Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(38)

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.

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.”