Last Updated: May 31, 2000
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One of six articles in a winning series by Ken Fuson of The Sun,
Baltimore that won the non-deadline writing category of the 1998 ASNE Distinguished
Writing Awards.
Sunday June 1, 1997
Chapter I: What a show: love, fear, lost dreams, broken
hearts. Here's your ticket to the making of a high school musical. The
real action takes place offstage -- in the drama known as growing up.
Spellbound she sits, her mother on one side, her boyfriend on the other,
as another young woman performs the role that will someday be hers.
Since she was little, Angie Guido has dreamed of standing on stage,
playing the Puerto Rican girl who falls in love with the Polish boy named
Tony.
Maria.
She will be Maria in West Side Story.
Say it loud and there's music playing.
"That's me, Mom," she said.
Say it soft and it's almost like praying.
It won't be long, Angie thinks as she delights in a touring company
production of West Side Story at the Lyric Opera House in Baltimore. She
and 20 members of the Drama Club from North County High School in Anne
Arundel County attend the December show with a few parents. This is a prelude;
there is expectant talk they will stage the same show for their spring
musical.
Someday soon, Angie hopes, she will own the role that is rightfully
hers. She has been a loyal drama club soldier, serving on committees, singing
in the chorus when she yearned for a solo, watching lead roles slip away
because she didn't look the part. But Maria is short, as she is, and dark,
as she is, and more than that, Angie is a senior. This will be her last
spring musical. Her last chance to shine.
But on the very next night, in that very same theater, another girl
from North County High sits spellbound, her mother on one side, her best
friend on the other.
She, too, is captivated by the Puerto Rican girl with the pretty voice.
She, too, wonders: What if that were me?
Two months later, in the middle of February, two dozen students gather
in a dark and cavernous auditorium at North County High School to plan
the spring musical.
You don't know them. Not yet.
Find a seat -- there, in the middle, close to the stage -- and watch.
You will meet two girls. One will have her dream come true, the other
won't, and the experience will change them both.
You will meet a boy who can't sing but refuses to quit trying.
You will meet another boy, the leading man, who falls for one of the
leading ladies. But so will someone else.
You will meet a girl who wants to be a star, then chooses a new destiny.
Come to the practices. Laugh at their goofy jokes. Encourage them when
they flub their lines.
Soon you will know them.
And you will know this:
The high school musical is a rite of passage that will shape -- and
reveal -- the adults they will soon be.
And nothing ever produced on stage can possibly match the drama of growing
up.
As he walks to the drama club meeting, Wayne Shipley is worried. He
doesn't have a cast chosen. He doesn't have scripts ordered. He doesn't
even know what show he's directing -- and February is half gone. Opening
night is less than eight weeks away.
The 900-seat auditorium roils with after-school mischief. A boy and
girl snuggle. Two boys wage a pretend sword fight on stage. Other students
animatedly relive the highlights of their just-completed one-act play festival.
"Hey, Ship!" a boy yells.
Mr. Shipley cuts an imposing figure as he stands before the drama club.
At 53, he is tall, mostly bald, partial to blue jeans and cowboy boots.
He has the strength and thickness of a former middle linebacker and two
potent weapons: a gentle smile that calms the most paralyzing case of stage
fright, and a terrorizing stare that automatically persuades teen-age boys
this would be a smart time to shut up.
"We are behind schedule, which is obvious," he says before leaving.
"Let's get with it, guys."
After 30 years of teaching, Mr. Shipley is retiring; this will be his
last musical. The students, who adore him, know he has long dreamed of
directing West Side Story but has always deemed it too challenging. This
year,
it's the students who doubt. The touring company's powerful performance
at the Lyric last December left many intimidated. How can they possibly
do the acting, singing and dancing demanded -- especially when they are
a week behind?
"Quiet, everybody."
A senior walks to the front. She has a radiant smile and a faint limp.
"Quiet!"
