“You really wanna know? She said, ‘Tell Stevie calling someone a selfish brat is not the best way to get them to do you a favor.’”
“OK, this time remind Alex that I have every right to practice and sing just as much as she does.”
Joey left and came back again. “Can’t you just go downstairs and practice?”
“Did Alex say that?”
“Yes. But I told her to.”
“Joey! Tell Alex her music is as loud as the fire alarm next door. Why should I get kicked out of my own room just because she’s a Number-One Fink Face?”
“This is really confusing, you know. Just go talk to her yourself. Tell her you’ll give her ten dollars to turn down the music or something.”
“You know I don’t have ten extra dollars. I’m still trying to get a hundred dollars so I can be in the cake-off.”
“Send an e-mail. Paper airplane. Smoke signal. I don’t know. But I do know I’m getting tired of going back and forth and back and forth. What am I, a Human Ping-Pong Ball?”
“I wish you’d just go ask her one more time,” I whined.
“You know what I wish?” Joey said. “I wish I had three wishes on Dad’s genie lamp and that all three wishes would be for everybody to stop fighting or singing or whatever and pay some attention to me for a change.”
“‘My patience, how blue we are!’” I said, getting Joey’s attention by saying Little Women stuff.
“Please can we finish Little Women? Did you know Jo gets Plumfield? And she opens a school for boys?”
“Wait. How did you know? Hey, you’ve been reading ahead.”
“So? I still want us to finish it together.”
“Tell you what. Listen to me sing my song for the audition, and then we’ll read the last two chapters straight through.”
“Swear?”
“I swear.”
“Swear on Little Women.” Joey held out the book in front of me. “Put your hand on the book and repeat after me.”
“Joey!”
“Just do it.”
“OK, OK.” I placed one hand on Little Women and raised my other hand.
“I, Stevie Reel . . .” Joey started.
“I Stevie Reel . . .”
“Do solemnly swear . . .”
“Do solemnly swear . . .”
“That I will finish reading Little Women . . .”
“That I will finish reading Little Women . . .”
“Help Joey with her school project . . .”
“Hey, did I say I’d help with homework?”
“Cheerfully measure Joey’s ponytail whenever she asks . . .”
“Cheerfully measure Joey’s ponytail even though it’s been eight-and-three-quarters inches long forever . . .”
“Hey! That’s not what I said.”
“Hey! That’s not what I said,” I repeated after Joey.
“And stop acting like a turd muffin.”
“And stop acting like a turd muffin, whatever that is. Hey, wait, that’s like four things! All I said was that I’d read —”
“Too late. You swore. On Little Women.”
D-day. Day of the Audition.
I was in the kitchen that morning before school, gulping down a cupcake over the sink when Dad caught me.
“Stevie, honey. First rule of acting? Eat a good breakfast.”
“Can’t. In a hurry. Too nervous,” I said between bites.
“Just remember to breathe,” Dad said for like the one-millionth time.
“Bye, Dad. Mwa.” I air-kissed him, then picked up my backpack and headed out the door.
“Have a nice trip!” Dad called after me. The Reel family equivalent of Break a leg.
Mom drove us to school that day. After we dropped Joey off, Alex and I were especially quiet in the car. I tried to hum my song inside my head without actually moving my lips or making a sound.
I couldn’t help glancing over at Alex, wondering if she was silently practicing her song in her head, too. “Your lips are moving,” I reported.
“So?” She scrunched her nose at me, chipmunk-style.
“For your information, when you do that, you look like Alvin the Chipmunk.”
“Girls. Don’t start.” Mom pulled up to the curb in front of the school.
“Mom, don’t say it,” I pleaded.
“Don’t say what?” she asked innocently.
“You know, the speech,” I said.
“May the best man win and all that,” said Alex.
“And remember,” I added, imitating Mom, “no matter what happens, you’re sisters.”
“Oh, and sisters last a lot longer than any old play,” said Alex. “Sisters are forever.” I chimed in on that last part, so we both said the same thing at the same time.
“Very funny,” said Mom. “This may surprise you, but I did not have a speech prepared.”
“Yeah, right,” Alex and I said at the same time again, cracking up. It felt good to be on the same side for once. To be laughing with my sister.
