Main > Series > Chapters > Fame Book 2 > Chapter 7

Doris didn't show for school the next day, or the day after. Her mother phoned in to say that she had the 'flu, and probably wouldn't make it in until the beginning of the next week. Bruno thought that he had a better idea of what Doris's problem might be, but he said nothing.

     By the time Friday arrived, David Reardon was starting to show signs of strain. Bernie Rettig had appeared on his doorstep on the Wednesday evening, laden with three suitcases, a portable electric typewriter, and an apparently endless supply of foul-smelling cigars that Reardon believed to have been made from rolled-up trouser legs of old army fatigues. The director of his show had called two extra rehearsals, which meant that he'd so far been unable to make good on his promise to help Leroy and Danny with their basketball coaching. Friday night, he'd promised, I'll be there for sure on Friday night; and in the meantime, he'd given them some really professional-looking exercises and plays to try on the kids, virtually preplanning the training sessions for them.

     How long could he go on? He was supposed to be feeling dynamic, exhilarated. He was right in the middle of a jaw-cracking yawn when Coco Hernandez caught up with him by the water coolers on Friday mid-morning.

     'Mister Reardon?' she said. 'I heard you're going to be in an off-Broadway show.'

     'Way off, yeah,' he confirmed. 'And don't worry - when and if it opens, you'll all be invited.'

     'Do you think that's fair?' Coco pressed, and she caught him off-balance.

     'Fair? How do you mean?'

     'That teachers can perform professionally, and students can't?'

     A good question. It was a pity that she hadn't shied it at him when he'd been feeling more alert and competent to answer. 'Coco,' he said, 'there are some nights when I leave here and meet some friends in a bar. We have a drink, and you can't do that. The premise is that adults handle some things better than kids.'

     'Well, I really don't think it's fair.'

     'Probably isn't. Life comes down like that sometimes. I've got a chance to be in a play that you can't be in, and I'm going to take advantage of that chance.' And then, before she could protest further at the unfairness of the situation, he added, 'You, on the other hand, have more talent than ninety-five per cent of the kids I've ever taught. In a way, that's not fair - but I hope that you're going to take advantage of it.'

     He couldn't have said better. Coco said, 'Break a leg, Mister Reardon,' and went on her way walking six inches above the ground.
 

As Reardon was wondering if he'd be able to stay awake through the last period of the morning until the lunch break, let alone until the planned basketball session of that evening, Elizabeth Sherwood was making her way from the teachers' lounge to her classroom with an armload of corrected composition books. The stack was so high, she almost didn't see Jenny McClain walking in the opposite direction until it was too late.

     'Jenny,' she called after her; Jenny stopped, but didn't turn.

     'Yes, Miss Sherwood,' she said.

     'You know I spoke with your stepfather?'

     'I know.'

     'Could we talk about it?'

     Jenny hesitated for a moment, but then she turned. There was no hope in her eyes or in her manner as she and Elizabeth walked along towards the classroom.

     'I'm afraid,' Elizabeth admitted, 'that I didn't make much headway.'

     It was obviously no surprise. 'Thank you for trying,' Jenny said.

     'There's one person that might be able to help you, if she's willing.'

     'Who?'

     'You.'

     Hope quickly turned to disappointment. All that Dale Carnegie stuff was of no help at all to a sixteen year old in a jam. 'I don't know what I should do,' she said with a trace of anger. 'They're my parents.'

     'You could let them know how badly you want to become a writer.'

     'But he doesn't understand how I . . . '

     'I know how your stepfather feels about it,' Elizabeth interrupted. 'And I know he wants what's best for you. But what you want is important, too, Jenny. What you want is very, very important. Trust yourself.'

     Well, Elizabeth had done what she could. The powers of a teacher to interfere in a home life of one of her charges were zero, unless there was some proof of abuse or neglect. The complication lay in the fact that Jenny McClain came form a stable, loving home; and Elizabeth didn't see how she could stand before a judge or a welfare board and explain that she wanted that situation alterd for the sake of a few ideas.

     Even though it was a distraction, she couldn't let it take her over. She had plenty of other kids to look out for, each with their own special needs and each as important as Jenny McClain; if only she could rid herself of the feeling that she was seeing real talent being crushed in the bud!

     Maybe you'll think of a way, she told herself as she made her way down to the cafeteria at midday, although deep down she didn't really believe it. David Reardon got into the line behind her, and almost without thinking about it she handed him a tray.

     'Danke,' he said, and it was unexpected enough to spring her out of the daydream.

     'I'm sorry?'

     'Got to practise my German accent,' he explained.

     'A German accent? Why?'

     'The director decided last night that he was going to play Everyman as if it took place in East Germany, behind the wall.'

     'People in East Germany are speaking in German, David. They don't have a German accent.'

     'I tried to tell him that,' Reardon said gloomily as they shuffled sideways along the hot lunch counter. 'He wasn't exactly receptive.'

     'Why don't you quit? This thing sounds like a bad joke.'

     Reardon thought it over. Why didn't he quit, indeed? It would be the perfect solution to the problems that all of this pressure on his time was creating. And Elizabeth was right; the way that rehearsals were shaping up, he could be heading for a big and public embarrassment. But it wasn't so easy. 'I can't quit,' he said.

