by Nancy Moser
Any excuses she might have used broke away like a magnet yanked from its bond.
The professor rocked back in his chair. He clasped his hands across his torso and smiled. “Gotcha, didn’t I?”
It felt good to smile. “Yes, you did.”
“Let’s dissect this a bit.” He held up the four fingers again. “One: stupidity. The truth is very few people are incapable of learning. True, it’s harder for some, but stupidity is usually an excuse used by those who should be claiming reason number two: laziness. A person can achieve most anything through work. Nothing can be achieved through laziness, and dreams die. ‘The sluggard craves and gets nothing, but the desires of the diligent are fully satisfied.’”
Vanessa’s mother had mentioned the necessity for work. About dreams being null and void without it.
“Reason number three: distraction. Distractions are as inevitable as death and taxes. There is always something else to do, someone else needing your attention. The pull of the world can be defined by its distractions. Handle it.”
He balanced an index finger on his pinky finger. “Finally, four: apathy. The most insidious of the four deadly excuses. Indifference is a cancer that will spread from one corner of your life to another. Apathy is the essence of stupidity and produces laziness, which makes you too weak to fend off a total immersion in distractions until they nibble away at what’s left of your life, making you curl into a ball and die.” He lifted his hands and let gravity drop them into his lap. “There you have it. The fate of a person who offers excuses.”
The room fell silent. Professor Harler was looking at her. Waiting. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“Excellent.”
“What?”
“If I’ve rendered you mute then I’ve stated my case well, because there are no acceptable excuses for your grades, Miss Pruitt. Your grades are your choice. How you attain the grade you want will vary from teacher to teacher, but the point is, you are in control, and sink or swim, it’s your responsibility.” He leveled her with a look. “No one else’s.”
The insinuation made her wonder if her father had contacted him before.
His voice softened. “Here’s the key to doing well in my class, in college, and in life: ‘Be strong and do the work.’ Actually, there are enough assignments and tests left to turn this thing around—though it’s best to remember this is not always the case. Time can run out.” He stood. “Will there be anything else, Miss Pruitt?”
That about covered it.
The door to the dorm room swung open and Connie and a girlfriend burst inside, dancing and singing “Jive Talking.” Two hustle steps in and they pulled up short. “Vanessa, what are you doing?”
Vanessa turned around in the desk chair. “I’m studying.”
Connie looked at her friend and burst out laughing. Vanessa knew she deserved it. “What brought this on?”
The friend—was her name Suzy?—started doing a hustle step in between the beds. “I don’t want to hear about studying. We’re going dancing at Uncle Sam’s.”
“Wanna come?” Connie opened her tiny closet and changed into a yellow knit top that hugged her curves. “It’s time to boogie down, Vanessa.”
“I can’t boogie down.” She tapped a notebook with a pencil. “I need to buckle down.”
Connie moved her hips. “Let’s party.”
The perfect answer came to mind. “Just because you can doesn’t mean you should.”
Connie hesitated a moment, then rushed to Vanessa’s side, putting a hand to her forehead. “Are you sure you’re feeling okay?”
Vanessa laughed. “I’m fine. Go on. Have fun.”
They left her alone.
There. Distraction handled. That wasn’t so hard.
Vanessa snuggled into the covers and stared at the phone. Her father hadn’t called once since she’d left him in the church, since she’d donated her abortion money to charity. Since she’d decided to keep the baby.
She shook her head. “Keep” was the wrong word. She hadn’t decided to keep the baby, but she had decided to have the baby. Big difference.
Big decision.
A decision for another day.
Dawson—1987
Lane was at her locker when her teacher approached.
“Hey, Mr. Dobbins.”
He was grinning. “I have a proposition for you this morning, Lane. You interested?”
“Of course.” Her first thought was that Melissa Peterson had fallen off the face of the earth. Fat chance.
Mr. Dobbins stepped away from prying ears. “As you know, I cast Molly Perkins in the part of the nurse—it’s a good part, a comedic part, the most important female part after Juliet.”
Why is he telling me this?
He shook his head as if clearing his thoughts. “Anyway, Molly called last night. Her dad’s been transferred to Denver. They’ll be moving in a month. She can’t take the part, so I’m offering it to you.”
Her thoughts collided, but one word emerged from the rubble: “Sure.”
His eyebrows rose. “Really?”
Second thoughts pounced. “Well, maybe.”
“No, no. I take your ‘sure’ as a definite yes. I’m thrilled. I was hoping, but I thought since it’s a smaller…” He shrugged. “I’m proud of you, Lane. Practice starts after school.”
She had a hard time swallowing. “I’ll be there.”
Mr. Dobbins walked away and was immediately replaced by Brandy. “What did Dobbins want?”
Lane was not at all sure how Brandy would react. “Molly Perkins is moving to Denver. He offered me her part. The part of the nurse.”
“The nurse doesn’t even have a name.”
“It’s a good part, Brandy. A funny part.”
“But it’s not the part.”
“Unfortunately, Melissa’s not moving anywhere.”
Brandy sighed dramatically, and once again Lane wondered why she didn’t get involved in theater. “I suppose it’s doable.”
“At least I’ll be in it.”
“Yeah, well…”
They started walking to class. “I don’t deserve the main part, Brand.”
“Actually, you do. But hey, if you’re happy, I’m happy.”
“You’re too good to me.”
“Go figure. I guess this means I should work backstage.”
Cool. Very cool. Maybe things would work out after all.
The cast of Romeo and Juliet sat in a circle for the first read-through. From experience, Lane knew it wasn’t a time to act, it was a time to get to know the words, the rhythm. A necessity, especially with Shakespeare.
Unfortunately, no one had filled Melissa Peterson in on this fact. It was painful to hear her say every line as if it was the climax of a soliloquy. Overacting 101.
