by Beth Vrabel
“What’s an applause?” she asked.
“It means clapping.”
“They’re all going to clap,” she said. “Clap and clap and clap. But not for you.”
“Geez, thanks, Annie. That’s super helpful encouragement,” I said, ushering her back to the sidelines.
She blinked at me solemnly. “They’re going to applause and applause.”
“Yeah, I get that,” I said.
Annie narrowed her eyes. She squeezed my hand. “It’s okay to be nervous. That’s what Mom said on the first day of preschool.”
I gave her a quick hug. “Try not to pee,” she said and darted back along the sidelines. I peeked one more time to make sure Annie made it back to Mom. Tasha and Ricky were sitting together toward the back of the auditorium, Tasha leaning forward to talk with someone in the row ahead of her. My heart flopped again at the sight of them. Almost like she heard it, Tasha looked up toward the stage. She whispered something in Ricky’s ear, and the two of them tried to push their way out of the row of people finding their seats. The teacher at the end of the row gestured for them to get back, but it looked like Tasha was arguing with him.
“All right, crew!” called the theater teacher from the middle of the stage. “Remember your schedule and your time to go on stage. When you’re on deck and standing on the sidelines, know if you can see the audience, they can see you.”
A few seconds later, Principal Hendricks welcomed everyone to the show. The juggler took to the stage, only dropping one thing. Unfortunately, it was a plate. A janitor went across the stage with a wide broom to sweep up shards.
What are we even doing here? Brain demanded. Jackson and Sarah hate us. Kara is definitely up to something.
The juggler left the stage to a surge of applause and the trio of dancers made their way out. The cowgirl hat tap dancer took her spot on deck. The juggler passed by me, wiping the sweat from his forehead and laughing. “That was amazing!” he said.
Maybe this would be amazing. Maybe letting me continue being part of the show was Sarah and Jackson’s way of forgiving me for the open mic catastrophe.
Maybe Kara’s plan for Frau was as simple as she had said—to give her another chance to be on stage.
Maybe this whole thing with Sarah and Kara—maybe even with the eyebrow prank—had shown her a lesson. Maybe Kara was turning over a new leaf.
And maybe you’re a peacock and this is Mars.
Remember how I said I wasn’t nervous? That was a lie. I couldn’t seem to figure out what to do with my arms and legs. I looked around; Sarah and Jackson had said another performer would be on this side of the stage. Someone stepped out from the sidelines. Frau Jacobs.
Her usual smug smile was wiped from her face, and she seemed smaller, younger than I had ever seen her. “Nervous, Miss McGee?”
“I guess I am,” I said, nerves making me blubber. Maybe the nerves were behind not feeling the usual rush of hate that happened when I saw Frau Jacobs. Then again, I hadn’t felt that at all since I found out about her own humiliation when she had been a girl. “I’m, um, supposed to say something when my group comes out. I have five minutes and I thought I’d just, you know, come up with stuff. But now I’m kind of blanking.”
“You’re unprepared?” Frau Jacobs raised an eyebrow. “I thought preparation was a lesson I taught you well.”
Okay, yeah. Some of that shame was rushing right back to its familiar corners.
“I had an unfortunate experience on stage once,” she said. “It took forty years to get over.”
“This is the worst pep talk in the history of pep talks,” I said.
Frau Jacobs blinked. “I wasn’t giving a pep talk,” she said.
“I know,” I replied.
She tugged at the hem of her shirt. She was wearing a pink blouse that buttoned to the neck. When she shifted, I saw a darker splotch at her armpits. “I don’t know what I’m doing here.” Her face twisted, the smugness gone. Her hands drifted to just under her face and her chest rose and fell with quick breaths.
“It’s okay to be nervous,” I whispered.
Frau Jacobs shook her head. Her voice trembled as she said, “Can you believe I once wanted to be on stage all of the time? I was going to travel the world.”
“Oh,” I murmured.
