by Dani Jansen
I nodded. If I’d learned nothing else from listening to my parents talk about their work, I knew that when you were under cross-examination, you should keep your answers short.
My mother looked at my sister, and I chanced a quick look her way. Annie’s mouth was hanging open.
“You know, the body shop said the dent looked a lot like a basketball had hit the car.” My mother paused and looked from me to Annie, hoping to draw one of us out through silence. It didn’t work. She turned her gaze back to me. “You don’t own a basketball, Alison.”
It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t know if I had to say anything. It felt like a trap, but I didn’t see how a simple confirmation could hurt anything. “No, I don’t.”
Mom looked first at me, then at Annie. Her tone remained eerily calm. “But Annie owns a basketball.” Annie’s eyes widened, the dark eyeliner making the whites of her eyes even whiter. I prayed she wouldn’t crack.
That’s when we got unexpected reinforcement. “But the repair shop wasn’t sure what caused the dent, were they?” Dad asked, his voice steady and composed.
Mom nodded her head slowly. “True.”
“So it could have been a backpack, as Alison said,” he continued, his long hands folded in his lap. Annie and I watched them closely, looking for clues about how this was going to play out. The problem with parents who are lawyers? They have excellent poker faces.
“Yes.” Mom’s answer was terse, but she didn’t seem angry.
“Why would Alison lie about this?” Dad asked. The question was directed at my mother, but he looked at me. They both looked at me. I knew that they’d long suspected Annie was responsible for the dent. Without any proof, though, my mother had dropped the matter after a few failed interrogations.
“Exactly! Why would I say I did it if I didn’t?” They both studied me a moment longer, then my mother nodded. She was accepting my story, not because she believed it, but because I was insisting she accept it.
“All right. For starters, you’re grounded. No social outings for the next two weeks.” Mom had transitioned from lawyer to judge. I tried to look contrite, hoping I might manage to commute my sentence if my mother believed I felt guilty. “You’re also going to be washing and waxing my car.”
I waited. This couldn’t be it. But when my mother took a sip of her red wine and then went back to eating supper, I knew it was over. I slumped a little in my chair, relieved that the punishment wasn’t worse, but even more relieved that I’d gotten away with the lie.
“That’s it?” Annie asked, incredulous.
“Alison admitted to something she could have gotten away with. I appreciate her honesty,” Mom explained. Annie blushed, probably because she knew Mom still suspected she was guilty. “Do you think she should be punished more harshly?”
“No,” Annie mumbled as she inspected the half-eaten lasagna on her plate.
“Then the matter’s closed.” Mom took another sip of wine, and Dad picked up his fork.
We finished eating supper. Dad tried to start up another conversation, but it was apparent no one else was much in the mood for talking. I cleared the table and started dish duty without complaint. When Annie packed her own dishes away in the dishwasher, I hoped it was a sign that she was thawing. After all, she could have just left her stuff on the table, as she usually did when it was my turn to clear the table. It was a small gesture, but I held on tight to it as I texted Charlotte to explain I was grounded and wouldn’t be able to go out that weekend after all.
CHAPTER 33
Jenny was drawing daggers and skulls on her left hand in black ink. Becca was watching Jenny and probably wondering, as I was, what she would do when she ran out of space on her hand. Zach was playing with the zipper on his jacket and checking his phone. I was mostly watching the door.
“Can we get started?” Jenny asked. She capped her pen, her hand a massive scrawl.
I’d kept everyone waiting for fifteen minutes in the hopes that Annie would show up for our production meeting. I had to let that hope go.
“Yes,” I agreed. Zach tucked his phone away in his black skinny jeans, and Becca dug a folder out of her bag. “Becca, why don’t you show us what your father’s been working on?”
“Sure.” Becca laid out a series of pages covered in meticulous measurements and drawings. “My father is building these moveable pieces for our set. He worked off your designs, Jenny.” Jenny grunted in acknowledgment.
