Once more with feeling, p.1
Once More with Feeling, page 1
Once More with Feeling is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2023 by Elissa Sussman
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Dell, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
Dell is a registered trademark and the D colophon is a trademark of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Sussman, Elissa, author.
Title: Once more with feeling: a novel / Elissa Sussman.
Description: New York: Dell, [2023]
Identifiers: LCCN 2022060550 (print) | LCCN 2022060551 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593357378 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593357361 (ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3619.U845 O53 2023 (print) | LCC PS3619.U845 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20230112
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022060550
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2022060551
Ebook ISBN 9780593357361
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Elizabeth A. D. Eno, adapted for ebook
Cover art and design: Kasi Turpin
Art direction: Cassie Gonzales
ep_prh_6.1_143736956_c0_r0
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Rolling Stone
Overture
Now
Chapter 1
Then
Chapter 2
Now
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Then
Chapter 5
Now
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Then
Chapter 11
Now
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Confrontation
Now
Chapter 17
Then
Chapter 18
Now
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Then
Chapter 21
Now
Chapter 22
Intermission
Now
Chapter 23
Then
Chapter 24
Now
Chapter 25
Dream Ballet
Now
Chapter 26
Then
Chapter 27
Now
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Then
Chapter 30
Now
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Then
Chapter 33
Now
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Finale
The New York Times
Dedication
Acknowledgments
By Elissa Sussman
About the Author
_143736956_
“Theater is a verb before it is a noun, an act before it is a place.”
—Martha Graham
“I’ve always said I had more guts than I had talent.”
—Dolly Parton
ROLLING STONE
TOP 100 MUSIC SCANDALS OF THE PAST 50 YEARS
#14: KATEE ROSE DESTROYS RYAN LANEVE’S HEART (AND HER CAREER)
It will make you feel old as dirt to realize that there are youths today who are completely unaware that Ryan LaNeve, movie star, was once Ryan LaNeve, teen sketch show cheeseball. The short-lived Show N Tell was a launchpad for many a star, including his former flame, Katee Rose. LaNeve and Rose first met on the set when they were teens, but their relationship was thrust into the spotlight as they both gained popularity—her as a solo act and him as one-fifth of CrushZone, the hottest boy band of the time.
Their reign as the prince and princess of pop ended abruptly when LaNeve revealed that Rose had been unfaithful. Although it was never confirmed, the scandal gained even more traction when it was implied that Rose had been cheating on him with none other than fellow CrushZone member Calvin Tyler Kirby.
In a case of life imitating art, LaNeve left CrushZone to take a star-making role in Kiss Me First, as the sad-sack husband who watches his marriage dissolve when his wife prostitutes herself, in a loose remake of Indecent Proposal.
As for Katee Rose? The nasally performer had already been on the way out, and the scandal was just the final nail in the coffin of her career.
OVERTURE
It was trial by fire, musical theatre–style.
Once our bags had been unpacked, instead of the first-day bonding activities I was accustomed to at my usual Jewish summer camp, everyone had been herded into the theatre and told we’d be auditioning for the end-of-summer showcase.
Right. Now.
Camp Curtain Call was not fucking around.
Most people would be shaking in their boots, but I wasn’t. I was more than up for the challenge. I was ready.
It was exactly the reason I’d wanted to come here in the first place.
I had it all planned out.
Step one: Convince unsupportive parents to spend bat mitzvah money on expensive, exclusive theatre camp.
Step two: Astonish everyone at said camp with my talent, charm, and can-do spirit.
Step three: Perform—to a standing ovation—at the end-of-summer showcase, impressing an audience full of agents, managers, and other theatre powerhouses.
Step four: Theatrical domination.
I sat in the back row and observed my competition.
Even though I’d anticipated step one to be the hardest to pull off, I knew the rest wouldn’t be a Sunday walk in the park. There was talent here—plenty of it—but that didn’t discourage me. There was no pride in being the best of the subpar. If anything, this would make my triumph all the more glorious.
