Drama Queers! (12 page)

And like I said, technically it’s illegal for Larry to do
anything
with me. Until next September, at least, when I turn eighteen for real. The last thing I want is for anybody to get arrested all because I’m a horndog.

As promised, the next day when I get home from school, I dial Larry’s number.

Too bad he doesn’t answer.

I hate play tryouts—I mean,
auditions!

Imagine what it’s like getting up in front of everybody and being judged. Not just for who you are, but based on the way you look, the way you talk, and how well you work opposite others. Lemme tell ya, it totally sucks!

Mais ç’est la vie d’un acteur
.

You’d think by now Mr. Dell’Olio could just
give
me a part without putting me thru the whole excruciating process. It’s not like this is Broadway, for chris’sakes, it’s goddamn Hillbilly High School. Shouldn’t being a Senior count for something? It’s bad enough I gotta prepare two contrasting monologues (one contemporary, one classical) for my Juilliard audition coming up in January. Now I have to worry about
A
goddamn
Christmas Carol
.

Did I mention I finally decided where I wanna go to college next fall? Up till recently, I been torn between Wayne State University in Detroit, and Juilliard School of Drama in New York City, which is
the
(as in thee) best Drama School in the entire country.

The thing about WSU is they got this four-year tuition-free scholarship, as opposed to Juilliard, which costs several thousand dollars per year. Not that I’d qualify for a free ride since my grades totally suck, and not that I’d automatically get accepted into Juilliard because the competition is fierce. Plus if I did get in, I’d have to move away from home. And leaving my mom and my sisters and all my friends would totally suck, you know what I mean?

But like my junior high Band teacher, Jessica Clark Putnam, once told Jack when he contemplated not going to Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp by himself just because I couldn’t afford to go: “Friends hold you back.”

So to help me make up my mind, I had a meeting with my guidance counselor the other day, Mrs. Ellis…

“It’s
your
education, Bradley,” she reminded me.

Again, another adult telling me something I already know.

“Christopher Reeves went to Juilliard,” I informed her, even though I meant to say Christopher
Reeve
(no
S
). Most people don’t realize the Man of Steel is a classically trained actor.

“And Casey Kasem went to Wayne State,” Mrs. Ellis reasoned.

No disrespect, but how the hell could she sit there in that goddamn butterscotch-colored plaid blazer she wears practically every goddamn day comparing Richard Collier from
Somewhere in Time
to Shaggy from
Scooby-Doo?

Gimme a fucking break!

As much as I wanted to shout,
Thanks for nothing, Bitch!
I minded my manners as Mom always taught me and politely replied, “So you can see it’s a tough decision.”

Mrs. Ellis forced a smile. “If it’s any help, I got
my
Bachelor’s from Wayne, and I ended up with a good job.”

Working as a guidance counselor in Hazeltucky, Michigan
.

Did I mention she barely looked up from her lap, engrossed in my permanent record? Until she noticed my ACT scores.

“Have you considered Oakland Community College?”

Fuck Mrs. Ellis!

After that total waste of time, I decided to get Mr. Dell’Olio’s opinion. For the past two years, he’s worked with me as an actor. His judgment I trust on how I should go about pursuing my future career.

Yesterday after school, I stopped by the Drama room…

‘member Zack Rakoff, the only male member of Flag Corps? Back in elementary school all-city Honors Band he wore GASS shoes and I thought he was a girl. Well, I popped my head into Dell’s class and found Rakoff and Flaggot co-captain Claire Moody sitting at one of them trapezoid-shaped tables, deeply engrossed in debate.

“It wouldn’t surprise me,” I heard Moody saying to Rakoff. “He hasn’t had a girlfriend since What’s-Her-Name.”

Rakoff replied, “I haven’t had a girlfriend
ever
.”

“Maybe you’re gay too,” Moody mocked, half joking, half not.

“Thankth a lot!” Rakoff lisped, totally insulted.

“Who’re we talking about?” I politely interrupted. Around these hallowed halls, there’s nothing quite like good gossip—unless it’s about
you
.

Like salmon ready to spawn, Rakoff and Moody stopped midstream. They looked at me like I had two heads sprouting outta my mock-turtleneck. Like I couldn’t be trusted with such classified information.

“Wouldn’t
you
like to know?” Moody snapped smugly.

I felt like saying,
Fine, Bitch…See if I care.

I thought we used to be friends back at Webb and during
Okla-homo!
when Claire was Sophomore Student Director. Evidently not! So I laughed her off, reminding myself, “Claire’s a fat girl’s name.” Not that I’m saying Claire Moody is fat, even though she sorta is.

“Brad can back me up,” boasted Rakoff. “He’s Jack’s Best Friend.”

I wanted to say,
I
was
Jack’s Best Friend
, but I had a feeling this was one conversation I’d rather stay out of.

What was I gonna say?
The fat girl’s right, Rakoff…Jack is a Total Fag.

I couldn’t do that to the poor guy, even though Mr. Paterno’s made it perfectly clear he wants nothing more to do with me because
I’m
one.

So all I said was, “People have been saying that about Jack for years.”

Moody said, “Precisely.”

I reminded them, “You should never believe gossip, you know what I mean?”

Quickly, I changed the subject, asking if either knew where I could find Mr. Dell’Olio.

