(I don't own South Park, Grease, or any character of the two.)
Friday morning dawned bright…and late, for me anyway. It was almost eight when I finally hauled ass out of bed and headed for the shower. I decided to clip my hair up to keep it dry, stood in the steam and loudly practiced my audition song (We Belong Together, by Mariah Carey), still drowsy from lack of sleep. How I wanted a big part—a part opposite the lovely, flippant, rebellious Craig. How I wanted Lola to have to pantomime as a boy. How hungry I was. Hungry and clean, and makeupless. Best to fix those things.
Half an hour later, I met up with Wendy at the bus stop. She was chewing on a power bar and looked like the walking dead.
"Wendy," I said. "You look tired."
"I am, Captain Obvious," she retorted. "I didn't sleep at all last night. I dreamed I slept late and missed the whole audition and they cast me as a car." She yawned. "How are you?"
"Nervous," I muttered, taking out my purple iPod and putting in the earbuds.
Class was chaotic that day. Everyone who had signed up—i.e. everyone in the seventh grade—was nervous and jittery, high on Red Bull and coffee. And cigarettes, it turned out, for goth kids Dylan and Henrietta. Why they had signed up along with all the other "Justin and Britney Hollister-addicted douche bags" was beyond me.
"Dylan," I muttered in math class. "Watch out, that Kenny McCormick just accidentally looked at Red. Heartbreaking."
A pink flush livened up the goth kid's pale complexion. "Fuck off," he replied lightly. I liked Dylan. A little emotional, but he was a pretty cool guy.
After what seemed like years, the final bell rang overhead, and everyone dashed out of science to the gym.
Wendy led the way in to the gym/auditorium; us all linked at the elbow. Row upon row of cheapo folding chairs had been set up, and kids had taken their places in them. We chose a spot five rows back and snuggled down with Annie and Heidi, equal parts nervous and excited. I spotted Craig, the Sex God extraordinaire, sitting with that spazzy kid Tweek Tweak and Clyde Donovan, who I had briefly went out with in fourth and fifth grade. Kyle Broflovski, well-known for having the cutest butt ever, was sitting with his best friends Stan and Kenny. Cartman was there too. Definitely not Kyle's friend.
Lola, Nelly, Millie, Powder, and some other girls were sitting far back and antagonizing the goth kids. I noticed they had all painted little stars on their cheeks with eyeliner, like Rebecca had. What whores.
At the front of the gym, Mr. Garrison came whooshing out of nowhere, dressed dramatically in black, including a beret, and said, "Okay, children, sit down and shut the hell up. I'm splitting you into two groups to audition and I'm only gonna say it once."
He read off the sign-up sheet.
"Wendy Testaburger! Rebecca Tucker! Annie Polk! Pip Pirrup! Millie Welsh! Butters Stotch! Craig Tucker! Token Black! Clyde Donovan! Eric Cartman! Henrietta Grimes! You retards are group One! You'll be the first to audition!
"Now!" shrieked Garrison flamboyantly, adjusting his reading glasses.
"Group Two! Bebe Stevens! Heidi Turner! Stan Marsh! Kenny McCormick! Lola Palmer! Sally Powder Turner! Tweek Tweak! Jimmy Vulmer! Nelly Lane! Kyle Broflovski! Dylan Kimmel! Stay where you are, you're going second."
Crap and three times crap. I had no friends to go up with me, and no Sex God. At least I had Kenny.
Wendy and Becky stood up awkwardly, and I grasped their hands, smiling widely, then sent them off. Rebecca kept picking at her neon fishnet tights. God, God, God, stop it, I thought, then turned to chat with Heidi. We giggled all the way through two performances (Annie's and Millie's) and when Millie clomped offstage, having bombed the monologue by forgetting half of it, Mr. Garrison whipped his glasses off and glared at us.
"Would you two girls mind SHUTTING THE HELL UP," he snapped, and Craig, who was next, flipped us off. I hate him.
I listened intently through Craig's performance. He wasn't terrific, slightly nasal, but his line read was phenomenal. Who knew Sir Jockship was a drama kid at heart.
Heidi and me applauded Rebecca, who rocked Celine Dion's Titanic epic, and went crazy when Wendy dramatically concluded her Shakespearean monologue in tears.
Finally, Henrietta Grimes walked offstage, muttering something about "faggot conformist asswipes," and Group Two got uneasily to their feet.
"Feeling nervous, Bebe?" Kenny asked as we took our places to either side of the stage.
"Only as nervous as you could be," I replied, draining my cola and casually flicking the can at Lola's stupid head. Truthfully, I was confident that I would get a part. Hopefully opposite Craig.
"My mom is gonna bitch out if I don't get a part," said Kyle, twisting his fingers together.
"No surprise there, kosher boy, your mom is the bitchiest bitch on the planet," Kenny said truthfully.
"Shut up, druggie," agreed Kyle.
"BEBE STEVENS, GET YOUR ASS OUT HERE NOW!" called Garrison, losing his rag.
"Bye, guys," I said, smiling, and walked confidently into the spotlight, where Garrison was perched like a fag bat out of hell on Mr. Mackey's piano.
"Bebe, go stand on the red tape X," my teacher instructed. I did so. "Now, what song are you planning to sing?"
"Mariah Carey's 'We Belong Together'," I said clearly, but I was losing my grip. Wendy and Rebecca were watching me in the audience. So was Craig, and he looked like he wanted to get out of there.
"Well start then, sweetie," said Mr. Garrison. He must think he's Simon Cowell or someone equally lame.
I planted my feet and drove straight through to the chorus, where I belted it out. From the diaphragm, I thought, pausing for breath.
When I was done, I smiled widely, and segued into my monologue, even getting a few tears out.
"How was that?" I asked.
"Very nice, Bebe, thank you," he said, studying his fingernails. I rolled my eyes and swished offstage, high-fiving Kenny, who was next.
Dear God, a whole weekend to wait for the casting results. Thank God we had scheduled a sleepover at Wendy's to ease the pain of waiting.
"Let's get going, I'm so freaking bored," complained Rebecca, yawning.
"No, we have to see Stan and Kyle perform," Wendy said. She's so lame, we might kick her out and recruit Sparky, Stan's dog instead.
"Fine." We did stereo seat-flopping and became immersed in the next hour of tryouts.
(A/N: This chapter was terrible, but at least it moved the story along a little.)