Starry-Eyed (2 page)

Flash forward to May of 2003: To my left is
American Idol
contestant (and my competition) Ruben Studdard. To my right, host Ryan Seacrest holding a little piece of paper that would change my life forever.

American Idol
may have introduced me to the world, but even now I still haven't forgotten where I've come from. I have been able to accomplish so many of my dreams as a performer, but the seed that was planted when I was a teenager, my love for music and singing, the joy that I feel onstage connecting with people, has grown into a career that is larger and brighter than anything I could have ever imagined.

Starry-Eyed
is full of stories about passion for the arts, the challenges of stardom, the silly side of show business and the successes that come with just being you. Inside, you'll also find words of wisdom and encouragement from some names you'll definitely recognize. Maybe you've seen them on your favorite television show or in a blockbuster movie. Perhaps you've heard them on the radio or seen them perform in concert. Either way, they started out just like you and me: with a love for the arts and a dream. With a little luck, some hard work, and a lot of heart, they have some incredible stories to share with you. I hope you enjoy reading them as much as I have.

Clay Aiken

A NOTE FROM THE EDITORS

There's a reason that so many people love
Glee
—besides all of the musical numbers. And Jane Lynch.

Really,
Glee
is a show about the underdog, and no one knows what it feels like to be ignored, pushed aside, and made fun of like a teenager—especially one who loves the performing arts. Not only do
Glee
and other TV shows like
The Voice, The X Factor, American Idol, Smash, So You Think You Can Dance
(and many more) inspire us to believe in the power of music, they encourage us to follow our dreams. They teach us that with hard work and confidence, anything is possible. Because when it comes to the performing arts, it's not about fitting in—it's about standing out.

Which is why we wanted to craft a collection of stories that spoke to the very heart of what it means to be a teenager and to love performing. The stories in this anthology are written by some of today's most fantastic writers, and they are all inspired by the transformative power of music, dance, and drama. Whether you're a member of the audience, taking it all in, or up onstage, making it all happen, there's nothing quite like the magic of a fantastic performance.

In these pages, you will read about everything from the simple wonder of a first kiss to unlikely yet powerful friendships to the thrilling mystery of finding one's voice—literally. In addition to these stories, throughout this anthology, theater, television, and film actors have shared the moments that inspired their careers and exposed their personal failures and triumphs.

The seeds of
Starry-Eyed
were planted many years ago, when we were in school. For us, performing was the creative outlet we needed to make us feel special. From plays and musicals to chorus, band, and orchestra rehearsal, we were allowed to truly be ourselves. To pursue our dreams and reach for the stars. Our best friends were made during productions and musical summer camps. The arts provided us a home, a safe haven when we needed one, and for that we are forever grateful.

We hope that you enjoy
Starry-Eyed
as much as we have enjoyed putting it together.

Ted Michael & Josh Pultz

THE ACCOMPANIST

Eve Yohalem

When I was nine years old I smashed my pinky with a meat mallet so I wouldn't have to go onstage.

It was the night of Mrs. Komar's annual Christmas recital. She'd rented out Westview's Town Hall for her piano students, and it felt like half the town was there.

I stood in a corner of the green room (a file storage room by day) fingering the straps of my tote bag and listening to the older kids talk about how nervous they were, even though they really weren't. All that hugging and deep breathing and “oh-my-God-ing”? That was
excitement
. They couldn't wait to get out there and show the whole world how great they were.
Nervous
is when you beg your mother again and again not to make you do it, when you look up
phobia
in the dictionary before the scariest conversation you've ever had with your Eastern Bloc piano teacher, when your brother has a cold and you sneak dirty tissues out of his trash can and rub them on your face—and after all that fails, when you stuff a meat mallet into your tote bag, wedging it right between Chopin's waltzes and Beethoven's sonatas.

My black patent leather flats had rubbed blisters on my heels even though I was wearing tights like my mother told me to. She'd pulled my braids so tight I thought my eyeballs would pop out of my head. That way, she said, there was no chance my hair would fall in my eyes and distract me.

The problem with being able to play Mozart when you're nine years old? Everybody wants to see you do it. But all that wanting felt like taking, like everybody who listened to me play pinched off little Andie souvenirs, leaving me with Swiss cheese for a soul. And then there's the whole prodigy thing. People said
exceptional
and I heard
exception
. They said
outstanding
and I heard
oddity
.

“Andie, you okay?” Mrs. Komar's husband bent down to peer into my face. It was his job to keep order backstage. Histrionic teenagers were bad enough. The last thing he needed was an epic third grader meltdown.

“Yes,” I whispered.

“You're gonna be great,” he said.

“I have to go the bathroom.”

Alone in the ladies' room with the door locked, I pulled the meat mallet out of my bag. It had a long wood handle and a big square metal block on one end for flattening chicken into cutlets. Two sides of the block were smooth, a third had spikes and the fourth had ridges. I picked a smooth side. I wanted pounding, not tenderizing.

I straightened my pinky on the Formica vanity. No hesitation. Just a good sharp
thwack
.

Freedom.

. . . . . . . . . .

Eight years and one healed pinky later, I still hate the spotlight. But tonight that's okay because I'm alone in the orchestra pit of my high school auditorium.

I look up . . .

. . . over the manuscript stand, beyond the stained top of my upright piano. I scan the rehearsal stage where there's a cardboard city plaza, circa 1930. Think old Europe at its quaintest: cobbled streets, ornate black streetlights, an array of charming shops around a fountain made out of a lawn swan and a plastered-over kiddie pool. The cast of Westview High School's
She Loves Me
are milling around, checking cell phones or trying out facial expressions. My eye goes to the wings, where the two leads Chloe Pavone and Ben Jazinsky are dancing. Waltzing, I think. They do this a lot.

