PLAYED - Chapter 1
Giant lasers blasted across the room...
Thank you to
, , and for falling for my marketing ploy and restacking the intro post.If you’re like what, I wanna be tagged! then don’t worry. I will continue my sinister salesman scheme and tag anyone who restacks this post too.
But now to the story.
Giant lasers blasted across the room, raking the air inches above our heads.
At least, that’s what they were aiming for. But apparently the National Middle School Drama Association didn’t know anything about middle schoolers or drama. Anything that involved white tablecloths, khakis, and clip-on ties was a guaranteed snooze fest.
“It’s like they were gonna have a rock concert until the band saw the dress code,” I said.
Bobby stared around the room, watching the lasers ricochet through the chandeliers, pretending he wasn’t excited. “I dunno Patrick, I think it’s kind of cool,” he said mildly.
Sally rolled her eyes. “You think all light shows are cool.”
“Well they are. Besides, we got free food.” Bobby took a large bite of mashed-potato-flavored gravy.
“You know what they say,” I remarked, looking at my carrots, which were somehow burnt and mushy at the same time, “you get what you pay for.”
“I wonder how much Mrs. Chantelle actually paid for all this,” Sally said.
Mrs. Chantelle insisted that the whole Drama Club go to the NMSDA award show every year because it was ‘only’ two hours away. She had even gotten us VIP seats and said we didn’t have to pay for them. So I went.
For what? To eat weird food with a bunch of sweaty kids we didn’t know, watching a bunch of adults show off their uniform policies and win trophies for Most Money Thrown At A School Play?
At least the party lasers were new.
“You gonna finish that?” Bobby asked, looking at my salmon.
“No, I was thinking of turning them into tires and putting them on my bike,” I retorted. “What, you wanna give it to Hector?”
Bobby threw his salad fork at me. It bounced off my goblet with a loud tooonnnng.
Nobody in the banquet hall even turned his head. It blended right in with the rest of the awkwardness.
I pushed my plate toward Bobby. “Whatever, take it. I’m not hungry. I just wanna get out of here.”
Another smug-looking flock of kids with collars and dress shoes strutted off the stage. I didn’t even bother turning around to look at them.
Sally elbowed me in the ribs. “Guys, shush! It’s time for the big one!”
“And now, ladies and gentlemen,” proclaimed the announcer guy in the fancy suit, “it is time to present the grand trophy fooooor…Production of the Year!”
Wild applause. We get it.
Sally forced me to turn around. “Do you think we won?” she asked eagerly. “I mean, what if. Adam’s voice is so amazing, I can’t imagine-”
“Totally,” I said, trying to avoid another sermon on Adam’s Musical Majesty.
Bobby snorted. “Eighteen Summers was the best play to happen since Romeo and Juliet. Of course we didn’t win! Since when did art critics have brains?”
“I said shush,” Sally snapped, “I’m trying to listen!”
“I mean, it had everything right?” Bobby continued sarcastically. “Orphans, rich girls, epic journeys…even Sir Suit couldn’t say no to that.”
“And fight scenes,” I nodded. “Don’t forget the fight scenes.”
Sally sighed. “Is that all you care about? Fighting?”
Bobby and I looked at her with completely straight faces. “Yeah.”
We cracked up.
Announcer Guy rambled on, trying to build up tension by using a bunch of colorful adjectives that described every play in existence. Despite that, I could feel my heart rising in my throat and threatening to squeeze out all of my burnt carrots.
I mean, we hadn’t exactly put on a big budget production.
What if we did win?
“And the winner of Production of the Year iiiiiiiis…”
Announcer Guy was clearly milking his precious five minutes of fame.
The room was dead silent, except for Bobby hacking up some salmon that went down the wrong pipe.
But nothing in the universe was funny.
“Wright Middle School’s Eighteen Summers!”
My heart shot out of my chest and splattered on the poor guy in front of me.
Sally threw her arms around me and screamed at the top of her lungs. Directly into my ear.
Adam’s singing blared over the speakers as confetti fell from the sky, shredded by more party lasers.
Mrs. Chantelle teleported us out of our seats and herded us onto the stage with a massive beam on her face.
“Watch it!” Bobby snapped at everybody. “You trying to get Hector killed?”
