PLAYED - Chapter 2

Auditions

Thank you to

Glori Writes

and

AlicetheRabbitLover

for falling for my marketing scheme and restacking chapter 1 and being nice people in general. However, my evil plot seems to have failed, and so everyone else who restacks hoping for stardom shall henceforth be disappointed.

But I’d still appreciate a restack. 😁

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“Ah, look who finally showed up. Where’s your uniform?” Sally said, dressed in a black T-shirt.

“Hey, this is auditions, not dress rehearsals.”

Sally gazed around the room. “I can’t believe the turnout.”

“I know right? What’s that, like seventy people?” Even with the chairs and backpacks crammed against the walls, the room still looked pretty crowded.

“It’s because of Eighteen Summers.”

“Definitely.”

Sally sighed wistfully. “We’re like, inspiring the next generation.”

“What? No, I was talking about the trophy.” My eyes drifted toward the gold trophy on the pedestal we set up to impress the newbs.

Sally hit me in the arm.

“I mean, he’s got a point,” Bobby said. “Look at all the little kids.”

Twenty of them were flocked around the trophy and the big photo of Announcer Guy handing it to us. I’m in there, second to back row, fourth from the left.

Did I mention, the trophy’s not for first place in the district or state.

It’s first place in the whole stinking country.

“Hey, where’s Hector?” I asked Bobby.

“He doesn’t need to audition. He’s already one of us.”

“You didn’t bring him for motivation?” Sally smirked.

“Only an Eighteen Summer-er would truly understand his significance,” Bobby replied pompously. “No way I’m letting him get paparazzied by these amateurs.”

Pfff, yeah. Gold trophy? Let ‘em sneeze on it. But Hector, no he’s VIPs only.

A shrill voice rang across the room. “Alright, everybody, let’s begin.”

Mrs. Chantelle effortlessly shepherded everyone against the wall while explaining how the auditions were gonna roll. She was ‘director’ for a reason.

I found myself crammed next to a kid I vaguely recognized, and I felt it was my co-presidential duty to make some conversation.

“Hey, were you in Eighteen Summers?”

“Yeah, I was one of the workers in the background in the wheat field scene. No lines.”

“That’s fine. It was awesome just being a part of it.”

“Yeah,” he nodded. “It was my first play, too. I wonder if we can get the same bang out of a murder mystery.”

“Prepare to be disappointed,” Bobby interjected.

We ignored him. “Yeah, you’re not alone there. What are you trying out for this time?”

“I dunno, whatever. Some lines would be cool.”

“What’s your name again?”

“Kenneth.”

“I’m Patrick.”

Kenneth nodded. “Co-president.”

Sally nudged me. “Hey co-prez, director wants us.”

“Later, co-judges,” Bobby waved.

As we left, I heard Kenneth asking Bobby if we were really gonna be judging, and if he was really our friend.

“I think I actually remember him,” Sally murmured to me.

I nodded, though I wasn’t sure why.

“Just think about it,” Mrs. Chantelle whispered to us. “You’re looking at the candidates for next year’s club president.”

Sally sighed dreamily. “Nobody’s replacing Adam.”

“Between the two of you, I think you’re doing just fine.”

“Hang on a second, I thought everyone votes on the nominees,” I started.

Mrs. Chantelle ignored me and got everyone’s attention again. “Everybody trying out for ensemble line up here.”

There actually were two judges, Mrs. Chantelle and Mr. C, who directed choreography. No relation between them. I think ‘C’ stood for something long and Polish.

Sal and I slipped back into the crowd.

As co-president of the Drama Club, it was my duty to not laugh or grimace at anything during auditions, because I had to set an example for others.

Being co-president of the Drama Club has some very difficult responsibilities.

Seriously, some of these kids just stank. And that’s saying something, given they were only supposed to repeat a short little conversation and act out some servant tasks. I don’t know how you break a duster on a music stand, but if I was Lord Mayland, I definitely would have fired the guy.

“See any good candidates?” I whispered to Sally, who was obviously thinking the same thing I was.

“Kenneth did pretty good.”

“Will those trying out for minor roles please line up?” Mrs. Chantelle called.

A silent hush fell over everybody, which wasn’t exactly the effect she was going for. She followed everybody’s gaze to a hulking football player staring blankly into space, next to an equally bulky man.

