by Dani Jansen
The curtain came up fifteen minutes after the show was supposed to start, but still it seemed too soon.
The first thing I noticed was that the lighting cues were on time! I sniffed Sam’s hair. He gave me a weird look, and I couldn’t blame him, but I was happy that for once his wavy, blond mop smelled like regular, unwashed boy hair. Sam was sober.
The next thing I noticed was that by the end of Act 1, no one had flubbed a line or lost a prop. It was the first time I’d seen the actors run a whole act without missing a mark or forgetting a line.
Partway through the second act, I could take full breaths for the first time in days. Mr. Evans had come onstage, he’d played the swaggering fool, and the audience had laughed, but in a way that was appropriate to the character. The awkward love scenes were still ahead of us, but at least the shock of his first appearance was over.
As we prepared for intermission, the last thing I noticed was how natural Jack and Charlotte looked onstage. I’d almost forgotten how much they both loved acting. They were playing characters, but they seemed more themselves than I’d ever seen them. I vibrated with pride and excitement.
During intermission, Becca and Annie came over to the lighting booth. They looked as shocked and pleased as I felt. My grandmother would have said they were both wearing shit-eating grins. On top of everything else that had gone well, Becca and Annie had discretely moved platforms between acts, and I wanted to thank them. But before I could say anything, we had an influx of new audience members. Since our ushers had left as soon as the show started, Becca, Annie, and I tore tickets and directed people to take seats. I caught snippets of conversation and gathered that the Otters had already lost the game. I was pleased that the actors would have a proper audience for the last two acts. I wanted witnesses to this miracle.
The curtain came up. Within seconds, people snickered as Mr. Evans lounged in Titania’s bower, his ass head sliding on his shoulders every time he shifted. Okay, I thought, it’s supposed to be a funny scene. They can laugh. But the quality of the laughter had changed. This was not how a friendly audience sounded.
The next thing I noticed was one of the fairies waving at someone in the audience. I wanted to strangle the twit, but I didn’t have time to build a full steam of anger because Charlotte had just lost her shoe. Unable to take the time to put her shoe back on, the queen of the fairies hobbled around the stage, shoe in hand. The snickers got louder. I wanted to strangle most of the audience now, but Charlotte acted as if she didn’t notice. Head high and shoulders square, she finished the scene before hobbling offstage.
By now, though, the other actors must have noticed the shift in the audience because they started stepping on each other’s lines. They were nervous. They rushed and cut their eyes sideways to watch friends’ reactions. That did them no good. This was a crowd of people who’d gone out for a night of violent sport. They’d been conditioned to enjoy disasters, to cheer for fouls, and to revel in mistakes. They were happy any time the actors messed up and were bored during the brief moments when things were going okay.
Jack mustered all the dignity he could to deliver Puck’s famous last speech, but then a bozo in the audience made a loud crack about the “Chinese fairy.” Jack froze. Becca marched over to the heckler, pointed at the caf doors, and stared at him until he got up. Just before she closed the door on him, I heard her say, “By the way, he’s Korean, you dumbass.” She looked back at the stage, ignoring everyone who had turned around to get a good look at the commotion. She looked so formidable that the audience was silent for the first time since intermission. Becca ignored everyone else and smiled directly at Jack. He seemed to find some new resolve. He stood up straighter than ever and commanded the attention of everyone in the room. He promised the audience he would make amends, but we all knew there was nothing anyone could do to make up for this disaster of a play.
The cast came forward for their curtain call, and as I heard the sound of loud guffaws and sporadic applause, I thought, “Yeah, that’s about right.” Some of the family members and friends in the audience rose for the obligatory standing ovation, but even their applause was half-hearted. The show had, as Annie predicted, been a complete disaster. But when I looked at that stage, at the gaggle of misfits standing there—Mr. Evans trying to bow while holding his ass head; the fairies giggling and waving at parents; Ben standing stone-faced and square-shouldered; Jack taking a small, dignified bow; Charlotte flushing with pleasure or embarrassment or a mix of both of them—I felt nothing but pride. I whooped until my throat hurt and clapped until my hands went numb. I clapped longest and loudest, though Annie and Becca did their best to keep up. Becca even hooted, “Yay, Jack!” When he smiled at her, my slow, dumb brain finally connected the dots. Jack was the guy Becca had been tutoring in math. I checked her with my hip and she ducked her head; she knew that I knew. I clapped even harder.
That ragtag group of actors had done it. They’d gone out there and made fools of themselves and would do it again tomorrow night, even Jack and Ben and Charlotte, who knew the audience wasn’t with them. To take a strange piece of fiction and tell some truth with it was a beautiful act of transformation, even if it was also ridiculous. And to be honest with strangers about a vulnerable part of you was an act of courage I could appreciate more than ever.
I kept clapping as the actors left the stage. Charlotte was the last to go, and I could have sworn that just as she exited stage left, she winked at me.
CHAPTER 42
I’d like to say that the show got better. But that would be an epic lie. We never got back to those magical moments of the first two acts on opening night. We didn’t even get close. I therefore assumed that after closing night, everyone would just want to go home and lick their wounds. But no. These loveable weirdos were genuinely excited about their cast party. They were buzzing about it as they changed out of their costumes for the very last time.
