“Callie!” Mrs. Carpenter yells again. “Did you hear me?”
I give up. I collapse back on the bed.
“Yes!” Callie yells at the wall. “Yes, I’m coming.”
And then she groans while smiling, looking down at me. “Except I’m really not.”
I laugh, even though it hurts. And my dick starts thinking of new, inventive ways to kill me for toying with him this way.
Callie takes a deep, cleansing breath. Then she drags herself away from me, standing next to her shiny new bed. “Do you want to stay for dinner?”
“No, thanks.” I glance down at the massive bulge straining my pants. “I’m going to just head home and spend the night rubbing one out. Or maybe . . . five.”
She leans down, her hair falling around us as she pecks my lips. “Same.”
Chapter Twelve
Callie
On Monday, I start showing the ’80s movie Little Shop of Horrors to my classes, and, as if the semi-bribery weren’t enough, it seems to make them like me more. I guess an in-class video day never gets old.
Then we start auditions. I bring them all down to the big stage in the auditorium, because on a stage, with a spotlight in your face and endless rows of seats staring back at you . . . the whole world looks different.
I sit at a table, just beyond the orchestra pit, with Michael beside me and the other students congregating in the back, talking quietly and staring at their phones. I call them up one by one—each student who didn’t sign up for a crew spot. James Townden, a senior with plans to attend Juilliard next year, gets excused from his classes to accompany the auditions on piano. Once they’re on stage, I have them sing “Happy Birthday.” It’s quick, everyone knows it, and it gives me great insight into their vocal range.
Bradley Baker goes first.
“I wanna be Audrey Two,” he declares from the center stage. “He’s the star of the show, and he’s got a big head—I was born to play this role.”
“Noted,” I tell him, folding my hands.
Then Bradley proceeds to jump around the stage, wave his arms, howl out the birthday song. His voice is terrible . . . but he’s entertaining. Completely over the top.
“The dentist,” I tell Michael. “Orin Scrivello, DDS. Bradley’s perfect for it.”
Next up is Toby Gessler. Apparently, he’s a “SoundCloud” rapper with the stage name “Merman.” I recently learned SoundCloud is like self-publishing for music—kids post their songs on the site hoping to build up a fan base, maybe get discovered by a studio. Most of them . . . are not good. And Toby’s no different. He stands on the stage with a backwards baseball cap on his head and oversized white sunglasses on his face and thick gold chains rattling around his neck, and he raps the birthday song.
It’s . . . unique. Some would say, brave. And I know the perfect role for Toby.
“He’ll be the chorus. Crystal, Ronette and Chiffon,” I tell Michael.
He writes it down on his iPad, but scratches behind his ear. “In the movie, they were girls. Aren’t they supposed to be girls?”
“Remember what I said about theater? We put our own stamp on it.” I glance back up at Toby as he dives into some breakdancing moves. They’re not good either. “Maybe we’ll have him rap the songs.”
I put my hand up to my mouth and throw down a little beat-boxing of my own. Then I rap, “Li-li little . . . ssshop of horrors,” ending with the classic hip-hop arm cross.
“What do you think?” I tease. “Does it work?”
Michael looks like he’s afraid. “Don’t . . . ever do that again, Miss Carpenter.”
I laugh, then think of something else, snapping my fingers. “We should have Toby wear a tuxedo. Mr. Ramsey, Kayla’s dad, has a place in the mall that rents tuxedos, right? Maybe he’ll rent it to us for free in exchange for advertising space in the playbill.”
“That’s smart.” He nods.
“That’s why I make the big bucks.” I tap my temple. “In the coming months, I’ll take Simone to check out the local thrift shops for possible costumes too.”
And Toby’s still rapping.
“Thank you, Toby,” I call out.
He gives the peace sign to the empty auditorium. “Merman lives! Whoo! See you next tour!”
“Next . . . Layla Martinez,” I announce.
And like a ninja, David Burke slides into the empty chair next to me.
“Is this seat taken?” He winks.
Then his pale blue eyes stay on Layla as she slowly, stiffly, walks up the side steps, like she’s walking to the guillotine. David nods encouragingly, and she stares back at him, as if his gaze is the only thing keeping her standing. Once she’s center stage, the brisk notes of the piano float through the auditorium. But Layla misses her cue. She wets her lips, her face paling, like she’s going to hurl.