Drama Queers! (14 page)

Well, I don’t know how it all started, but soon after the school year began, me and Jack decided to make him our whipping boy for the next nine months. I mean, it’s not like we were ever mean to him. We never actually said anything bad about him to his face. Both our moms taught us better than that.

I just think for once in our lives, it felt nice to see somebody running around who was faggier than we were, you know what I mean? I don’t even know if Rich knows what went on or how, whenever me and Jack used to mention him in a letter, we’d write his name all cursive-y with little hearts and flowers and rainbows all around it…I’d feel like a Total Asshole if he did!

“Nice seeing you again,” I say, friendly as can be.

And judging from the feeling down yonder in my nether regions…

I mean it.

“There are no small parts, only small actors.”

Wanna know what bugs the shit outta me?

When somebody tells me something they think will make me feel better.

Case in point…

The morning after auditions, Mr. Dell’Olio posts the following list on the door outside the auditorium.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL
—CAST—

Happy fucking Friday the 13th!

Thank God I made a point to get to school early so I could check the cast list in private. If anybody saw the expression on my face when I discovered Richie—I mean,
Rich
—Tyler’s name above mine and next to
my
role, I would’ve diiieed! I mean, what the hell is Dell thinking? Casting a Sophomore in the lead when he’s never acted a day in his life.

What the fuck?

“Mr. Dayton!”

When I enter the auditorium for 5
^th
hour Advanced Drama that afternoon, Dell attempts to greet me with his usual smile and sparkling personality…But I ain’t having it! In fact, I don’t even say as much as hello. Instead, I take a seat in one of the furthest rows away from the stage, and keep my mouth shut the entire class.

“I’m sure most of you saw the
Christmas Carol
cast list on your way in,” Dell says, all happy and shit, as if nobody has a right to be irked about anything. “For those of you in the show, congratulations. I think it’s going to be a good one.”

He tries catching my eye, but I look down at my spiral.

I begin doodling Richie Tyler sucks! Because it’s totally true…God, I hate him!

Call me a bitch, but what can you expect? Here it is my
Senior
year. I got two chances left to perform on stage at this fucking school, and I’m stuck playing Bob-fucking-Cratchit to Richie-the-fag-Tyler’s Ebenezer Scrooge? I don’t think so.

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit the guy gave a damn good audition, but still…Everybody knows you gotta pay your dues.

When I auditioned for my first play during Sophomore year, I didn’t get cast as Curly in
Okla-homo!,
even though I was the one with “natur-al-ly curly hair,” à la Frieda from
Charlie Brown
. There’s no way in hell a Senior like Jake Czyzyk would’ve settled for second billing below a
Sophomore
.

I don’t think I pointed out the final name on the cast list belonging to Billy Paterno, Jack’s baby brother. I guess I shouldn’t call him a
baby
. He’s nine-going-on-ten, which makes me feel sooo old!

I still remember Billy as this chubby little 4-year-old dragging around a Cabbage Patch doll, getting in mine and Jack’s way whenever I’d spend the night at their house back in junior high.

When Mr. Dell’Olio told us he wanted to find a real kid to play the part of Tiny Tim, I immediately thought of Billy. Back when me and Jack were still Best Friends, I went with him and his mom and his sister, Jodi, to see Billy in this play called
Stone Soup
over at Longfellow. He played the part of the Narrator and he was totally awesome.

So many Drama Queers just memorize their lines, get up on stage, and say them. Billy Paterno isn’t afraid to
act
. Plus he looked sooo cute hobbling around on his tiny Tiny Tim crutch at auditions.

I spend the entire weekend telling everybody who’ll listen (my mom, my sisters, my manager at work) about the travesty that’s occurred, coming to the conclusion that I am
not
gonna waste my time working on a play I’m barely in…Therefore, I Q-U-I-T, quit.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

I don’t know what I thought Mr. Dell’Olio would say when I break the news to him on Monday afternoon. I sure as hell hoped he’d put up a fight to keep me in the show. I mean, I didn’t expect him to take away Richie’s role and give it to me. But how about trying to convince me why I shouldn’t walk?

I guess what I wanna know is…Why did Dell cast the show the way he did? Does he think I’m not good enough to play the lead? Have I not proven myself in all the other plays I been in? And if he honestly lacks faith in my ability, why’s he so gung-ho about recommending me for Juilliard?

“Not every actor can play
every
part,” Dell tries explaining when I work up the nerve to confront him. “There are some roles you’re going to be right for, and others you’re not…Because of who you are.”

I don’t get what he’s saying. “Isn’t that why they call it acting?”

“Yes, but…” He shakes his balding head, totally at a loss. “Rich Tyler’s a different
type
than you are.”

“But I’m older,” I reason. Shouldn’t that count for something?

Dell nods. “But Rich is
taller
.”

“So…?”

“So on stage, he plays older.”

Da-dah da-
fucking
-dah.

Maybe I’m wrong, but I was always under the impression that being an actor means I can be whoever I wanna be. I don’t have to settle for being just Bradley James Dayton, 17-year-old gay-boy. I can be a nerd like Seymour Krelborn. Or a cowboy like Will Parker. Or an old man like Ebenezer Scrooge. All thru the magic that is Theatre.

