Colors by Russell J. Sanders Page B

there no end to your talents?”
    Zane smiles. A gracious, humble smile. “Where’s Melissa? Isn’t she going to rehearse with us?”
    “She had a Youth for Christ meeting. Besides, she says she’s not going to try out.”
    “Oh, well, her loss.” Zane tosses off the words, a casual dismissal. I look at him . There’s that smile again. Do I see just a touch of wickedness?
    “So, ‘Lonely Room’ for your audition?” I ask.
    “Yeah, it’s Jud’s only solo.”
    “And the hardest number in the show.”
    “What? You don’t think I can pull it off?” A moment. A slip of his perpetual confidence.
    “No, no, no,” I try to rebolster him. Damn. I wish I’d kept my trap shut. I didn’t realize Zane could be deflated so easily. “I think you can do anything you set your mind to.”
    Without replying, he begins the plaintive intro to Jud’s song. Zane starts the lyrics softly and intensely, building to a climax of rage.
    Oh… my… God… I lose myself in Zane’s performance. Such intensity. Zane knows the lost, loneliness of this character. Zane is Jud Fry.
    I am totally speechless for a moment. A rendering this intense can’t be acting. Zane is either a total method actor, or he lives the loneliness Jud feels. I almost want to hug him, tell him it will be all right. But, instead, I regain my senses and realize this is just a rehearsal like any other. “Amazing, Zane.” My words are quiet. Somehow, the moment calls for reverence. Theater is a temple, as the Greeks believed. Zane’s song has been a prayer.
    A tear slides down Zane’s cheek. Quietly, almost a whisper: “I’ve been working on it.”
    “You’ll get the part. I know you will.” I reach over the piano. Touch his shoulder.
    “Thanks, Neil,” Zane says. There’s a long pause. I realize my hand still rests on Zane. Where are the spiders? Have I conquered something? Or is it that I’ve reached out, not the other way around? Still, I feel a turning point in my life.
    Finally, Zane asks, “Now, what song are you using for tryouts?”
    I take my hand away, but gently, not to spoil the moment. Not for him. Not for me. “I don’t know—I’m caught between ‘Beautiful Mornin’’ and ‘Surrey.’ Which do you think?”
    “If it were me, I’d do ‘Surrey.’ It’s got a bounce to it and the range would show off your voice.” He clangs one note, the intro to “Surrey with the Fringe on Top.”
    I sing the first phrases of the song.
    “Great.” Zane shouts directions. “Now, do you think they’re gonna want gestures, or should you just stand and sing? I’ve worked with some directors who want a full performance at auditions.”
    I stop. “I really don’t know. We have a new drama director this year. Ms. Walter will be helping to cast the show too.”
    “Lucky for you. It’s obvious she adores you.”
    “I-I-I guess so,” I stammer. “I just wish she’d curb her enthusiasm sometimes.”
    “Like around the other guys in choir?”
    I nod, glad Zane understands me.
    “Well, as my dear old grandma used to say, ‘Fuck ’em if they can’t take a joke.’”
    “Zane!”
    “Oh, lighten up, girl. You don’t need those candy asses’ approval. You’re Neil Darrien , and you have more than the sum of all their talents.”
    Did he just call me girl? I brush that thought into the wind.
    “Well, getting back to your original topic, Ms. Walter usually wants a performance of sorts.”
    “Fantabulous.” Zane’s word, his gesture, are both super theatrical. “Let me see what you can do.”
    And he clangs the note again.
    This time I pull out all the stops, performing the song. Curly is convincing Laurey to go with him to the box social. Confessing his love for her in the only way he knows how: the power of humor, of exaggeration. Love cloaked in jokes. I wildly punctuate each idea with my hands, while Zane calls out instructions like “Tone it down some” and “Point here.”
    When I finish, Zane critiques. “Looks good,