Jack & Louisa: Act 1 Read online

  “It’s just . . . I looked you up online,” I said, hastily, “because you were . . . You didn’t want to talk about your life in New York . . . and I was curious, so . . . Sorry.”

  I looked up to see Jack’s eyes glistening. Were those tears?

  What kind of monster was I?

  Clearly the kind of monster who was really good at destroying chances for friendship. The Arts section of Sun Press felt like a dumbbell in my hand, heavy with shame.

  It seemed like an eternity before Jack spoke.

  “If you knew the reason why I’m not in rehearsals for The Big Apple,” he said carefully, his jaw tight, “then you would know why I can’t—why I’m not going to audition for Into the Woods.”

  He picked up the soccer ball once more and stared at me in a way that I knew the conversation was over.

  One thing about being an actor: You have to know when it’s your cue to exit the scene.

  “Okay, never mind,” I said, wondering how I could ever repair the apparent damage I’d done. “Sorry to bother you.”

  I turned and walked back to my house, hating myself not only for upsetting him, but for being more curious about Jack Goodrich than ever.

  –JACK–

  It was mid-July and the end of our first week of rehearsals for The Big Apple. The cast had gathered in the large studio to read through the entire show. In addition to the creative team, two rows of chairs had been assembled for the producers—suit-wearing men and high-heeled ladies, chatting and checking their cell phones. The yakking began to subside as a melody tinkled on the piano. The musical began with my character singing in a spotlight, a single voice cutting through the babbling of a crowded subway platform. Our music director nodded. I took a deep breath and began.

  “One song. One song worth singing. One voice, like a bell that needs ringing.” The room was quiet as a museum, all eyes staring directly at me.

  “One song, and I sing it for youuuuu.” My throat tightened as the note came out strained. “One song,” I soldiered on, “all you need to break through.”

  As the show continued, I only got worse. Passages that had never tripped me up suddenly twisted in my throat. I struggled to hit my high notes and could feel my voice getting weaker with every number. As the finale came to a close, I could tell there was a shift in the room. The producers began chatting, this time in low whispers. The director huddled next to the composer and lyricist and pointed aggressively to places in the score. Worst of all, my cast, my new family, who just days earlier talked and laughed with me on breaks, now avoided my eye contact, quickly packing up their rehearsal bags and hurrying out of the room.

  • • •

  Much had changed at Shaker Heights Middle School since my run-in with Louisa in front of my garage. I no longer had to worry about her blabbing my secret to the entire school. In fact, her whole demeanor seemed to have changed overnight. Her feistiness and sarcasm turned into sympathy; she became almost apologetic with every little interaction we had. I’d finally gotten what I’d been praying for—someone to feel as sorry for me as I had been feeling for myself. It was incredibly sweet. It was also driving me insane.

  When I took a seat in homeroom, I spied her from across the room giving me an encouraging smile and a thumbs-up. What for? I wondered. Remembering where my assigned seat is? In science I caught her gazing at me during Mr. Buckshaw’s lecture on magnets, a sad look on her face. In Spanish class she sat two chairs in front of me. When Señora DeGuzman asked the class “¿Cómo se dice . . . an apple?” Louisa immediately snapped her head back, her wide eyes seeming to apologize on Señora’s behalf for bringing up anything Big Apple related. You must be joking, I thought, raising my hand.

  “Señor Goodrich.”

  “Manzana,” I answered, rolling my eyes.

  After class I decided to nab her in the hallway.

  “Louisa, we gotta talk.”

  “Is this about what happened in music class when Mrs. Wagner brought up singing, because my heart went out to you. Too soon, I know, but she didn’t know that you’re in a delicate place right n—”

  “No, look,” I cut her off forcefully. “I know you’re being sensitive and feeling sorry for me, and that’s awesome, but I’ll be honest, it’s driving me crazy.”

  “Oh.” She looked slightly offended.

  “Look, here’s the story.” I paused, deciding to be totally straight with her. “I got fired from that show The Big Apple. My voice started changing, and it was really embarrassing.”