Chloe Pavone of the high As and the grand jetés. She who can cry on demand, kill a punch line. She of heart-shaped face and round brown eyes and perfect boobs. And Jazinsky who went by the nickname BJ all through elementary school because he thought it sounded cool. In sixth grade he found out why it wasn't and told everyone to call him Ben.

Across from Chloe and Ben, Henry DeRuyter leans against the proscenium, already in character though the run-through hasn't started. What I mean by that is Henry DeRuyter played Danny Zuko in
Grease
last year and he was Henry DeRuyter. He played Gaston in
Beauty and the Beast
as a sophomore and he was Henry DeRuyter. Now he's Steven Kodaly, the arrogant, handsome ladies' man, but really he's Henry DeRuyter.

And, yes, I admit I used to lie in bed at night thinking about Henry with the soundtrack in my brain playing Debussy's
Prelude to the Afternoon of a Faun
. I would fan out my hair behind me on my pillow and let the music spill down my body like water, dreaming about exotic places I'd never been to, like Henry's bedroom on a Thursday afternoon while his parents were still at work.

By “used to” I mean last week.

From behind me floats the disembodied voice of our director, Mr. Sandburg:

“Okay everybody. We're going to start from the beginning and work straight through. Places for ‘Good Morning, Good Day'! Andie, you ready?”

I drag my eyes off Henry and find Mr. Sandburg a few rows back in the audience. As the pianist for the school musical, I've been to every rehearsal.
She Loves Me
has a ridiculously difficult score, the kind of stuff that usually only classical musicians like me play. So even though we open in two nights, the music director is working with the rest of the band in the rehearsal studio, and tonight I'm on my own in the pit. Which is really just a clump of chairs and music stands off to one side and below the stage in the auditorium.

Being alone down here is fine—more than fine—by me.

“I'm ready,” I say.

Mr. Sandburg isn't listening. He knows I'm ready. I'm always ready.

He gives me a nod and I launch into the overture. It's supposed to start with a virtuosic violin solo, so I improv that. Then I improv the rest of the orchestra.

Davis Lee, the only freshman in the show, wobbles onstage on a bicycle. He needs to nail his entrance or the rest of the cast will follow him off a cliff. “Good Morning, Good Day” has a tick-tock rhythm that right now mirrors the beating of my heart.
Tick-tock, tick-tock, come on Davis, and NOW!

“Good morning!” he sings, right on cue.
Good man, Davis
.

Next I help Sophie, who plays Ilona the salesgirl, with timing. I accent the downbeats so she can find them.

The joke for the audience is that Ilona is complaining about being totally exhausted because she's been up all night romping with Kodaly. The joke for the cast is that Henry/Kodaly was actually up all night romping with Chloe/Amalia.

Henry makes his entrance without any extra help from me, and my pulse tick-tocks along with my heart and the song. He is, literally, tall, dark and handsome, like a poster boy for a Greek escort service, but his usual swagger does seem to be off a few degrees. I suppose thanks to last night with Chloe. Who has come down from the wings and is now sharing my piano bench.

“Andie,” she whispers, turning a page for me. “Can I ask you something? I want you to be really, really honest. Totally honest.
Don't
be afraid of hurting my feelings.”

I feed Ben his note so he'll be in the same key as everyone else.

“Do you think I'm getting . . .
boring
.?”

How would I know? We've never shared a lunch table. You've never invited me to any of your parties. In fact, the only reason I know where
you live is because everyone knows where you live. Because of all the parties you've never invited me to.

“No,” I whisper. It's hard to count and massage Chloe's ego at the same time. Why hasn't Mr. Sandburg noticed her and sent her backstage to wait for her entrance?

“Are you sure? Don't say that just to be nice. I want the absolute truth.”

I play louder and the cast follows. “Good Morning, Good Day” has turned into a round. Ben's timing is off but not enough to stop the song.

“You're not boring, Chloe. If you don't believe me, ask Henry.”

“I can't ask Henry. We broke up.”

Oh
.

“Oh,” I say out loud.

I look away from the music and risk a quick glance at Chloe. Her round brown eyes are even more luminous than usual.

“I mean
I
broke up with
him
.”

Meaning that he broke up with her. And why is she telling
me
this?

“I'm sorry.”

“Thanks.” She squeezes my right arm so I have to cue with my left hand and half the cast misses it. “You're the best. You never get caught up in all the
drama
. God, I swear, I'm so sick of
all the drama
” Chloe actually has her hands threaded in her hair, like she's about to tear it out in frustration over the
drama
. The song ends and now I can give my full attention to Chloe and her monologue.

“I mean, we're all leaving for college in six months. Or at least you and I and Ben and Henry are. Can't we leave with our dignity intact? Can't we leave like
adults
?” Before I can inject an “um-hm” or a “yeah,” Chloe continues and I realize she wasn't waiting for me to respond, she was just taking a beat. “It's all so
meaningless
! Like any of it really matters. Who dates who. Or who stars in what show. A year from now, who will remember any of it? Any of us?”

Is this another beat or am I supposed to answer?

“That's why Ben and I came up with a
thing
. A plan. For tonight. So we won't all fade away to nothing the minute we're out the door.”

“Quiet in the pit!”

“Sorry, Mr. Sandberg.” Only Chloe doesn't say the words—she sings them.

“Come backstage with me so I can tell you about
the plan
,” Chloe says.

“I can't,” I say. “It's almost time for ‘Thank You, Madam.' And you have to go on in about three minutes.”