We all looked at the drawings. None of us knew much about building things, but the plans looked professional. We shuffled through the pages, pretending to understand what we were looking at and making vague sounds of approval as Becca texted. The upward twitch of her mouth made me wonder if there was something more to the boy she was “just tutoring,” but I didn’t have a chance to do more than register it as a vague possibility.
“Sorry I’m late.” Annie stood in the doorway, her bag hanging off one shoulder like a question. She didn’t come in any farther. I grinned at her, genuinely happy to see her, not just because I needed a prop master but also because this meant my sister had forgiven me. Annie quirked her mouth, not quite smiling, but not not smiling either.
Jenny, of course, didn’t pick up on the tender sisterly moment. She said, “You kept us all waiting.”
Annie smiled properly then. “Sorry, Jenny. I won’t let it happen again.”
Jenny rolled her eyes, her heavily mascaraed eyelashes exaggerating the movement. “Whatever.”
Annie walked into the room, stood beside me, and looked at the pages. “These look good.”
Becca nodded. “Yeah, Dad spent a lot of time on these. He’s already started building a few of the smaller pieces in our garage. Mom’s not so thrilled that he’s putting off repainting the bathroom, but he’s so happy that she’s letting it go.” Becca gathered the pages and tidied them into a stack before tucking them back into the folder.
“Great!” I said, clapping my hands together like Mr. Evans. Things were back on track, and I felt optimistic, even if it was a bit worrying that Mr. Evans was rubbing off on me. “What about you, Zach? Any progress on the alterations?”
“Yes and no.” Zach rubbed his jaw and I noticed a hint of stubble.
“Why ‘no?’” I asked.
“I need to buy some fabric, Al.” Zach looked at the ceiling as he said this. I felt embarrassed for not realizing sooner that my team was running without funds.
Jenny, of course, decided to pile on. “And I need money for paint. Ms. James can’t donate any more art supplies.”
“Right.” I thought about digging out the Red Binder, but it would just be a stalling tactic. “About the money.” I took a breath. “We’re having a hard time getting any ad revenue.”
“Why?” Jenny asked. No beating around the bush with her.
“Well, there seems to be some kind of theater mafia in town,” I mumbled.
Zach snorted. “What?”
The funny story didn’t seem so funny anymore. It seemed ridiculous, like something a desperate producer would make up to avoid admitting she hadn’t managed to raise any money. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and showed everyone the blocked number, as if that was proof that my story was true. “I don’t know if it’s a mafia exactly,” I started. I paused, trying to think how I could make the story sound believable. “I got this kinda threatening phone call from the Upstage Players and…” I petered off.
Becca tried to help me. “Yeah. My father said a bunch of business owners he knows have been vague about why they won’t buy ads from us.”
Jenny looked outright skeptical. Zach seemed confused, his head tilted a little to the side. Annie watched us all; I couldn’t tell what she was thinking.
“I know it sounds crazy.” It did sound crazy. What else was there to say?
Jenny’s eyes bored into me. Zach still looked like he
was trying to follow what I was talking about. I could feel myself blushing at his pity and Jenny’s contempt. I looked away from them. Annie was chewing on her thumb, a habit we’d both inherited from our mother.
Annie finally broke the silence. “Didn’t Mr. Evans used to be part of the Upstage Players?”
Zach snapped his fingers. “Yes! He was in that ridiculous production of Little Women, where half the sisters were played by men in drag.” This sounded familiar. I hadn’t been involved with the drama department back then but I did remember some people from school making a big fuss about a teacher cross-dressing in a play.
Jenny, ever helpful, decided this was the moment she should chime in. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Annie, unlike her big sister, was not afraid of Jenny. She looked Jenny straight in the eye. I noticed they were almost exactly the same height. Annie explained, “Maybe Mr. Evans could talk to the Upstage Players for us. Or at least explain what’s happening.”
It wasn’t much to go on, but it was all we had. I grabbed hold of the hope Annie offered. “I’ll ask Mr. Evans what he thinks after rehearsal tomorrow. In the meantime, can you all try to make do with what we have?”