“I haven’t theen him thince 5th hour,” Rakoff reported.

Moody speculated, “He’s probably in the
Parker
office,” meaning
The Hazel Parker
. “I know he’s on deadline.” She rolled her eyes. “Chances are Jack’s in there with him, editing the HE-double-L out of one of my stories.”

Did I mention that Dell also serves as faculty advisor for the school newspaper since he minored in English up at Northern? Evidently, Claire’s a tad bitter that he made Jack Editor-in-Chief of
The Hazel Parker
when he only joined the paper Junior year, and she’s been reporting since Sophomore. Maybe it’s true that he did it because Jack is the only guy on staff. Or maybe it’s because Jack is a better writer than Claire.

Who the hell knows, and who gives a flying fuck? Not me.

“Brad!”

I was about to head back out the door when Rakoff called.

Stopped in my tracks, I asked, “What’s up?”

“Claire and I are writing a thort film thcript…”

Moody added, “For second semester Mass Media,” like Rakoff was an idiot for not specifying.

“For thecond themethter Math Media,” he echoed, “and we were wondering if you wanna be in it.”

I hesitated a moment. Not because I didn’t welcome the opportunity to work on my craft, but back in 10
^th
grade, me, Jack, Lou, and Alyssa had a saying:
“Dare to be different—but not like Rakoff.”

Not that they’re not nice people, but did I
really
wanna spend time outside of school with Zack Rakoff and Claire Moody? I could just imagine what Jack would say if he heard I was hanging out with them. Only I remembered that me and Jack are no longer friends, and my acting career is the most important thing right now.

So I said, “Fuck yeah, I do!”

Geek #1 and Geek #2 gawked at me, all perma-grin.

“We’ll get you a script by Christmas,” Moody promised.

Rakoff added, “We thoot over Winter Break.”

“Bitchin’,” I replied.

Where did
that
come from?

Claire looked at me with puppy-dog eyes. “You wanna know what it’s about before you sign on?”

“Not really.” As long as I got to act, I didn’t care what the project was.

“Well, it’s called
Faded Flowers
,” Rakoff went on.

Moody interjected, “After the Shreikback song,” even though I just got thru telling her I didn’t need to know anything else.

“‘These eyes are blind, this is a pure thing…’” Rakoff started singing. “‘These hands I kiss, tragic as anything.’”

I realize he’s in Chorale and all, but I didn’t need a vocal demo.

“Whatever…I said I’ll do it.”

What the hell is a Shriekback, anyways?

“Mr. Dayton…What can I do you for?”

Sure enough, I found Mr. Dell’Olio sitting behind his gray metal desk around the corner in
The Hazel Parker
office. I don’t know why, but I expected him to be wearing a PRESS visor and chomping a big cigar. Instead, he chewed a red felt tip, checking over what looked like an article written by one of his staff reporters.

“Would you mind doing me a favor?” I asked, a bit apprehensively, barely using my voice.

Dell tucked the wet pen behind an ear. “Depends on what it is.”

I didn’t mean to be nosey, yet I couldn’t help but notice a few of the black words typed on the white piece of paper:
cops, tickets, smoke.

There’s been a heated debate in the pages of
The Hazel Parker
between the Preppies and the Burn-Outs over whether smoking should be banned on Skid Row. The Preppies being pro, the Burn-Outs con. If you ask me, the whole thing’s totally lame. If people wanna kill themselves, why should anybody else give a shit?

“Would you mind writing me a letter of recommendation for my Juilliard application?”

Dell took one look at the forms I held out in front of him, and without the slightest hesitation replied, “You got it…When’s the audition?”

“Sometime in January.” I mentally calculated the number of weeks I had left, realizing it wasn’t many. “I gotta go to New York for it and everything.”

I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the windowpane separating the main part of the classroom from the back office area, where I assumed Jack was, editing the H-E-double-L outta some reporter’s article, if not Claire Moody’s. I had on what Pam Kli-maszweski calls my poet outfit: black pants, black mock-turtleneck, black cardigan. The second I seen my curls sticking out from beneath my black beret, wilder than ever, I made a note to self:
call Lydia Cardoza about a haircut.

Dell flipped thru the pages outlining the entire audition procedure. On top of the two monologues, and the letter of recommendation, I had to write a Statement of Purpose, i.e.,
Why I Want to Go to Juilliard
by Bradley James Dayton…Lord help me!

“This is exciting.”

“Totally,” I agreed. “Too bad I don’t know how I’m gonna afford a plane ticket.”

My deadbeat dad still hasn’t paid a cent of child support, and with yet another Christmas around the corner, there’s no way I can ask Mom for any money. What sucks is no matter how many hours I bust my ass at Big Boy’s, I’m barely making any tips. I might seriously have to get a second job over the holiday break. I heard the Gap at Oakland Mall is hiring, but the last thing I wanna do is fold goddamn sweaters all goddamn day.

Dell looked up and smiled. “I’m sure you’ll work something out.”

I could’ve sworn I seen him wink.

“Bonne chance!”

Today after French III Independent Study, me and Stacy Gillespie spent ten minutes speaking with Mrs. Carey, even though I don’t think she understood a word either of us were
parlez
-ing. ’member what I said before about her major in college being Latin? I got a feeling at this point in time, me and Stacy both
comprendre
more
français
than Mrs. Carey ever will.