Disclaimer: All of the newsies, plus Medda Larkson, Brian Denton, and Weasel, belong to Disney. Charles Dickens wrote "A Christmas Carol", and I'm using the dramatization by Michael Paller. I own Springs, Ariana, Tessie, Taylor, Cindy, Ace, Seraph, Cerise, Jade, the Darte twins, Bethany, Bliss, Fish, Mikko, and Curls.
A big THANK YOU to Stretch and Hottie5Star for their reviews. Please continue!
A note to everyone who is reading this and HASN'T reviewed: REVIEW!
"Now, let's begin rehearsal," Medda said. "I'd like to start off by reading through the beginning of the first act. Would the Narrator, Scrooge, Cratchit, Fred, Jacob Marley, and the two portly gentlemen please come to the front of the stage?"
"If you don't mind, Medda, I'll take the other ghosts to the back of the auditorium to work on their parts," Mr. Denton suggested.
"Oh, that would be wonderful, Denty dearest," Medda replied. "The rest of you should go to the home ec. room to be measured for your costumes."
I raised my hand. "Who's designing the costumes, Ms. Lark...I mean, Medda?"
"Our home ec. teacher, of course," she said. "Mr. Wiesel."
Mush gave me a look of pure horror. "Weasel's designing the costumes!" he exclaimed. "We're all going to be wearing striped shirts and suspenders!" I nodded in resignation.
"Now, now, don't stand around chatting, darlings," Medda commanded. "Get to work!"
Mush's POV:
While Seraph walked to the home ec. room and Bumlets, Dutchy, Snoddy, and Mr. Denton moved to the back of the auditorium, I took a seat on the front of the stage.
"Here are your scripts," Medda said, handing a thick booklet to Jack, Specs, Davey, Pie Eater, Mikko, Curls, and myself. "Now, open to page one and let's begin. Nice and loud, please, everyone."
Jack cleared his throat. "Once upon a time---of all good days of the year, on Christmas Eve---old Scrooge sat busy in his counting house," he began in a very British accent.
"One, two, three, four, five, six..." Specs droned.
"Specsy, darling, what are you doing?" Medda asked curiously.
"Well, it's a counting house, isn't it?" Specs said. "So I'm counting."
"But, Specs, that's not in the script," Medda pointed out. "Continue, Jack."
"A-hem! It was cold, bleak, biting weather. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already. Oh, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge!"
I pulled a piece of gum out of my pocket, shrugged, and threw it at Davey.
"Hey, what was that for?" he exclaimed.
"I gave you a piece of gum!" I replied. "Besides, read your script, 'Fred tosses a small gift-a candy cane, or a piece of fruit, perhaps---to Cratchit.' I'm supposed to throw something at you!"
I glanced toward Medda for approval, but she seemed a bit miffed. "We'll worry about the props later," she emphasized. "For now, just SAY your LINES, please darlings."
"All right," I muttered, "you don't have to shout! A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!"
"Bah. Humbug," Specs said.
We continued for a few pages until the first portly gentleman's line. Then, together, Mikko and Curls said, "Scrooge and Marley's, I believe? Have I the pleasure of addressing Mister Scrooge, or Mister Marley?"
"Wait, wait, wait," Medda cried, her face now almost as red as her hair. "Only the FIRST portly gentleman is supposed to say that!"
"But I AM first," Mikko shouted.
"No way, I am," Curls contradicted.
"Alphabetically, I am first," Mikko said. "First Mitchel, then Tye."
"Not if you go by last name," Curls replied. "First Gordon, then Saunders!"
"Boys, boys, please be quiet," Medda yelled. "Or we will never get through the beginning of the first act! Let's worry about this later and just skip to Jacob Marley's lines on the fifth page."
"But then you skip all of my lines in the first act!" Dave exclaimed.
"LIVE WITH IT!" Medda cried. Even the ghosts practicing in the back of the auditorium turned to stare. "Sorry," Medda apologized, smoothing her curls. If we have time, we'll come back to you, Davey, darling. Now, Scrooge, say your first line on page five."
"How now? What do you want with me?" Specs recited.
"Mmm," Pie Eater murmured, or at least I think that's what he said.
"What was that Pie-y, darling? Speak up," Medda requested.
