❝Look, Charlie, let's face it. We all know that Christmas is a big commercial racket. It's run by a big Eastern syndicate, you know.❞
Lucy Van Pelt
Matthew is slowly losing his shit.
First of all: the casting is starting bumpily, because his best friend is absent and he is supposed to be here for moral support. Secondly: there is a cluster of kids sitting in front of him, because the play auditions overlap with certain class schedules and it is the perfect excuse to bunk class. Thirdly: he needs to start a new list, because his current list is battered beyond repair [this is his scatterbrained mother's fault for messing up the grocery list with her list of life].
The bigger problem, moving to number one on the list of problematic problems, is the bunch of kids.
Like the jock-y boy in the back row of the armada of high school students, decorating the vermillion velvet auditorium seats. The boy does not belong here. Matthew does not recognize a single face in front of him and just because he recognizes that boy [the boy from the football team doing all that butch things butch teenage boys do], he knows that the boy doesn't know shit.
There is something Matthew hates more than phonies, people who do not appreciate Game of Thrones and someone who loves raisins and that's football.
Instead of worrying about the particular boy seeming to scratch every inch Matthew cannot reach, completely isolated from the rest of the crowd, he resorts in humming Fall Out Boy. He does not know in what other way he could calm his nerves. Maybe he will calm down if he listened to Fall Out Boy instead of humming falsettos to himself.
"Right," Matthew clears his throat. Voices retire to a feebly utterance in base of his ear, like a buzzing mosquito. Eyes bulge at the hostility in his voice, lips quickly zipping and thoughts returning to their owners.
He is dreading this day already, but if he does not go through with it, he will probably sit in detention for the rest of his senior year [not that a lot of it is left]. "I'm Matthew Griffin. I'm the writer of this year's production."
He pauses and scans over the large quantity of students threateningly. "I don't make decisions fast and loose, so if you're not good, you're not good."
Matthew might have been a little harsher than he intends, but what's the use he smiles and gives away free candy? There's only so many positions to give away; you can't fit a needle and a haystack through a straw. If they're shit, they're shit. He doesn't want to butter them up with false hope, send them packing to Broadway where the only serious role they will ever get, will be sweeping the floors. He doesn't want to listen to bullshit, because he is not producing bullshit.
This is not his first rodeo in producing and directing. Usually he's right there with them in the seats, patiently reciting his lines to himself, so used to the nerves gnawing his that he doesn't even notice the heartburn shoving up his throat anymore. But he received a promotion from the auditorium seats to the director's chair.
"If you're here to skip class, leave and I won't force you to sign up your name for detention." His sentence is directed to the boy at the back of the auditorium, yawning languidly, but unfortunately stays put [pissing Matthew off slightly]. "If you make it through, we practice on Mondays and Fridays from six to eight."
Maybe the boy is just a thespian after all.
"You will be judged based on improv, text you received before you sat down, as well as the song you prepared beforehand. Any questions?"
A girl's hand shoots up as soon as Matthew mentions questions. He stifles a grunt, already pissed at her too.
"The script given at the doors are from The Book Thief, right?"
Script choice was a last minute thought, not a first idea. Matthew is uncertain if she just wanted to say something impressive to broaden her chances of getting in [and failing miserably] or if she just wanted to hear her own voice aloud.
"There's a variety, most of them movies."
That and he is not sure if all the kids would remember some Dorian Gray lines.
Another hand shoots up. This one belongs to a girl just about as eccentric as her taste in yellow jerseys. "Are you preparing us for a movie?" She articulates unnecessarily too flamboyantly.
"Not necessarily. I'm trying to create an amorphous setting that could adapt to auditions for film or production. It's ambiguous," Matthew admits. "Most of you are here to build experience to seek a job in acting." He shrugs. "Or you're just looking for something fun to do. Maybe the first before the latter, but I myself want to do something in Hollywood, since it's a generic dream everyone wants."
The girl takes a chance to chip in, pushing herself up in the seat. This forces Matthew to fixate his attention upon her, even though he doesn't want to.
"Your dad's a famous director, right?"