I wasn’t sure if the crew traditionally went to the “cast” party. What was the etiquette? If we weren’t invited, should I host something? While we were cleaning up discarded programs, I asked Becca what she thought. She said, “I don’t know. Jack invited me, but maybe that’s because we’re, you know.”
“Dating?” I teased.
She rolled her eyes at me. After opening night, I’d interrogated Becca about Jack almost as thoroughly as my mother would have. When did she start talking to him? Were they dating or just friends? Were they going to prom together? She’d acted casual at first, like it was no big deal, but eventually revealed that Jack had called her after the disastrous “date.” He felt bad about how rude he’d been to her when he just left the diner, and he wanted to apologize. She couldn’t stay silent on the phone, so she’d been forced to talk to him. Their conversation started out being about how infuriating I was, but then they’d talked about the play and school. He eventually asked for her help with math, and things had “progressed” from there. I refrained from crowing, “So I did make you two fall in love!” Maybe I was learning some things. I was going to apply some of my new wisdom to the cast party question. While Old Alison would have consulted the Red Binder or agonized over finding a subtle way to ask without asking, New Alison went to find Jack after the show. He was speaking to his parents, who were both beaming with pride.
“Hello Mr. and Mrs. Park! Wasn’t Jack great?”
Jack ducked his head in embarrassment as his parents both nodded their heads. “Yes, he was,” Mrs. Park said. “You also did a fabulous job, Alison. Your mother has been telling me all about how busy you’ve been with the show. Congratulations!”
It was my turn to feel embarrassed by the praise. “Thanks,” I said. I was tempted to apologize for the poor lighting (Sam had been sober only the one night) and the bit in Act 3 when one of the actors skipped an entire section of dialogue, but I stopped myself. They’d gotten to see Jack shine in a starring role. That’s all that mattered. “Jack, when yo
u get a minute, can I ask you something?”
Mr. Park put on his jacket and said, “We’re heading out. We know there’s a big party tonight, and we don’t want to keep you from it.” He smiled at Jack. “Make sure you lock the door when you come in.” Mr. Park patted Jack on the back, and Mrs. Park hugged first Jack then me.
When they were gone, Jack asked, “What’s up?”
I took another chance on honesty. “Do you happen to know if the crew members are invited to the cast party?”
“Of course!” he said without hesitation.
“Great! No one told us much about it, so we weren’t sure,” I explained.
“Weird. Everyone probably just assumed someone else invited you. I’ll text you the address. I just need to grab my phone from the dressing room.”
I thanked Jack and texted Annie, Zach, and Jenny to let them know we were all invited to the cast party. I told them I’d have an address for them soon and could even give everyone a lift if they wanted. My parents had seen the show last night, and they must have felt sorry for Annie and me because they’d offered us the use of Mom’s car again tonight.
I was tidying up in the wings when I heard someone clearing his throat. I turned around to see Ben looking mighty uncomfortable. “Do you, uh, need any help or anything?” he asked.
I was confused about what was happening. Ben gestured at the boxes of props. I opened my mouth to say I had everything under control, but then it dawned on me that he was trying to be nice. This was new territory for us both. “I guess you could help Zach organize the costumes.”
Ben cleared his throat again. “Zach told me I should come help you.”
Why on earth would Zach do this to me? I wondered. I mean, it’s fine if you want to make Ben work a little bit to get back in your good graces, but why drag me into this?
I stared at Ben. He stared at me.
The silence got to him just a millisecond before it got to me. “I think Zach wants me to, you know, thank you.” Ben cringed and buried his hands deep in his pockets. He looked more awkward with every passing moment.
“Oh.” Now I was uncomfortable. I rearranged props in the box in front of me. I fluffed up some flower crowns while I wondered if I should say “You’re welcome.” It’s not like I’d just passed him some salt at the dinner table. Do you say “You’re welcome” for helping someone come out?
“So do you need some extra muscle to lift things or something?” Ah, there was the old macho Ben I was used to.
“Could you take those boxes to the storage room please?” I pointed at a couple Rubbermaid totes. They weren’t heavy, and I could easily have taken care of them myself, but it was the least awkward way I could think of to acknowledge his thanks. Ben stacked the totes on top of each other and picked them up.
I don’t know which of us was more relieved that he had an excuse to leave.
I was about to text Becca about this bizarro encounter when my phone buzzed. Jack had sent me the address for the cast party. No wonder I didn’t know about it.
Becca was giving Jack a lift to the party. Since I wasn’t going to ruin their alone time by asking if Annie, Zach, and Jenny could tag along, I was stuck driving to a party I knew I couldn’t attend. I told myself that this was Jenny’s first high- school party and I was helping her make friends. She was as happy as I’d ever seen her, glowing from all the praise her set had garnered. How could I ruin that for her? And how could I deny Zach a chance to spend time with his boyfriend, even if his boyfriend was Ben? Plus, I’d never hear the end of it from Annie if she didn’t get to go to the cast party. So that’s how I ended up outside Charlotte’s house on closing night.