Presenting Starr Lucas, 18, the drama club president and the reason
Mr. Shipley feels safe leaving two dozen teen-agers alone in a dark auditorium.
"Starr was named appropriately," he says.
Somehow this girl with the dark blond ponytail and ruby red lipstick
became lost in a time warp. Starr is straight off the Berkeley campus,
circa 1967: hip-hugging, bell-bottom blue jeans, tie-dyed shirts, a patch
on her book bag that says WAR IS NOT HEALTHY FOR CHILDREN AND OTHER LIVING
THINGS. She drives a blue Volkswagen Beetle with smiley face decals on
the windows and says things like, "I'm waiting for a better generation."
A free spirit without the flightiness, Starr owns a crowded resume --
class president four straight years; member of the National Honor Society
for two years; president of the Thespians, the drama honor society, for
three years. She calls herself the Drama Queen.
This year, for the first time in her abundant high school career, Starr
will not appear on stage, a prospect that both excites and saddens her.
She will be the student director of the spring musical.
If there is a spring musical.
"Let's get to work," Starr says. "What do we want to do?"
A Chorus Line?
No.
42nd Street?
No.
The Wizard of Oz?
"Oh, puh-leeze," says Eli Senter, a junior. "If anyone votes for that,
I will personally cut their throats."
When Mr. Shipley feels playful, he affectionately refers to the drama
club by another name -- "Drama Geek Sissies." It's a pre-emptive strike.
He knows many North County High students view theater types as loud, weird
and effeminate.
Eli wears the Drama Geek Sissy label like a sailor's tattoo. He is 17,
116 pounds (with clothes), all bony angles and pointed opinions. Never
in Eli's life has a drama teacher had to encourage him to project his voice.
Ask him about the drama club's reputation among the rest of the student
body, and he sneers, "I prefer not to talk about the podunks and morons
who don't understand art or the theater."
His high school sits like a factory atop a hill in the northern tip
of Anne Arundel County, drawing students from Linthicum, Ferndale and Brooklyn
Park.
Five minutes away, planes take off from Baltimore-Washington International
Airport.
North County High is a blue-collar school in a suburban county; the
neighborhood homes are older and middle-class, with basketball hoops in
the driveways and swing sets in the back yards. Surrounding the school
are four softball and baseball fields, a football field, a track and several
practice fields. Generally, Mr. Shipley says, drama is tolerated as a fine
alternative for those poor souls unblessed in athletics. Students who do
both are exceptions.
The debate continues.
Seven Brides for Seven Brothers?
No.
"Can we go over The Sound of Music?" asks Alanna Clements, a senior.
Everyone groans.
"Wait a minute," she protests. "There's a lot of parts and not all of
them sing. We could get little kids for the little-kid parts."
"Little kids have parents and little kids' parents suck," Eli says.
Eli wins, Alanna loses. Next case.
"Let's have a very serious talk about West Side Story," Eli says. "I
want to do this play. Mr. Shipley wants to do it."
"West Side Story is too good for us to do poorly," another boy says.
"I think we would do it poorly. Our female to male ratio is about -- "
"Twenty to one," Michele Miller says.
Of the 1,700 students at North County, perhaps 70 have performed in
a fall play, the one-acts or the spring musical. About 30 belong to the
drama club, and most are girls. Girls head most of the committees. Girls
do most of the organizational work. Girls raise most of the money.
But they don't get most of the parts.
Michele Miller knows there are two great female roles in West Side Story
-- Maria and Anita -- and not much else. Because so few boys try out, most
land a decent role, while competition is fierce among the girls. Some relegated
to the chorus would have a leading role if they were boys.
"If you can sing, you'll be in it," she says. "And everyone else isn't
going to get anything."
A senior, Michele loves to act, but hates to sing. She and several others
girls prefer Anything Goes, the Cole Porter comedy set on a cruise ship.
The lines are drawn.
Eli: "There's a couple of really big scenes for girls in West Side Story."