As I headed down the hall to the sixth-grade lockers, Alex called after me, “Good luck, Sailor!” I couldn’t help wondering if it was a dig. But I don’t think so. Even though she called me sailor, I thought I caught a glimpse of the old Alex somewhere in there.
Forget about concentrating. The morning was over and I barely remembered it. Lunch was a blur. And my Something-Black-from-Alex’s-Closet audition-shirt that I’d ripped off from Alex’s closet seemed to mock me every time I opened my locker. I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of guilt about Alex. It wasn’t just the shirt. I was partly responsible for the fact that she’d picked a song that was going to make the drama coach go Gag me with a spoon.
At the end of the day, Olivia came up behind me as I slammed my locker shut. “Are you OK?” she asked. “You look a little green.”
“I think I’m going to throw up. Why didn’t you talk me out of this? Tell me I’m nuts. I can’t act. What was I thinking? Acting gives me hives! Do I have hives? Be honest. Are there ugly red hivey splotches all over my face? There are, aren’t there?”
Olivia leaned in and inspected my face up close. “OK, Stevie. You are officially and completely splotch-free. No red marks, except for maybe a touch of strawberry sticky stuff from that Fruit Roll-Up you had at lunch.” She pressed her thumb to my cheek and rubbed.
“Ouch!” I exaggerated massaging my face.
“OK, you have got to chill. Take a deep breath.”
“I wish everybody would quit telling me to breathe when I can’t breathe.”
“Relax,” Olivia said. “Nobody else has a voice like yours, so just be you.”
Just be you. Just be you, I repeated to myself.
“Remember that song we used to sing in first grade with Miss Tamuchi? ‘This Little Light of Mine?’”
“‘I’m gonna let it shine,’” I sang.
“Exactly.”
ONCE UPON AN AUDITION
Starring Alex (but really Stevie)
Me: (Sitting in the audience with Scott and other Drama Club kids, waiting for my name to be called.) Are you nervous?
Scott: Are you?
Me: (Giggling.) No fair. I asked you first. But, yes, I’m nervous.
Scott: Look, my hands are sweating. (Touches hand to mine!)
Me: Yeah, but you’ll be great. You always get up there and nobody can tell. Except for when you keep wiping those sweaty hands down the sides of your pants.
Scott: I do not!
Me: (Smiling.) Just kidding. I wish you were trying out for the prince, though. (So we’d finally get to kiss!)
Scott: Prince Dauntless? No way. He’s a total geek.
Me: I know, but . . . (But then we’d be together, in all the same scenes.) you wouldn’t have to play him that way.
Scott: Yah-huh. That’s his character. Even Mr. Cannon said he’s like a bumbling idiot.
Me: (Say you don’t care. Say that’s the part you want. Say it’ll be fun.) You never know — it might b
e fun to play a bumbling idiot for a change. You know, kind of slapstick.
Scott: No way. I’d much rather be Sir Harry. You should try out for Lady Larken. Then we’d be in all the same scenes.
Me: (Heart leaps — he wants to be in all the same scenes!)
Scott: So we could practice together and everything, I mean.
Me: Oh. (So that’s all he meant.) Shh! Here she comes.
Scott: Here who comes?
Me: My sister! I told you she was trying out.
Scott: (Leans forward in his seat.) Oh, yeah. The one who cooks, and bugs you, and is always getting in your stuff? She was good that time in Beauty and the Beast. (Glances over at me and sees my frowning face.) I mean, she was OK, I guess.
Me: (Whispering.) She’s never done a cold reading before. She looks scared, like the microphone might bite her.
Scott: Everybody’s nervous at first.
Me: (Sliding down in seat.) Mr. C said to act like a spoiled princess. She sounds like a squeak toy — you know, for dogs.
Scott: Ouch. (Watches Stevie flail around onstage.)
Me: (Half-covering eyes.) What was that?
Scott: She’s pretending to slip on a banana peel.
Me: Oh. I thought she was an octopus caught in a snowstorm, with all those arms flying everywhere.
Scott: That’s harsh.
Me: It’s time for her song. Wait till you hear this. I actually feel kinda bad for her. She’s going to sing this really stupid song about this sailor that our mom sang us when we were little.
