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My lifelong best friends Courtney and Max named their favorite shows as Pygmalion and The Rocky Horror Show, respectively, which tells you pretty much everything you need to know about them, and Ty quoted Twelve Angry Men as his. “I’m Lucy Moore, I’m a junior, and my favorite show is Rent. We were doing dumb introductions, and it was my turn. “Lucy, why don’t you go next?” Andre said to me, snapping me out of my reverie. The world’s most loathsome, repellent, horrid excuse for a. The only problem was the new kids included Elyse St. Our state-of-the-art auditorium was often compared to a Broadway theater, and our drama program produced fifteen alumni in the last twelve years who had gone on to Juilliard. Eleanor Senior High.Įleanor’s performing arts department was well known across the lower half of New York State. The athletes were sent to the districts with the best sports programs, the science kids went to the schools with the nicest lab facilities, and the drama and music kids came here. Which left the school’s administration scrambling to place their eighteen hundred high school students before the start of the school year. in the middle of August, so no one was hurt, but Brighton High was officially closed. What happened was, three towns over from my hometown of Eleanor Falls, some moronic nineteen-year-old on the five-year plan thought it would be hilarious to plant a homemade bomb in his high school gym.
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And anyone who’d watched the local news or picked up a newspaper at all in the last month knew why. Andre was right-there were a lot of new people in the club this year. “So many new faces, so much fresh talent,” he said with an approving nod. But it wasn’t until after his five-performance run in the chorus of the ill-fated Carrie that he quit and shifted his attention to directing. Eight shows a week for five years, he wore the now-iconic jazzercise unitard and striped face makeup in Cats. Andre spent what he called his “sexy years”-aka the 1980s-in the New York theater scene. “Good morning, all you gorgeous thespians!” he said, clasping his hands together dramatically. I’d never even kissed a boy offstage before Ty.Īndre, our director, called the homeroom to attention. We were each other’s firsts-when it came to pretty much everything. He’d been the leading man in every Eleanor Drama production for the past three years, and the leading man in my life for the past year and a half. Ty was a senior, the president of the drama club, and one of the club’s few straight male members. I snuggled into him and promptly turned my attention back to my work. “Why, the ears, of course,” I said, all innocence. “What part of a man might you be referring to, my dear Juliet?” he teased, a dark eyebrow raised. But the only person who seemed to be paying me any attention was Ty. I giggled and looked around quickly, embarrassed. I got so into it that it wasn’t until I got to the part about it is not hand, nor foot, nor arm, nor face, nor any other part belonging to a man that I realized I was no longer whispering. “O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?” I whispered to myself, my long hair hanging like blackout curtains around my face. I closed the play and ran through the monologue by memory. Auditions were this afternoon, and there was no such thing as being too prepared. The drama club homeroom was buzzing with post-summer chatter, but I didn’t look up from my copy of Romeo and Juliet.