  “Omigosh, Jack,” Louisa said softly, her eyes becoming glassy.

  “Yeah, no, I mean, it’s fine.” I suddenly felt like I was the one who needed to do the comforting. “I’m okay,” I said, brushing it off. “It’s just, I’m not really looking for a pity party or anything.”

  “Okay, yeah, I totally understand. I’m so sorry.”

  “No. It’s cool.”

  We stood there for a moment. The sound of slamming lockers filled a very long, uncomfortable pause.

  “You know what you need to do, Jack?” she said, suddenly seized with excitement. “What would make you feel better? You need to audition for Into the Woods!”

  “No, Louisa. That’s not a good idea—”

  “Yes! The best thing you can do is get back on the horse!” she said, grabbing my arm.

  “No, Louisa. I told you, it’s not gonna happen. Besides, soccer tryouts are the same day, and I really want to make the team.”

  A bell rang, signaling we were late for class.

  “Okay, whatever,” she said, slinging her backpack over her shoulder and whizzing past me. “Hurry up, slowpoke, we’re going to be late.”

  As I chased her down the hallway, I grew thankful that Louisa’s bleeding-heart friend act was over, but as the school day continued, I realized I’d ignored the very first lesson of Into the Woods: “Be careful what you wish for.”

  It started in the computer lab. Our teacher, Ms. Stark, was leading the class in a typing lesson.

  “You have ten minutes to finish your exercise,” Ms. Stark said, plopping down at her desk.

  Piece of cake, I thought, swiftly tapping away at the keys like a concert pianist. Even though I was only twelve, I considered myself pretty computer savvy. In the past month I’d redesigned my mom’s food blog, Tale as Old as Thyme, and scanned my dad’s vintage map collection to his hard drive. Finishing my lesson early, I slyly shifted my gaze to Ms. Stark, who at the moment seemed occupied, uncoiling a tangled mess of cords. I discreetly minimized the typing screen and clicked on a web browser. As my email page loaded, I immediately noticed a new message from someone named [email protected] with a link and two words: “for you.”

  I clicked on the link. “There Are Giants in the Sky!” blasted from my computer, causing me to jump in my seat. I began fake coughing and scrambling to x out of the window just as Ms. Stark peeked up from her wire nest. “You all right, Jack?”

  “Yeah, fine,” I wheezed. “Allergies.” I patted my chest with my fist. The video I’d opened must have been from the Broadway-recorded video of Into the Woods. There was only one person this could have come from . . . I looked across the room at Louisa. She sat hunched over, banging on her keyboard, seemingly oblivious to the eruption of Sondheim.

  Tuesday brought another surprise, this time in math class. Early in the hour I excused myself to go to the bathroom. When I got back, our teacher, Mr. Breslin, asked us to open our textbooks to Chapter 3: Percentages. I unzipped my backpack and found a strange binder I’d never seen before. I pulled it out, flipped open the cover, and immediately rolled my eyes. The first page read clearly, INTO THE WOODS: Libretto (which is just a fancy word meaning script). I looked over my shoulder at Louisa, sitting two rows behind me. Head dropped, she was scrutinizing a math problem. Refusing to give her the satisfaction of a successful heist, I slipped the script bac
k into my bag.

  The hint-dropping continued for the rest of the week. Wednesday was met with a downpour of Facebook messages and wall posts containing pictures and articles about Stephen Sondheim. Thursday, my locker had been crammed with little pieces of paper, each bearing a different quote from the show. While I was pretty sure this girl was clinically insane, I couldn’t help but be a little impressed by her enthusiasm and knowledge of theater.

  Finally, it was the day of soccer tryouts. It was also the day of the Into the Woods auditions. Soon enough I’d be a part of a club, and Louisa would have no choice but to give up her crusade. I opened my locker cautiously, half expecting tree branches to fall out. Nothing. I walked into homeroom and immediately checked under my desk. No audition flyers or sheet music. As the day progressed, I began wondering if Louisa had actually called it quits. Without the anticipation of her next move, morning classes seemed to drag on forever. Finally the lunch bell rang, and I hurried to the cafeteria. I pushed through the doorway with the other kids but was intercepted.

