that’s a mistake,” he said after a beat. “You obviously need a serious Broadway education, stat, because big girls rule the stage.”
I grunted.
“How glamorous does my hair look?” he asked. “Does it scream Tony nomination?”
The actual tryouts for Into the Woods were held after school in the main auditorium. The instant we walked in, I clocked Chloe down in the front row, doing some sort of annoying, unnecessarily loud vocal exercises with her eyes closed. You know, like she was really getting into it: “Me me me me me me meeeeeee. Me me me me me me meeeeeee!”
(That sounds about right.)
A few rows behind her, I was kind of startled to see DJ, though I guess I shouldn’t have been. Before I processed it, my hand shot up to wave at him, but I covered by transitioning the wave into a stretch and quickly collapsing into the nearest seat.
“You go on, I’ll be here,” I whispered to Kris.
I’m sure I looked like a spaz, but I don’t think anyone noticed, not even DJ. It’s a running theme in my life now. I was grateful for all the budding thespians flitting about, too nervous to take note of anything but themselves, pacing around the stage, the rows of seating, behind the curtains, murmuring lines or humming, and curling and arching their backs in and out like cats on crack.
Kris climbed the stairs, found a spot stage left, bent at the waist, and shook his arms loose like a waterfall of noodles. He breathed in and out, master yogi style. After a few more minutes of all of this pre-drama, the theater teacher burst in, and all the kids shot up stock-straight like they were in the military and he was fixing to inspect their bunks.
“Good afternoon, pets,” he announced in a voice that both filled the room and sounded like someone’s ninety-year-old granny, if she smoked five packs a day. “Some of you may know me from Drama Club, but for those who don’t, I’m Mr. Wood, your DIE-rector for this musical, and the person upon whom your dramatic fates rest. For many of you, this may be just another tick on your college application extracurriculars, but I assure you that while this is amateur theater, it is not a theater for amateurs. Cast, you will be committed to this production, to your fellow cast mates, and to your performance. Tardiness, absences, and general flakiness or lack of professionalism will not be tolerated. Nor will any ego that deigns itself larger than mine. You have to take the journey into the woods and down the dell in vain, perhaps, but who can tell? Are we clear?”
A collective, anxious, “Yes, Mr. Wood,” arose from the seats and stage.
“Lovely. Now pets, let’s all line up onstage so I can get a good look at you.”
Kris hopped to, finding his place center stage. He squinted into the lights and clocked me, mouthing, I’m in love! as about twenty-five other students in various levels of flop sweat lined up on either side of him. It was only then that I spied Audrey, who was nervously shifting her weight from foot to foot stage right, while Chloe stood beside her, fingers S-locked together in front of her belly button and teeth bared in an aggressive pageant grin.
Audrey? Since when did she have thespian aspirations? Oh right, since she became Chloe’s born-again toady.
“Nobody else?” Mr. Wood asked, surveying the few of us scattered in the seats behind him. I slouched down in my chair even further, while one other kid hesitantly side-stepped out of his row and padded up to the stage.
Mr. Wood continued: “You should all have your songbooks in front of you, and you should all, since you are here, have deep familiarity with the actual compositions of Mr. Lapine and Mr. Sondheim. Page 104, let’s begin. And one, two . . .”
Everybody started singing: “Into the woods, where nothing’s clear. Where witches, ghosts, and wolves appear. Into the woods and through the fear. You have to take the journey . . .”
(Did the Changers Council write this stuff?)
I strained to try to hear Audrey’s voice amidst the chorus, but I couldn’t. I did hear Kris, who didn’t even need his songbook and was leaning into the number as if his dog’s life depended on it. DJ was also killing it from the rear, his voice deep and smooth with that emcee cadence that made the lyrics even more powerful somehow. Not that they needed the assist. The words and music were kind of devastating, once I let them seep in. I can’t believe I ever teared up listening to Katy Perry. (Well, just that once.)
“Okay, let’s stop there!” Mr. Wood hollered, signaling the accompanist on piano and clapping his hands as everybody quieted. “Promising, promising. Yes, yes. Now, let’s hear some solos, please. You in the red, you first. Name?”
“Me? I’m Kris. Kris Arnold. I’ll be singing the scene four witch’s solo to her daughter Rapunzel.”
“Let’s hear it,” Mr. Wood said.
Kris cleared his throat, and several of the other students gave him some space. Chloe looked positively destroyed that she wasn’t selected to sing first, while Audrey sucked at her cheek and gave Kris her full attention center stage. As Kris gazed up into the lights and inhaled, I was seized with nerves on his behalf. You can do this, I whispered under my breath. He let it out, coughed again, took another deep breath, and then started, slowly . . .
“Don’t you know what’s out there in the world? Someone has to shield you from the world. Stay with me.”
His voice was imploring, tinged with desperation. He wasn’t just singing, he was defining the moment.
“Princes wait there in the world, it’s true. Princes yes, but wolves and humans too.”