Scott: Weird. I thought you said she has a really good voice.
Me: Yeah, but this song is so lame. It’s like a tongue twister!
Scott: Think she’ll get through something like that onstage, under the spotlight, when she’s all nervous?
Me: (Duh.) We’ll see!
Mr. Cannon: Stevie, go ahead and give your sheet music to Mrs. Kowalick and she’ll accompany you on piano. Tell us what song you’ve chosen, where it comes from, and why you picked it.
Stevie: (Clearing throat.) Hi, um. I’m going to be singing . . .
Me: (Squinting.) Hey, is that my . . . ? I think she has on my black shirt! What a little —
Scott: I can’t even hear her.
Me: Told you. Microphonophobia!
Mr. Cannon: We can’t hear you, Stevie. Your feet should be on that line there. Stand right on the yellow tape and speak directly into the mike. OK, start again.
Me: (Covering eyes.) She doesn’t even know to stand on the tape. I can’t watch. Tell me when it’s over.
Stevie: I chose this song because it means a lot to me. It’s a song I remembered that my mom used to sing me when I was little.
Mrs. Kowalick: Ready? (Nods to Stevie.)
Stevie: (Swallowing.) “You’ve got to give a little, take a little, and let your poor heart break a little . . .”
Scott: (Looks at Alex curiously, one crinkled eyebrow raised.)
Me: Huh? (Sitting up straight, nervously sliding drama mask charm back and forth on chain.)
Stevie: “That’s the story of . . . that’s the glory of . . . love.”
Scott: (Nudging me in the elbow and whispering.) Hey, she’s good.
Stevie: “You’ve got to laugh a little, cry a little . . .” (Hush falls over room. Not a person speaks. Not a chair squeaks. Not even a hiccup.)
Me: Wow.
Stevie: (Holding microphone stand, closes eyes and leans back.) “Yes, and always have the blues a little . . .”
Scott: Microphon-o-phobia, huh?
Stevie: (Slow and sweet.) “That’s the story of . . . that’s the glory of . . . love.” (Holds note and draws it out.)
Me: (Get goose bumps, swipe at tear with back of fist.)
Scott: A stupid song about a sailor, huh?
Me: I don’t know what to say. (I’ll get that Joey for not telling me!)
Scott: Wow. She was amazing. It’s like, she takes your heart, and, I don’t know, squeezes it or whatever. Wow.
Me: (Gripping Tragedy charm on necklace.) That’s my sister. Voice of an angel.
Mr. Cannon: Take five, people.
Me: (Opening hand, looking at charm, realizing Comedy is missing! Looking all around on floor.) `Scuse me. Sorry. Can I get past? (Drama Club people mumble: That’s Alex’s sister? Wow. Who knew she could sing like that, huh?) Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me. I gotta go. (Retracing my steps up the aisle.)
After my audition, my heart was still thumping, and the knot in the middle of my chest didn’t melt right away. I kept turning the experience over and over in my mind as I sat in the audience with Olivia, who had promised to be my One Friendly Face at the audition.
“Stop biting your nails,” Livvie said. “You’re making me nervous.”
Alex was somewhere in the back of the theater with all her Drama Club friends, but it was so dark back there, I couldn’t tell which propped-up pair of flip-flops on the seat backs was my sister’s.
Now that I had officially tried out for a part in a play, I had become Instant Drama Critic. Livvie and I must have sat through twelve or thirteen auditions, whispering stuff and scribbling notes back and forth.
Max Somebody: Lose the hat, dude. Eye contact!
Jayden Pffeffer: Great actress. Singing voice like a seagull.
Girl singing “Jingle Bell Rock”: What were you thinking?
Then I heard Mr. C call Alex’s name. She came onstage in this emerald-green knee-length dress thing she had on over jeans, her dark, glossy curls shining in the spotlight, her sea-green eyes smiling. For her cold reading, she read from the script as easily as if we were sitting at home around the breakfast table reading the cereal box.
Mr. C asked her to act like a bossy mother. Court jester. Mute king. Bumbling idiot. Alex did it all.
Mr. C asked her to act like a spoiled princess.
