Short Fiction
Issue #2
Moondance
They were enthusiastic when they came into the hall. One girl felt pretty and witty; marimba rhythms made another sway. One boy believed that this was a marvellous night for a moondance. They were ready to sing. The night feels different now: auditions are not going well.
He always starts with the students he knows. The girls who volunteer and ask questions, the boys with rich fathers: they have earned the right to go first. Tonight however, even they cannot please him. Some of the school’s best singers, the soloists in the choir, have already been interrupted by a raised hand and a crisp ‘Thank you’. They were disappointed in part - of course they were - but they also felt relieved, even lucky. They knew it was coming and they knew they were safe from it.
He is dealing with unfamiliar faces now and he does not look happy. The whole evening has been a disaster. The boys are beautiful but cannot sing; the girls have no personality and most of them are far, far too fat. When the second Muslim student that night auditions with a piece from ‘Fiddler’, he has to pause the process. He stands, directs the boy to the door with a mute flick of his hand, and collapses back onto his chair like the heroine in a Gothic novel. He sends his co-director Margarie away to get him a bottle of water and some paracetamol:
‘You must, Margarie, you must. These Headaches shall kill me. I’m thinking only of you. I can’t die, for your sake. You’re a Chemistry teacher; you couldn’t direct something on this scale without me. You know that. Now when my wallet turns up, I will of course reimburse you. Go, go.’
The next boy has chosen a sensible piece: ‘Send In The Clowns’. It may be a little obvious but it masks the few flaws in his voice. His tone is not too harsh; the required American accent, not too awkward. The boy holds the right notes for the right length of time: this is a good audition.
The other pupils were expecting a rant from him tonight; they knew one was due. There is always one rant on audition night. Adam Miller prompted one last term; Beechy, this time last year. Those two were terrible singers and Beechy’s audition was just a dare: they deserved it. But this audition is not bad at all. The few remaining auditionees, and the friends waiting for them in the hall, start when this audition is stopped with a violent shout:
‘Stop! Just stop now. Don’t sing any more; I can’t listen to it. The problem with you, dear boy, is that you have no audacity. You lack verve. You mince across this stage like some wretch. Your voice barely squeaks. You are half pleading with the audience to accept you because your mother never did; half resenting them for seeing you for the talentless squit that you are.
This is not some rotten, standard school play: this is our annual revue. Why on earth did you think you could be good enough? Have you not heard yourself? Have you not seen yourself? The sixteen year-old boy must have ambition. All your comrades do. They have that stench of desire: the desire to score a goal, to get that girl.
The lads that went before you, those men disguised as boys, know the need to get on. They know that success won’t happen by chance. Our country may be run by socialists but - dear God, boy - when you’re older you’ll learn that this means you have to work even harder. You need to smell out what you want and you need others to be able to smell that you want it. Real men stink of sweat, of blood and of moral substance. When a boy has that funk and sings for me, I can smell him from up here.
You lack that stench. And I don’t like the smells that are coming from you. And don’t you tut at me! Or roll your eyes like that. I am not a bus you have just missed – I am a man. You will not tut at me.
It’s not your fault, son, I know that. This society spawned you as much as your parents did. It has made you want all the wrong things – doubtless made you think you should try a boy this week, a Chinese girl the next – and so you want to become a performer. You want to ruin my production, and waste my time, and soil my reputation so Auntie Janine and your goddaughter Candyfloss can clap and pretend you’re worth more than you are. Well, we simply won’t allow it.’
It’s over. The boy unconsciously stomps his foot before walking off the stage. The terrified pupils still on the stage have to be ready to sing.
‘You – the chubby boy – you’re next. And I want to see verve!’