“What’s done is done. That doesn’t matter,” Frau Jacobs said as though I had asked what had happened. “I hadn’t prepared. I hadn’t been ready to deal with the consequences of that lack of preparation or presentation.” She turned and looked at me full on. “I’ve dedicated my life to making sure no other girls are so unprepared. As female people, we have certain concerns, certain considerations that we must keep in mind. When we don’t, when we’re unprepared, the consequences can be… painful. Being here, doing this again, I thought it might be a chance at…” Both of us turned toward the stage at the sound of clapping. Frau Jacobs was up next. She clutched her stomach.
Something inside me tore, the edges as tattered as the ripped newsprint I had used to craft the wings. She wanted to be out there; I could tell. I remembered how Sarah had looked in that halo of light when she was at spoken word. Some people are meant to be on stage, and Frau Jacobs might be among those people.
But some people—ahem, Kara—only wanted to bring other people down. I wasn’t sure what she had planned for Frau in encouraging her to perform, but I knew it wasn’t good.
Principal Hendricks’s voice echoed across us. “Next up, welcome Frau Jacobs, who will be singing an aria from the opera Elektra!”
I touched Frau Jacobs’s hand. “You don’t have to go. I mean, I’m sure you could next year…”
A small smile on her face, Frau Jacobs said, “I don’t just sit and stare into the darkness.”
“Before I die, I want to live,” I whispered back.
A smile lit up her eyes. “You know Elektra?”
I swallowed. “I watched it on YouTube a few weeks ago, with subtitles. I’ve been listening to it, too, while I work on my wings.”
“Your wings?” she asked, but then the applause began.
Frau Jacobs squared her shoulders, tugged on her shirt hem again, and strode purposefully toward the spotlight as the applause continued.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
They’re going to applause and applause.
Annie’s words came back to me as I listened to the audience welcome Frau Jacobs. She centered herself in the spotlight, again tugging on her shirt hem, and pulled in such a deep breath that her shoulders fell back and her back arched. Her face set and her eyes closed for a moment as she prepared to begin her aria.
But the clapping didn’t pause.
I peeked behind the curtain. Mom, Dad, and Alec twisted in their seats to look out across the student section. So did most of the teachers, many of whom were calling on students to stop clapping. Annie sat up straight, staring toward where I was hidden.
Principal Hendricks stepped onto stage, a wobbly smile on her face. Over the ongoing applause, she leaned into the microphone and said, “What a warm reception! Now, let’s allow Frau Jacobs to perform.”
A lot of kids did stop clapping then, but many didn’t. And those who didn’t only seemed to clap louder. At the center of them, of course, was Kara, who slammed her hands together with a huge snake smile on her face. Just like the adults who were twisting in their seats to see why people were still clapping, so did the students. Soon, with wicked smiles, they also were clapping again. Laughter rippled across the auditorium, some kids clapping their hands in circles for a “round” of applause.
They’re going to applause and applause.
One minute ticked into two, into five, into ten. Still the kids clapped. Principal Hendricks again called for everyone to stop. She directed teachers to remove rowdy students. Some of the louder clappers were pulled from their seats and ordered into the hall by red-faced teachers. For a moment, it was silent.
Frau Jacobs began the opening of the aria. Her hands went t
o her sides, dipping and rising as she began the monologue, singing out what I knew was Elektra’s brother’s name. She pulled out the word, “Orestes,” rolling the r.
No one spoke or moved. Frau Jacobs was good. Who knew such beauty could bloom from one word? She continued the monologue, and soon her hands swept up over her head as her voice peaked and poured across the auditorium.
Everyone clapped again, their hands smashing together in applause. But again, it didn’t stop. The clapping rose and fell, rose and fell, as sections of the auditorium were swept up in it. It seemed like everyone in the student section was laughing, knocking into each other. The applause drowned Frau Jacobs’s powerful voice, seemed to crowd out the lyrics. Soon her voice dropped and she stood there alone in the spotlight, her eyes wide and confused.
She tried again, holding up a hand to stop Principal Hendricks from again coming onto stage. Her shoulders squared and her chest rose as another song took shape in her throat. But there it stayed. Another snippet of Elektra lyrics played in my mind, one where Elektra’s sister laments being a caged bird on a perch.