Michele: "I can visualize a boat with more people on it than a gang."
Eli: "There's no happy medium here, Michele."
She flicks her hands in the air, dismissing him.
"Let's just vote."
Their job this afternoon is to reduce the field to two. They vote in
secret, writing on slips of notebook paper.
Starr sits on the floor and counts.
Anything Goes -- 13.
West Side Story -- 11.
The Sound of Music -- 4.
Michele wins, Eli loses. Next case.
But Eli knows he will get another chance. The final decision will come
next week, after the dreaded vocal audition. Just thinking about it pains
him.
"I can't sing."
When she was 2, Angie Guido sat in the pediatrician's office and heard
a familiar song playing over the Muzak system.
"That's Pavawatti," she announced.
The startled doctor looked at her mother.
"Did she say what I think she said?"
Angie has always loved music. Now Rosemary Guido shares her daughter's
high hopes for the spring musical. Angie has talked about West Side Story
since she was a freshman and heard that Mr. Shipley wanted to produce it.
"In her mind, she became Maria," Rosemary says.
Like most of the students, Angie handicaps the competition. If West
Side Story is picked, her friend Anna Schoenfelder will get a lead role
-- probably Anita. Mr. Shipley loves Anna. Everyone does.
That leaves the role of Maria. Who else but Angie can play her?
Just one other girl: Angela Brown.
"Mom, she's got a beautiful voice," Angie says, "but I'm a senior."
All things being equal, Mr. Shipley favors the seniors. Angela Brown
is a junior. She'll have next year to shine.
None of this matters if Angie Guido blows her vocal audition. She has
chosen one of her favorite songs -- "On My Own" from Les Miserables. She's
sure she will nail it.
Just like Angie Guido, there's another girl who can see it all. The
white dress. The school gym. The bridal shop. She envisions herself in
the final scene, cradling Tony's lifeless body, pointing the gun at the
gang members and asking, "How many can I kill, Chino? How many -- and still
have one bullet left for me?"
What if that were me?
Oh, yes, Angela Brown can just see it.
"If I could just have anything to do with that show I'd never have to
have anything else to do with drama," she says.
Angela will tell her mother, maybe her best friend and boyfriend, but
otherwise her dream of playing Maria stays locked and hidden. She will
not call attention to herself; that's not her style. She is 16, a thin
girl with long, straight black hair, brown eyes and a pale complexion.
She is poised on the cusp between girlishness and womanhood. Most of her
clothes have Mickey Mouse on them, she wears a Mickey Mouse watch, and
there is a 5-foot painting of Mickey Mouse on her bedroom wall. She puts
potato chips inside her sandwiches to make them crunchy. She goes to church
every Sunday. She giggles.
She didn't know she could sing until her freshman year when she tried
out for Oklahoma! Last year, she sang a solo in City of Angels. She loves
the way she feels on stage, so special and alive, loves performing so much
she can't describe it. It just feels . . . different.
Angela, you could be Maria, her friends say. It's between you and Angie
Guido.
Ever the nice girl, Angela shakes her head.
"You don't want to get your hopes up because there are so many talented
people," she says.
She will know soon enough. Vocal auditions are tomorrow night.
One by one, execution-style, the victims enter the classroom. They clutch
sheets of music and wads of tissue.
I've got a sinus infection.
I have a sore throat. I can't go any higher.
I think I'm sick.
"We've all got the drama flu," one girl explains.
This is audition week. Student ability will be judged in three areas
-- acting, dancing and singing. How well they do determines what role they
will get. The acting and dancing tryouts are fun, but most would rather
find a fresh pimple on prom night than sing alone in public.
Tonight they will stand in an empty classroom and audition in front
of Starr, Mr. Shipley, Lisa Rolman, a North County teacher and the show's
assistant director, and Neil Ewachiw, the musical director.
Mr. Ewachiw (pronounced e-WALK-q) terrifies them.
