Into the River (21 page)

Steph went and pulled a cigar box out of one of the big bookshelves at the end of the room. Inside were bunches of tinnies with rubber bands around them. He helped himself to a few and threw one to Devon.

“He never knows. I’ve been helping myself for months.”

He then took a furtive look back into the bathroom where Willie was taking a never-ending shower.

“Willie, can I have some money?”

“I gave you twenty dollars.”

“I know, but that’s way gone.”

There was a pause. The shower went off. Willie emerged and fossicked for his wallet in the back pocket of his jeans.

“Here’s twenty. Make it last.”

“Twenty dollars each.”

“What? You’ll bleed me dry, you little blood sucker.”

“That’s the idea. Forty dollars. Twenty each.”

“Well, I’ve got an idea.”

“What’s that?” There was a knowing air to Steph’s response, Devon thought.

“I think since we have Devon here we should do a few more photos. I’m looking to expand my portfolio.” He fumbled about in the shelves by his piano.

Steph looked at Devon. “Are you up for it?” And then, in a softer voice, “Willie wants his quid pro quo.”

“To take photos of us?”

“Oh yeah, but in poses. And in the nick of course.”

Devon was diffident.

“Come on, Devon. Be a sport.” Willie changed his tone
theatrically.
“No animals will be harmed in the making of these pictures.”

He held out a folder filled with black and white photos. On the top was a photo of Steph sitting on a chair somewhere. He had no clothes on, one leg tucked up, and he was staring wistfully into the distance.

“That was taken at the Urquharts’ lodge on Waiheke, remember that afternoon, Steph?”

“I remember sitting on that chair for an hour while you took about six hundred photos of me.”

“It’s not easy to take a good photo. Any monkey can point and click.”

Devon flicked quickly through the thick wedge of photos. He glanced at Steph.

“Yes, I know,” said Steph, as if answering a question. “Most of them are of boys and most of them have no clothes on.”

When school finished on Tuesday afternoon, Devon waited outside the FLS as arranged. Where was Steph? He never expected such a big crowd waiting to go in. Not only were there girls from Saint Leonard’s Anglican Girls’ School, the closest girls’ school, but there was also a good number of the older ‘sports hero’ guys who thought any association with the FLS was much the same as wandering around with an ‘I’m a fag’ sign pinned to their brawny backs. But here they were; even Lance Hendricks, the grizzled hooker from the first fifteen. He was Samoan and looked to be about thirty years old. He sprawled on the benches near the main entry with several of his mates, eyeing the girls and laughing loudly. There were also other seniors who had famous reputations as thugs, geeks or nerds.

Devon waited nervously to one side, trying to keep an eye out for Steph but also to stay well clear of this intimidating mob. A few younger guys arrived but turned away when they saw the assembled crowd milling noisily by the glass doors. After a few minutes without sighting Steph, Devon knew it was impossible: he felt too exposed and vulnerable. Then there was a cheer; someone showed up to unlock the door. The crowd surged in.

Now that their backs were turned, Devon was able to follow them into the auditorium without drawing attention. He found a spot to sit in the darker area of the tiered seating. Still no sign of Steph. Centre stage, Willie sat at the piano, talking to a middle-aged woman clothed entirely in black except for a pair of shiny red shoes.

About this time, Steph and Briggs appeared from the wings carrying a long table. They disappeared momentarily to return with two chairs. There was something of the comedy duo about
them which provoked a derisive cheer from the rugby contingent. Briggs immediately scuttled off into the wings. Steph froze mid-stride and then turned to face his tormentors. There was a moment of deliberate pause before he performed a slow and deep bow, then straightened up, gave his trademark stoned spin and skipped off the stage. There was spirited applause starting from the girls, and then reluctantly followed by the boys.

The woman walked to the front of the stage and stood staring into the audience with her hands on her hips. The whiteness of her face was dramatised by arched eye brows, thick mascara and crimson lipstick. With her lush, glossy hair secured by a number of black combs, she reminded Devon of something Japanese he had seen in a magazine. Although she was not part of the school, there was something challenging about her: something ‘in charge’ that gradually subdued the rabble to silence.

“You will never see a better example of impromptu theatre than that,” she said, indicating the point where Steph had exited. “When I arrived here ten minutes ago, and I saw the assembled ‘talent’ waiting outside, my heart sank. I read your attitudes, your faces, the way you were standing and sitting. Without exception they all said the same thing: ‘I want to be looked at, I want to be adored and applauded’.”

A few students squirmed, recognising themselves in that description.

“I knew then that this is going to be a long haul. But when I saw that boy carry out the table and salute your taunts, I knew there was at least one person here who knows what it is to be an actor.”

