to be major competition for me?

“Pro, huh?” I say, chill in my voice. “That’s nice. What else have you done?”

Zane rattles off his credits. When he gets to Cornelius in
Hello Dolly!,
I can’t stand it. This is too much.

“You’re kidding.
I
did Cornelius!” And I hear it in my voice… my calm, cool, collected cover is blown.

“Where?” Zane shrieks, his excitement bubbling over.

“We did
Dolly!
last year at the Cawton County Playhouse.” I match his excitement, then I’m hit by this thought, which I voice: “Of course, it was just community theater,” feeling my own accomplishments don’t measure up to his professional ones.

“So?” Zane says. “You did it; that’s what’s important. And it sounds like you got a good stage name out of the deal.”

“Stage name?” My eyes widen. What is he talking about?

“Come on—that name,” Zane gushes. “Neil Darrien? It’s
meant
to be up in lights. How’d you come up with it?”

I laugh. It’s a laugh at his comment, but it’s also joy—joy that a friend has just entered, stage left.

“My parents gave it to me. What was it you said? Official birth certificate name.”

“Awesome.” Zane stuffs another ketchup-drenched fry into his mouth, once again leaving that ring, like Satine’s lipstick. “Have you done anything else?”

“Mouth,” I say, then continue, “Tommy in
Music Man
, Rolf in
Sound of Music
, Albert in
Birdie,
El Gallo, Troy in
High School Musical
, Marius, and I did Billy Bigelow here at school last year.”

“This school did
Les Miz
?” His question is muffled by the napkin wiping Satine’s luscious lips. I’ve got to quit doing that. I can’t keep picturing Satine whenever I see Zane. How gay is that?

“No,
Les Miz
was community theater too. But we do a show a year here at Cawton County.”

“What are they doing this year?” Zane asks. He doesn’t even try to contain himself. Like I would be if I was forced into a new school, he is crazy over the idea we do a musical here.

“This year’s show is
Oklahoma!
and tryouts are in about three weeks.”

“
Fab-u-lous.
I’ve
always
wanted to do that show. It was the pioneering show of American musical theater, you know. Wow. Rodgers and Hammerstein made history. Their first show together. 1943. St. James Theater. Agnes de Mille….”

The bell rings, signaling the end of lunch and stopping Zane’s history lesson in its tracks.

“Enough, Library of Congress—lunch is over,” I say, wishing we could stay and talk the afternoon away.

Zane leaps up, grabbing his tray. “Yeah. Gotta go chase down my next class. Great talking to you, Neil.”

“Yeah, Zane.” I smile. “Good meeting you too.”

Strangest thing. He walks backward from the table. His eyes are locked on me, his smile gracing his face. My gaze is on that curl. And I feel a little somethin’ somethin’.

Lordy, lordy me… another of Aunt Jenny’s signature phrases. I wag my head in disbelief. Crazy as a loon, but I like the guy. Then, feeling the stirring growing, I shut down. No, this can’t be happening to me. I think of Brother Gramm, and any feelings I may have had for Zane vanish.

Any of
those
kinds of feelings. The unnatural kind. Unnatural for me, anyway. But lingering in my thoughts is the idea I’m glad someone like me has joined the choir today.

I chomp the last of my tacos.

No wonder the guy just waltzed right into Show Choir. He’s got the chops to really stand out. Finally, maybe Ms. Walter will focus on him for a change and back off of me a little.

But is that what I really want?

T
HE
SAVORY
saltiness and soothing crunch of potato chips fill my mouth as I sprawl on Melissa’s couch and gulp Diet Coke. Aunt Jenny is heavily into organic this and macro that, so she cringes every time she sees me with a diet anything. But it’s all part of the body training. Aunt Jenny spouts, “Your body is your temple.” Well, who wants a fat temple?