Rebel at Spruce High

It doesn’t matter to me either way. My real mission has been accomplished, and after coming down from the stage to return the (now crinkled) sheet of paper to Tamika, I feel Vann’s curious eyes on me as I pass by his row on my way down the aisle to the back, where a very excited Kelsey awaits my return to congratulate me. And while a few other walk-ins take their turn on the big stage to audition, including Kelsey herself, I enjoy a new view of Vann as he stares blankly ahead at the back of the chair in front of him, appearing lost in thoughts, his own sketching forgotten.

I wonder if those thoughts include me.

It’s barely 5:00 PM when Tamika announces that auditions are over, there will be no callbacks, and the cast list will be posted within the next half hour, to avoid the usual torturous wait until Monday morning. Everyone is politely asked to hang out in the hallway outside the auditorium until decisions are finalized. I sit on a bench next to the glass windows that overlook the parking lot with Kelsey and her friends lounging on the floor nearby, the three of them in a giggly debate over who Frankie Lopez will play. My “fun little stunt” with auditioning for the role of Danielle has them jokingly casting Frankie in a whole assortment of fun roles, from Danielle’s sister to Kingsley’s overbearing grandma, even to the despondent café waitress who has a scene-stealing line or two. I just lean against the glass of the window at my back, hot from the afternoon sun, and gaze down the hall at a certain someone who’s sitting apart from the crowd, hugging his sketchpad glumly.

I must be staring at him too obviously, because Kelsey nudges me in the leg and gives me a saucy wiggling of her eyebrows, which causes me to snort and look away. “Hey, after the cast list is posted, can I go with you to Biggie’s for your shift tonight?” she asks—or begs, rather. “I swear I won’t be in the way like last time.”

I throw her a warning look. “You know dang well Mrs. Tucker is gonna have your head as well as mine if you occupy one of her booths a whole Friday night again.”

“That was just once,” Kelsey insists defensively.

It’s only twelve minutes later that the auditorium doors burst open, and a chipper-faced Tamika struts up to the bulletin board on the wall. She pins the cast list in place, then waltzes innocently away as a storm of faces rush up to drink in its names like liquid gold. At once, there’s gasps and murmurs and shouting.

Kelsey, surprisingly, doesn’t so much as move from her spot, even after her two friends take off. “Wouldn’t it be funny, Toby?” she asks me. “If we got the lead roles, you and I? And we had to be lovers and kiss each other onstage as Kingsley and Danielle?”

“Yeah, I think I had that nightmare once,” I admit, to which Kelsey smacks my leg again—hard—and I laugh.

When the crowd clears enough, we vacate our spots and take a look at the list ourselves—and what we read leaves us speechless, my laughter silenced at once. Printed next to the name “Kingsley” is Donovan Pane. Underneath, instead of the expected “Danielle”, there is “Danny”. Right next to it: Toby Michaels.

06 | TOBY

“Wait a sec, hon. Are you tellin’ me they’re doin’ a gay play for the fall show this year?”

I’ve barely been able to get a breath in. Biggie’s Bites is being slammed. Customers are unusually fussy. There’s a birthday going on in the back occupying three long tables and two booths. We have a waiting list of impatient and hungry people crowding the front door. The noise level is so damned high, I can’t even hear my own thoughts.

Especially thoughts of being cast in the play. “Yes,” I manage to answer a wide-eyed Mrs. Tucker as I feverishly wash dishes. Oh, did I mention we’re shorthanded, too? “Well, not technically,” I quickly amend. “It was a straight play. Now it’s a gay play.”

“Now it’s a gay play.” She lets out one cackle of a laugh, then shakes her head, hugging a pair of menus to her chest. She’s a thin and energetic woman who exudes warmth everywhere, from her eyes to her rosy cheeks to her encouraging words. Despite what a stick-up-the-butt her son Billy can be, Mrs. Tucker is a downright bowl of chicken noodle soup at any time of the day. “Well, this is simply the best news I’ve heard all week. And you’re the lead in it! What a way to start out your senior year with a bang!”

“Yeah,” I agree, far less enthusiastically. “A big ol’ bang.”

“What? You’re not excited about it?”