Devon felt pride for Steph.

Someone snorted loudly up behind him.

“Some of you know me. We did
Pirates
with a few of you at Saint Leonard’s two years ago. My name is Dianna Davis, but here,” she indicated the area around her, “you can call me DD.” There was the subdued mutter of “DD” around the auditorium as
the boys tried it out.

“Mr Willis and I intend trying something a little different this year. He has written a libretto to which I am going to fit character and movement. It’s called
Original Sin
. He can tell you about it.”

Devon felt his ear being tugged. It was Steph, who had run around and come in the back way.

“She’s been praising you. You should’ve heard her. ‘The only real actor here …’”

“I don’t need her to tell me that,” he said with a fake flick of his hair. “I have been acting since birth. My first costume was a knitted cap and a pair of Huggies.”

Willie moved forward and stood beside DD, downstage.

“Thank you, DD. I know why so many of you have turned up for this. It’s no surprise. ‘Pirates’ was the talking point of the year. Sports events come and go but something happens when we perform. It goes deeper.”

There was a ripple of comment at the “goes deeper”. The capacity for fag puns was a touchstone for rugby heads. There was an ongoing competition to see who could get in the fastest or crudest rejoinder. Willie, however, continued unabashed.

Original Sin
is a musical in the rock genre. Its look is gothic. The theme is identity … and that’s explored in many different ways. We aren’t looking for talent as such; we’re looking for commitment. It’s surprising how talent emerges from hard work. Once you miss a couple of rehearsals, as far as I’m concerned … you’re gone. Today we’ll get you to read, to sing and to move. Next week we’ll cast and from then on it’s sweating it out … week after week until the performances at the end of term three.” He looked to DD. “Anything else?”

She put her hand on her hip and lowered her voice an octave. “This is a standard speech, a bit like a disclaimer, but I am obliged to give it. We’re bringing two single sex schools together. We’re not too old to know what that means.” She glanced at Willie. “If
I come across any impromptu or off-stage dramas being enacted, well what can I say, there will be consequences, and a bucket of cold water will not be one of them. We have a job to do, so we challenge you to show us what you’re capable of.”

They were mixed together in groups and taken to various locations where they were given about a minute each to “show their goods” as DD put it. Steph was in the same group as Devon so he was able to provide the sort of clues Devon needed.

When practising for a speaking part they were given a piece of poetry to read. It seemed easy but tripped most people up. It began with the lines, ‘I caught this morning, morning’s minion, kingdom of daylight’s dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn falcon, in his riding …”

When Steph’s turn came, he was able to make its stop-start cadences sound like normal speech. Devon tried to emulate him but it was like walking to the end of a greasy pole: he got nearly to the end when he crashed into undignified gibberish.

The singing was easier: the choir had taught him something, and his improvisation (“going to the dentist”), was given noisy acclaim.

A week later the real auditions were held. Both Devon and Steph were given roles as clones. These were the rejected prototypes which Dr Funkenstein made before perfecting his all-dancing, all-singing monster. They were not eligible for leading roles on account of their being too small. The leads were given out to Lance Hendricks and his friend Frank Little, both in the first fifteen. They were big and looked their parts in lab coat and suit.

Because Devon and Steph had minor roles, they were not going to be needed for a few weeks while the hard work went into knocking the leads into shape. When they were finally called, they found themselves paired up with their equivalent girl clones: Sina and Vanessa. Sina was the sort of Samoan girl destined to be head prefect. The daughter of an Anglican minister, she wore a blazer
emblazoned with her accomplishments.

“My God!” said Steph, “You must have stolen these or bought them on Trade Me. Speech, netball, choir, orchestra.”

“All she needs now is drama, and she’ll have a complete set,” said Vanessa. Her own blazer was conspicuously bare.

“You know me,” said Sina. “I’m just your typical FOB over-achiever.”

“Where are yours, Vanessa?” Devon asked, disingenuously.

“I’ve only got one, but I didn’t earn it at school.” She plucked a small silver marijuana leaf on a chain from her pocket. They all exchanged smirks. It was going to be a good team.

It was soon clear who was in control. DD strode around driving the brief auditions, while Willie seemed content to sit in the background and play small pieces for them to perform to. When he tired of this, Briggs took over. Even in these short interludes it was easy to see that Briggs had something to prove.

DD quickly blocked out their stage moves, taking her cue from notes she had scribbled in a wire-spined notebook. They were repeatedly told “time is of the essence, you will only be shown once”, and that detail and polish were their personal responsibility. “Whether you shine or fade comes from here and here,” said DD, indicating her head and her heart.