He is flamboyant, melodramatic, unpredictable. He speaks as if he is
always performing. He will jump from his chair and sprint theatrically
to the piano, clapping his hands furiously and shouting, "Sing that again!"
During auditions, he will stop students in mid-note and ask them to imitate
Elvis, or sing a Christmas carol.
"He's pompous," Eli Senter says, "but he knows his stuff."
Tonight, Mr. Ewachiw wants to hear range. He'll work on quality later.
Unlike the other students, Angela Brown looks forward to her audition.
She sings "I Don't Know How to Love Him" from Jesus Christ Superstar in
a breathy, pretty soprano.
Mr. Ewachiw is intrigued.
"Would you do me a favor, please? I would love to hear the National
Anthem, and I'd like to hear it in a C major."
After she finishes, he asks her to sing the phrase, "And the rockets
red glare."
She does.
"Now a D major."
She gulps and sings.
Higher and higher, up the scale they go.
"Could I hear it in an E major? I promise not to kill you."
She sings.
"Now an F major."
Angela takes a deep breath. From someplace deep within her, someplace
locked and hidden, a sound comes forth, a sound she never has heard before,
and her eyes widen in surprise and wonder.
"Thank you," Mr. Ewachiw says.
Her face red, Angela places a hand to her chest. She is breathing hard.
She looks stunned, elated and frightened. The girl who walked into the
audition is not the same girl who leaves. She has discovered something
about herself.
"I didn't know I could do that."
Mr. Ewachiw flips over her audition sheet and scribbles a note:
Has a high C.
Only 10 boys signed up for the vocal audition, too few to perform West
Side Story. What's more, the ones who try out are tentative and off-key.
Mr. Ewachiw listens with the expression of a man forced to drink sour milk.
Eli Senter attempts the theme from Oklahoma!, but walks out shaking
his head.
"I suck," he says.
Anna Schoenfelder enters, dabbing her red nose with a tissue.
"I feel terrible," she says.
The 17-year-old senior has what Mr. Shipley describes as "the best face
for the theater I've ever seen." When the script calls for a femme fatale,
Anna gets it -- thick blond hair, big blue eyes and dimples you could hide
a half dollar in. She also has a full, beautiful voice no cold can diminish.
Mr. Ewachiw turns over Anna's audition sheet.
He draws a star.
It's Angie Guido's turn.
This is it. Her chance to be Maria. Her song, "On My Own," is the heart-wrenching
account of a woman's unrequited love.
Angie closes her eyes. She has a rich alto voice, and the words flow
effortlessly. When Angie finishes, Mr. Ewachiw asks her to sing it again.
Think about the words, Angie. What do they mean?
"There is no music," he says. "There are no notes. Only you."
She closes her eyes.
Without me, this world will go on turning.
A world that's full of happiness
that I have never known.
"Thank you," Mr. Ewachiw says.
On the back of her audition form, he writes, "Smart. Good instrument.
Grown a lot."
One boy is left.
Brian Forte is not like the others. He struts into the music room, wearing
a baseball cap turned backward and lugging a guitar over his shoulder.
He plops on a desk top, flings a leg over a chair and turns to the piano
player.
"You can sit this one out."
Then he plays, "Life by the Drop" by Stevie Ray Vaughan, belting it
out in a deep baritone, pounding the guitar. He's confident, relaxed, at
home.
The leading man.
Brian is an 18-year-old senior with an FM radio voice, coal black hair
and little-boy dimples. He changed the pronunciation of his last name from
"Forty" to "For-tay" because, he says, "it sounds more musical." (His parents
still use "Forty.") He has played the leading man in North County musicals
the past two years and will again this spring.
No one else is even close.
"Thank you," Mr. Ewachiw says after the performance is over. "You don't
by any chance know 'Frosty the Snowman,' do you?"
Decision time.
