D Is for Drama (7 page)

The last thing I needed was for him to think I felt guilty or wanted to apologize. I lowered my gaze and swept past, playing it cool all the way up until I crashed into someone at the milk fridge.

“Sorry!” I lifted my head to see Derek Green, one of the school's biggest deviants, frowning at me. Chocolate milk dribbled down his shirt. “Oh! Really, really sorry!”

I wiped at the mess with my sleeve, spreading the stain even further.

“Let me get a napkin or a . . . um . . . dry cleaner,” I said, nodding to Bree. She ran off . . . for help, I hoped.

“Don't bother,” said Derek, drinking what was left of his milk.

I glanced up nervously. “B-because when you pummel me, the shirt'll get bloody anyway?”

Derek sputtered and choked. “You say that
while
my mouth is full?” he asked.

“Sorry,” I said, wringing my hands. “I normally don't talk to your type beyond ‘Please, please, don't kill me.'”

“My type?” He gave me a weird look. “What . . . boys?”

“Bullies.” My eyes widened. “I mean—”

Derek laughed. “Forget it. I'm not going to hurt you, Sunny.”

My mouth dropped open. “You know my name?”

He nodded. “And I know you're holding auditions for a show at lunch.”

Instantly, the hairs on my neck bristled. “Why? Are you going to ruin it? I know what you and your brother did to that exchange student, and I'll tell you right now, I
won't
fit in a tuba.”

Bree hurried back with the napkins, and I thrust them at Derek. He just stared at me.

“Actually, I was going to try out,” he said, giving me his milk carton to hold. “Unless you don't have room for big, scary bullies.”

I almost dropped the carton in surprise.

“Oh! No, we do,” I said. “I mean . . . anyone can try out. Sorry.”

“And you won't judge me?” he asked, wiping at his shirt.

I snorted. “Well, of course I'll judge you. How else can I—”

Bree bumped me. “He means you won't
discriminate
against him?” she said under her breath.

“Oh.” I blushed. “
That
kind of judging. No, I won't,” I told Derek. “I promise.”

“Good.” He smiled and held up a pinky. “I know girls do this kind of stuff so . . .”

I grinned too, feeling silly as I hooked my pinky with the school bully's. “I pinky swear. My show is about talent, not appearance.”

“That's okay, I'd do well in either category.” He winked and took back his milk. “See you at noon.”

I watched Derek walk away, thinking he was right. With dark hair and dark eyes . . . he wasn't bad to look at. But could he act?

Could any of them act?

I COUNTED THIRTEEN
kids waiting outside Blakely Auditorium when Bree and I got there at lunch. They were all chatting excitedly and practicing their audition pieces for one another. When they saw me coming, they quieted and stepped to either side of the auditorium doors.

I'll admit it; I felt a bit like a superstar.

I walked past everyone and stopped before the entrance.

“Hey, guys!” I said. “So glad you could come to auditions. I want nothing but the best for this show.”

Wendy, the British girl that Ilana said gestured too wildly, waved her hands over her head.

“Sorry, what
is
this show?” she asked.

“Yeah!” others chorused.

It was a good question, one even
I
didn't know the answer to. I'd moved so quickly from a one-girl show to an ensemble piece that Bree and I hadn't had time to go over scripts.

“I . . . can't release that information,” I told the expectant crowd. Then in a more mysterious voice I added, “Only the ones who make the cut will know.”

For something off the top of my head, I thought it was brilliant. Especially when the kids began to whisper among themselves.

“It's super-exclusive!”

“Like a secret Hollywood project!”

“Or she has no idea.”

“O-kay.” I clapped my hands together and pointed to the doors. “Let's get inside and get onstage!” I said.

The crowd cheered, and I braced myself against the rush of eager thespians. Thankfully, it was limited to a few shoves and one strike to my shoulder from Wendy punching me instead of the air.

“Careful, that's the director,” someone told her.

“I'm an
actress
,” I corrected. “I'm just selecting my costars.”

