Chapter Ten

Dance auditions for the fall musical are here! Is Candice (or her slightly more confident alter-ego Candy Corn) ready?

My foot is tapping nervously, the dull heels of my naked character shoes smacking the tiled flooring in the hallway outside of the black box theatre. “Would you relax?” Shannon says, her freshly manicured fingers resting on top of a single page of lines.

                It’s time for the dance audition. I feel like I’m literally about to s**t myself and this girl is sitting here memorizing lines for a role she doesn’t even have yet. “How long have you known me?”

                Shannon shrugs. “I knew Candice for a year. Candy’s new. Not like I know you that well. You’re a stranger, really.” She’s always trying to lighten the mood.

                Funny thing is, I always just end up wanting to punch her. “If you keep this whole Candy Corn thing going I’m going to develop a split personality.” Like I don’t have enough problems already.

                “Good, maybe between the two of you you’ll be like a superhuman. A real triple threat!” Shannon is quickly shushed by the stage manager who’s guarding the doors into the theatre to make sure no one enters before their group is called. She puffs her chest out and extends her arms, inviting them to a fight.

                I’m quick to grab her arms and force them back down to her sides. “You don’t get to fight him. If we do get cast he can make our lives very, very awful.”

                “You’re no fun. You’re literally the most unfun person I know.”

                “Yeah, see, I don’t think ‘unfun’ is a word.”

                She turns her head towards me, her messy bun flopping atop her head. “Suddenly you’re a genius too? I turned you into a genius.”

                “You didn’t turn me into anything. You bought me a skirt.”

                “I created a monster.”

                My jaw drops. I’m sure she intended it as some lame kind of compliment, but sometimes she just comes across as rude. “I’m not a monster.”

                “You are. You are a dancing, singing, acting, secret genius monster. And I f*****g love it!” Shannon is quickly shushed again, and this time my body tenses because I know she doesn’t take kindly to repeat offenders. In the blink of an eye she goes from slouching in her seat to standing straight up. “What are you gonna’ do about it, four-eyes?! Huh? Come shut me up!”

                I can’t help but laugh. It’s immature. It’s also terrifying that she’s shouting at an upperclassman, but she’s just so small that it’s kind of funny. Don’t let that fool you, she might be scrappy but she will rip this kid’s glasses off and claw his eyes out. “Shannon, come on.” I’m using my soft voice, and apparently she doesn’t respond to that anymore. “Shannon…” My voice has a little more power to it, but it just doesn’t sound right. “Shannon, sit down!” As if taking every authoritative voice I’ve ever heard in my life and fusing them into one hybrid voice of my own, this loud shout echoes down the long, narrow hallway. The veteran thespians look appalled, the stage manager looks relieved and Shannon looks proud.

                This b***h is crazy. Like oh hey, you just yelled at me, let me buy you something nice!  But I can’t help but love her special degree of insanity. She sits down beside me, a smug grin present on her ruby red lips. “They grow up so fast.”

                “Okay, seriously, I’m going to punch you in the throat.”

                “If you do that then how are we supposed to harmonize during the vocal auditions tomorrow?”

                “Harmonize?” I revert back to timid little girl very quickly.

                “Yeah… You know, singing together? Hitting the same notes in different keys.”

                I stare at her like she’s speaking a foreign language, because to me she is. I can sing, I guess, but I’ve never had any formal training. I don’t know the B4 on a music scale from the B4 space on a Bingo card. Is there even a B4 in music? How am I supposed to know this? “S**t.”

                “No, no. Don’t you do that to yourself.” Shannon grabs my face in the most melodramatic display of desperation. “You are Candy freaking Corn. Okay? You are about to go dance your a*s off in there. We can worry about the vocals later. We’re going to dance.”

                As if whatever god does or doesn’t exist has impeccably perfect timing, the doors behind the stage manager swing open and a group of eight sweaty, defeated looking high schoolers file out of the dark abyss that is the dimly lit black box theatre.

                They look exhausted but they only had a twenty-five minute time slot. How can they be this warn out from such a little amount of time? I dance for an hour in my room at a time and still feel like I could continue if it weren’t for life’s basic necessities like eating and going to the bathroom.

                With Shannon and I on one side with two girls and the other four people from our group lined up against the opposite wall, we stand from our chairs when the stage manager snaps. “Group three! Kenny Phillips, McKenna Roberts, Sarah Moore, Samuel Fitzpatrick, Shannon Matthews, Amanda Linz, Mikey Greer, and-”

                I inhale so deeply that I feel like I’ve sucked all of the oxygen out of the hallway. If he doesn’t say my name, I don’t have to go in. It’s not real. I’m not really about to go dance in front of people and make a fool out of myself.

                “Candice Cornell!” Whether he exclaims my name because he’s completed reading off another list or because I’m somehow more exciting than the others in my group is beyond me. But let’s be honest, it’s probably the latter. People don’t get excited over me. That’s not negative Candice speaking either, that’s just reality.

                The rest of my group files into the theatre through the open doors. I begin walking with the rest of them, but just as my toe enters the darkness of the room before me, I freeze. It’s not paralysis, obviously, but it feels like it. I’ve been so caught up in this whirlwind of my crush noticing me and my friend pushing me to be a little more vocal about what I want. Add that to the drama at home and it’s no wonder I haven’t been acting like myself this week.