"M-m-much," Pie Eater finally choked out.
"Now, now, darling, nice and loud," Medda corrected. "Try it one more time."
Now Pie Eater was the one getting annoyed. "Much!" he shouted. Once again, the ghosts turned around to stare. This was going to be a loooooong practice.
Bumlet's POV:
"Much!" Pie Eater shouted. Dutchy, Snoddy, Mr. Denton, and I turned around to stare. "Sorry," he said timidly, and we turned back to our scripts.
"Like I was saying," Denton said, "you three have the most important parts in the script. Without the three ghosts, Scrooge would never change, the Cratchits would still be poor, and Tiny Tim would die."
"Yeah, but without Scrooge we wouldn't even have a play," Dutchy pointed out.
Denton frowned. "Yes, but since we DO have a Scrooge, you ARE the most important parts." I didn't really follow his logic, but oh well. "The first thing I'd like you to do," Denton continued. "Is to get in touch with your inner ghost. Think, 'If I really WERE a ghost, what would I be like? How would I look? Who would I talk to? How would I feel? What would I wear?"
"Excuse me---achoo!---but I'm not sure if I have an inner ghost," Snoddy said.
"Of course you do!" Denton exclaimed. "If you didn't have an inner ghost, you wouldn't have been cast for this part! Look inside yourself. Find your inner ghost!" I decided that we should probably try it before Denton got any more crazy ideas.
'What would my inner ghost be like?' I wondered to myself. 'And since I'd be dead---would I even care what I wore?'
"All right, everybody ready?" Denton asked. "Now, I'd like you to share some thoughts about the ghost in YOU. Dutchy, you first."
"Well, uh, he's the Ghost of Christmas Past, so I suppose he knows a lot about history and all that. Maybe he wears some old fashioned clothes or something..."
"No, no, no!" Denton shouted. "All wrong! I don't mean the ghost that you're playing, I mean the ghost that you ARE!"
"Why don't you give us an example," I suggested. "What's your inner ghost like?"
"My inner ghost," Denton mused. "My inner ghost is small, fragile, but strong. Its job is to punish all of those annoying people in the audience who talk during plays. I would be called the Whisper-Stopper...and I would wear an outfit made entirely of bow ties."
"NOT a pretty picture," Ivan whispered to me, and I nodded.
"Maybe we should just kill him now, so that he and his inner ghost can unite," Snoddy suggested.
"You WANT to see Denton completely covered with bow ties?" I wondered.
"Sorry, boys, what were you saying?" Denton asked, snapping out of his morbid dreamlike state.
"Uh...just discussing our inner ghosts," I fibbed.
"Oh wonderful," Denton said. "Now, I'd like you to think about ways to become your inner ghost. If you were to kill yourself, how would you go about it? Personally, I think I'd go for a hanging..."
"This guy is seriously suicidal," Ivan whispered.
Seraph's POV:
Ace Jacobs (who is David's second cousin, by the way), Bliss McNamorn, and I stood in a group in the home ec. room, waiting for the Weasel to talk to us about our costumes.
"What do you think of Medda?" Bliss asked.
"Strange," I replied. "Mental. Insane."
"And way too obsessed with pink!" Ace added.
"Exactly. WHY did Mrs. Holmes have to have her baby NOW?" I wondered.
"Stop talking, girls, I need to tell you about your costumes," Weasel's slimy voice interrupted. "Ace, you're Belle. You'll wear a gorgeous ball gown." Weasel held his hands out at his sides, as if holding a skirt out, and then bent his legs in a clumsy imitation of a curtsy. "Bliss, you're the Charwoman. That's a cleaning lady."
"Good," Bliss whispered to me, "I always wondered what a charwoman was."
"You'll wear a maid's uniform, and carry a feather duster," Weasel continued. He skipped around the home ec. room, using an imaginary feather duster to brush imaginary specs of dust off the sewing machines. "And Seraph, you're Mrs. Cratchit. You'll wear a skirt, blouse, and apron." Now he moved his arm around as if he were stirring something, then ran to one of the ovens in the room, opened it, and pretended to put something inside. "You do lots of cooking in the play," he explained. "There are tape measures on the table over there. Use them, write down your measurements, and give them to me. Then you can leave." With that, Weasel pranced over to give Racetrack and Springs a dramatic description of their costumes.