But people were too busy scurrying onto the stage to notice. Bree and I settled in the front row, and a few minutes later Stefan walked in, a laptop bag hanging on one shoulder.

“Sorry I'm late,” he said, giving me a hug and nodding to Bree. “I had to make some copies.”

He set his bag on a chair and pulled a sheaf of packets out of the side pocket.

“Evaluation forms,” he explained, handing a stack to us and keeping a few for himself. “Of course, I didn't realize there'd be this many kids trying out.” He motioned to the stage with an impressed smirk.

“Neither did I,” I said, counting the papers. “There's thirteen of them and fifteen packets. We'll just share.”

“Sounds good,” said Stefan. He pointed to a guy at the far left of the row. “Number one, you're up.”

A familiar-looking dark-haired kid stepped forward and so did the one beside him. Derek! The first to step forward had been his twin brother, and they wore matching shirts. Now I knew why Derek didn't care if
his
got ruined.

Stefan groaned. “Identical twins?”

“Um . . . we just want one of you at a time,” I said.

“But we have to go together. We're Guns and Ammo,” said Derek's twin.

I leaned forward and furrowed my brow. “What?”

“You know, like the magazine,” said Derek, looking slightly embarrassed.

I blinked at him. “I'm a thirteen-year-old girl who owns three feather boas and a rhinestoning kit. What on
earth
would make you think I know about
Guns & Ammo
?”

The brothers just stared back.

I sighed. “Okay, just . . . which of you is Guns?”

Derek blushed, rolled up his sleeve, and made a muscle with his bicep. “Ka-pow,” he said.

“Oh . . . for the love of
Godspell
,” said Stefan.

“I'm Ammo,” Derek's brother added. Then, without
prompting, he spun around and stuck out his rear end. “And guess what I'm packing!”

“Please, no—” said Bree.

Derek's brother let fly the longest, loudest fart I'd ever heard. And of course, the excellent acoustics in the theater didn't help the situation.

Ammo and Derek high-fived, and the other boys onstage cracked up. The girls shrieked and huddled as far away as possible.

Stefan pointed at the twins and then at the door. “Out.”

Ammo snickered and jumped down from the stage. “Whatever. I'm a
real
artist. Painting and sculpting beat this crap any day. Come on, Derek.”

But Derek didn't budge. In fact, he looked genuinely shocked at our dismissal. “I didn't get to audition yet.”

Stefan gave him a sarcastic smile. “Yes, you did . . . and it stunk.”

“Thank you!” said Ammo.

“Get out!” Bree and I shouted at him.

He hurried away, but Derek stayed onstage.

“Look, I'm sorry we started with a lame joke,” he said, staring right at me, “but I really do want to try out.” He tugged on his shirt to straighten it. “I have a piece from . . . uh . . .
less miserables
.”

Bree, Stefan, and I exchanged a glance. They both shrugged, and I wrote Derek's real name on the evaluation form with
Les Misérables
beside it.

“Go ahead,” I said. “And it's pronounced ‘Lay Miserahb.'”

Derek turned out to be pretty good, even doing a passable French accent. He had star potential if you overlooked his reputation and crude antics. But I wasn't sure I could. It was going to be hard enough for people to accept my show without guys like him in the cast.

Next up was Janice the spit-talker. She wasn't bad, but it was clear that her braces gave her a speech problem when it came to saying
S
s or
C
s. Every time she spoke, saliva showered forth.

“I'm Janice,” she said, ending with a squirt of spit. “This (spit) piece (spit) speaks (double spit) to the actress (extra-long spit) in all of us (spit).”

Since the theater seats were several yards away, it didn't affect Bree, Stefan, or me. The stage itself, however, needed mopping by the end of her performance.

“Thank you,” I said as she left the stage. “We'll be posting results this afternoon.”

Stefan leaned toward me. “And will your actors be wearing wetsuits during the show?”

I shushed him and handed over Janice's evaluation for
him to fill out. “Next, please,” I said, and Suresh took the stage.

Bree clapped her hands and cheered until I elbowed her.

“Thank you,
unbiased judge
,” I said.