Matthew gulps and looks down, refusing to muster some kind of response.
He refuses to talk about the man that is nothing but a sperm donor to him. A name in the credits of a movie. He is not a person he cares about dearly and he is certainly not a person he wants to have a conversation about in his least favorite time of this week. [Monday.]
"I mean, he made big drama mo—"
"We're not here to write my biography," Matthew chides. He shoves his glasses back to the top of his nose's bridge, his vision clearing up as he does it. "You each got a number. That's your turn. We've got four judges and Dwayne in the back," he gestured to a boy back stage giving an awkward wave, "is your partner for recital. I have the last say."
A hawk later and Matthew ambles off the stage, still aggravated.
The first audition is a freshman girl whom indulges a little too much in the family packet Oreos. Her face is plump and charred, representing the evolutionary step between man and vegetable. [Matthew thinks the tomato is a vegetable, because he doesn't understand how it can be a fruit when people throw it in main courses and not in puddings]. If it were a fruit, there would be a tomato tart or something [that doesn't sound the least appetizing].
"What's your name?" Matthew asks, already rubbing his eyes exhaustedly. He's curious to see if she's actually brave enough to speak her own name. She looks mute, like a mime, hiding her rotund figure behind a thin, ink speckled paper. "Just breathe, sweetheart," he tries to calm her, visibly hyperventilating. "I'm not Justin Bieber."
A small, doll-like girl plops down next to Matthew. In her hands, stacks of paper flutter in the moving air, like white doves. She's straight from the fashion-section of a magazine, her small, cadaverous body wrapped in a bohemian maxi skirt and a boob tube.
"Don't flatter yourself," Olga says, shoving a sharp elbow into his bicep. He growls at the skinny girl, rubbing the pain out of his muscles before pushing his glasses up. His glasses always seem to go when someone hits him. Maybe his glasses have suicidal tendencies, as much as the tomato girl will have when she realizes her panic attack was caught on tape.
"I'm keeping my hopes up," Matthew retorts, watching the girl finally recover from herself. At least she had a good recovery speed, he wasn't planning on touching her or resuscitating her. "Are you sure you're okay to perform, sweetie?" Matthew asks, already bored. "We can always skip you."
When he says skip, he won't even think twice to go back to her.
"I'm fine," she exhales, resting her sausage fingers on her inflated chest. She reminds him of a turkey: stuffed. Maybe she had too much stuffing over the Thanksgiving weekend prior to today.
"Then I'll need your name and the song." He's struggling to keep interest in her audition.
"My name is Franny Rodriquez and I'll be singing The Cup Song by Anna Kendrick."
Jesus won't help Matthew through this.
He's not looking forward to listen through a bunch of talentless kids with self-esteem issues, seeking attention in the depth of the goddamn theatre. He's not here on account of being in a broken home, he's here because he loves acting, writing and just theatre in general. He loves movies and bringing it to life, not because he grew up without a dad. Or a little on the fat side [which he is glad to say he shook off].
Franny isn't going to get a role. Music and acting is not something she's passionate about, it's not something she enjoys. She stumbles over her words and she's not in character. She can't even tap a foot in the rhythm. He's not looking for just another singer, he's looking for a performer.
And she's not getting it with the most generic song.
"Thank you, I've seen enough," Matthew cuts, gesturing sharply with his hand to kill the music. He doesn't even give her a chance to try the improv, but he doesn't need to see her improv. She stops, blinking at him with big, innocent deer eyes, making him feel all the more guilty [or maybe it's heartburn, he doesn't know]. "Do you have any other hobbies?"
"I like baking," she shrugs, confusion corrugating across her chubby, fleshy face.
"Stick to baking, sweetheart."
She waddles off the stage, transitioning from a tomato to the same color of pancake batter. An elbow feeds into Matthew's ribs again, forcing out the little air in his lungs. His eyes fly to Olga next to him, even though he has a expression similar to constipation churned on his face.
"You're mean," she berates, her sapphire eyes cold. Matthew shrugs, applying heat onto his ribs to kill the pain.
