The Brandywine Prophet

5.3 Young Love

(And a 1, 2, 3, 4)

Chase’s heart thumped with the base. His breathing fell in line with the melody. His steps were syncopated; every third was a skip. 

It was night. The white spotlight kept the stage bathed in blinding surreality while the backstage stayed lit with a dozen yellow bulbs.

Twenty minutes until awards. That meant one thing: large groups. Large groups consisted of twenty-five dancers or more with an unlimited cap. Some groups had twenty-five. Others had a-hundred-and-fifty. The wings of this amphitheater were gargantuan so the dancers could pile inside when they were costumed-up; and they did. Chase wove effortlessly through a chattering, anxious mass of hippies; boys and girls dressed for a seventies medley. There were zombies dressed in cheesecloth with thick black-and-white makeup and blood-gashed necks and limbs. The judges hated that stuff, but Chase kept his mouth shut. Another group was dressed like angels and demons. They were scheduled to dance last and Chase was constantly yelling at them to stay back and out of the way of the other dancers. 

His shirt was untucked. A gaff-tape belt held up his pants with a gnarled bow in front. His hair stood in all directions but he didn’t care. His job during large groups was to keep the show moving; to get the groups and props on and off the stage without some tyke getting trampled in the process. Stage-dads were there to help, proudly sporting pink and purple shirts with the name of their child’s studio bedazzled across the chest. “Hippies, you’re next! Zombies, stay back! Angels and demons, if I have to tell you again, you’re all disqualified!” 

Chase still had to chat with April May before the award ceremony. He had to fix Janie’s score. But there was hardly time to breathe during large groups, much less to convince a respectable woman to cheat.

A pudgy bluebird ran up and tapped Chase on the shoulder. “We’re ready!”

“And what’s your song, hon?”

“Rockin’ Robin.”

“Are all the dancers ready?”

“I don’t know. I think so!”

“Says here you guys were supposed to go on three dances ago. Hurry ‘em up for me, okay?”

“Mmkay!”

The chubby bluebird nodded and fluttered away. Feathers. That’s all he needed tonight.

Chase removed a Snickers bar from his back pocket, tore it open and took a bite. Thank goodness for free concessions. Pauline was making the rounds, setting fires wherever she stepped. Chase couldn’t help but think that his boss and mother loved chaos; that pandemonium was her soil and uncertainty was her rain. As much as she condemned disorganization, she reveled in her ability to function in the discord; to create structure, glamour and profit from twenty-year-old fiberglass backdrops, a ragtag crew, and some AV cable from Radio Shack. 

(5, 6, 7, 8) Twenty-five guys dressed in bright orange radioactive suits bowed and exited the stage to a massive round-of-applause, squeals, cat-calls, and screams from the crowd of hundreds. “Hippie’s stay back! Let the boys off the stage!” The group shuffled backwards and the radioactive guys jumped and high-fived a good performance.

“Next up we have competitive production, all ages. Please welcome ‘Little Hippies’ performing ‘Beatles Medley.’” 

(5, 6, 7, 8) The clichéd hippies took the stage, bandanas around their heads, beads around their necks, round sunglasses bobby-pinned to their heads.

It was now or never. Chase dashed through the zombies and grabbed the phone. 

“April May?”