At Saint Leonard’s, the girls hurried Devon and Steph away to find a rehearsal space by the flagpole, well away from the distractions of the auditorium. There they chalked out their movements on the tar seal. Their roles as clones required them to all play the same person but with subtle ways of distinguishing one from the other. Sina attempted to inject some sa sa moves into her persona while Vanessa seemed to specialise in Goth posturing. Before long they had a small audience of third form girls who were waiting to be picked up by their parents.

Steph was good at mimicking the girls’ moves and suggested that they do the ‘boy’ versions. Steph found the gloomy poses easy
to incorporate in his act, but Devon struggled with the Samoan dance moves. Sina came around behind him and wiggled his hips while he shoo shooed with splayed fingers. He felt awkward in the face of her fluidity.

“Come on, Devon, get in touch with your inner brown.” Sina seemed to think it was all very funny, and, as if to rub it in, Steph sashayed around in front of them, easily achieving the frenetic hip movement.

“He’s a natch … Devon, you had better go with the Goth.”

Devon was relieved to be upstaged here and soon they both had something worth performing. The gaggle of admirers had grown to about a dozen and they were egging them on.

Back at the auditorium doors, DD was watching with her hands on her hips. Devon could tell she thought they seemed to be onto something.

When they returned to the darkness of the auditorium all the other groups of clones were watching in the stalls as DD tried to steer the two Barwell’s leads around the stage. Every action had to be spelled out by her, and her mounting exasperation was obvious. The two footballers’ incompetence, combined with their embarrassment, meant they were getting worse, not better. Finally DD let out a scream and ordered them off the stage.

“Steph! You and your friend come down here and show these two how to meet in the street. Something obviously foreign to their experience.”

Devon and Steph, both confident now, bounded onto the stage. They had a brief discussion and then approached from opposite sides. With the lumbering walk of eighty-kilogram rugby players, they went into their ritual of exaggerated recognition, the shoulder-pushing and hand-slapping that they saw performed every day in the corridors of Barwell’s. It worked brilliantly on the first take.

DD, who was seated at a table, jumped to her feet. She paused to hitch up her skirt and adjust the glossy black feather boa that floated behind her as she pounced around the stage. Hendricks
and Little seemed to shrink into their seats as she strode over.

“See that! See that! Every step and move has a meaning. Their bodies and faces canted towards the audience for easy reading. Every aspect of the male ritual observed. Now you do it.”

The two props didn’t know where to look as she leaned over them. They knew they were being called to account, and that failure at this point amounted to major disgrace. They slunk up on to the stage to give it one last shot. Following Steph and Devon’s demonstration exactly, they approached from opposite sides, grinning and shambling. What followed was hopelessly clumsy. The audience were exchanging the embarrassed expressions that amounted to a collective thumbs down.

“Thank you. Thank you. That’s it for today, boys. I will contact you at Barwell’s through Mr Willis. Bye now.”

Then she turned to the waiting clones.

“Okay, clones. Into the wings and then come out in the order I picked you.”

She left the stage and sat in the stalls waiting.

Each group of clones took the stage and performed their piece. As each group performed, they tried to outdo the previous one by over-acting. Devon noticed that there was a SLAGS style about them which rendered them all much the same. By contrast, Steph and Devon’s Samoan/Goth interpretation immediately assumed star quality.

Willie materialised from the back of the theatre and joined DD in the stalls. After everyone had performed their pieces, DD called over Devon and Steph and indicated that they should sit and wait two rows away. Her mouth had a pinched look as though she were trying to suppress what it was about to say.

“I’m sorry, Willie, but I’m simply not going to invest any more of my time, let alone squander my reputation, by putting on a show with those two bozos as the male leads. Sorry, but that’s it.”

Willie, looking as though he’d foreseen this, said nothing.

“I used to be of the opinion that one could teach anyone the
rudiments of acting … it certainly has been true so far, but these two … the only thing one can do is bury them deep in the chorus and hope they become invisible.”

Still silence on Willie’s part.

“Well?”

He seemed awkward, as if backed into a corner. “DD, you’ll get no argument from me. These productions have always been a venue for the jocks to perform for their admiring mates. It’s a boys’ school tradition; they have this expectation of roles.”

“Boys’ school tosh!”

“Oh, I know that but …”

“I wouldn’t put up with it at Saint Leonard’s,” she said. And then added coldly, “I think too much of myself to get pushed around like that.”

“These are the best of the seniors, DD, you should have seen my preliminary list. It’s the reality of school musicals at Barwell’s; it can’t be helped, I’m afraid.”

“It can be helped.” She indicated Steph and Devon with a haughty swish of her hand. “These are the two leads I choose to work with and if this steps on the toes of the Barwell’s elite then that’s the price we’ll have to pay.”