I glanced out at my family. Mom’s eyes were filled with tears, her hand holding Annie’s. Dad held his head in his hands. Alec sat straight in his chair, the set of his jaw the only indication of his anger. But, the students? Most of them weren’t even looking at Frau Jacobs, as if what they were doing had nothing to do with her. They were too busy egging each other on, clapping in each other’s faces and seeing who could whistle loudest.
Frau Jacobs’s arms fell to her sides. Her eyes slid across the auditorium. Then, in a rush, she turned and ran backstage.
Frau Jacobs rushed to the little bathroom near me. I heard her crying.
Congratulations. Isn’t this what you wanted? And then, jerk that it was, Brain supplied a memory—one of me on the first day of school, saying that so long as Kara, Sarah, and Frau Jacobs were crying in a bathroom, my revenge would be complete.
Hurt people hurt people. But when does it stop?
Principal Hendricks again strode out to the microphone. Her anger was fierce. “What has gotten into you all today? I am ashamed of your behavior!” Her lecture continued, but I barely heard it.
Because I was next. And, peeking out into the auditorium, I saw one face. Kara’s.
She was smiling back at me.
“Now,” Principal Hendricks said as quiet fell across the auditorium finally. Several more students had been pulled out of the auditorium by teachers. “We’re going to have one more go at showing true Northbrook Middle School pride. I refuse to take a moment to shine from the three students who are about to take the stage, and I expect—no, I demand—that you show them the respect they deserve.”
She forced one of those plasticky, not-going-to-budge-no-matter-what smiles and looked over at Sarah and Jackson, and then at me. She leaned back into the microphone and continued. “Now presenting Penelope McGee, Jackson Thorpe, and Sarah Trickle.”
Sarah darted forward from the offstage wing. A few people in the audience hooted. She slipped a piece of paper into Principal Hendricks’s hand and then rushed back to the side with Jackson. Principal Hendricks unfolded the paper, cleared her throat, and said, “The trio would like me to say they’ve been working on projects that reflect their truth.”
Yes! Sarah was going to read her poem! I stepped forward feeling lighter than I had all week.
From the other side of the stage, Jackson and Sarah emerged, pushing the wardrobe with the wings. The big black blanket, now bunched at the sides, still covered the wings. I glanced again out at my family. Annie waved. Eliza opened a door in the back and glided down the side of the auditorium. She picked up Annie and slid into the seat with her on her lap.
Jackson looked at me and then back over at Sarah. She motioned for me to go to the microphone.
I took a deep breath and stepped toward it.
For a moment, all I saw was the bright spotlight. But then I started to make out faces. Tasha leaned forward on her seat, sitting on her hands and sucking on her bottom lip the way she does when she’s nervous. Ricky, beside her, crossed his arms. He nodded at me and I breathed out. Flutter, flutter, flutter went silly Heart. Not the time, Brain ordered, on my side for once.
“So, I’m, um, Pipi McGee.” I swallowed. “And, uh, all year so far, Sarah and Jackson and I have been working on creating a club. A poetry club. But I’m not a poet.” I took another breath. “I’m an artist.”
Got anything? I asked Brain. Brain supplied cricket noises.
On the offstage wing, Principal Hendricks motioned for me to continue, the slip of paper from Sarah still in her hand.
“Like she said, these projects reflect our truth. Who we really are,” I said. “I made these wings.” I half turned to the side. Jackson raised an eyebrow to Sarah, who nodded, and then they began to tug at the blanket. I turned forward again. “I guess it’s sort of a poem. They show who I am, someone who wants to be more than…” I thought I saw a movement on the blackened side of the stage from which I had emerged. “… a caged bird on a perch. These wings are me.”
I heard the swoop as the fabric hit the stage floor. Then a gasping of breath. I closed my eyes, knowing what they were seeing. Wings, as long as me, stretching slightly upward, about to take flight. The newsprint layered over and over, shining like pearls due to the plaster.
And yet, I heard laughter. “I haven’t finished them yet,” I said, my eyes taking in faces, like Tasha’s and Ricky’s, with wide eyes and open mouths, and others, like Patricia’s and Wade’s, covering their mouths with their hands and giggling. “They’re a work in progress,” I said, remembering the conversation with Jason. “But all the blank space, it’s kind of, I don’t know, the point? It’s ready for me with whatever I figure out about myself.”
