A Little Bit Wicked by Joni Rodgers, Kristin Chenoweth Read Free Book Online Page B

eyes.
    “You don’t want to know,” he tells me, and that makes me hug him even tighter.
    “Thank you for doing what you do,” I whisper in his ear. “You’re a good man, and I’m proud of you.”
    All we cousins are like siblings: Cheri, Shane, Clint, Richard, Pam, Mark, Kristi, Jason, Darin, Cindy, Allen, Katherine, Robert. I love being lost in that bunch. When I was little, Aunt Ginger would ask me to sing and dance at family gatherings, but now I get to be one of the grown-ups who sit on the sidelines in a bank of lawn chairs, getting up to chase a dog away from the table, wipe up a spill with a paper towel, wait my turn to hold the newest baby, or indulge in one of Cousin Cheri’s Hello Dollies, these seven-layer bars with chocolate chips, coconut, and I don’t know what all.
    Hello Dollies were always on the potluck table when I was a kid, but I summoned my willpower and opted for fruits and vegetables. I was a picky eater because of my unswerving dedication to ballet in general and Miss Jane in particular. I wasn’t on the Gelsey Kirkland eating-disorder bus, but I was conscientious about the tone and strength of my body. As the years went by, it became apparent that I was never going to have the long, willowy limbs of a prima ballerina. But it’s funny…as my adult body emerged, I started looking like a tall person—only shorter. Mark says I only look short when I’m standing next to someone. I have long legs, proportionate to my torso, a good pair of “getaway sticks,” as we call them in the theatre. I also developed a pretty good pair of Mermans, for such a skinny girl. My interests expanded beyond ballet to tap, jazz, and modern. I was a cheerleader in junior high, but in high school I went out for drill team, which felt more like a dance performance. Of course, I was all about choir, and I went out for every play.
    In ninth and tenth grade, I was in Larry Thompson’s madrigal group, and he told me about a phenomenal voice teacher at Oklahoma City University. Some of her students had gone on to excellent careers. Lara Teeter received a Tony nomination for On Your Toes and was agoing concern on Broadway. Susan Powell won the Miss America pageant in 1981, and I remember sitting on the living room floor, a bowl of ice cream clasped between my hands, watching her sing. Mr. Thompson was adamant that this was the voice teacher I needed to study with, and though I loved Mr. Thompson to bits (he’s one of those teachers you hope and pray your kid will get), I promptly blew that off. OCU was a pricey private college. My parents couldn’t afford that, and even if they could, all my friends were going to state schools. The fun factor had to be considered. But as it got close to decision time, Mr. Thompson went an extra mile, contacted my parents, and told them that studying with this OCU voice teacher could change my life.
    “They’re having a high school weekend,” my dad told me. “We should check it out. You’d get to audition for a scholarship, stay in the dorm, see a show. It’ll be fun.”
    The campus was a grassy, rolling, two-hour drive from home. On the way, I flipped through the catalog and brochures they’d sent. The OCU Mission Statement reads, “Oklahoma City University embraces the United Methodist tradition of scholarship and service and welcomes all faiths in a culturally rich community that is dedicated to student welfare and success. Men and women pursue academic excellence through a rigorous curriculum that focuses on students’ intellectual, moral, and spiritual development to prepare them to become effective leaders in service to their communities.”
    In other words: fun factor zero. But I was intrigued by this voice teacher Mr. Thompson was so big about.
    “Florence Gillam Birdwell,” the brochure said, “is a master teacher, performer, and force of nature.”
     
    Whenever I’m in Oklahoma to visit family, I try to fit in a side trip to see Florence Birdwell. How to