She doesn’t even have to act for that one! I wrote, passing my notebook to Olivia.
When the cold reading was over, it was time for Alex to do her song. I explained to Olivia about the Top Ten Songs Not to Sing list. “Here it comes,” I whispered. “Time for Mr. Cannon to roll his eyes and stick his finger down his throat like he’s puking.” I mimed Mr. Cannon throwing up, and Olivia almost lost it.
“Mr. Cannon,” I heard Alex say. “I just need a quick costume change. It will only take two seconds — I promise.”
“Costume change?” I said. “I never thought about a costume. Were we supposed to have a costume?”
“What’s her costume?” Olivia wanted to know.
“How should I know?” I said, zeroing in on my cuticle and biting it.
“She’s your sister.”
Alex glided onstage looking like the goddess Psyche in pink butterfly pajamas and fuzzy slippers, a fuschia feather boa draped around her neck.
I sat up straight. Was that dripping wet hair?
When Alex sashays onto a stage, it makes everybody sit up a little taller, lean in a little closer. She has a way about her. My dad calls it stage presence. It means smiling, looking out over your audience, and keeping going even if you feel like you’re about to hurl.
Oh, and something about good posture, too.
I could never do what Alex did. I would (a) die of embarrassment in my pajamas, (b) slump like a camel, and (c) trip on that feather boa for sure!
“What happened to her hair?” Olivia asked.
But before you could say moat swimmer, Alex made a show of squeezing shampoo from a bottle into her hand. She exaggerated lathering it up on her head until it was all foamy and sudsy, and just as I was beginning to wonder if my sister had seriously lost it, she started singing: “‘I’m gonna wash that man right outta my hair.’”
At first, she sort of half spoke, half sang, then she pantomimed actions, which had everybody laughing. She even threw in a few funny dance steps in her slippers.
Brilliant, really. Because as I watched her and I was laughing, I almost forgot about her singing, which wasn’t half bad. Way
better than Fluffernutter (Jayden Pffeffer). Over the years, I had seen my sister as Annie, as Dorothy, as Beauty, as Mushroom in the Rain. I’d even seen her in an honest-to-goodness, for-real shampoo commercial when she was like three.
Stage presence. Alex sure got extra helpings when they passed that around.
There were three auditions to go after Alex. Then, just like that, it was over, and Mr. Cannon was up onstage, making an official announcement.
“I realize that it’s customary to wait and post a list with callbacks, but since you’re all here and we have some extra time, I’d like to ask a few of you to stay behind. If I call your name, please come see me.”
I shifted in my seat, dropped my notebook, sat on my hands.
“The rest of you are free to go. Cast list will be posted outside my office on Wednesday at three p.m. Thanks for coming in, everybody. Great job, people.” He went down the list on his clipboard, calling out names.
Nathan Holabird. Jayden Pffeffer. Allen Albertson. Zoe DuFranc. And Stevie Reel.
“That’s you!” squealed Olivia beside me.
I couldn’t trust my own ears. “Are you sure he said Stevie Reel? Not Alex?” I asked.
“No. You. Go, girl!” said Olivia.
My heart was thumping through my stolen shirt as I scurried up to the stage. But it pounded even harder when I got to the front of the theater and saw the back of Alex rush up the aisle and disappear out the door marked EXIT.
COMEDY LOST
Starring Alex
Me: (Standing with back against wall in hallway, willing myself to breathe, breathe, breathe.)
Scott: Hey, Shakespeare? You OK?
Me: (Don’t freak out. Don’t. Freak. Out.) Sorry. I’m just freaking out because I realized I lost half of my favorite necklace. It’s kind of a good-luck charm. And then when Mr. Cannon didn’t call me back . . .
Scott: That doesn’t mean you didn’t get the part. Cannon isn’t even done auditioning. He doesn’t even know himself yet. Nothing’s decided.
Me: (Snapping.) Don’t you get it? (Calm down! Be nice!) He doesn’t even have to think it over. He knew right away exactly who he wanted for callbacks — Stevie, not me. Who can compete with that voice? What was I thinking, going out there in my pajamas with dripping wet hair? I must be nuts. There’s only one word for me. Starts with L, ends with O-S-E-R.