  “Jack, Jack, Jack. Head in a sack,” Louisa said, leaping up from a nearby lunch table.

  “What is it now?” I said, crossing my arms, secretly amused. “Do you have some magic beans you plan on sneaking into my lunch bag or something?”

  “I do not.” She frowned. “They were sold out at the Stop & Shop, but I am glad you’ve noticed. For a while, I was beginning to think you hadn’t been getting my little messages.”

  “How could I have missed your messages? You wrote in chalk on our driveway: Check your Facebook!”

  “Yeah, that may have been too much.”

  “Well, spill it,” I demanded. “I need to go talk to the guys and see what to expect at tryouts this evening.”

  “You’re seriously still going through with the soccer tryouts?” She groaned. “Jack, you’re not like them.”

  “Wow, thanks for the encouragement—”

  “No, I mean, you’re not like them. You’re special,” she said, tilting her head. “You got cast in a Broadway show! What are the chances of that, like, one in a million? A lot of people must have really believed in you. You’re seriously going to trade that to be just another jersey on a field?”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but she cut me off. “Look. I know you said you want to see if there’s something else that will make you happy, but do you really think it’s going to come from lying about who you really are?” She was relentless. “If you’re looking for a group of people who are actually cool and will understand you and aren’t going to judge you for nerding out about rare cast albums or shaky bootlegs of Rent, you’re not gonna find them on the field. You’re going to find them with the Players.

  “Here,” she said, handing me a packet of paper. “It’s the audition scene. I already highlighted your lines, and I printed off directions for your parents.” I took the papers from her. She’d highlighted my lines in green.

  I could tell she was a desperate. “Well, thanks, I guess . . . ,” I said, looking down at the sides. A wave of nerves and excitement rumbled in my stomach, just like it always did before an audition or first rehearsal. The last time I felt it was in July, meeting my cast for the first time and feeling (stupidly) like I was a member of a new family.

  “But there’s another reason I can’t audition for your show,” I said, swallowing hard. “I don’t think I want to perform anymore.”

  A look of total disappointment washed over her face.

  “Getting fired from a show kinda put things in perspective, if you know what I mean. Like, when I first started doing musicals it was all about playing and having fun, but during The Big Apple I was suddenly scared to go to work. I’d stay up all night staring at the ceiling, wondering if tomorrow would be the day they’d tell me not to come back.” As the words came out of my mouth, I realized these were things I’d never shared with anyone. “Sometimes it doesn’t matter how much time you’ve spent learning your lines or how hard you’re trying to make everyone like you. If your best isn’t good enough, they can always find someone to replace you.”

  Louisa stood there in stunned silence.

  “And honestly, I don’t even know if I can sing anymore,” I mumbled. “So while I appreciate all your enthusiasm and everything, I just want . . . I need to find something else I’m good at.”

  I looked into her eyes. Her face bore a familiar look. It was the same one I’d gotten when I told her I was in Mary Poppins and then again when I performed the letters in “Supercal.”

  “Okay,” she said finally. “I’m sorry. That sucks.”

  “Yeah.” I shrugged.

  “Well, at least do me a favor.”

  Oh no, I thought, bracing for a ridiculous request.

  “At soccer tryouts,” she mumbled, “try to kick some butt.”

  • • •

  The rest of the day flew by. Before I knew it, I was cramming my textbooks into my locker and grabbing my duffel bag packed with soccer shorts, a jersey, a set of shiny white shin guards, and a pair of black cleats. It felt weird staying at school while the rest of the kids were hopping on the bus or piling in with their car pools. The parking lot had pretty much emptied out by the time I walked from the back entrance to the soccer field. As I got closer, I spied a dark green minivan parked by the fence with unmistakable New York State plates. I approached the car and knocked gently on the driver’s window.