More laughter trickled throughout. Mom stood, her hands covering her mouth. Alec reached out toward her. Eliza winced. Dad closed his eyes.
I heard a clatter behind me. Slowly I turned around.
Jackson and Sarah weren’t on stage any more. Just my wings.
Scrawled across them, covering nearly every blank space, were words. LIAR was the biggest, written in thick red paint across the top. But all around them were more words, in different handwriting: Selfish. Ugly. Dork. Freak. Virus. Nose picker. PeePee. Pathetic. Gross.
There were more, covering every inch of my delicate wings. The wings dented in at the sides with the force people must’ve used to write on them. All the work I had done to make them bigger and bigger was just to provide a better canvas for everyone to mock me. Everyone in the class must’ve written why they hated me on the wings. Was that why Ricky had nodded? Not to encourage me but because he was, once again, in on it? Is that why Tasha tried to leave, so she could be first in line to write on my wings?
My heart thudded. Run, Brain ordered me. Run, run, runrunrunrun. And I nearly did. I almost ran offstage. But there was Frau Jacobs, half-hidden by the shadow. I turned back to my beautiful wings. LIAR screamed back at me.
“Enough,” I said. In my mind, I had shouted it, but it came out as a whisper.
Principal Hendricks stepped onto the stage, but I shook my head at her. “Enough!” This time, I had yelled.
I looked out over the audience. Ricky stood, gripping the back of the seat ahead of him, his face set in anger. Next to him, Tasha held her hands to her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. There’s no way they knew about this.
“I went into eighth grade with a list. A list of things that I was going to do to make up for problems that I couldn’t shake. Ones that trailed me since kindergarten. Such as, you know, drawing myself as bacon.”
Someone in the audience, probably Wade, screamed, “With boobs!”
“With boobs,” I agreed, and more people laughed. Amazingly, I even smiled. “And I thought to make up for that one, I needed to save other kids from being weirdos, the way I had been. To be more like the cool kids, you know, like…” I caught a glimpse of Kara, her snak
e smile a little smaller now. “I don’t have to say their names. You know who they are. But you know what? The weirdo kids are having a lot more fun.” Someone hooted in the audience. It was Jason, the high school kid. He saluted me, and I smiled.
“I worked through this list I made, trying to get revenge or redemption or whatever. And it worked,” I said. “Everything I wanted to happen, happened. I scratched every single thing off my list. But here I am.” I laughed. “And none of you want to be me right now.
“Hurt people hurt people. That’s something I learned this year. And I hurt a lot of people. But sometimes people don’t hurt others because they’ve been hurt. Sometimes they hurt other people because they’re mean. They’re simply mean.” I met Kara’s eyes full on, even as she glared back at me. “But here’s what I learned: it doesn’t matter.”
I pulled in a bigger breath, squaring my shoulders. I yelled. “It doesn’t matter. Enough!
“Enough of my body being a virus or a good luck charm. Enough of shame shirts and covering it up when someone else has a problem. Enough! I won’t feel shame when my body acts like a body.
“Enough of making my embarrassment your entertainment.”
A couple kids clapped at that, the loudest coming from Jason and his group of friends. One, a girl with spiky dark hair, jumped to her feet and raised her fist. A handsome black boy—I recognized him as last year’s class president—stood beside her.
Some people still smiled behind their hands or whispered to each other. Kara rolled her eyes to the people around her. It didn’t matter.
Like Sarah had said earlier in the year, something about having space to be heard matters. I wasn’t running from it. I owned it.
I glared right at Kara. “I figured something out this year: most of the stuff I carried, the humiliation—it wasn’t even about me. It was about you.” I pointed out to Kara and then the rest of the audience. “It didn’t matter who I was, so long as I wasn’t you.”
I glanced back at my wings. You know what? They were still beautiful. “Enough,” I said again, and this time it wasn’t a yell. “These wings? I worked hard on them. They aren’t attached to anything until I make them that way. They’re a work in progress.”