by Emily Asad
Chapter 11: The Fall Play
Statistic: Mothers with custody typically are more depressed, less supportive, and have decreased parental authority within the first two years after divorce.
Singing with Roger before bedtime soon became a routine. I even taught him one of my choir songs. He found out that I was interested in sign language, and he took the time to teach me the signs to that song. One day, I found myself unconsciously performing the movements while we were singing.
“What on earth are you doing?” snapped Naomi. “You look ridiculous.”
She had not bothered to keep her voice down, and she drew Mrs. Crofton’s attention. “What were you doing, Beverly?”
“Sign language,” I replied, kicking myself for being so careless.
She looked confused for a minute, as if considering some strange idea, and then her face burst into an unexpected smile. “That’s what the song was missing! It’s about unity, isn’t it? What better way to include everybody in music – deaf people alike – than to sign! Come down here and teach us. We’re going to do it in the performance.”
I balked in disbelief. Stand in front of the entire class and teach them to sign? She must be kidding!
Naomi rolled her eyes and glared at me. “Like deaf people go to music concerts,” she muttered.
I had no choice. Mrs. Crofton thought it was a great idea, and she loved to try new things. I shuffled to the front of the classroom and tried to hide behind the piano.
“Stand a little bit more up front. You’ll be leading this when we do it,” Mrs. Crofton instructed. She struck a chord, raised her hand, and said, “Go.”
As my peers sang, I signed along. I felt humiliated, and yet strangely in control. It was obviously something that Mrs. Crofton wanted everyone to know, and I was the one who would have to teach it. After I had done it full speed to the music, Mrs. Crofton had everyone sit down and watch me.
“Well, the first sign is the word ‘hand’ which you do like this.” I demonstrated. “Hand in hand we stand… all across the land…” Dozens of eyes were upon me, but not in their usual condescending manner. This time, they were watching me to learn. Naomi’s eyes, of course, were distant and cold. She only did the motions because it would have been an obvious absence if she refused. But the others seemed to really like it.
After a few minutes, Mrs. Crofton let me return to my place, and we sang a few more songs. But I was to work with the class for a few minutes each day until the concert, so that we could all do it simultaneously.
“And don’t forget our theme,” she said just before the bell rang. “Girls, if you don’t have a prom dress from last year, you need to buy or rent one. They’re usually around seventy-five dollars or so. Guys, be sure your tuxedos have cummerbunds. See you tomorrow.”
Prom dress? Mom never let me go to dances, much less to prom! And the only dress I owned was a church dress. A few skirts, a pair of slacks – but nothing that resembled prom wear. As for renting, I had just spent all my money on my horse. According to my mother, money didn’t grow on trees, which meant that when it was gone, it was gone. Renting a dress would be expensive – and probably impossible.
However, Mom and I seemed to be on good terms lately. I mentioned it to her when she got home. I guess I forgot that life has a way of balancing itself out – if things are going well in one area, they’re certain to bomb in another.
“I need to rent a prom dress for choir. It’s for the concert. I have three weeks to find one.”
“Okay. That’s fine.”
“It’s expensive – maybe sixty bucks or more.”
“We don’t have the money.”
“It’s not an option. This is for my grade. Mrs. Crofton said I can’t sing if I don’t have a dress.”
“So Mrs. Crofton can pay for your rental. The school shouldn’t make people pay money for their own grade. That’s wrong.”
The argument was going exactly as I imagined it, so I knew it was hopeless. I tried one last shot. “Well, can I borrow the money, at least? I can get some babysitting jobs and pay you back.”
“If I had the money, I’d give it to you,” she sighed. She began to rub her temples, a sure sign that she was in for a bad migraine. It was never a good time to talk to her when she had one of her headaches. “I’m starting to think that blowing our money on those horses was a bad idea. Maybe we can sell them. We haven’t had them for very long…”
“No! That’s not necessary,” I said hastily. “I’ll find some way. Somebody has to have an old one they’ll loan me.”
“I’m going to get an aspirin,” Mom said.
I didn’t know if she heard me or not, or if she was serious about selling my horses, or what she was thinking. Probably she would forget all about the dress anyway.
I called everyone I could think of. Sometimes, not having any friends is a bad thing, especially when it comes to borrowing clothes. Nobody would loan me theirs. I knew Naomi might – we were the same size, after all – but the idea of asking her for anything made me nauseous.
I also tried to get some babysitting jobs so I could earn the money myself, but each time I obtained one, Mom refused to give me a ride into town or pick me up when I was done. I could have driven myself, except that she also refused to lend the car to me. It was a vicious, never-ending circle. No money meant no dress, and no dress meant I could not sing. Mrs. Crofton was very clear about that. Last year, one of the girls showed up before the concert without their poodle skirt costume (it had been a 50’s theme) and wasn't allowed to sing. She got an F for the performance. I didn’t want to risk flunking, just because I couldn’t find a stupid prom dress!
The next day, at play rehearsal, the director noticed that I was not my usual self.
“What’s up? You look depressed.”
“Yeah. I’m supposed to have a fancy dress for the concert, and I can’t afford one.” I clamped my mouth shut. Did I just say that? Did I just admit my poverty? What was I thinking?
“Did you check the costume room? I’m sure there are plenty back there. Just be sure to sign it out if you take one. Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
I swallowed to keep that old lump from constricting my throat. “I… just didn’t expect it to be so easy…”
She smiled. “Don’t tell the other kids. I’d hate them to think they can just take costumes like that. But I know you’re responsible. You’ve worked hard at this play. I trust you.”
I grinned back at her. “I’ll return it as soon as I’m done. Thanks.”
“Break a leg, kid!”
