Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [23]
“Nothing to me. Might mean something to my boyfriend, though. That’s him right in front of Mr. N.”
Brady squinted. A short, good-looking kid sat staring at the stage, arms folded, scowling. “Doesn’t seem as impressed with the dancers as everyone else is.”
“He’d better not be,” the girl said, laughing. “’Course, he’s worried about you.”
“He doesn’t even know me.”
“He knows of you. He and Mr. N. are tight. He always gets the leads.”
“He shouldn’t have any trouble beating me out.”
“You ride a motorcycle?”
Brady grimaced and faced her. “What makes you ask that?”
“You look the type, that’s all.”
“I can’t afford a motorcycle.”
“Well, you’d look good on one.”
Brady turned back to the stage, feeling himself redden. Had he just been hit on by a popular girl? Impossible.
During the hubbub of kids taking and leaving the stage, Brady noticed the girl at the piano sneaking a peek at him. What was this? Never seen his type before?
She mouthed, “Forgive me?”
He cocked his head and shrugged, nodding. She beckoned him over.
“I’m really not usually like that,” she said.
“Forget it.”
“Thanks.”
Again confused and tongue-tied, he moved away, only to stop and spin. “You want to make it up to me?”
She looked wary. “How?”
“You know ‘Blue Suede Shoes,’ the Carl—”
“—Perkins classic? Of course. I don’t have the music, but I could figure it out. It’s not in this play, you know.”
He shot her a look.
“Sorry. Guess you knew that.”
“Yeah, I knew. And do you know the lighting guys?”
She nodded.
“Okay, here’s what I need. . . .”
An hour later Brady was as antsy as he had ever been. These kids all seemed to know each other, to know what they were doing, and to be doing it well. Nabertowitz hollered, “Thirty-seven! Hi there! What’re you auditioning for?”
“Bartender!”
“Very good. When you’re ready.”
Brady hurried to the closet, grabbed the garment bag, and ducked into the bathroom. It frustrated him to find a few other guys in there. The conversation quickly stopped. He hadn’t wanted to change in a stall, but that was his only choice now.
Brady got the door shut and opened the bag, kicking off his shoes and trying to maneuver in the tiny chamber. He heard a snicker. What must they be thinking?
He swore when he realized his belt didn’t fit the tiny loops in the suit slacks. It still wasn’t too late to back out. If he didn’t answer when the director called his number, end of story.
But as he pulled his shoes back on, Brady could think only of the trailer, his wasted mother, and Peter. Maybe this wasn’t the only way out, but it could be a start, and he owed that much to Petey. Somehow he knew that if he could keep his brother at the forefront of his mind, he could do this. He had no idea whether he was any good or if he would wind up humiliated, but he could at least try.
Brady emerged relieved to see the bathroom empty, but when he got into the music room, the same guys were bending over the now open guitar case. “Sweet!”
“A Strat!”
“Touch that and I break your face,” Brady said.
The boys recoiled. “Just looking, pal. Chill.”
“Yeah, well, it isn’t mine and I’m not supposed to let anyone—”
“Great threads, by the way.”
From the theater Brady heard, “Thirty-eight!”
He lifted the guitar, heavier than he expected, and slung the black leather strap over his shoulder. He should have practiced this. He just missed the doorjamb with the neck, and as he moved to the side of the stage, still out of sight, the houselights went black.
Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Brady padded carefully toward the single mike at center stage as murmurs faded to silence, but he could see nothing. What if he plunged into the orchestra pit? He treaded gingerly, feeling carefully for solid ground. Finally Brady nudged the mike, pulled it close to his mouth, and took a deep breath.
Forcing his fear somewhere deep inside, he belted, “Well, it’s one for the money!” and the girl at the piano banged a loud chord. “Two for the show!” and she came in again. “Three to get ready, now go, cat, go!” and the spotlight hit him.