“Coach Schneider, what a surprise,” Mrs. Chantelle said without batting an eye.

But one word spread through the room like a cold breeze.

Mileage.

Everybody’s favorite quarterback. He had the school record for something, the hottest girlfriend, the coolest friends, and the latest everythings.

In other words, the last person you’d expect at an audition for Murdock Homes and the Murder at Mayland Manor.

“I was telling Miles here,” Coach Schneider explained, “that his grades were dangerously low, and if he wanted to lead us into the playoffs, he’d need to beef them up a bit. We agreed that this play could give him enough, you know, extra credit.”

“Wonderful!” Mrs. Chantelle exclaimed. “I’m sure we can find a place for him.”

“What!?” Greta cried from the crowd. “You can’t just let him in because he’s some basketball player!” Greta had been in Eighteen Summers like us, and was proud of her role as the widow who asked the main character for a scrap of bread in the one scene.

“Calm down, Greta. We try to find roles for everybody here.”

Greta remained outraged. “What happened to equal opportunity? What happened to liberty and justice for all!?”

“I’m sure there would be justice for all if you stopped shouting,” Mrs. Chantelle retorted. Several kids snickered, which shut Greta up.

“Now, will those trying out for minor roles please line up here?”

This time it was a lot different. They actually had to recite and choreograph the first part of the kitchen scene, and it became obvious who studied and who didn’t. Mrs. Chantelle was all about rooting out the goats.

There were, not surprisingly, a lot more of the Eighteen Summers crew this time, including Kenneth. Sally was right. He wasn’t half bad.

Obviously, the worst one was Miles. Coach Schnieder had apparently gotten him to at least try to memorize the lines, but it was an honest disaster.

“Seriously,” I whispered to Sally. “Who puts sugar in their chicken noodle soup?”

“I dunno. Maybe it’s some fancy recipe.”

“Don’t tell me, did the script actually say sugar?”

“No, I’m just saying that if he screwed it up on stage, the audience probably won’t notice.”

“You want this guy on stage?”

“I’m trying to be positive here. I’m co-president, it’s my job. Right?”

“Whatever. As long as Mrs. Chantelle doesn’t make him Murdock.”

“Imagine that.”

Mrs. Chantelle and Mr. C scribbled notes and occasionally whispered to each other, which was probably just for show. They had everything down to a science.

“Will those trying out for major roles please gather here?” Mrs. Chantelle called.

I took a deep breath and recited my lines to myself. What if I missed one word, and another guy didn’t? What if I missed the target when I dropped the bust (however we were going to audition for that)?

Bobby gave me an ‘encouraging’ noogie. “Bro, you’re gonna be just fine. Lemme see that detective face.”

I held my chin and flashed it. “Elementary, my dear Wattman.”

“Good enough.”

Thanks.

Predictably, Mrs. Chantelle saved the lead role for the very end. I spent the whole time on the edge of my butt, silently reciting the rest of the scene that I didn’t even have to memorize (better safe than sorry). I must have taken three bathroom breaks, which I spent in front of the mirror telling Dr. Patrick Wattman the interesting details I noticed in the Riverstone bedroom.

When I came back from the third trip, I saw the girls lined up for Felicia auditions.

Greta fell to her knees and clasped her hands together, groveling at the feet of an imaginary Murdock in a horrible British accent. “Oh please, Mr. Homes! I beeeg of you!”

“Good ma’am, take this handkerchief and dry your tears,” Mr. C read in a much more natural-sounding voice. “Tell me, what is the problem in this case?”

In this case. I know. So funny.

“Oh! Mr. Homes! My brother! He’s been muuurdered!”

That was it for the Felicia audition.

“Thank you,” Mr. C nodded. “Next?”

Sally was at the front of the line, with almost a smirk on her face. She pulled out her ponytail and let her hair spill down.

The judges nodded.

Sally rapped sharply on the wall next to her.

“Mr. Homes, do you hear that?” Mrs. Chantelle asked. “Do you think there is someone at the door?”

Sally rapped harder and quicker.

“I shall get it,” Mrs. Chantelle said.

Sally collapsed in front of the judges, somehow throwing her hair in all directions. She sobbed, and actual tears came out.