     'Why not?'

     He used his fork to spear one of the last remaining wholemeal rolls, right at the back of the tray. 'What would the kids think?' he said. 'Every lecture we hand out to them ends with some rah-rah bit about not giving up. So, the first time I get a flake for a director I up and quit? No way.'
 

Lunch helped to restore some of his energy, and an enervating afternoon session with his senior year students finally put Reardon back on top. If he could take it one step at a time, not thinking too far ahead, he'd be okay. The next step was basketball practice a St. Charles' gym, four o'clock.

     The kids were all changed and ready when he got there, and so he split them into two teams and set them playing. They had a full hour before they had to clear out of the gym so that the floor covers could be put down for a Senior Citizens' evening dance, and Reardon was determined to get the most out of it. He shouted instructions, sprinted up and down the sidelines, and got himself involved in the play when he felt that there were points to be demonstrated. Leroy and Danny sat on their bench, watching without an awful lot of hope.

     It was five o'clock before anybody knew it, and the caretaker was rapping on the door and making faces through the glass. Reardon gave a blast on his borrowed whistle, and said, 'Okay, that's it! Some good stuff going on! Go get some water, and I'll talk to you in a couple of minutes.'

     The kids headed out to the locker room, grinning at the praise, and Reardon went over to sit for a moment with Danny and Leroy.

     Leroy said, 'I don't claim to know anything about basketball . . . but they look to me like they stink.'

     'Naw,' Danny disagreed. 'They're not that good.'

     'Well,' Reardon said, doing his best to seem optimistic, 'they're not as awful as they were when we started.'

     'Helluva compliment.' Leroy got to his feet. 'If you know what they're doing wrong, why not just tell 'em to do it different?'

     'Won't work.'

     'Why not?'

     Reardon picked up a towel, and started rubbing through his hair. 'Because they're not thinking,' he said. 'I tell them what to do, but they're still so tentative. Basketball's a game of reaction; you've just got to do it. Pow!'

     Leroy's eyes narrowed as he thought it over, and he nodded. 'Pow. Right,' he said. 'Thanks, Mister Reardon. Thanks for coming down here tonight, and thanks for your help.'

     When Reardon had gone downstairs to give the pep talk that he'd promised, Danny stopped Leroy at the gymnasium door and said, 'You thought of something else?'

     'Yeah, I thought of something else.'

     'And is this one legal?'

     'Yeah, it's legal. It ain't orthodox, but it's legal.'

     'I remember a time when you didn't even know what orthodox meant.' Leroy gave him a mean look, and Danny quickly added, 'Okay, okay, I'm sorry. What have you got?'

     'This reaction business. What I figure is, the next practice session, we bring a cassette machine and some tapes, run the whole thing like a dance class.'

     'What kind of tapes did you have in mind?'

     Now Leroy looked a little sheepish. 'I was thinking of the soundtracks from the Rocky movies.'

     'Nice try, coach, but what do we do when the big day comes? Send them all out wearing Walkman players?'

     'You got a better idea?' Leroy said angrily. 'The game is only one week from today, man. That's seven days, and we're neither of us in the miracle business.'

     'Yeah,' Danny conceded. 'Yeah, it might help. We can give it a try.'

     But as they walked slowly down the stairs to the basement locker room, neither of the two was feeling particularly hopeful. Reardon was just coming to the end of his practice notes when they arrived, and even though he'd made a point of being positive about the scope for improvement, it was obvious that the kids were becoming aware of the enormous shortfall in ability that was going to hold them back. They changed back into their street clothes in a dispirited silence.

     There wasn't even much noise as they picked up their tote bags and moved to go home. The practice ball was lying on the floor by the end of the locker row; Andy Parachek took an angry kick at it as he went by. It hit the wall and bounced back; Danny Amatullo caught it on the rebound.

     'Feel better?' he said, and Andy looked sheepish. There was something about Andy that reminded Danny of himself, sometime in an earlier life.

     He said, 'I'm sorry. I'm just . . . worked up about the whole thing. We've got to cream those guys.'

     'Hey,' Danny said. 'It's just a game.'

     Andy looked at him searchingly. 'You really mean that, or are you just trying to talk like a grown-up?'

     'Just trying to talk like a grown-up,' Danny admitted. It was hard to believe how important this game had become to the two of them, both him and Leroy; Leroy was dancing stand-in for Johnny Willcox and wasn't even complaining about missing the actual night because so much of his attention was elsewhere, whilst Danny had taken on yet another stage-management post for the alumni show for most of the same reasons.

     Andy said, 'Well, you're not very good at it.'

     'Haven't had much practice.'

     'Anyway, I don't want to be grown-up about it. We've got to cream those guys. This is Lucas's last year. We've got to win it for him.'

     Danny said, 'You want to win this for Lucas?'

     'Yeah. Didn't you ever have a buddy you wanted good stuff for?'

     'I suppose I did.'

     'It's neat, isn't it?'

     Danny smiled. 'Watch it,' he said. 'You're going to start sounding like a grown-up.'