The Fall Musical Read Online Free

for Fine Dining at Cheap Prices—who probably wanted Harrison to come and work after school, which meant he’d conveniently forgotten about these auditions despite the fact that Harrison had reminded him at least twenty times. Which made Harrison wonder yet again when his dad was going to realize that there was actually life beyond the diner.
    But later for that. He flipped the phone shut.
    â€œWhere is the diva?” asked Charles Scopetta, the Drama Club’s production designer. Charles had emerged from backstage, cradling a huge papier-mâché sun that covered all but his red Converse sneakers and his eyes, which were peeking out from under an obedient swoop of brown hair that somehow never managed to fall into his eyes. “I need her opinion.”
    â€œIt looks great,” Harrison said.
    Charles put the sun down in the aisle and straightened up, ever-so-subtly sucking in his gut to hide what he fondly called the “Final Five,” as in pounds-to-lose. “Thank you, but La Glaser has final approval. Not that I don’t trust your exquisite taste.”
    â€œShe’s not here yet,” Harrison said.
    â€œOh, I knew it! I knew it. Freaking out in the bathroom because she cannot be the star.”
    â€œShe’s the student director. She’ll have power.”
    â€œYes, well, she does enjoy that—”
    With a sudden thump from above, the entire auditorium fell into pitch-blackness. Every conversation, every song, stopped.
    â€œOops,” came a voice from the projection booth. “There seems to be a console problem. Uh, pay no attention to the man in the booth . . . heh-heh . . . ”
    â€œ Dashiell, damn it, would you please turn on the house lights! ” Harrison yelled.
    â€œTemper, temper,” Charles said.
    â€œHarrison?” Dashiell shouted as the lights went back on. “Can I show you the source of the problem? It appears that we have kind of an interesting dilemma . . . ”
    â€œWhatever!” Harrison called back. “Come down, please, we need to start!”
    â€œIt’s rather massive,” Dashiell said. “But I’ll locate the plug. Wait . . . ”
    â€œWhat planet is he on?” Charles murmured.
    â€œAt least he’s here,” Harrison said. “Where’s Brianna? She was supposed get someone to do sign-up— I shouldn’t be doing this .”
    â€œI know,” Charles replied, “you’re supposed to be running the launch meeting.”
    Launch meetings were a Ridgeport tradition- brief, intense, closed-door—where the Drama Club officers recited a Pledge of Conduct before the first audition of every show. It was all about treating auditioners with positive feedback and courtesy. Corny, but it helped. Harrison knew how wound up and emotional these kids felt. He’d been there. In Ridgeport, you started training early—for voice, tap, jazz, ballet, step dancing—and each teacher had a waiting list. (So did the town’s shrinks, who did a big business after each round of rejections.) A role meant you were somebody. Your picture, clipped from the newspaper, appeared in the window of every storefront. A total nobody could suddenly move onto the A-list.
    â€œCan one of your people help with the sign-up?” Harrison asked. “I’ll get Dashiell and Reese—”
    â€œI’ll get Mr. Levin away from Ms. Gunderson,” Charles said. “He can help. That’s why they pay him the big bucks.”
    Clutching his papier-mâché sun, Charles jogged down the aisle toward the stage. There, looking as if he were pinned between the Steinway grand piano and the stage, was the faculty adviser, Mr. Greg Levin. The sides of his beard were lifted by a pained smile. Leaning across the piano toward him, her left leg lifted up behind her so her penny loafer dangled from her bare foot, was the French teacher, Ms. Gunderson. She was pert, blond, and had a