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Except for now. Now is not the time for enjoying or worrying or relationship building . . . now is the time for focusing. Now is the time to be ice and steel—don’t smile, don’t waver.
“Little fucknutters don’t know who the hell they’re dealing with,” I growl.
Alison pumps her fist. “That’s the spirit.”
Garrett opens the door for me. “Go get ’em, Gangster’s Paradise.”
~ ~ ~
The first few periods go great. This mean-teacher shit actually works.
I scowl and frown and lay down the law. I make them take notes on stage direction and famous playwrights—the boring stuff. Fun, dramatic, silly exercises? Not today, kiddies . . . maybe not ever again. I imitate the Soup Nazi from Seinfeld—no fun for you!
I tack homework passes on the wall, to be given out at my discretion. There really isn’t any homework in theater—the only homework my drama teacher in high school, Mr. Pelligrino, ever gave us was practicing pratfalls. But these kids don’t seem to realize that. They respond to my attitude, to the role I’m playing—I am Pavlov’s bell and they’re the dogs.
Until . . . fifth period. My D&B class.
They’re different.
It’s not just because they’re the meanest of the bunch. But I see something in them, in each of them. The performer in me senses it. There’s emotion simmering in this room, talent just waiting to be tapped into.
It’s in David Burke—the slouching rebel, the Hamlet and leader of the pack. The other kids defer to him, wait for him, even if they don’t realize it. If I win him over . . . I win them all.
It’s in Layla Martinez—she’s a Juliet—quiet, tragically pretty, with the most expressive eyes I’ve ever seen.
It’s in Michael Salimander—the dark-haired, clever kid who probably only took this class to drive up his GPA. He reminds me of Puck, there’s brilliance in him, and if the comic doodles that cover his notebook are any indication, creativity too.
It’s in Simone Porchesky—the Medea, with her blue-black hair and blood-red lipstick, and a resentful chip on her shoulder.
They could emote. They could perform. They would draw all eyes to them.
They could be magnificent.
“What do you want?”
I don’t yell the question, but project my voice through the rectangular room, grabbing their attention from the scattered chairs they sit in. When they don’t answer, I take off my jacket, hang it on the back of my chair, walk around to the front of my desk and fold my arms.
“We want a striptease! I wanna see titties!” Bradley Baker yells from the back of the room.
Garrett was right—he is a dipshit.
I ignore him. “You have to be here; I have to be here. So, what do you want to do while we’re here?”
“We want you to cry again.” Simone sneers.
I nod. And look to the rest of them for answers.
“We want to do something that doesn’t suck,” Toby Gessler offers, popping an earbud out of one ear.
“We want to get out of this room,” Michael says.
“Okay. Anyone else?”
“We want money.” David smirks. “You get paid for coming here; we should too.”
The gears in my mind go spinning. With Alison’s advice and the token system my sister used with her kids when they were little, and Garrett’s words.
“The key to controlling your class, is figuring out what each kid wants . . . and giving it to them . . . letting them know . . . you have the power to take it away.”
“You know what I want?” I ask.
“We don’t care.” Bradley laughs, but no one else joins in.
“I want to put on a play. At the end of the year. With just the theater students.”
Julie Shriver hadn’t put on a play at Lakeside for years. Quickly, I flip through scripts in my head—something with a small cast, with catchy songs, something with an underdog . . . something they would like.
“Little Shop of Horrors. Do you guys know it?”
A few of them shake their heads. The others don’t respond.
“It’s about a plant from outer space. And a guy, a florist, who had been pushed around his whole life, finds it and takes care of it. Then . . . he chops up everyone who’s ever been mean to him and feeds them to his plant.”
They laugh.
“Dayum! Like Saw on Broadway,” Toby says.
“Gruesome.” David nods. “Is there blood?”
“There is.” I nod.
“No way am I getting up on a stage,” Simone scoffs. “I’d rather have my belly-button ring slowly ripped from my body. And my nose ring too.”
Bradley flinches and covers his nose.
“You wouldn’t have to,” I shoot back. “Not all of you will be actors. We’ll need . . . a director’s assistant—someone to keep things running smoothly. A stage crew to make and move the sets. Sound crew, light crew. We’d need makeup crew and costume design.”
“I’ll be in your play.” Bradley holds up his hand. “But only if I get to kiss a really hot chick.”