“Besides,” Dell concludes, “You know what they say: ‘There are no small parts, only small actors.’”

What’s
that
supposed to mean?

“There are no small parts, only small actors.”

I mean, I know what it means: no role is insignificant, a character wouldn’t even be in a play if it wasn’t important, be a team player. This I am and have
always
been. I don’t need some middle-aged, failed-Off-Off-Broadway-director giving me advice, you know what I mean?

“How do you think
I
feel?”

Ultimately, Audrey is the one who convinces me to stay in the show.

Later that night, I call her up to ask her opinion. I have to give Dell an answer ASAP so he can recast my part if necessary.

“At least you weren’t beat out by a
Sophomore
,” I remind her.

Poor Audrey…She desperately wanted to play Belle, Young Scrooge’s love interest. But once again, Dell decided to go with a blond, namely Liza Larson. Unfortunately, I can totally see where he’s coming from. Even in
Mr. Magoo’s Christmas Carol
, this is the way it was drawn. Yet another case of typecasting.

All the way across town, I hear Audrey sigh. “Well, if you quit, I quit.”

“Please…Don’t let my humiliation stop you from having fun.”

This is what it comes down to: what a loser everybody is gonna think I am when they come see the play in December, and there’s me (a Senior) bowing before Richie Tyler (a lowly Sophomore).

Audrey does her best to be the voice of reason.

“It’s bad enough my own boyfriend’s not doing the play…” Rob’s new job flipping ass burgers at Bray’s conflicts with rehearsals, and therefore his dad decided making
money
is more important than playing pretend. “You’re my Best Friend…The least you can do is share in my suffering.”

“But Bob Cratchit,” I whine. “He’s a Total Wuss!”

All the guy does is say, “Yes, Mr. Scrooge,” and “No, Mr. Scrooge,” with the occasional, “Very good, sir,” thrown in for good measure. Plus the last thing I want is Claire Moody playing my wife.

Ever since the day I ran into her and Rakoff in Dell’s room, she’s constantly bugging me about whether I know if Jack Paterno’s gay or not, and what a great scoop it would be for her column in
The Hazel Parker
. I keep telling her she should stick to fashion and leave the investigative reporting to somebody else. Besides, it’s none of her fat fucking business!

“Yes, but…” Audrey considers my argument a moment, coming up with: “In the Disney version, Mickey Mouse played Bob Cratchit.”

I’m like, “So…?”

“So…Everybody knows Mickey Mouse is the star of Disney, and even he took a lesser role for the good of the show.”

“Yes, but…” I consider Audrey’s argument a moment, coming up with: “You think
Scrooge
McDuck would get cast as anything less than Ebenezer
Scrooge?
”

I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.

“Please!” Audrey pleads. “You can’t leave me alone with Will Isaacs and Keith Treva.”

Notorious for their backstage antics, those two are “trouble with a capital T,” as Professor Harold Hill sings in
The Music Man
. Like last year during
The Miracle Worker
, they booby-trapped the set and the poor girl playing Helen Keller almost fell right off the stage into the orchestra pit. Thank God it wasn’t a musical or she would’ve gotten a bassoon up her butt.

“And Tuesday Gunderson,” Audrey adds. “I’ll fucking kill her!”

This much I know is true.

Despite them being so-called friends, I can tell Audrey can’t stand Tuesday. Any day now, she’s gonna do something drastic. Like telling her to take a fucking shower. Or at least wash her fucking hair. Lemme tell ya, that girl put the BO in BOD—what we call Student Council here at HPHS, aka Board of Directors.

“Fine…I’ll do the fucking play,” I reluctantly give in. “But the second anything else comes my way,” like the opportunity to pick up an extra shift at Big Boy’s or God willing, I meet a hot guy at the bar and he asks me out after school, “I’m skipping rehearsal and Dell can deal.”

And no matter what, I am
not
being nice to Richie Tyler!

The following Monday…

At our first read-thru, The Sophomore comes rushing into the auditorium all hot and sweaty and totally pumped up, after an intense workout during Miss Phelan’s 6
^th
hour Gym. Did I mention she may or may not be a lesbian, but who cares because she’s totally cool? Back in 10
^th
grade, she used to let me and Jack hang out in her office instead of forcing us to play volleyball or run laps around the track with the rest of our classmates.

“Sorry I’m late,” Richie huffs and puffs, totally outta breath.

But does Dell’Olio get pissed and give him the old,
“If you’re not fifteen minutes early, you’re late”
spiel that he got from his playwright friend in New York, David Mamet?

N–O!

He simply says, “That’s okay, Rich…We were just about to get started.”

In actuality, the entire cast had already assembled on stage in a circle of chairs, filled out our contact sheets, and finished hi-lighting the scripts given to us by our SSD, Miranda Resnick.

“Have a seat next to Brad,” she tells Richie, indicating the empty metal folding chair on my right.

He plops down beside me. “Hey, Brad…What’s up?”

Doe he
really
have to lift up his shirt, exposing his happy trail, in order to wipe the sweat from his upper lip? And what’s he doing wearing a fucking tank top in the middle of November? How about putting on some real clothes?