Grow the Hell Up Harlan [ON HOLD FOR REWRITE]

4) Beware of Nelson

Can someone please explain to me why 99.9% of vocal warmups are hand-designed to look like a perfect portrayal of sucking ghost dick?

I had no idea why I was doing vocal warmups. I'm not supposed to be in the damn play, I'm supposed to dress in black and move shit.

Also, if Mr. Hilton tells us to put our mouths in more of an O-shape one more time, he's catching a case.

The theatre hummed with whispers about why I was here. These kids knew who I was, they knew I didn't belong here.

Mr. Hilton argued with a lanky boy in glasses. They both seemed less than enthused to be having whatever conversation they were having. Mr. Hilton roughly passed the kid a thick binder before pointing  in my direction.

Oh God, no. Don't send the angry string bean to me. 

I tried to avoid eye contact as the kid made an angry beeline toward me.

I resisted the urge to punch him in the chest as he slapped the binder into my chest, "You're Willard."

Bitch, I'm Harlan, Harlan Marshall.

"I'm sorry," I paused, rethinking making any enemies on the first day here, " I'm who the fuck?"

Bright blue eyes swimming with disinterest stared back at me through round Harry Potteresque glasses. The boy pinched the bridge of his noses and exhaled aggressively, "Fucking, ahhh, I can't deal with this."

Confused but albeit, amused, I interrupted his fit, "I think you have the wrong person, I'm Harlan. I don't know Willard."

Halting the massaging of his nose immediately, the boy opened his eyes and gave me a look that I only see from my little sister before she says something like—

"Really? I know who you are you blockhead, " this was the second shot taken at the shape of my head within two hours," Willard (pause) is your char-ac-ter (pause)  your role, your fucking supporting role."

Did he say role? That means lead, right? That means I'm actually doing shit.

I thought I was going to be throwing jazz hands while I moved shit around in the back.

"Wait, I'm the lead?"

"Yes, because we put meatheads who don't even audition into the lead role in our musicals here."

"Wait...really?"

The boy dragged an exasperated hand down his face, "No. No, you are not the lead. You have a supporting role. You are playing the part of Willard, Willard Hewitt."

He then stalked away in a huff, mumbling to himself.

What the fuck?

"I suggest steering clear of Nelson when he's stressed unless one hundred percent necessary to interact with him." I jumped and turned in the direction of Tate's voice.

"What's his deal?" the mass of his body was probably 95% stress I was somewhat worried.

"He's got a lot of responsibility around here but he's also just kind of a spazz."  Tate and I chuckled in unison.

Hold up.

"Tate, " he looked up at me pushing a hand backward through dark waves, "what are you doing here?"

Even the way he looked up was fucking cool.

I've wanted to be as cool as Tate since we were in middle school. He's always been so effortlessly cool, in the way he talks, the way he walks, the way his hands rested comfortably, naturally in his pockets.