The Fall Musical Read Online Free Page A

kind of preppy agelessness. She was also the accompanist for every musical audition—at least every audition since Mr. Levin had become faculty adviser.
    â€œInvite me to the wedding, kids!” Charles called out. “But before that, we have a show to cast?”
    â€œOh—yes, sorry,” Mr. Levin said, his face turning red as he quickly strode up the aisle and put on his plummiest Shakespeare accent: “Once more into the breach!” Mr. Levin was a former actor with an awesome résumé. On Broadway he’d played a man who died a quick, tragic death, in a show that unfortunately did the same thing. He’d starred in an Off-Broadway musical about a talking SUV and had carried a spear dashingly in a Central Park production of Richard III with Kevin Kline. He was sharp, funny, smart, could play comedy and drama, and was the greatest living theater FAQ source Harrison ever knew. Whether or not he had a weakness for Ms. Gunderson was hard to tell.
    â€œAre we all here?” he asked Charles.
    â€œThe Duchess Brianna will be delayed tonight,” Charles replied.
    â€œOh?” Mr. Levin said. “Is it the SAT prep course, the Intel scholarship meeting, yearbook committee, or Honor Society?”
    â€œOverachievers Anonymous,” Charles said.
    Mr. Levin smiled. “Ah well, I expect she will appear in the fullness of time.” Reaching the back of the auditorium, he took Harrison’s clipboard and switched to his booming Voice of the Director: “FRIENDS, ROMANS, AND THESPIANS, AFTER SIGNING UP FOR YOUR SLOT, YOU WILL PROCEED INTO THE HALLWAY AND MAKE YOURSELVES AS COMFORTABLE AS THE CIRCUMSTANCES ALLOW. I WILL CALL YOUR NUMBER AND THE NUMBER OF THE PERSON AFTER YOU, WHO WILL BE ‘ON DECK,’ AS IT WERE. . . . ”
    Harrison stepped into the aisle, took Reese by the arm, and called to Dashiell in the booth. “Dashiell. Launch meeting. Backstage. Now.”
    â€œTake me away, take me far, far away, out of here . . . ” Reese purred.
    Harrison paused. “ West Side Story? ”
    â€œVery good. Two points. Three gets you the door prize.”
    Harrison didn’t even want to ask. With Reese trailing him, he ran down the aisle, mounted the steps at stage left, and ran backstage.
    He didn’t get very far. The wing space at backstage left, normally a bleak, charmless place with cement floors and dust-darkened banks of pulleys, was now a landscape of taffeta poofs, lumpy woolens, old lamps and telephones, rickety tables, hollowed-out bookcases, two-dimensional cars, and fur coats. A group of quiet underclassmen was sifting through the piles, examining material, ripping a seam here and there, bringing more stuff from a room in a distant hallway.
    Harrison blurted, “What the f—”
    â€œWatch your language in front of the Charlettes,” Charles interrupted. “We’re like a family back here.”
    â€œA dysfunctional family,” Reese said.
    â€œDarling,” Charles replied, “dysfunctional or not, the Charlettes are the power behind the stage. The costumes, the scenery, the makeup, the props. Now, due to circumstances beyond our control, there was a flood in the prop room. An act of God. Ha! That fits the play, doesn’t it? Godspell . Coincidence? Your call.”
    Vijay Rajput, the tallest and oldest Charlette at six feet three inches and eighteen, dumped a white wig on a pile of costumes. “What mishegas,” he said.
    â€œWhich means . . . ?” Reese asked.
    â€œCraziness,” Vijay said, shaking his head.
    Reese gave her best sensitive-girl smile. “I love learning Indian words.”
    â€œIt’s Yiddish,” Vijay told her.
    â€œWho’s going to clean this up?” Harrison demanded.
    â€œThat job,” said Charles with exasperation, “belongs to the stage manager.”
    â€œ We don’t have a stage manager! ” Harrison said.
    â€œAnd whose fault is that