For the rest of you, this will be an introduction to the different individual events. We’ll talk about selecting material and competing in tournaments at another time.” She hesitated and stared past us, out over our heads. “Rick? Do you have anything to add?”
That had to be The Ax. But if he wasn’t down here, where was he?
The puffy sound that comes from someone touching a live microphone punctuated the air. Overriding the static in an invisible sound system, a deep, none-too-jovial voice boomed: “Ladies and gentlemen, some statistics: We have among us five graduating seniors, four experienced juniors, and several promising new members. This is the year we take State! But—” He arrested a hurrah.
Everyone sat motionless on the edge of their seats. You could’ve heard a butterfly hiccup.
“Remember, we have only two rules on this team: Practice like crazy. And kick ass!”
The room erupted into well-enunciated cheers.
This,
I thought, was going to be interesting.
8
Rick Axelrod, department head by day, legendary speech coach by night (and weekends), likes to direct team meetings and practice sessions from the lighting booth, where junior techies learn to run lights and sound for theater productions. This gives The Ax absolute authority, or so Clarence Williams, the soft-spoken guy who’d answered me before, told me as Ms. Joyner tried to restore peace to the room by threatening us with a prop saber.
Clarence didn’t seem to mind Mr. Axelrod’s arrogance. “The truth is,” he said, sliding into the empty seat next to me, “The Ax is the greatest coach this district—and maybe the state—has ever known. You’ll see,” he added, caramel-colored eyes reflecting an inner grin. I studied him further. His buzz-cut hair was dusty brown, and black-rimmed glasses framed an angular face with a deep bronze cast.
I smiled back.
Ms. Joyner menaced us one last time with the rubber sword, and the house lights went out.
In the darkness, the disembodied voice of The Ax called over the mike: “Zeno Clark. Dramatic Interpretation. You’re on.”
The stage spot came up on a lone male, one Zeno Clark, presumably. His straight brown hair tapered to his shoulders, and his slim frame swam in loose jeans and an oversized T-shirt. He placed his hands behind his back in a practiced manner and hung his head.
Was this some kind of punishment? For him, or for us?
Slowly, he raised his head and met the audience with his eyes. Any awkwardness vanished. Zeno Clark, or whoever he was now, exuded what could only be described as a presence.
His gaze slid to a point somewhere above our heads and then he began, in character, “ ‘In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.’ ” He cocked his head and shifted his focus to another point in space. A half octave lower, he said, “ ‘Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone, just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages you’ve had.’ ”
Zeno returned to the first voice. “ ‘In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments.’ ”
He paused.
“ ‘Only Gatsby was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby,’ ” he said with a sudden, visceral bitterness, “ ‘who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn.
“ ‘But there
was
something gorgeous about him,’ ” the character admitted. “ ‘His was an extraordinary gift for hope,’ ” and here Zeno’s voice quivered, “ ‘a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.
“ ‘No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end.’ ” Zeno flashed his eyes. “ ‘It is what
preyed
on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams . . .’ ” He slowly dropped his head to his chest for a moment, before falling out of character and regaining his own body posture.
“What preyed on Gatsby,” said
That had to be The Ax. But if he wasn’t down here, where was he?
The puffy sound that comes from someone touching a live microphone punctuated the air. Overriding the static in an invisible sound system, a deep, none-too-jovial voice boomed: “Ladies and gentlemen, some statistics: We have among us five graduating seniors, four experienced juniors, and several promising new members. This is the year we take State! But—” He arrested a hurrah.
Everyone sat motionless on the edge of their seats. You could’ve heard a butterfly hiccup.
“Remember, we have only two rules on this team: Practice like crazy. And kick ass!”
The room erupted into well-enunciated cheers.
This,
I thought, was going to be interesting.
8
Rick Axelrod, department head by day, legendary speech coach by night (and weekends), likes to direct team meetings and practice sessions from the lighting booth, where junior techies learn to run lights and sound for theater productions. This gives The Ax absolute authority, or so Clarence Williams, the soft-spoken guy who’d answered me before, told me as Ms. Joyner tried to restore peace to the room by threatening us with a prop saber.
Clarence didn’t seem to mind Mr. Axelrod’s arrogance. “The truth is,” he said, sliding into the empty seat next to me, “The Ax is the greatest coach this district—and maybe the state—has ever known. You’ll see,” he added, caramel-colored eyes reflecting an inner grin. I studied him further. His buzz-cut hair was dusty brown, and black-rimmed glasses framed an angular face with a deep bronze cast.
I smiled back.
Ms. Joyner menaced us one last time with the rubber sword, and the house lights went out.
In the darkness, the disembodied voice of The Ax called over the mike: “Zeno Clark. Dramatic Interpretation. You’re on.”
The stage spot came up on a lone male, one Zeno Clark, presumably. His straight brown hair tapered to his shoulders, and his slim frame swam in loose jeans and an oversized T-shirt. He placed his hands behind his back in a practiced manner and hung his head.
Was this some kind of punishment? For him, or for us?
Slowly, he raised his head and met the audience with his eyes. Any awkwardness vanished. Zeno Clark, or whoever he was now, exuded what could only be described as a presence.
His gaze slid to a point somewhere above our heads and then he began, in character, “ ‘In my younger and more vulnerable years, my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.’ ” He cocked his head and shifted his focus to another point in space. A half octave lower, he said, “ ‘Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone, just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages you’ve had.’ ”
Zeno returned to the first voice. “ ‘In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgments.’ ”
He paused.
“ ‘Only Gatsby was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby,’ ” he said with a sudden, visceral bitterness, “ ‘who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn.
“ ‘But there
was
something gorgeous about him,’ ” the character admitted. “ ‘His was an extraordinary gift for hope,’ ” and here Zeno’s voice quivered, “ ‘a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again.
“ ‘No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end.’ ” Zeno flashed his eyes. “ ‘It is what
preyed
on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams . . .’ ” He slowly dropped his head to his chest for a moment, before falling out of character and regaining his own body posture.
“What preyed on Gatsby,” said
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