"I can't decide who's worse," Ace declared. "The Weasel or Medda!"
A big THANK YOU to Stretch and Hottie5Star for their reviews. Please continue!
A note to everyone who is reading this and HASN'T reviewed: REVIEW!
"Now, let's begin rehearsal," Medda said. "I'd like to start off by reading through the beginning of the first act. Would the Narrator, Scrooge, Cratchit, Fred, Jacob Marley, and the two portly gentlemen please come to the front of the stage?"
"If you don't mind, Medda, I'll take the other ghosts to the back of the auditorium to work on their parts," Mr. Denton suggested.
"Oh, that would be wonderful, Denty dearest," Medda replied. "The rest of you should go to the home ec. room to be measured for your costumes."
I raised my hand. "Who's designing the costumes, Ms. Lark...I mean, Medda?"
"Our home ec. teacher, of course," she said. "Mr. Wiesel."
Mush gave me a look of pure horror. "Weasel's designing the costumes!" he exclaimed. "We're all going to be wearing striped shirts and suspenders!" I nodded in resignation.
"Now, now, don't stand around chatting, darlings," Medda commanded. "Get to work!"
Mush's POV:
While Seraph walked to the home ec. room and Bumlets, Dutchy, Snoddy, and Mr. Denton moved to the back of the auditorium, I took a seat on the front of the stage.
"Here are your scripts," Medda said, handing a thick booklet to Jack, Specs, Davey, Pie Eater, Mikko, Curls, and myself. "Now, open to page one and let's begin. Nice and loud, please, everyone."
Jack cleared his throat. "Once upon a time---of all good days of the year, on Christmas Eve---old Scrooge sat busy in his counting house," he began in a very British accent.
"One, two, three, four, five, six..." Specs droned.
"Specsy, darling, what are you doing?" Medda asked curiously.
"Well, it's a counting house, isn't it?" Specs said. "So I'm counting."
"But, Specs, that's not in the script," Medda pointed out. "Continue, Jack."
"A-hem! It was cold, bleak, biting weather. The city clocks had only just gone three, but it was quite dark already. Oh, but he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge!"
I pulled a piece of gum out of my pocket, shrugged, and threw it at Davey.
"Hey, what was that for?" he exclaimed.
"I gave you a piece of gum!" I replied. "Besides, read your script, 'Fred tosses a small gift-a candy cane, or a piece of fruit, perhaps---to Cratchit.' I'm supposed to throw something at you!"
I glanced toward Medda for approval, but she seemed a bit miffed. "We'll worry about the props later," she emphasized. "For now, just SAY your LINES, please darlings."
"All right," I muttered, "you don't have to shout! A merry Christmas, uncle! God save you!"
"Bah. Humbug," Specs said.
We continued for a few pages until the first portly gentleman's line. Then, together, Mikko and Curls said, "Scrooge and Marley's, I believe? Have I the pleasure of addressing Mister Scrooge, or Mister Marley?"
"Wait, wait, wait," Medda cried, her face now almost as red as her hair. "Only the FIRST portly gentleman is supposed to say that!"
"But I AM first," Mikko shouted.
"No way, I am," Curls contradicted.
"Alphabetically, I am first," Mikko said. "First Mitchel, then Tye."
"Not if you go by last name," Curls replied. "First Gordon, then Saunders!"
"Boys, boys, please be quiet," Medda yelled. "Or we will never get through the beginning of the first act! Let's worry about this later and just skip to Jacob Marley's lines on the fifth page."
"But then you skip all of my lines in the first act!" Dave exclaimed.
"LIVE WITH IT!" Medda cried. Even the ghosts practicing in the back of the auditorium turned to stare. "Sorry," Medda apologized, smoothing her curls. If we have time, we'll come back to you, Davey, darling. Now, Scrooge, say your first line on page five."
"How now? What do you want with me?" Specs recited.
"Mmm," Pie Eater murmured, or at least I think that's what he said.
"What was that Pie-y, darling? Speak up," Medda requested.
"M-m-much," Pie Eater finally choked out.
"Now, now, darling, nice and loud," Medda corrected. "Try it one more time."
