Riven - Jerry B. Jenkins [69]
No, this whole thing was ridiculous, a stupid idea. Why had he thought it made any sense? He felt his pulse increase and his breathing go crazy. He’d heard of panic attacks. Could this be his? If he didn’t calm down, he wouldn’t have a chance at pulling this off.
Just when Brady reached the point of seeking out Clancy Nabertowitz and telling him he wouldn’t be able to go on, the director came rushing in, dressed to the nines, and called everyone together.
“All right, listen up,” he said. It took longer than usual for the chatter to die down. “Those of you who have done this before understand what’s happening to you right now. You newcomers are ready to bolt, I know. I’ve been there. But let me tell you something. No one is going anywhere. Any physical ailments you think you have are all in your mind. We have rehearsed this and rehearsed this, and you’re all going to nail it tonight. The house is sold out. People can’t wait. I know you’re gonna knock ’em dead. In ten minutes I want everyone in full dress and right back here.”
Brady didn’t feel much better, but as Mr. N. had said, nobody was going anywhere, particularly him. If this was the price for the future he fully expected, he would have to be willing to pay it before every performance. He hated it. It would be hard. It left a bitter taste in his mouth.
But he could do this, had to do it. Brady believed with all that was in him that this was his one shot, his only hope. He was going to make something of himself. He was going to be somebody.
He struggled into costume, his hands shaking, fingers trembling at every button and the zipper. The zipper. Yes, he was going to consciously raise the zipper and remember that he had so there would be no wondering onstage, in the spotlight, in front of everybody.
Would it look weird to study himself in the mirrors that covered the back wall of the dressing room? All the other guys were. Brady struck a pose, firing out one hip.
He was still scared to death, but hang it all, he was Conrad Birdie.
On with the show.
24
Little Theater
The beauty of Brady’s role was that although Conrad Birdie was the musical’s central figure—talked about, longed for, anticipated—he didn’t actually appear until the demand for him was at fever pitch. The pressure was on because both Birdie and Brady had to deliver. Their entrance must not disappoint. In fact, it must be more than worth the wait.
With music, timing, and lighting, Clancy Nabertowitz pulled every string at his disposal. Now if Brady could just appear bigger than life when the spotlight hit him and show a sneer and a swagger that covered his fear . . .
Brady had a lot going for him as he tiptoed out to his mark. He had taken not one shortcut since the first day. He had memorized the script, every word of every part. He knew everyone’s cues and stage directions, even the lyrics to songs he wasn’t singing. He was as ready as he could be, but his eagerness had lost the battle with stage fright.
He stood there, heart hammering, gasping, sweating.
But he had one more advantage, and it was not lost on him. Nabertowitz had engineered the scenes in such a way that all the newcomers—except Brady—had already been on stage, singing and dancing in crowd scenes. Uplifting fun and funny stuff had brought the audience to life. The spectators were into the story, laughing at the right places and cheering every solo, dance, and punch line.
So when the spotlight finally hit Brady Darby in his Conrad Birdie gold lamé suit, the kids onstage jumped and squealed on cue, and the house erupted with cheers and applause. That gave Brady a beat to gather himself, to drink in the adulation, and to affect the knowing persona of the mega rock-and-roll star. He cocked his head, raised a brow, and winked, and the stage was his.
When he hit his first note on key, every distraction left him. He lived in the moment, playing to the kids, playing to the crowd, belting out his tune and dancing all over the stage as the teen actors swooned. When he finished