That was her famous slogan – “Break a leg, kid.” You could hear it halfway down the hall if you listened hard enough. With the burden of the dress off my shoulders, I could focus on drama rehearsal once again.
The two weeks to opening night passed quickly. I took a couple tests, wrote a few stories, and spent countless hours with my horse. I think Gallant Rose knew my lines as well as I did. I practiced them often enough in front of her.
Finally, it came. Opening Night, that glorious culmination of six week’s daily painstaking rehearsals. The adrenaline levels were high in all of us.
As the audience filtered in and took their seats, I watched them from the curtained wings to see if Mom had arrived yet. The play began at seven o’clock, and I hadn’t yet gone home. I had stayed after school, doing my pancake makeup and one final run-through. I didn’t think she could have forgotten it, though – I talked about little else for the past six weeks. At breakfast she even talked about coming tonight – so I knew she couldn’t have forgotten.
I didn’t see her. That didn’t mean she wasn’t coming, though, so I withdrew from my hiding spot and took my place on stage.
The spotlight felt like a wall of white. I could feel the crowd beyond it, but I could not see past the wall. The music began, we did the first act, and then I darted out to the wing again while the second act began.
She still wasn't there! It wasn’t a
terribly large auditorium. I could see every seat, except for the balcony. Maybe she’s up there, I told myself encouragingly, but I knew it wasn’t true. She hadn't come. Something more important than I had stolen her attention yet again.
I wasn’t ready to admit defeat, though, and I continued to search. With a sudden shock, I heard one of the other actors say his line – twice – and I knew I had missed my cue. I rushed onto stage, angry with myself for being so careless, and picked up where he left off. He was good at covering for me, and the scene continued without any further problems.
When I finished that scene, I rushed back to my wing to scold myself. I wasn't the only one. The director was waiting for me.
“What happened? Did you go blank?”
“No. I was just looking for my mother. I don’t think she came.”
Her tone changed from abrupt to sympathetic. “Oh, honey. I’m sorry. Sometimes that happens. You just have to be sure to keep your mind focused on your job right now, though. You can feel angry at her later, okay?”
I nodded.
“I see it all the time,” she continued. “Opening Night is just one night. She has other chances. I’m sure something important kept her away.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, glancing around nervously.
She must have thought I didn’t believe her, because she kept trying to make me feel better. It wasn’t that – I had to get onto stage again, but it was rude to interrupt an adult.
The sudden silence onstage must have reminded her that I was not finished yet. She gasped in realization, and I darted out to join the others. They glared at me strangely, wondering what my problem was tonight, but were professional enough to wait until intermission.
The curtain fell, and I slinked away to a curtain-covered corner to nurse my wounds. Twice I had missed my cues, embarrassing the other actors, and it was all my mother’s fault! I slumped to the floor and held my forehead in my hands.
I would have stayed there, feeling sorry for myself, if it had not been for Luke, one of the minor actors, and a tenor from A Cappella. He was a year older than me, with dark hair to match his brown eyes. He was also my dancing partner for the upcoming concert.
“What happened to you out there?”
“My mom isn’t coming,” I mumbled.
“Mine never comes. I don’t let it get me down, though.”
“Well, mine promised she’d come. She always forgets.”
“You can’t stay out here forever. We have five minutes to get you back to being your perky, bouncy self. The audience deserves it. They came to see a gracefully inept ballerina, and they’re gonna get her, by golly.”
I looked up into his face. “Stop trying to cheer me up. It won’t work. I missed two cues.”
“So what? Come here. Let me show you something.”
He grabbed my hands and hauled me to my feet, and then began jumping up and down like an insane grasshopper.
“What are you doing,” I said flatly, staring at him.
“Come on, you gotta try this. It’ll make you feel better.”
“I’m not bouncing around like an idiot.”
“Just try it! It’s fun!”
It didn’t seem like he would be stopping his ridiculous hopping any time soon, so I thought, The sooner I join him, the sooner he’ll stop.
I hopped, slowly at first, but then higher and quicker. He set the pace. After a few seconds, he stopped jumping. “You look ridiculous,” he laughed.
I couldn’t resist. I laughed at myself – for looking ridiculous, and for missing two cues.
“Feel better?”
“Yeah. Thanks, Luke.”
He did his best director-imitation. “Break a leg, kid!”
I did just that. Not literally, of course, but I finished the play with more energy than I had ever given it before.
Mom did show up – at ten o’clock, an hour after the play was done. I sat outside the school, feeding myself self-pity and anger in order to keep my blood circulating against the frigid November evening.
“What happened tonight?” I asked through clenched teeth, slamming the door shut with way too much force.
Mom shrugged. “I have a headache. Keep the noise down.”
“I thought you said you were coming to my play.”
“There are other nights. I haven’t missed it yet.”
“But tonight was special. It’s Opening Night. You could have at least sent a rose or a card or something.”
“We can’t afford that sort of thing. Roses die anyway.”
“We can afford a four-dollar ticket, though, right? Tell me you at least bought a ticket.”
She turned the windshield wipers on to dust away the falling snowflakes.
“Mom, I can get you a free ticket – a Parent’s Pass. You can come see me for free if we don’t have the money.”
“We can afford a four-dollar ticket,” she snapped. “We’re not that poor.”
“So you’ll be there tomorrow?”
“We’ll see. You should be thankful that I let you do this in the first place.”
I stared out the window at the swirling snowflakes. They were beautiful against the black night. It was cozy and warm in the car. I tried to focus on the applause we had received. It was a nice sound. It had even gone up in volume as I took my bow, signaling the audience’s pleasure with my role. I had done well. I wanted Mom to know that – for herself.
Tomorrow came, and the day after that, and our final three performances. She missed them all. And she didn't even apologize.