Zach, Annie, and Becca nodded. We all looked at Jenny. Outnumbered, she conceded. “Whatever. Fine.” Without another word to the rest of us, she threw her bag over her right shoulder and stomped out of the room. Annie and Becca snickered. I prayed I wouldn’t have to smooth things over with her. Again. All these artistic types were going to be the end of me.
CHAPTER 34
At lunch, I watched Charlotte running lines. Not all artistic types were so high maintenance. Some could even see past a person’s bumbling exterior to the cool, sensitive, and funny person underneath. (Okay, I didn’t see it either, but Charlotte insisted I was all those things. I wasn’t about to argue with my ultra-cool and sexy girlfriend over something so silly as self-esteem.)
The Red Binder lay forgotten in my lap. I’d been searching for tips on how to run a show on a shoestring budget. Or how to cope with mafia threats. The closest I’d come was a page at the end entitled When to Call It Quits. The advice was sound. For once. “Not all shows make it to the stage. Some shows can’t seem to raise enough audience interest or money. Others suffer from artistic differences. Yet others succumb to romantic dramas within the cast. A director needs to know when to call it quits.” Our show had generated very little buzz, despite the gossip spreading about the unitards. We were out of money, and our male lead was heartbroken. At first, the sniffly and red-eyed king of the fairies had been entertaining to watch. But now he was just pathetic. Still, we limped along. I wasn’t sure why. It was like Puck had sprinkled love potion on Mr. Evans’s eyes, and the ass that was our play looked like a beautiful fairy to him.
At this exact moment, though, I didn’t care. I didn’t care that I was in charge of what might potentially be the worst school play in the history of all school plays. Because my girlfriend, the Charlotte Russell, was practicing her lines, and she looked just like a nervous little kid at a spelling bee, while still emanating cool. Her movements had a feline quality—long-limbed and graceful. But something in her face, something maybe only a girlfriend would notice, told me she didn’t feel the confidence she was trying to exude. If only she could borrow some of the confidence I had in her, she would be unstoppable.
I thought for a half-second about the math quiz I had to take after lunch. I knew I should study some more, but watching Charlotte was just too mesmerizing. I knew how soft those full lips were and how blue those eyes looked in the sun. I knew how much she loved her little sister and Princess Sunshine, even when they were both getting underfoot. I knew how much she worried about freezing onstage, which is why she ran lines every lunch and most evenings. And I knew she liked me, though I still didn’t understand why.
When Becca found us in a quiet corner of the library and asked to borrow my chem notes, I wanted her to feel some of what I was feeling. I whispered to Becca, “You should ask Jack out.”
Becca stopped flipping through my notes. She didn’t think to whisper. “What?” she asked at full volume.
Charlotte was so engrossed in her practice that she hadn’t noticed Becca. Still, I tried to keep my voice down out of respect for her process and also so as not to embarrass Becca. “You should ask Jack out. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Becca glanced over at Charlotte, who was reading some tricky lines over and over to herself. Reassured that Charlotte wasn’t listening, she answered me, “Total humiliation. Heartbreak.”
“Okay, that would be pretty bad,” I admitted. “But would it be that much worse than how you feel now when you see him?” I thought back to just a few weeks ago when the very sight of Charlotte hurt in a place so deep it didn’t even feel like it could be part of my physical body.
“Yes, it would,” Becca said matter-of-factly.
“Then what about that guy you’ve been tutoring? You can’t tell me you aren’t just a little into him.”
She pointed at me. “You’re not allowed to intervene in my love life anymore, remember?” She handed back my chemistry binder. “You’re missing some notes.”
“I am?” I asked. I flicked through the pages. “I was kinda distracted last week with play stuff. I guess I’ll have to borrow notes from someone else.”
Becca cocked her head. She moved to leave, but then turned back and sat down beside me. “Not that I don’t think you deserve to have some fun for once, but are you maybe neglecting your schoolwork?”
“I guess I’ve been busy with Charlotte and the play, but I can catch up,” I reassured Becca.