Now Pie Eater was the one getting annoyed. "Much!" he shouted. Once again, the ghosts turned around to stare. This was going to be a loooooong practice.
Bumlet's POV:
"Much!" Pie Eater shouted. Dutchy, Snoddy, Mr. Denton, and I turned around to stare. "Sorry," he said timidly, and we turned back to our scripts.
"Like I was saying," Denton said, "you three have the most important parts in the script. Without the three ghosts, Scrooge would never change, the Cratchits would still be poor, and Tiny Tim would die."
"Yeah, but without Scrooge we wouldn't even have a play," Dutchy pointed out.
Denton frowned. "Yes, but since we DO have a Scrooge, you ARE the most important parts." I didn't really follow his logic, but oh well. "The first thing I'd like you to do," Denton continued. "Is to get in touch with your inner ghost. Think, 'If I really WERE a ghost, what would I be like? How would I look? Who would I talk to? How would I feel? What would I wear?"
"Excuse me---achoo!---but I'm not sure if I have an inner ghost," Snoddy said.
"Of course you do!" Denton exclaimed. "If you didn't have an inner ghost, you wouldn't have been cast for this part! Look inside yourself. Find your inner ghost!" I decided that we should probably try it before Denton got any more crazy ideas.
'What would my inner ghost be like?' I wondered to myself. 'And since I'd be dead---would I even care what I wore?'
"All right, everybody ready?" Denton asked. "Now, I'd like you to share some thoughts about the ghost in YOU. Dutchy, you first."
"Well, uh, he's the Ghost of Christmas Past, so I suppose he knows a lot about history and all that. Maybe he wears some old fashioned clothes or something..."
"No, no, no!" Denton shouted. "All wrong! I don't mean the ghost that you're playing, I mean the ghost that you ARE!"
"Why don't you give us an example," I suggested. "What's your inner ghost like?"
"My inner ghost," Denton mused. "My inner ghost is small, fragile, but strong. Its job is to punish all of those annoying people in the audience who talk during plays. I would be called the Whisper-Stopper...and I would wear an outfit made entirely of bow ties."
"NOT a pretty picture," Ivan whispered to me, and I nodded.
"Maybe we should just kill him now, so that he and his inner ghost can unite," Snoddy suggested.
"You WANT to see Denton completely covered with bow ties?" I wondered.
"Sorry, boys, what were you saying?" Denton asked, snapping out of his morbid dreamlike state.
"Uh...just discussing our inner ghosts," I fibbed.
"Oh wonderful," Denton said. "Now, I'd like you to think about ways to become your inner ghost. If you were to kill yourself, how would you go about it? Personally, I think I'd go for a hanging..."
"This guy is seriously suicidal," Ivan whispered.
Seraph's POV:
Ace Jacobs (who is David's second cousin, by the way), Bliss McNamorn, and I stood in a group in the home ec. room, waiting for the Weasel to talk to us about our costumes.
"What do you think of Medda?" Bliss asked.
"Strange," I replied. "Mental. Insane."
"And way too obsessed with pink!" Ace added.
"Exactly. WHY did Mrs. Holmes have to have her baby NOW?" I wondered.
"Stop talking, girls, I need to tell you about your costumes," Weasel's slimy voice interrupted. "Ace, you're Belle. You'll wear a gorgeous ball gown." Weasel held his hands out at his sides, as if holding a skirt out, and then bent his legs in a clumsy imitation of a curtsy. "Bliss, you're the Charwoman. That's a cleaning lady."
"Good," Bliss whispered to me, "I always wondered what a charwoman was."
"You'll wear a maid's uniform, and carry a feather duster," Weasel continued. He skipped around the home ec. room, using an imaginary feather duster to brush imaginary specs of dust off the sewing machines. "And Seraph, you're Mrs. Cratchit. You'll wear a skirt, blouse, and apron." Now he moved his arm around as if he were stirring something, then ran to one of the ovens in the room, opened it, and pretended to put something inside. "You do lots of cooking in the play," he explained. "There are tape measures on the table over there. Use them, write down your measurements, and give them to me. Then you can leave." With that, Weasel pranced over to give Racetrack and Springs a dramatic description of their costumes.
"I can't decide who's worse," Ace declared. "The Weasel or Medda!"