Suresh turned his back to the audience and stood with feet shoulder-width apart, arms stiff by his sides.

“Um . . . ,” I said, and was interrupted by a blast of music from the sound system.

It was Michael Jackson's “Thriller.”

Suresh hunched his shoulders and started to shimmy from side to side, like a zombie in the groove. The other kids started clapping to the rhythm, and Suresh spun around, dropping into a split.

“Whoa!” Bree and I said.

“Ouch!” Stefan said.

Suresh smiled at us, but when he tried to get back to his feet, the smile became a grimace. He put his hands on the floor to hoist himself up but could only scoot his entire body across the stage, still trapped in the split.

“I'm stuck!” he yelled over the music.

A couple kids dashed out and hooked him under the armpits, dragging Suresh to his feet. He looked pained but tried to find his place in the song. I waved my arms where he could see me.

Suresh gestured to someone offstage, and the music stopped.

“Don't judge me based on that,” he pleaded. “I can normally get back up if I'm wearing sweatpants.”

I shook my head. “That's not it. We already know you can dance. Why don't you act for us?”

Suresh stared at me, wide-eyed. “But I don't have a piece! The selection committee usually just has me dance.”

That explained why he didn't get speaking roles.

“Can you borrow from someone else?” I scanned the crowd. “Derek, can you give him your script to read?”

Derek nodded and passed it over. Suresh studied it for a moment, took a deep breath, and then proceeded to use the worst French accent I'd ever heard.

“Mah nehm eez Jawn Vahl Jawn. Ah am a conveect from zee galleys.”

I waved my arms again. “Lose the accent,” I told him.

Suresh lowered the script. “I can't, Sunny! I'm Indian. This is the way I talk!”

I sighed and looked at Bree.

“Not
your
accent,” she told him. “The French one.”

Every performance that followed went a little worse. We had Wendy with the wild arms, Max the shouter, an extremely peppy girl named Holly, and Cole the stutterer,
to name a few. I hated to admit it, but I could see why most of these kids hadn't been cast in a play. I was surprised they were even allowed to star in their own dreams.

Nevertheless, everyone got a round of applause as they left the theater, and I reminded them that audition results would be posted that afternoon.

When the last student left, Stefan leaned back and regarded me with raised eyebrows. “Well,
that
was entertaining, but I should get back to the high school.”

“We need to pick the cast first,” I said, gesturing to Bree who'd lingered in the doorway with Suresh.

“You three and Derek,” said Stefan, getting up. “Call me tonight and we'll figure out a script.”

“What—wait a minute!” I grabbed for his shirttail. “Who else?”

Stefan looked from me to Bree and Suresh.

“Sunny, were you watching those kids?” he asked in a low voice. “They will
not
make you look good in front of an agent.”

“They couldn't have all been that bad.” I scanned the evaluation forms but nobody scored higher than six out of ten. “What about Alison Brown?”

“She grunted after every line,” said Stefan. “I thought she was going to drop a kidney onstage.”

“But you gave her a six,” I said.

Stefan shrugged. “She complimented my hair.”

I sighed and kept looking, but every candidate had some obvious flaw . . . like Ilana had said. “I guess . . . maybe you're right. They're not really star material.”

“Don't sound so disappointed.” Stefan nudged me as he slung his laptop bag over his shoulder. “This works out better for you.” He waved and headed for the exit.

I turned to Bree and Suresh with a half smile. “Welcome to our four-person show,” I said.

“Sunny,” Bree began, but then another voice spoke my name from the doorway.

“Sunny?” A heavyset girl with curly dark hair poked her head in. Anne Marie.

“Hey, Anne Marie, what's up?” I stood the papers on end and banged them against a chair to straighten them.

She glanced nervously at Bree and Suresh before coming forward. “Are you still holding auditions for your show?”

“Well, they're officially over.” I gestured to the stage. “But you can go for it if you want.”

With a grateful smile, she climbed the steps and smoothed down her skirt.

“I'll be doing a piece from
Stardust
,” she said.