“Oh Mr. Homes, please help me!”

“Poor girl. Come, sit.”

Sally gently rose to her feet, lifting her left arm slightly as the imaginary Murdock Homes guided her to a chair that had been set up.

“Oh, but Mr. Homes! Time is of the essence!”

“Ma’am, I bid you calm before you state your case.”

“Alas, it is the greatest of sorrows I have ever yet witnessed!”

“Pray, ma’am, if you cannot pacify your nerves-”

“Oh please, Mr. Homes, I beg of you!” Sally looked so pitiful I almost cried.

“Good lady, take this handkerchief and dry your tears. Tell me, what is the problem in this case?”

“Oh Mr. Homes! My brother…he’s been murdered!”

Mr. C nodded. Sally took a deep breath and rose. A couple kids applauded.

Sally sat down next to me and mopped her forehead. “How’d I do?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

“You missed it, didn’t you.”

“Almost. Sorry I didn’t get to wish you luck.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. The proper term is ‘break a leg’. You should know that, co-president.”

“Well personally,” a despicable voice that wasn’t Bobby’s said behind me, “I think you smashed it.”

“What, her leg?” I snapped.

“The audition, stupid,” he shot back.

“Hey Patrick,” Sally said to the despicable voice, “you trying out for Murdock too?”

“Yeah. Thought I’d aim just a smidge higher this year.”

“I know right?” Sally leaned her back against the wall and wiped her brow again. “Man, that was so nerve-racking.”

“We’re all a little nervous here,” I said.

“We are?” Patrick asked me.

“Who wouldn’t be?” I replied.

The last girl finished her Felicia audition. After Sally, I don’t think anybody was even watching, including the judges.

“Seriously Sal,” Patrick assured her, “I think you crushed it.”

“Thanks, other Patrick,” she grinned.

I hated it when she did that.

Mrs. Chantelle announced the highlight of the audition. “Will everybody auditioning for Murdock Homes line up please?”

“Well, co-prez, looks like you got some competition.”

“I’m not worried.”

“Oh yeah, you only took three trips to the bathroom.”

“Three was all I needed.”

“Break a leg, Murdock.”

Have you ever studied until your brain came out of your ears, only for the test to get postponed? Well that’s what it felt like to get in the back of the Murdock line. Seriously, it looked like half the school was trying out.

But hey, nobody ever got the lead role or co-presidency without patience and discipline.

It was gonna be a long wait.

I glanced at Bobby, who gave me what was supposed to be an encouraging smile, but all it did was show how nervous he was.

I flashed him my detective face, and that calmed us both down.

“What, goo-gooing with your girlfriend?” Patrick said behind me.

“What, wishing you had one?” I returned.

A couple murmurs spread throughout the room as Mr. C set up a big ladder. “That isn’t safe.” Greta whispered to anybody who would listen.

“Murdock Homes will be dropping a bust from ten feet in the air,” Mr. C announced. “You all know this. It was in the auditions.”

The short, fat kid standing at the foot of the ladder looked horrified.

“Don’t worry, I’ll be holding the ladder. If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

‘If you fall’ was the exact wrong thing to put in this kid’s head.

“Can…can I…can I quit?”

“This isn’t safe!” Greta thundered from the line. “Just exactly how high is he supposed to climb!?”

Mr. C patted the second highest rung.

“This is an outrage! This is child abuse! I will contact the principal! The superintendent! The police!”

“Murdock Homes is a risk taker,” Mrs. Chantelle replied coolly, “so we’d like his actor to at least be brave enough to climb a ladder.”

“Excuse me Mr. C, um, can I, um, not?”

Mr. C sighed. “Will anybody else who doesn’t feel confident on a ladder please leave the line?”

Only half of us were left.

“Wait a minute Greta, are you trying out for Murdock Homes?” Mr. C asked.

She defiantly stuck her nose in the air. “Why can’t I?”

“Because his name is Mr. Homes, not Mrs. Homes.”

“So what? There are plenty of woman detectives.”

“Well, Murdock Homes isn’t one of them, so I have to ask you to sit down.”

“I see what this is. You just don’t want to give me the lead role because I’m a girl!”