Becca stood up, her long fingers splayed on the table. “Okay.” She paused. “Just. Well, you’ve wanted to be valedictorian since you found out what the word meant. Which, by the way, was weirdly early. I guess I just don’t want to see you let the play get in the way of that.”
I nodded in acknowledgment, and Becca left for real this time. I was touched that she was worried about me, but I knew I’d be fine. Thanks to mono, I’d missed three whole weeks in Grade 9 and still aced all my exams. So I could handle catching up after the play was over. And Becca was right: I deserved to have a little fun.
The bell rang and Charlotte packed her copy of the play away in her bag. She walked over to me and tilted my head up so she could kiss me. I felt a jolt of electricity course through me. I wondered vaguely if that feeling would ever go away. I hoped not, even if it left me a bit shaky. “We better get to class,” she whispered. I nodded, though I wanted to stay here all afternoon. Even the neon lights in the library couldn’t make Charlotte any less beautiful. Charlotte pulled on my arm. “Come on, slowpoke.”
I followed her out of the library, my brain a little sluggish with love and, if I was being honest, lust.
The math quiz was a blur. I couldn’t answer about half the questions, but I told myself it was just a quiz. I’d catch up before the unit test.
CHAPTER 35
Our Bottom was floundering. He was supposed to be a pompous jackass, but he was only pulling off the ass part, mostly because of a braying laugh that seemed to get worse the more nervous he felt. The actor, a junior with mousy brown hair, had no swagger. It wasn’t funny watching a stuttering, awkward, pimply teen play a windbag. It was painful. And our Bottom knew it. You could see it in his eyes and in the way that he glanced at the clock every few seconds. Even worse, you could hear it in that awful laugh.
“Let’s try that again,” Mr. Evans said with more patience than I could have mustered if I were him. This was the fifth time they were running the same short scene. “Remember, your character is offering to play all the parts in the show, that’s how confident he is. He’s an idiot, but he doesn’t know it.” The problem was, our Bottom couldn’t hide the fact that he knew his character was an idiot and that he was an idiot for taking the part. Most of the other ac
tors avoided eye contact with him by pretending to study their lines. The ones who were in the scene with him found an excuse to get a sip of water or tie their shoelaces.
Bottom nodded his head at Mr. Evans’s directions, jaw clenched.
They started the scene again. If possible, it was even worse this time. Bottom’s nervousness was contagious. The other actors in the scene flubbed lines they’d had down pat only twenty minutes earlier. A few of them even flinched when Bottom laughed. Why, oh why, did his laugh have to sound like a donkey braying?
Halfway through the scene, Bottom stopped. He stood frozen for so long that the actor playing Quince tried cueing him again. Nothing. He tried the cue once again. Instead of saying his line, Bottom whispered, “I’m done.” We all watched as he silently gathered his stuff and walked out of the room. We turned to Mr. Evans, who was now as frozen as Bottom had been.
When Mr. Evans remained quiet, the actors looked at me, like I would know what to do when an actor quit the show with only a couple of weeks to opening night. I had to try something, so I asked Mr. Evans, “Should I go after him?”
Mr. Evans shook his head. “No. When you’ve been in show business as long as I have, you know when an actor doesn’t have it in him. I was hoping I could help him find his inner thespian, but sometimes the Muses just won’t come to us.” Mr. Evans seemed oddly calm, especially given that we had no understudies.
After a few more moments of awkward silence, Jack spoke up. “Um, Mr. Evans, what should we do now?”
“That is the question we must always be asking ourselves,” Mr. Evans answered cryptically. Jack looked at me, and I shrugged my shoulders. I didn’t know if our director just needed a little time to process or if he was having a nervous breakdown. I’d always assumed that if Mr. Evans did lose it, it would be in a grand, dramatic style. When I’d pictured telling him just how broke we were, I imagined him needing to sit down because he felt faint. Or maybe shouting and throwing things. I never imagined him getting quiet. It was a bit scary.