                Shannon senses me stop, she must, because she turns around and grabs a hold of both of my arms. She tugs, but I don’t budge. “Candice Rose Cornell, now is not the time for you to clam up on me. Come on,” her eyes are pleading just as much as her words are. She’s just barely backlit, a few spotlights turned on in the theatre being the only thing keeping it from complete darkness.

                “Ladies! We only have so much time in the day!” A female voice, I assume belonging to the choreographer, shouts from within the four dark walls.

                “Come on, b***h. Be Candy Corn.” She really emphasizes that last sentence. I don’t really know what it means to be a nickname. I know Shannon thinks I grew a second person or something, but that’s not how it works. Sometimes I get pissed of frustrated and I act a little differently. I can’t turn it on or off. I don’t read comics, but I guess it’s comparable to The Hulk. Doesn’t he have two personalities? Maybe? I listened in to this kid talking about it in middle school once, I’m lucky I even remember the big guy’s name.

                I inhale deeply once more before forcing my uncooperative legs to move onward into the most intimidating room I’ve ever entered in my life.

                Once Shannon and I finally take a place in the seats lined up in the front row of risers against the wall, the choreographer claps her hands together. She’s tall, her calves look like they could kill a person if she swung them in the air too quickly, and her heels are much taller than my character shoes. Is it even humanly possible to dance in something like those?

                She has black tights stopping mid-calf, I mean seriously? It just makes those things look more lethal. With a black tank top and her hair in a tight ponytail, she’s dressed to work. And sweat.

                Then here I sit wearing nude colored, worn out and might I add borrowed shoes from the theatre department. Denim shorts hug the small butt that I do have because I don’t own gym shorts and I’m really sorry to everyone who can see me right now. They’re looking at a small girl wearing her very tall brother’s wife-beater. It’s baggy, but since I’m trying this new positive attitude thing, I guess I’m looking forward to the way it will whip and spin when I twirl. Happy?

                “Welcome to dance auditions for the fall musical! Grease is a very dance oriented show, so I hope you guys are prepared.” She places her hands firmly on her hips as she spins gracefully on her left heel, landing flat once more when she’s facing away from us. “Hope you guys stretched beforehand. Let’s get to it!”

                Shannon’s the first one up, taking her place at the front. I don’t need to tell you that she’s not a suck up, because she’s clearly not afraid to make enemies. The girl’s just really excited.

                The choreographer starts demonstrating. Something about ball-kick-change, pull the air down, quarter turn to left profile. I’m grateful she’s actually doing the moves because if she just started shouting instructions I would be that awkward girl standing still watching everyone dance around her. Granted that might still happen. This isn’t bouncing up and down at a school dance, this is intense stuff.

                “One more time, then you guys are going to join in. Watch my feet,” she says before counting 5,6,7,8 one more time and jumping right into the moves. Her steps are so precise, always with purpose. Her calves flex when she moves them, and my eyes can’t help but wander to see what else her body does while she moves. I’ve never seen someone so impressive. If Janet and Britney had a baby, then it’d probably be this woman.

                Her hips twist with each and every turn of her body, and when her hips twist other things happen to other parts that are unavoidable. But if she were doing it on purpose, even I wouldn’t complain. She knows how to work with what she’s got.

                Stop being weird and focus. I begin taking a mental note of each and every movement. I try to match the words she’s saying with them to teach myself the terminology, but it becomes a jumbled mess that goes in one ear and out the other.

                Instead, I lock eyes with her feet inside those ridiculously tall shoes. She stops suddenly, although I guess it’s not all that abrupt since it’s the end of the choreography.

                “You ready? I’m going to do it with y’all now.” I hadn’t noticed a southern drawl when she first addressed us, but it just snuck out. She’s not a native Chicagoan. It also totally does not freaking matter. Sometimes I hate my brain. And by sometimes I mean every hour of every day.

                She counts again, and begins doing the exact same dance once more. I’m a little clumsy as I follow along, but I feel somewhat relieved when I realize everyone around me is stumbling. Shannon’s alright, so is one of the other girl’s. The one guy, Kenny Phillips, is pretty decent too. But none of us know it like this woman does.

                She laughs softly, and it’s another much appreciated sense of relief. “It’s a little tricky, we’ll go again one more time and then we’ll go to half speed.” Did she just say we’ll get to half speed? Here I am, young and naïve, thinking we were going full speed and she’s telling me we’re not even fifty-percent there yet.

                On a scale of musical B4’s to bingo B4’s, I’m B-fucked. 

Reviews

[Lalochezia]

Very well written and I can see the surroundings before my inner eye.

Only the interaction with the stage manager is a little confusing; some dialog tags would help the reader see that he is being addressed just now.

B4 on a scale versus B4 on a Bingo card - ingenious.

About the harmonizing: 'Hitting the same notes in different keys'? Should it not be 'different notes in the same key'? The same note remains the same note and can therefore not create harmony.

[Mark Alexander Boehm]

I'll certainly clean up the dialogue in this one.
As for the keys and notes: I do believe you're right, going to make necessary changes!
I've always confused the two.
As always, thanks for your input and for reading!