  “Dad, what are you doing here?” I said through the glass.

  “Oh hey, Jack Sprat!” my dad said, enthusiastically rolling down his window.

  “You know the tryouts aren’t over till five thirty, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.” He nodded. “But your mom said that she might have forgotten to pack your water bottle, so I drove over to bring you one just in case.”

  I looked down at my duffel bag, the outline of a bottle clearly visible against the nylon fabric.

  “Nope, she definitely packed it.” I smiled.

  “Huh.” My dad shrugged. “Well, just in case you need a second one I’ve got it in the back.” He began fidgeting with his seatbelt. “I know how sometimes you get thirsty and—”

  “Dad,” I cut him off. “It’s okay if you just wanted to come and watch.”

  “Oh!” he said after a short silence. “Well, that might be nice. But I know you sometimes get weird about performing in front of us, so if it’s all right with you, I can just watch from the car.”

  “Sure, Dad.” I smiled. “That would be fine.”

  I looked over to the field, where a man was making his way to the guys trying out for soccer. I recognized him as Coach Wilson, the man in the tracksuit pushing the projector in the cafeteria on the first day of school.

  “Okay, I should probably go,” I said. “I’ll see you at five thirty.”

  “Break a leg, Jack Sprat!” my dad called as I jogged toward the field.

  The closer I got, the bigger and scarier the guys seemed to appear. They were stretching and lacing up their cleats with grunts and growls of effortless masculinity. Break a leg, I repeated in my head. That expression never seemed like a threat until now.

  We began with a set of drills. One by one, Coach Wilson had us dribble a ball to an orange cone, circle it, and run back. I watched as other boys completed the drill with varying degrees of skill. My first attempt was a little clunky. I accidentally kicked the ball too hard and had to chase after it before turning around and bringing it back.

  Coach Wilson then split us into two groups: half took turns shooting, the other half acted as goalies, trying to block. I delivered a solid kick, but it sailed right into the arms of Garett, a kid from my homeroom.

  Next came my turn as goalie. I uttered a sigh of relief as a kid approached the ball. He was the smallest guy on the field. I recognized him as the boy on the receiving end of Tanner’s Jell-O bomb. I spread my feet and put my
hands in front of my chest like I’d seen the other boys do. Like a flash, his ball whipped straight past me and into the upper right-hand corner of the net. Judging by the faces of the others, they were just as surprised as I was.

  “All right, let’s do sprints now,” Coach Wilson announced. “I want you to run as fast as you can from one end of the field to the other. I’ll be timing you.”

  Come on, Jack, you got this, I said to myself, shaking out my legs. I knew if I kept sucking, my chance at a normal middle-school life was back to zero. We stood single file, waiting for Coach Wilson’s call.

  “Yer mark. Get set. Go!”

  “Yer mark. Get set. Go!”

  “Yer mark. Get set. Go!”

  Before I knew it, I was next. Coach Wilson gave me the final Go! and I launched into a dash for my life. I flew down the field taking long, controlled strides (guess my ballet training was paying off). I charged with a force I didn’t even know I had. With every heaving breath, the doubts I’d been swallowing seemed to release themselves into the crisp September air. I neared the chalk line, confident I’d done all I could do. Two more steps and “OOoffff!”

  My knees clipped the grass as my body was thrown off balance and tumbled to the ground. I felt my face smash against the cold earth. I blinked open my eyes. A crowd of boys stood frozen, hands like visors over their brows, staring at me.

  “You okay, son?” Coach Wilson called, jogging my way.

  “Yeah, yeah,” I said, clumsily getting back on my feet. I looked down at my shirt, a giant grass stain across my chest. I was totally embarrassed. “I’m sorry,” I mumbled to him. If my sucky performance in the drills hadn’t sealed the deal, this was certainly the final nail in the coffin.

  “What are you sorry about?” he said, smiling. “Do you know how many times you’re gonna get knocked down in this game?” He brushed a clod of dirt from my shoulder. “It’s the getting up that’s important.”