The Fall Musical by Peter Lerangis Page A

“Faith?”
    â€œYes!” Mr. Levin replied, leaping onstage. “Also truth and fun and uncorrupted youth—all those things in the middle of a loveless world. The first part of the play is triumphant. Innocent. Trusting. Joyous.”
    â€œWoo-hoooo!” Kyle shouted, kicking his good leg into the air. “Dudes. God save the people . . . et cetera!”
    â€œAs Jesus, you enter in the middle of the first number, Kyle,” Mr. Levin said. “And you enter as a child. A representation of purity and goodness. Until your baptism, you are shirtless and shoeless.”
    â€œShirtless?” Kyle said, dropping to the floor and doing push-ups. “Gotta work on my pecs. One . . . two . . . three . . . ”
    Reese began fanning herself. “I think I’m going to have a stroke.”
    â€œKyle, please . . . ” Mr. Levin said. “Pay attention.”
    Â 
    Charles noticed he wasn’t sneezing anymore. That was a good sign. It meant the paint in the costume/prop room was finally dry. Not that you could even see the paint job. The shelves were crammed full, and the remaining wall space was covered by file cabinets, stacked boxes, and racks. Even the revered poster of the Ridgeport High production of Into the Woods autographed by Stephen Sondheim (comment: “One of the best productions I have seen. Period.”) was temporarily put into storage. It had all happened so fast—Mr. Ippolito had had the room replastered and painted over the weekend, and Casey and the Charlettes had stacked everything before homeroom and during lunch and study halls today, Monday.
    Charles went back to his task, typing labels into the database on his laptop. Casey had bought adhesive labels, and as soon as he printed them out, every single item would be labeled, categorized, inventoried. Charles was sure that Ridgeport’s props had never come close to being this organized.
    Casey was awesome, and he worshipped her.
    Vijay stuck his head in from the hallway. “The goddess has arrived.”
    As Casey walked in, Charles grabbed a rubber chicken from the shelf and fell to his knees. “O Savior of the Stage, we give this offering in gratitude and awe.”
    â€œStop,” Casey said, turning deep red. “Um, I just wanted to ask, can we make some extra space? We’re getting wigs. Like Victor Garber’s Afro in the movie? Very seventies. The wig shop is giving us two of them, three sets of pigtails, and a ponytail. They wanted to charge, but I offered them a full-page ad in the program instead. I hope that’s okay?”
    â€œCasey, you are the boss—of course it’s okay! You go, girl!” Charles said. “How’s the rehearsal going?”
    Casey sat. “Well, I don’t like to talk behind people’s backs . . . ”
    â€œDarlin’, backstage is made for gossip,” Charles replied. “Either you start now or I will have to train you.”
    â€œOkay. Um, well . . . ” Casey furrowed her brow thoughtfully, as if in the middle of an exam. “Kyle’s doing push-ups. Corbin seems troubled. Reese’s clothes are falling off. Ethan seems to be in slow motion. And Harrison’s on the verge of a heart attack.”
    â€œHa! You’re good at this!” Charles cried out, clapping his hands. “Okay, these are good signs. They mean the show will be fantastic. Bad rehearsal, great show—the old saying. But no matter what, remember, the Charlettes will make sure it all looks fabulous.”
    Casey glanced at a sheet of paper on the table, where Charles had drawn a sketch of the Jesus character, dressed in a Superman T-shirt and bound by red ribbons to a chain-link fence. “What’s this?” Casey asked.
    â€œThe crucifixion scene,” Charles replied. “Jesus on the fence. I’m thinking lots of red, flowing ribbons, bright and symbolic without being gory . . . ”
    â€œDo we have a