I tried to be nonchalant when the others opened their doors. “Text me when you’re ready to leave, and I’ll come get you.” I attempted to sound breezy.
Annie and Zach were confused. “You’re not coming?” Annie asked me, one leg out the passenger’s-side door.
“I don’t think I should.”
“Why not?” Jenny was as blunt as always.
“I don’t think the host meant to invite me,” I explained. Charlotte may have winked at me, but that didn’t mean she wanted me in her house. Did it?
Jenny closed her door. “I’m not going without you,” she declared.
A moment later, Annie and Zach closed their doors. “Neither am I,” Zach said, catching my eye in the rearview mirror.
“You kept that shit show together. They wouldn’t be having a party if it wasn’t for you. I’ll text Becca. Let’s go get burgers.” This was maybe the nicest thing Annie had ever done for me, and I started to cry.
We sat in the car, waiting to hear from Becca. Annie and Jenny pretended not to see me cry. Zach passed me his pocket square and patted my shoulder. I wiped at my eyes, touched beyond words.
By the time I’d stopped crying and Annie had turned on some music, the front door of the house opened. In the light of a stylish sconce, I saw my best friend’s curly head appear. She was followed by someone with much shorter hair. I swallowed.
I resisted the instinct to escape, to press my foot to the floor and gun the car out of there. Instead, I forced myself to turn off the engine and get out of the car. Annie, Zach, and Jenny followed my lead.
Becca spoke first. “Don’t be stupid. Come in to the party.”
Annie, Zach, and Jenny looked at me. I was touched again by their loyalty. I trusted my best friend, so I nodded at them. Becca smiled at me and walked in with them.
Then it was just me and Charlotte. In her driveway. I remembered our first date and wished Princess Sunshine would come barreling out and cause a distraction. I looked at my shoes. I could hear the bass line of a dance song coming from inside the house, though I couldn’t make out the tune.
“I can just come back to pick them up later,” I tried. “I’m sorry for…God, I’m sorry for so many things, Charlotte.”
My hand was on the latch of the car when she said, “What things?”
She could have meant the question as an accusation, but I thought it sounded more like an opening. I took it. “I’m sorry I pushed you away. I’m sorry I made it sound like it was your fault I failed a quiz. I’m sorry I got so caught up in the play and school that I was rude to you when you were only ever nice to me.”
“And what about the corgis?”
“The corgis?” I was so confused that I finally looked her in the eye.
There was that quirked smile, the one I still couldn’t entirely read. The one that was always challenging me to see the humor in things. I took a chance. “I already apologized for making fun of corgis. I won’t do it again. Princess Sunshine is a good boy, but I stand by my position on the breed as a whole.”
Charlotte laughed, took a step forward, and kissed me.
EPILOGUE
Essay question: Give an example of a time you took on a leadership role. Were you successful in the role? If you were, why? If you weren’t, why not?
I produced our school play this year. I thought it was the kind of leadership role that would look good on scholarship applications like this one. I also thought it might help me become valedictorian. Little did I know how complicated it would be and how much heartache would follow. In hindsight, I’m happy I didn’t know because I might not have agreed to produce it. And producing this show has taught me more than I can tell you, though I’m about to try.
First, I learned to accept imperfection, both in myself and others. I don’t think I’ll ever stop being driven or competitive, but I now know that if I stumble along the way, it won’t break me. Maybe you want your scholarship students to excel at everything they try, but I can tell you I’m stronger now than I was before. Part of the reason is, I understand that disappointments are a part of life, even if we don’t welcome them. I’ve learned that if I feel let down now and then by not meeting my own expectations, I won’t fall apar
t. I know that I can work hard and find creative solutions to problems.
So, was I successful as a leader? In unexpected ways I think I was. I did help a quiet and detached painter find an outlet for her art. I’d say that was a success. I also helped a former foe feel comfortable enough with himself to speak his truth. I can’t really take the credit for his finding the courage to do that, but the confidence and happiness he gained still felt like a success to me. My greatest successes as a leader involved giving other people opportunities to grow. My own success is pretty small by comparison: The show went on and I did the best I could with what I had. In the end, I guess that mattered too.
As for my failures as a leader? There were several, but I’ll focus on the big one. Instead of being up-front, I avoided conflict and embarrassment. I wanted people to think I had everything under control. To maintain this facade, I lied to my best friend. I hurt my sister’s feelings by running away instead of just facing an awkward situation. I almost ruined my first real relationship by getting angry with my girlfriend instead of addressing my fear of failure. I’m grateful to everyone who forgave me, especially my girlfriend, who taught me not to care so much about what others think of me.
I don’t know if I’ll be chosen as valedictorian or not, but it doesn’t matter to me as much as it once did. It would be an honor to represent my classmates at our graduation, but I no longer see that honor as defining who I am. I know what I’m capable of, and I promise that if you award me a scholarship, you will not be sorry. I’ve learned to value hard work for its own sake, not just as a way to show off. I can’t say it better than Shakespeare: “Things won are done; joy’s soul lies in the doing.”