extend it to Bethie. “Hi. I’m Harold Jefferson.”
Bethie nodded. She knew that Harold was a senior and the star of the football team, but if he’d ever set foot in a drama club meeting before that afternoon, Bethie hadn’t heard about it.
“Just stand there, Harold,” said Miss McCullough. “On the mark.” Harold looked lost, so Bethie pointed to the taped X on the floor.
“Are you auditioning?” she whispered.
“Um,” he said, and Miss McCullough said, “Bethie, can you hop up on that box for me?”
Harold and Bethie looked at each other. Harold set the crate down, and Bethie climbed on top.
“Hmm. Try it on its short end,” Miss McCullough said. Harold did as she requested. Again, Bethie hopped on top.
“Okay, Harold. I need you to hold her by the waist, lift her up, and put her down.”
Harold looked apologetic. Bethie felt sick. Had they had to recruit an extra-strong guy because she had let herself get so big? She hoped that Harold couldn’t tell how ashamed she was. Gently, he put his hands around Bethie’s waist. “Ups-a-daisy,” he said. She smelled his cologne—Old Spice, she thought—and then she was swooping through the air, first up, then down, with Harold settling her gently on her feet.
“Great! Now, lift her while you sing the line.”
Harold ducked his head. Bethie saw his throat work as he swallowed. But on Miss McCullough’s cue, he put his hands on Bethie’s waist, lifted her up, opened his mouth, and sang in a tuneful and startlingly low voice, “There is nothin’ like a daaaaame.”
“Oh, wow,” Bethie said when she was on her feet again. “Did you swallow Enrico Caruso?”
Harold looked, if possible, even more ashamed. “I can’t do this,” he whispered. “I feel like a fool.”
Bethie’s question must have been obvious from her expression, because Harold said, “I got in trouble with Coach. He said I could audition for the show or get benched for three games.” He looked down at her hopefully. “Did a lot of guys try out?”
“Um.” Bethie didn’t have the heart to tell him that only a handful of guys had auditioned, that Carl Berringer would get the lead, and none of the others had anything close to Harold’s bass voice, or his good looks, or his presence. Instead, she asked, “Have you ever sung in public?”
“Just in church. And that’s only because my father’s the preacher.” Harold looked sick. “If I’m in this play for real, the whole team’s going to turn out and razz me. And my sisters.” He looked even more sick.
“How many sisters do you have?”
“Four. Three older, one younger.”
“Thank you!” Miss McCullough called. “The cast list will be posted on Monday morning.”
“I better not get it,” Harold muttered, and Bethie shook her head and smiled, hoping that he would.
* * *
By the end of October, rehearsals were progressing. As Bethie had predicted, Harold had been cast in the role of Billis, and every afternoon, four days a week, Bethie would feel his big hands around her diminishing waistline as he lifted her and lowered her. During rehearsals, she fished for details about what kind of trouble Harold had gotten into with the football coach, but Harold wouldn’t say. He was more forthcoming on the topic of why he’d never auditioned for any of the school shows, even with his voice.
“Stage fright,” he said. “I don’t like doing things in front of people.”
Bethie had laughed, and Harold, looking chagrined, had said, “What? It’s true!”
“You play football! How can you be on a football field in front of hundreds of people—”
“That’s different,” Harold said. “I’m wearing pads, and a helmet, and a uniform. I’m part of a team, not out there all by myself. And I’m not—you know—” His lips twisted as he spoke the hated word. “Dancing.”
“What’s wrong with dancing?” Bethie asked.
“I don’t know.” Harold considered. “It’s not very manly, I guess.”
“You dance at school dances, right?”
“Not in front of everyone.” Harold was frowning, picking at the skin around his thumbnail. “Not as a performance. Can we stop talking about it? Please? It’s just making it worse.”
Bethie asked, “Would it help if you pictured everyone in the audience in their underwear?”
Harold looked shocked, and Bethie remembered that his father was a preacher. Maybe he wasn’t used to girls talking about nakedness.
“Or if you pretended you could tackle the other actors?”
Harold smiled. “Maybe.”
“Just not me.”
“Okay,” he agreed. “Just not you.”
At first, Harold was quiet around the other drama club kids who could, Bethie knew, be a cliquey bunch. Harold was both