Getting Schooled

"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.

James stops playing, then starts the song again.

Layla squeezes her eyes closed. "I changed my mind. I can't do this."

"She's just scared, Miss Carpenter," David says softly. "But she's good, you gotta hear her. Layla's really good."

I stand up and hold out my hand for James to stop playing.

"Hey," I call to Layla. She fixes her tortured eyes on me. "It's okay. It's stage fright; it happens to everyone. When I was in high school, I used to throw up before every performance."

"For real?" Layla asks.

"Yeah. I kept a toothbrush and toothpaste with me at all times." I keep my voice steady and confident. "But I know a trick. It helped me and I bet it'll help you too. I want you to turn around and close your eyes. Block out everything, so it's just you and the song."

Layla's eyes dart to David, then back to me. "Will you be able to hear me if I'm facing the other way?"

"That doesn't matter. All that matters is that you're able to stand up there and get through it. One step at a time. Will you try that for me, Layla?"

She runs her teeth over her bottom lip. "Okay. Yeah, I'll try."

"Good."

Layla turns around and I nod to James, who starts to play again.

Then, after a few moments, Layla begins to sing. Holy shit, does she sing. She's hesitant, scratchy at first, but then her voice smooths out and rises. Her pitch is perfect, her voice smoky and smooth, like thick, fresh honey. She's got range, reach, hidden power in those pipes--it's so clear, even in just the few simple notes of the song. But more than that, every word is filled with emotion, the kind of singing that tells its own story, the kind of voice that can break hearts, and lift souls.

"Wow," I whisper.

David smiles up at me, his whole face lighter, younger looking. "I told you."

When Layla finishes, I applaud--everyone does--even the kids in the back who weren't paying attention before she started to sing.

Layla's tight curly hair flies as she turns around, laughing. "I did it!"

"Audrey," I tell her, excitement bursting like crazed Pop Rocks in my stomach. "You're our Audrey."

And just like that, the hurling look is slapped back on Layla's face.

"I . . . can't do this in front of people, Miss Carpenter."

"Not yet." I agree. "But by the time I'm done working with you, you will."

This kind of talent deserves to be heard.

"I want to be Seymour."

I turn towards David--not really surprised. Garrett and I talked about him the other night. We both agreed he has potential, that he could do amazing things if only he had the motivation . . . if only he cared.

David doesn't care about theater or the play or school. He cares about Layla.

He asks to borrow Michael's glasses, and my dark-haired assistant hands them over, curiosity pinching his features.

David Burke slips them on his face, then flinches. "Damn, man, you're blind."

Then he leaps up on the stage, his gray trench coat flying out like a superhero's cape. He musses his dirty-blond hair . . . and then he starts to sing "Grow For Me," one of Seymour's songs. I don't know if he remembers the lyrics from when I showed the movie in class or if he looked them up and practiced, but he knows every word. His voice isn't the miracle Layla's is, but it's pleasant. More importantly, David possesses that unteachable but essential characteristic of any star. Charisma. Stage presence. Personality.

I glance around the room--every eye in the auditorium is on him as he sings a capella and . . . makes Layla smile beside him.

And hot-diggity-dog, I've got my cast.

~

In the days that follow, something incredible starts to happen. It's a genuine Christmas miracle at the end of September. My students start to have fun. They get interested, invested--in the sets, the costumes, the music . . . the whole idea of the show. They begin to want it to be good--and that's the first step towards greatness.

It makes me feel like David Copperfield and Khaleesi all rolled into one.

It makes me feel . . . like a teacher.

"Bigger!" I yell, climbing onto the stage and pointing towards the back row. "Everything on the stage has to be exaggerated, brighter--the makeup, your movements. They have to see you from all the way back there."

We're doing our first script read-through and will begin blocking on the same day. Normally, these would be separate--but since my after-school availability is limited, I have to double-time it during class.

"And louder!" I raise my voice and stamp my foot, shaking dust bunnies down from the rafters. "I told you guys, projection is key. If you're speaking in your normal voices, no one in the audience will hear you." I look at Layla, "Don't be afraid to be loud. Ever. On stage or off."

"That's good advice," Garrett says, walking down the main aisle with a few of his players behind him. "Louder is always better."

And I have to make a conscious effort to keep my tongue from falling out of my mouth. He's doing the preppy look today--a collared button-down beneath a sky-blue sweater. My heart flies and my skin tingles remembering the feel of his weight on top of me, on that new mattress, the sound of his groans, those powerful arms surrounding me, the hard relentless swell of his cock between my legs.

Was it really just a few days ago? It feels like months, years. The janitor's closet has been a no-go zone since McCarthy busted us. I've taken my parents to physical therapy appointments every night this week, so the only time Garrett and I have had together is on the phone, by text, and a few hot and heavy kisses against his Jeep when he swung by my parents' house late Monday night just to be able to see me alone for a few minutes.

It's so weird how life can change, how fast. You've got your five-or ten-year plan all laid out and then, overnight, everything you thought you wanted shifts, and all the places you'd planned on going don't seem so important anymore.

I don't remember how I lasted sixteen years without Garrett Daniels in my life. Now that he's back, I'm like a junkie--I crave him, think about him, all the time.

"Coach Daniels?" I try to sound professional, while every cell in my body is screaming for inappropriate.

Our eyes meet, then Garrett's eyes drag subtly and slowly down over my black turtleneck, dark-blue skinny jeans, and leather pumps. It's only a few seconds, but when his gaze rises back to mine, his eyes are heated--hungry--and I know he's thinking the same thing I am: get me, him, us, out of these fucking clothes.

"Miz Carpenter, Ray said there were some heavy set pieces you needed pulled out of storage?" He hooks his thumb over his shoulder. "This is my free period, so I figured I could give you a hand . . . or whatever you need."