Sixteen drama club members form a circle as light from a sunny Friday
afternoon pours through the classroom windows. Mr. Shipley and Ms. Rolman,
the teachers, remain in the back. As usual, Starr the Drama Queen is in
charge.
"I'm getting the impression that some people are for a certain play
because they think they'll get a better part," she says. "They're looking
out more for themselves than the group. Be open, guys. Look at it for the
club, not just for yourselves."
Once again, they debate West Side Story vs. Anything Goes. With everything
else being equal, there is one enormous difference.
"If we do Anything Goes, we might not have a music director," Starr
says.
"Why?" a girl asks.
"Because Mr. Ewachiw doesn't like the show, and he doesn't want to spend
eight weeks of his life working on it," Ms. Rolman says.
Mr. Ewachiw enters late. Four years ago, he taught music at North County
High, but was laid off after a year. Now he's getting a doctorate in vocal
performance from Catholic University. He serves as musical director because
he admires Mr. Shipley, enjoys the students and, as he puts it, "I'd rather
work for the drama club than the Board of Ed."
He will help them do Anything Goes, if that's what they want, but first
he teaches a history lesson.
"In 1957, there were two big musicals. One of the two took all of the
awards and made all the money. The Music Man. The one that didn't was West
Side Story. I never understood that. It says to me that the flavor of the
day was fluff. My opinion is, as an artist, I want to do art. When it comes
to musicals, it doesn't get any better than West Side Story."
There is silence. He owns the room.
"It was years ahead of its time. It's a story that's timeless. It's
a story that's very timely to your lives. It speaks to us all, and it will
for an awfully long time."
Sitting under the blackboard, Angela Brown begins to cry.
"There's something else. This is Mr. Shipley's last year, and he's always
wanted to do West Side Story. It's in your hands."
Eli Senter leaps to his feet.
"Raise your hands," he demands. "West Side Story. All in favor."
Each year, some 275 schools and community theaters in the country perform
West Side Story. This year North County High will join them. The vote is
almost unanimous.
Afterward, Michele Miller is in tears. She didn't vote. All of it --
Starr's introduction, Mr. Ewachiw's speech, the emotional plea for Mr.
Shipley -- feels staged.
"I think we were manipulated," she says. "We were manipulated. It's
ridiculous for this drama club, with so many girls, to do a play with two
girls in it."
She's crying for another reason.
"Somebody is going to be very upset when that cast list comes up. And
both of them are my friends."
Angie Guido overhears her. Everyone knows the only person standing between
her and the role of Maria is Angela Brown.
"But she has another year," Angie says.
"That's not going to make a difference," Michele says. "This is Mr.
Shipley's last year. It's not going to matter if you're a senior."
"It makes a difference to me," Angie says. "A huge difference."
After the students leave, the teachers and Starr cast the four lead
roles -- Tony, Bernardo, Anita and Maria.
Brian Forte, of course, will be Tony.
"There's no question about that," Mr. Shipley says.
Bernardo, the leader of the Sharks gang, is a problem. Nobody stands
out. They'll recruit some more boys.
Anna Schoenfelder will be Anita.
"She will be great," Mr. Ewachiw says.
Casting Maria is just as easy. When the choice is finally made, there
is no discussion about who has her heart set on the role, or who will be
crushed with disappointment, or who has dreamed of playing Maria since
that December night when she saw it on stage.
Only one question matters: Who can do it best?
Mr. Shipley writes the winner's name on a piece of paper.
THE PLAYERS
Angie Guido -- She has a vision of herself in the starring role. But
wait: Another girl stands in the way.
Brian Forte -- Smooth and confident, he's always the leading man. Will
he get his comeuppance this time?
Eli Senter -- All bony angles and pointed opinions, he fights for his
favorite show. The decision will haunt him.
Angela Brown -- From this demure girl comes an astonishing sound. Is
it enough to make her a star?
Starr Lucas -- She loves acting. She's the Drama Queen. So why has she
taken herself out of the cast?