"She was horrible," Matthew argues.
"Yes, but you could've let her go easier."
"Does it matter?" Matthew asks, turning his attention to his watch. They have the rest of the afternoon. Oh, woe is Matthew.
"Yes!" Olga raises her voice. "She's a freshman, Matt. She wants to try new things and you just hurt her feelings."
"She'll get over it," he shrugs, "you'll see. She'll eat the batch of brownies she's going to make tonight all in one go and she'll feel so much better."
"You're a dick," Olga sighs.
"I have one, that doesn't make me one."
He turns back to the next audition, but it's an exact replica of the first girl, just skinny with red hair.
The auditions are going to take forever.
The next few candidates weren't any different: they couldn't improvise and they couldn't sing. They couldn't sing, but they could improvise. They could sing, but they couldn't improvise. They excelled in one and sucked in the other.
Matthew had to give some of them a chance, telling them nicely that they could be a background character. If they don't want to be in the background, he's going to have to take out the trash later. He doesn't put trash into his productions. He knows this school has talent, he just has to look for the right actors at all the wrong places.
"Twenty seven," Dwayne's sonorous voice carries the words to the other side of the auditorium. After numerous seconds, Matt's worst nightmare gets up on the stage [okay, maybe he's over exaggerating when he's calling the football player his worst nightmare].
The boy doesn't take the center of the stage, he stands off center, but in the center of Matthew's view. He's making Matthew nervous and agitated all at the same time and he doesn't like that.
They boy and Olga share a haughty look. He's an exact replica of his big sister, just with all the male characteristics. Where Olga has the golden locks of Rapunzel, he has the golden locks of a Disney Prince. Where Olga has a short stance, he has a tall stance. Where Olga is cadaverous, he has muscles packed on his bones like clay. Where Olga is calm and active in the backdrop, he is the active headshot of this school.
"I'm Marcelle Grey, but I go by Marty," he introduces, "and I'll be singing Bohemian Rhapsody by Queen."
Matthew wasn't prepared for Marcelle, but Marcelle was definitely prepared for Matthew. Matthew, however, tries to collect himself silently, putting back all the pieces of his brain from the bullet Marcelle put between his eyes.
The Grey siblings must be ganging up on Matthew; that's the only acceptable explanation. Olga gave him tips; it has to be the only explanation.
Matthew is so used to people reciting some song from Zauberflöte or Phantom of the Opera, because they expect it to be an opera or opera-like-experience [or something on the other side of the spectrum like High School Musical]. This play isn't going to be an opera, because it's heroic, not something Mozart made. It's Disney. A modern production, if you will. And Marcelle is ready.
Marcelle breaks out in song with his backtrack and for once, someone can sing without fucking up the lyrics. Matthew thinks he's just so fucking happy to hear the boy sing a decent song. And not fuck up. His voice etched to Matthew's ears seraphically. He is overcome with a sudden tranquility, granting it as official: his blithe towards the artist Marcelle chose is a pediment to his judgement.
Marcelle is a walking, breathing, living stereotype. He wears pride like it's a football varsity jacket, but he hides behind it. But when he opens his mouth, this applause grow from the back of the auditorium as his voice clapped. Matthew never heard something as close to perfect before.
Karma's getting back at Matthew for stereotyping him. The boy has actual talent.
The boy finishes off his song, receiving a vital-of-importance applause from the rest of the audience. Olga nods at her little brother, content with his performance.
Matthew stands up from his seat, traipsing onto the stage. Dwayne stares at Matthew, as if he's the King of Wales himself, as if he's a holy noble thane who doesn't do shit, but when he does it's like thunder erupts without clouds in the sky. The holy water of this auditorium. Matthew pats Dwayne's back as a gesture to get off the stage.
"I'll take this one," Matthew says. "Take a break."
Intrigued, Dwayne's face corrugates, but he steps off the stage. Improv is the paper cut to Dwayne's fingertip; charring hot water to the tip of his tongue, but he's good at it. That's why Matthew had him do the improv scenes, to make the actors who can't improvise look better.