Auditions were being conducted alphabetically, so I had the advantage of watching everyone with last names from A to Rosenberg go before me. We were an hour in, and I’d already changed my audition song twice, after watching the front row of instructors sigh at yet another rendition of “I Dreamed a Dream” and “Don’t Rain on My Parade.”
Luckily, I’d prepared at least a dozen potential performances, ranging from the expected to the more obscure. Right now, I was debating between “If I Were a Bell” and “Lion Tamer.” One was funny, one was wistful. Most singers were leaning toward the latter, so I was leaning toward the former. Luckily, I was excellent at both.
It was essential that I stand out.
The next camper stepped onstage.
“Rachel James,” she said, her hair thick and shiny, her teeth perfect.
There was a soft groan next to me. I glanced over to find a face scrunched with disdain behind big, round glasses.
“It’s a stage name,” she said when she caught me looking. “Her real name is Rochelle Illowski.”
A stage name. I was probably going to need one of those.
Though, when I imagined receiving my (first) Tony Award, it had always been “And the winner is Kathleen Rosenberg!”
I could tell, from the way the instructors leaned forward, the way the whole room went quiet, and the straight line of her shoulders, that Rachel knew what she was doing.
And she did.
Her voice was gorgeous. Crystal clear and emotive.
We weren’t supposed to clap after auditions, but half of the campers did anyway. No one stopped them.
“She’s good,” I said.
“She’s been on tour,” the girl with glasses said.
I was unspeakably jealous. And a little nervous.
“Wow,” I said.
“She’s a bitch.”
I looked at my new friend, surprised and delighted by the outburst. She shrugged.
“She put pine cones in my bunk last year,” she said. “And stole my signed Rent playbill.”
“That bitch,” I said, and meant it.
“I’m Harriet,” she said. Her box braids were pulled up away from her face in a towering twist.
“Kathleen,” I replied.
We shook hands.
“First summer?” she asked.
I nodded.
&
“You must know everyone,” I said.
She shrugged, but with a pleased smile.
“It is very nice to meet you,” I said.
I meant that too. A Rent fan and someone who knew the ins and outs of Curtain Call? It was as if the patron saint of musical theatre—Stephen Sondheim—was smiling on me.
Perhaps.
“What do you sing?” I asked.
“I’m an alto,” she said.
Lucky indeed. A new friend that I didn’t have to compete with.
“But I mostly write songs,” Harriet said.
“You write your own songs?” I asked.
She nodded.
It was like she’d just confessed to having a superpower.
“You’re my new best friend,” I said.
“Okay,” she said.
Harriet knew everyone and everything about them. At least the important things, like how many summers they’d been attending, if they’d been featured in the showcase, and if they’d ever performed professionally.
“That’s Courtney,” she’d say. “Six summers. Was only in the showcase once and it was an ensemble role.”
Or “That’s Shauna. Only her second summer, but she had a duet last year.”
Or “Corina wasn’t here last summer, but she was the summer before. I think she was in the chorus.”
It was a little like being with my dad when he was reciting baseball stats. Only actually interesting.
“Who. Is. That?” I asked.
My attention was completely captivated by the most beautiful man I’d ever seen. And considering that he looked at least sixteen, he was definitely a man. He had floppy hair cut like a curtain in the middle of his forehead and a puka shell necklace, and I couldn’t stop staring at the way he’d looped his thumbs into his cargo shorts as he rocked back and forth on his heels. He had nice legs too. Strong and tanned.
“Calvin Kirby,” he said, standing center stage.
Every hormone in my body went off like overheated lightbulbs. Pop. Pop. Pop.
He was a baritone.
I was in love.
CHAPTER 1
I’d made a terrible mistake.
Well, two terrible mistakes.
The first was agreeing to the lunch. The second was not insisting that Harriet and I arrive together. We would have been late, because Harriet was always late, but it would have been better than being early, which I was because I was always early.
Cal too, apparently.
He was already seated when the waitress escorted me back. He glanced up as I approached.