Mrs. Chantelle narrowed her eyes a little. “You brought Hector?”
“Of course I did,” Bobby replied. “Why wouldn’t I?”
She blinked, then let it go. There were slightly more important things to worry about.
I found myself on the stage behind a bunch of kids that were taller than me, so I could hardly see the audience. The rich schools didn’t seem to have that problem. They must have choreographed the whole getting onstage thing. But hey, at least I didn’t have to deal with a gazillion cameras flashing into my eyes. Sympathy to famous people everywhere.
Bobby was hollering at me unintelligibly and slapping me on the shoulder.
“I can’t believe this is really happening!!” I whooped back.
Mrs. Chantelle launched into a cringey speech about how awesome the Drama Club was, and you know what? I didn’t care. The room was so bright from camera flashes I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear an angelic choir.
My feet were ten feet off the ground.
I remember it like it was yesterday.
~ ~ ~
“The butler did it! Why did the butler have to do it?”
“Come on Patrick, what’s wrong with the butler doing it?” Sally challenged. “It’s supposed to be a huge plot twist.”
“Because the butler always does it!” I speared my ham and cheese sandwich with a carrot stick and it stayed smugly lodged there. “This is gonna be so lame.”
“As if ‘Murdock Homes and the Murder at Mayland Manor’ wasn’t lame already,” Bobby remarked.
“Come on guys,” Sally said, “it’s not the script that makes a play great. It’s the actors.”
“That is not true,” I countered. “Eighteen Summers was just a freaking good play.”
“Technically, Eighteen Summers was awesome because of Hector,” Bobby said.
Sally looked dismayed. “Hector didn’t even have any lines! It was Adam and his amazing voice that put the soul in the play.” She sighed dreamily, which was super annoying.
“Good thing Murdock Homes won’t have to do any singing,” Bobby cracked. “Hey Patrick, you gonna finish that?”
I stared down at my food art, then slid it toward him.
Suddenly, a big, sweaty hand batted Bobby’s head out of the way and grabbed my sandwich.
“Mmmm, this looks delicious. You think it’ll fly better as a frisbee or a football?” asked a linebacker who clearly hadn’t put on enough deodorant.
It appeared the line of scrimmage had moved to our table.
“Frisbee, stupid! Does that look like a football to you?” snapped Meathead Number Two.
“Your head looks like a football to me!” Meathead Number One returned, playfully swinging his foot in front of Meathead Two’s nose.
“Hey, let’s try the cheese first.” He slipped out the mayo-covered provolone and flung it across the cafeteria. It smacked into the opposite wall and left a white splotch.
No teacher did anything. Maybe because this was the football team, or maybe because that wall already had a bunch of stains on it.
Bobby shouldered me. “It’s your sandwich. Do something,” he hissed.
“What do you mean? It’s your sandwich!” I returned.
All the fangirls, I mean cheerleaders, thought this was the best comedy in the world. “Let Mileage try!” one of them squealed.
Miles shouldered his way through the hoard.
Meathead Two handed him the sandwich, but stuck the carrot up his nose. He pointed at the opposite wall. “Beat that.”
Miles ripped the sandwich in two and stuffed one half in his mouth. “I think I’ll just aim for a trash can.”
“Come on man, you’re a QB!”
“Leave him alone!” the tallest cheerleader barked. “If he said he wants to aim for a trash can, then he’s gonna aim for a trash can!”
Miles crumpled up the other half so the pieces wouldn’t fly apart.
“And there he goes!” Meathead One began, “Mileage takes the snap and drops back. Another step back! Don’t need a sack from the lunch monitor tonight, folks. He scans the field tighter than TSA, but it looks like, oh no! All the trash receivers are covered! But wait, he’s found his man! What’s going on in that thick head, I mean helmet, of his? And there he goes for the windup, quick as lighting, almost as if he was trying to punch me on purpose. Dramatic pause - pull up Google Maps folks, this sandwich could be going anywhere. Muscles tensing, and OOOH! Look at that spiral folks, look at that spiral. Beautiful. The NFL will be analyzing that one for years!”
My mangled sandwich flopped through the air in a nevertheless perfect arc. Straight into some poor kid’s mouth.
“Trash can,” Miles sneered.
The crowd went wild. At least, the crowd that had gathered around our table and was now mercifully leaving.
