Preview of Dramarama
Transcript of a microcassette recording:
Demi: Is it on?
Sadye: That red light is supposed to glow.
Demi: It is glowing.
Sadye: No, it’s not.
Demi: Yes it is. You can’t see because of the angle.
Sadye: Stop it and check.
(thump thumpy thump, click click)
Demi: Ha HA! Let the record show that I was right.
Demi: Come, now. Give me some credit. The light was way on.
Sadye: (all fancy) Let’s begin, shall we?
Demi: Of course, darling. But I was right.
Sadye: Here goes. It is June 24th and we, Douglas B. Howard Junior –
Sadye: — known to those who love him as Demi –
Demi: (interrupting) — and Sarah Paulson, known to those who worship and lust after her as Sadye –
Sadye: Correction: known only to herself and Demi as Sadye –
Demi: (interrupting again) – that’s SAY-dee, s-a-d-y-e, and don’t you spell it wrong ’cause she’s gonna be famous one day –
Sadye: — are here in the back of the Paulson mini-van –
Demi: –talking into a teeny-weeny journalist-type cassette recorder.
Demi: Talking into a micro-cassette recorder to document the all-important fact that we are leaving Brenton, Ohio.
Demi: We do not have to live in that Brenton suckiness for eight whole weeks.
Sadye: Goodbye, oh, dowdy math teachers! Goodbye, oh mean cheerleaders! Goodbye, no-neck jock contingent, boring do-gooders and juvenile delinquents!
Demi: Goodbye, stupid shopping mall! Goodbye, awful hairstyles!
Sadye: Goodbye, shallow, vacant members of the junior class and flat green lawns of suburbia! Goodbye, goodbye, and good riddance!
Demi: (singing) If ya don’t mind having to live in Brenton… it’s a fine life!
Sadye: (singing back-up) It’s a fine life!
Demi: If ya don’t mind prejudice, pain and boredom… it’s a fine life!
Sadye: It’s a fine life!
(Obvious and intentional parental coughing from the front seat of the mini-van, where Sadye’s dad is driving. )
Mr. Paulson: A little less noise from the peanut gallery, thank you.
Sadye: Sorry, Dad.
Demi: Sorry, Mr. Paulson. It was Oliver.
Sadye: Oliver, the Brenton version.
Mr. Paulson: Oliver or no Oliver, you two are blowing my ears out.
Demi: Hey, do we have the new Broadway cast album in here?
Sayde: I think so. I packed it. Dad, can you find it?
Mr. Paulson: What?
Sadye: The Oliver CD. Duh.
(Mr. Paulson puts the CD in the minivan stereo)
Demi: I used to be a boy soprano.
Sadye: We know, we know.
Demi: Now I have to do it in falsetto.
(He attempts to sing a few bars of “Food, Glorious Food” along with the boy sopranos of the Oliver cast)
Sadye: Give it up, darling. You sound like Frankie Valli.
Demi: I’ll take that as a compliment.
Demi: What? I love Jersey Boys. I’m all about Jersey Boys.
Sadye: Frankie Valli on crack.
Demi: Oh, shush your mouth. I’ll be the first black man to play Frankie on Broadway. You watch me.
(They ride in silence for a minute. Demi eats potato chips out of a bag.)
Demi: Three more hours, and we’ll be in heaven.
Demi: Like I said. Heaven.
Sadye: You’re messing our tape up! Posterity will be confused.
Demi: Okay, say it right, then.
Sadye: Demi and I will be attending the Wildewood Academy of Performing Arts, summer theater institute, 2005.
Demi: We are gonna take over that place. Absolutely rule it.
Sadye: You think?
Demi: Oh, yeah. We’ll be stars.
Sadye: Don’t be under-confident, now.
Demi: Ha ha.
Sadye: Your lips are chapped.
Demi: We will. Be. Stars. I am predicting it, and I will make it so.
Sadye: I said, your lips are chapped.
Demi: Are you trying to deflate my ego? Because it will not be deflated.
Demi: That thing is puncture-proof, baby.
Sadye: No, really. you need some lip balm.
Demi: Do you have? Give it here. Ooh, green apple flavor.
Sadye: Turn off the micro cassette. We’ve degenerated.
Demi: True. All of posterity does not need to hear about my chapped lips.
Demi. My co-conspirator. My first true friend. A spirit made of equal parts ambition and razzle dazzle. A big baritone that slides easily into falsetto. And a future as bright as the lights on 42nd street.
Demi believed the Wildewood summer institute would be heaven. Believed he would be King there, and I would be Queen, and we would live all summer in utter fabulousness.
And he was right — about himself, at least.