Three mistakes.
The grainy headshot that the trades used whenever he was mentioned was at least five years old, and now that he was here, eyes locked with mine, it was clear that photo hardly did him justice.
He stood and seemed to go up and up and up. Had he always been this tall?
His clothes fit well. He had a five o’clock shadow that had arrived just in time. His hair was artfully tousled. I imagined him wearing mirrored sunglasses while driving through Brooklyn in a convertible, causing everyone to stop and stare.
“Kathleen Rosenberg,” he said.
And then there was his voice. I’d forgotten—worked hard to forget—just how fucking good it was. How deep and resonant.
God. I felt it in my toes and my fingertips.
“Well, well, well,” I said. “If it isn’t Calvin Tyler Kirby.”
His cheek twitched, but his polite—fake—smile didn’t falter.
He hated being referred to by all three names. Which was exactly the point.
Cal should consider himself lucky that I wasn’t using his even more loathed nickname.
In fact, he should consider himself lucky that I showed up here in the first place. The last time we’d seen each other, he’d called me a “mistake” and I’d told him to get the fuck out of my life.
He’d obliged.
My feelings about him hadn’t changed, but circumstances had. And I’d promised Harriet I’d hear him out.
“It’s good to see you,” he lied, holding out a hand.
“Come now,” I said.
Placing my hands on his shoulders, I leaned up and gave him two loud, obnoxious air kisses. His muscles tensed beneath my palms. His cologne—like an orange grove—wrapped around me. I ignored how good all of it felt, let go, and stepped back.
“Shall we?” He gestured toward the table.
We sat.
It was like being in a sauna of awkwardness. I could feel it in my pores.
“It’s been a while,” I said. Understatement of the century.
Cal raised an eyebrow but said nothing. His menu was apparently fascinating.
I was fairly certain, despite his unruffled exterior, that Cal was doing exactly what I was doing—which was recalling the last time we’d been in a room together, exchanging barbs. We’d both said some unkind things.
How long had it been? Ten years? Fifteen?
It didn’t really matter. I could still remember the disgust and disappointment in his eyes. How he’d turned away, not looking back as he left me alone to deal with the consequences of our shared actions.
I wondered if he felt bad about it now, or if he still thought I’d deserved what happened.
The complete lack of apology seemed to indicate he had no regrets.
Well, that was fine. Fucking fine.
Because it wasn’t like I was about to accept an apology, even if he had offered one. Sorry wasn’t enough to repair what had been broken.
My career. My spirit.
I knew I was being dramatic, but I was quite certain Calvin Tyler Kirby wouldn’t expect anything less.
“Harriet’s always late,” I said, even though I was sure he knew that.
“I’m in no rush,” he said, still examining his menu.
I wanted to reach across the table, rip it out of his hands, tear it into a million tiny pieces, and force him to look at me.
“Fantastic,” I said through clenched teeth.
I should have turned my attention to my own menu but found myself staring at him instead. At all the ways time had changed him. I tried imagining his younger self superimposed over this one, contrasting the gray in his hair and the lines around his eyes with my memory of him with frosted tips and eyeliner.
Had he done the same to me when I walked in?
I would deny it if pressed, but I’d put extra effort into my appearance today. My hair hadn’t been blond since my Katee Rose days, but I’d taken the time to tame and style it, resisting the urge to dye my own multiplying grays.
The weather was that charming in-between of winter and spring, when days had an equal chance of being floral and bright or chilled and slushy. It had been nice when I left my apartment, but there was no guarantee that it would stay that way. I’d worn jeans and a lightweight sweater, but I knew for a fact that Cal had noticed the fit of both since his gaze had darted downward—just for a moment—when he first saw me. It was gratifying to know that the boobs that had earned me the moniker “Titty Rose” from the tabloids continued to maintain their stage presence after all these years.
“Is there something on my face?” Cal asked.
He hadn’t even looked up.
“Just your eyes, nose, and mouth,” I said sweetly.