Mr. C looked like he wanted to say yeah, that’s exactly why, but he didn’t say it.

“Greta Funberg, tell me what the script says this play is called,” Mrs. Chantelle ordered.

“Murdock Homes and the Murder at Mayland Manor.”

“That is correct. And we intend to follow the script, and Mr. Murdock Homes will be Mr. Murdock Homes. Do I make myself clear, or do I need to give your parents a phone call?”

Instead of answering the question, Greta trudged out of the line mumbling something about her uncle’s neighbor knowing the superintendent.

Mrs. Chantelle sighed. “I suppose in theater, you have to be ready for anything. But the show must go on. Shall we resume?”

If the whole ordeal did anything, it got me out of my own head. At least it got Patrick to shut up for a moment.

When it was finally my turn, my heart was beating way too fast.

Pulling my imaginary magnifying glass out of my imaginary shirt pocket, I put on my best detective face and saw Mrs. Chantelle give the slightest hint of a smile. I scoured the area, opening drawers and wiping dust while saying ‘fascinating’ on cue.

Reciting the three reasons why I knew the gardener had been framed came easy. All I had to do was pretend one of the judges was my dog. It was pretty hard deciding which one, and I eventually went with Mrs. Chantelle.

The final test should have been the easiest, because all I had to do was drop a styrofoam bust on a target. There weren’t even any lines. I wasn’t sure why this was in auditions in the first place.

You know, when you’re down below and you see people’s feet five feet off the ground, it doesn’t look that high. And I figured with all the time I spent on the roof, it would be nothing to me. But once I actually got up there and felt how wobbly the ladder was, it was a totally different story.

“Well next time, it’ll be a chandelier,” I told myself. I held the bust out over the target, and Mr. C counted me down.

It was kind of a nice view from up there.

“Three…two…one…”

Patrick caught my eye and suddenly jerked his head at me. That kicked on my Hey I’m Falling instincts, and made me lose my balance.

The bust missed the target by a clear foot.

“Can I redo that?” I asked.

“You know how this works, co-president,” Mr. C said.

“But I slipped.”

“So did everyone else, Patrick. We don’t have all day.”

I slumped back to my friends and stared at my shoes.

“Patrick, you were awesome,” Sally assured me.

“Hey, look on the bright side,” Bobby said. “It’s all over now.”

“Uh huh,” I replied. “It’s all over.”

Sally sat down next to me. “Patrick, it’s not the end of the world.”

“Yeah, the end of the world be if Miles got the lead role,” Bobby grinned.

First, Miles had just glanced around, then looked at the judges and said “I’m done.” Then he gave two reasons why he thought the butler had been framed, one of which was completely made up. And not pausing for a grand finale, he grabbed the bust, shimmied up the ladder, and nailed the target. Five seconds later, he was out the door.

I tried to grin back. “Yeah, that would be the end of the world.”

But it was hard to grin when Patrick scoured the imaginary room with a much better British accent than me. He carried himself around with a strut, and cleanly nailed the target. Just to rub it in, he looked straight at me when he dropped it. I almost made a face back, but co-presidents are above that sort of thing.

Sally nudged me. Chatter erupted in the room, and everybody grabbed for their backpacks. Just like that, weeks of preparation were over.

I pretended she couldn’t read my face, but I knew she could.

Mrs. Chantelle waved me over again. She was having Kenneth, Miles, and Patrick do a couple more recitals.

“Do me a quick favor and put the trophy back in its case,” she told me. “Here’s the key.”

“Oooh, special,” Patrick smirked.

“Ok,” I responded grudgingly. “I’ll give it back at the next rehearsal.”

“No, just hold on to it. You’re co-president after all.”

I knew Mrs. Chantelle was just trying to make me feel better.

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Once again y’all, yack it up in the comments (yes, you - person about to close out instead of yacking up in the comments). Did you forget everything since Chapter 1? How’s the character development? And who is the elusive Hector?

Also, do you think I should add pictures? Cuz I couldn’t figure out which scene captures the essence of the chapter with few enough details for AI to handle. Gimme your thoughts.

Life has been busy, but I’m trying to stay on top of this. The more noise you make, the more you’ll inspire me.

Thank you to the 6 people out there who’ve demonstrated an ounce of interest 🥹