“You can have my lunch Bobby,” Sally said in disgust. “I’m not hungry either.”
Bobby eyed the blue cheese in her salad suspiciously. “What were we talking about again?”
“Um…we were talking about how Adam-”
“-how Hector made Eighteen Summers so awesome,” I interrupted.
“Can we please stop talking about Hector?” Sally said.
“Yeah,” I said. “What if we asked Mrs. Chantelle to swap the butler with the cook or something? Change it up a bit.”
“Mrs. Chantelle never changes anything,” Bobby replied. “Why do you think they put ‘shan’t’ in her name?”
“If you think Murdock Homes is so lame, then don’t audition,” Sally said to me.
“Of course I’m gonna audition,” I exclaimed, “I’m co-president. Besides, somebody’s gotta make Murdock work.”
She rolled her eyes. “I thought actors couldn’t make lame plays good.”
“It’s still gonna be lame. I’ll just make it the least lame it can be. See, check this out.” I held my chin and put on the most detectivey face I could muster.
“Say something British,” Bobby grinned.
“Elementary, my dear Watson.”
“It’s ‘Wattman’,” Sally corrected.
“I’m not saying that.”
“Well if you get the part, you’re gonna have to.”
“Who are you trying out for?” I asked Sally.
“Felicia Riverstone. She’s literally the only main girl part in the play.”
“So you’re gonna be the rich girl that flops around begging everyone for help?”
“To be honest, I think both you guys are shoo-ins,” Bobby said, cautiously chewing on the candied pecans. “You know, being co-presidents and all.”
“I’m flattered, spotlight guy,” Sally replied.
“Don’t worry, I’ll let everyone else have some too.”
I slouched over, careful not to put my elbows where the paint was chipping off the table. “It’s still gonna be lame though.”
“What if we work Hector into one of the scenes?” Bobby suggested. “Maybe Murdock’s living room.”
“Maybe the kitchen,” I retorted.
Bobby threw a cucumber at me.
“So am I gonna see you at auditions or not?” Sally asked.
“Of course I’m gonna be there. What kind of co-president would I be if I wasn’t?”
“A super lame one,” she nodded.
“Do you want me at auditions?”
Sally paused. “I’d rather you play Murdock than…than Hector.”
Sally was lucky she was a girl, or Bobby would have thrown a crouton at her. Or maybe he was saving them for Hector.
Co-president or not, I knew I had to practice hard to get the lead role. So I carefully scoured my room with a magnifying glass, searching for the teeniest stain, paying particular attention to my windowsill. Then I precisely articulated to my dog why I thought the gardener had been framed. And when I was sure my parents weren’t looking, I climbed onto the roof and practiced dropping soccer balls on a target roughly the size of a butler’s head.
And every now and then, I’d pause in front of a mirror and put on my best detective face.
In Eighteen Summers, I was one of the street rats who helped Adam survive the highway robbery scene. This year I was aiming higher.
No matter how lame Murdock Homes was, I was determined to make co-starring with my co-president the pinnacle of my middle-school drama career.
And yes, I had absolute confidence Sally would make Felicia Riverstone. Nobody was dramatic like Sally. When she spoke, her body moved with her words like a dance.
And for once, the pretty girl character would actually be played by a pretty girl. Let’s be honest, we all hate it when they aren’t.
Bobby didn’t have to deal with any of that. Spotlight guy was first come first serve, and they didn’t even have to practice anything until dress rehearsals. But Mrs. Chantelle recommended they go anyway to ‘get to know’ the play. Bobby went to hang out with Hector. And me.
I picked up a soccer ball and instinctively examined it. “Fascinating, Wattman, take note. It is spotless.”
What could possibly go wrong?
As writers you all know how much I want you to interact. Was it boring? How was my development? Who do you think Hector is? Light up the comments 🥺
Please also consider smashing that restack button to drag in all your friends so they don’t start at Chapter 17. Infect Substack with good literature and help get a fellow Christian writer off the ground.
Pretty sure Hector is a pet lizard or rock or something.
Oh my word I somehow missed that this came out 🤦🏼♀️🤦🏼♀️🤦🏼♀️
BUT YAY SO EXCITED TO KEEP READING 🥳🥳🥳