The entire auditorium's chatter shuts down just as quick as it broke out. It's like a virus, just curable by shutting up. No one expects Matthew to jump up and do improv, because he's that good. He has a natural talent for acting and he makes sure everyone sees it when he participates. He doesn't have to boast. He's been the lead roles since freshman year, but now it's time to retire and write the lead role.
"I see you've found Flynn Rider," Olga says. "My little bro's pretty good, huh?"
"No," he chides. "I want to give him a challenge."
Olga's eyes widen in surprise, but she sits back. She loves seeing her brother squirm beneath pressure, already shifting his weight from one leg to the other at Matthew's presence. But there's nothing more Olga loves than seeing her best friend's stubborn head find his answer is wrong all along.
Marcelle folds his eyebrows together in confusion, unsure why Matthew wants to do the improv and not Dwayne like the rest of the auditions. Did he do something different? Is he worse? Better? He puckers his lips, watching Matthew distantly, like they've never met each other before, but they have. Matthew wants to see what this boy can do.
"What script did you get?" Matthew asks.
"A children's book," Marcelle answers uninterested. "The Lorax."
"You don't like children's books or movies?" Matthew asks, struggling not to sound sarcastic.
"I don't watch a lot of cartoons."
Matthew tries not to be offended. If he doesn't watch any Dr. Seuss movies, he might as well say goodbye. [Maybe that was a little harsh, since not every person is interested in cartoons and animation as much as Matthew].
"Okay, start watching more cartoons," Matthew tells him. "Set the scene."
Marcelle's eyes scan the script quickly before he looks back at Matthew with a mocking smirk. "The movie with the bears and the marshmallows?"
"Yes."
Marcelle is a snort away from starting to laugh, but he examines the script none the less. Matthew regrets giving this guy a chance.
"The clouds circled the stump of the chopped down tree, just like a tornado in the sky. It grew darker and darker by the second, each pocket of sunlight dissolving in thin air. The fishes knock the stump, baffled by both the weather and the man who chopped down the tree's purpose. The animals of the forest take cover, spattering into each direction to find safety they cannot find.
"Lightning strikes the stump, feeding it with energy before throwing out a small, mustached orange furball."
This is his turn, Matthew thinks. He's going to play the Lorax while Matthew will take the dick who dared cut off the tree. He loves playing egotistical douchebags, especially when he has to put other douchebags in their place.
Marcelle nails the choked up sounds, confusion sprawling across his face. He gestures to the invisible tree stump in utter shock before pretending to pick up rocks. He stares at the stump in sadness, placing rocks all around it. His face is dropped and he's two sniffs away from tearing up on stage.
His eyes narrow on cue before approaching Matthew, disassembling the tree and whistling.
"Hey!" Marcelle scolds. Matthew tumbles over, baffled by the football Lorax's appearance. Even though Marcelle is reading from the script, he's doing a pretty good job.
"Eh...no," Matthew lies, picking himself up from the ground. "Who did it?" He berated, imagining a tiny bear by his side. He gasps on cue, pointing behind Marcelle, his hands on his hips to keep an angry expression. "What's that?" He yells, pointing over Marcelle's shoulder.
Marcelle's eyes follow Matthew's fingers behind him. Matthew throws a pretend axe onto the the bear next to him as Marcelle takes a second to investigate the script.
"I think he did it," Matthew says, pointing to the bear.
Marcelle growls, looking down at the pretend-bear annoyed.
"Leave! Vacate the premises. Get out!" Marcelle yells, filling in with hand gestures before sassily throwing his nose up in the air.
"Aaaaand...who are you?" He pokes the boy's side. He stumbles over, just like the script tells him, but he doesn't fall. He just turns to Matthew.
"Wait, wait. I'm the Lorax, guardian of the forest." He puffs his chest out condescendingly. "I speak for the trees."
"Thank you," Matthew cuts. Marcelle grins at him smugly, he knows he has this in his pocket. For someone who doesn't watch cartoons, he can act pretty good from a script based on an animation. "You'll see the results on the message board next to Mrs. Hall's classroom at the end of the week."