And it wasn’t just Lane’s opinion. One by one, the other cast members’ faces contorted in varied levels of pain. If Mr. Dobbins had said, “Tone it down, Melissa,” a dozen times, he’d said it a hundred. How had she ever gotten the part in the first place?
When they took a break, Jason, who’d gotten the part of Romeo, cornered Lane by the water fountain. “Do you hear her? There’s no way I can play against that.”
Music to Lane’s ears. She took a sip of water, then wiped her mouth. “Can’t help you there, Jas.”
“Why, oh why, didn’t you try out?” It wasn’t a question as much as a scolding.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Maybe we can stage a mutiny? Maybe if we all go to Dobbins and tell him how we feel, he’ll fire Melissa and—”
“You can’t fire someone who isn’t getting paid.”
“Kick her out, then. Anything.”
She’d like nothing better. But no, it w
asn’t possible. It was absurd. It—
Jason nodded toward the guys playing Tybalt and Mercutio. “I can get them to join us—as soon as rehearsal is over.”
“No, Jason. Don’t do that.” There was no conviction in her voice.
Mr. Dobbins came into the hall. “Come back, people. There’s work to do.”
And a mutiny to attend.
Jason threw his script to the floor. “Come on, Melissa, cut it out.”
Melissa looked genuinely shocked. “What are you talking about?”
“We’re not doing a melodrama. Take it down a notch.”
Tybalt chimed in. “With a Juliet like that, Romeo would kill himself to be away from her.”
The others laughed.
Melissa turned to their teacher. “Mr. Dobbins, don’t let them say such things.”
“Come on, boys. This is just the first read-through. Everyone needs work.”
“Overworked.”
“Overplayed.”
“Overdone.”
Melissa popped out of her chair, her face red. “If that’s what you think…” She ran from the room.
Lane felt bad but also experienced a warm satisfaction. What next? If they were going to have a mutiny, it was now or never. But no way would she start it. No way.
She didn’t have to. Jason leaned toward the center of the circle of chairs, keeping his voice low. “Actually, Mr. Dobbins, a bunch of us were talking and we wondered if you could let Melissa go. Now that Lane’s with us, let her have the part and let Melissa do the nurse or something.”
Tybalt spoke. “Or let her shine our swords. That would be good.”
Lane watched Mr. Dobbins’s face. With each word, his jaw moved from a twitch to a tight rock. He shook his head. He looked to the floor. Then he looked in her direction. She looked away.
If only they could replay the last few minutes. . . This was a mistake. A huge mistake.
Jason continued. “We all want what’s best for the play. And we all agree Lane would make the best Juliet.”
With a sigh, Mr. Dobbins stood. She felt his eyes. “Lane, do you agree with them?”
At that moment, walking the plank sounded like a good alternative. “I… I’m not going to say a thing.”
Jason stood and pointed at her. “But you said, out in the hall… You agreed with us.”
Lane had a sudden urge to leave. Escape. She stood and gently set her script on her chair. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble. I’m sorry.” She ran from the room and, not knowing exactly where she should go, took solace in the rest room.
There, standing at a sink, was Melissa with mascara streaking her cheeks. She whipped her body toward Lane. “You! You arranged all this!”
“No. No, I didn’t.” But she had. If she hadn’t been the one to instigate it, she’d certainly gone along. She was guilty. She took a step toward her, but the girl moved away, wetting a paper towel for her cheeks.
“Why did you have to come back? Why couldn’t you just stay away and let someone else have a chance? Ever since the eighth grade you’ve gotten every good part. If Lane Holloway tries out, the rest of the girls don’t need to show up. Or if we do, we know we’ll get the part of the shopkeeper, or the maid, or the best friend. But never the lead. Not until this time. And now you’re trying to take this part away from me, when I won it fair and square.”
Lane had no idea what to say. It was all true.
When she didn’t speak, Melissa flipped a hand at her. “Go on. Go back to the read-through and take my part. Make everybody happy.”
With difficulty, Lane held her ground. She scuffed a shoe against a bobby pin on the floor. “I don’t want the part this way.”
Melissa snickered. “Why didn’t you go to the movie audition? Get that part.”
“I didn’t have a chance at that part.”
“Sure you did. You’re good. Too good for Dawson.”
“Uh… thank you.”
Melissa shrugged and threw away the paper towel. She stood close enough for Lane to see that the eyeliner on her right eye was half gone. When Melissa spoke, her voice was soft. “I want to be a good actress, too.”
“You are good.” Kinda.
Melissa shook her head. “I try too hard.”
Lane could tell her another lie or… “Good acting flows. Right this minute, neither one of us has to think about acting mad or frustrated or sad, or whatever else we’re feeling. It just is. That’s what acting needs to be. You have to lose yourself, forget about what you feel at the moment, and let the character feel through you.”
“You make it sound so easy. Like you can flip a switch and turn yourself off.”
“That’s nearly true. You have to flip ‘Melissa’ off, and turn ‘Juliet’ on.”
“But how?”
How did Lane do it? She’d never had to dissect it before. Then she thought of something that might help. “You get to know her. You study Juliet and find out why she does the things she does, why she feels the way she does. And as you do that, you’ll find similar places in yourself. That’s what you draw on, the places where you and Juliet intertwine.”
Melissa was looking past her, deep in thought. Finally, she said, “Thanks. That helped a lot.”
“You’re welcome.” She sidestepped to the door. “Shall we?”
Back in the drama room everyone was leaving. Lane hung back until Mr. Dobbins was free.
He saw her, then started putting the chairs back in rows. “Can I help you?”
She felt relief that he wasn’t yelling at her, but also shame. Her sin was laid out between them. Separating them. And she couldn’t have that. Not with her mentor. “I want to apologize.”
“Want?”
“Need.”
“Better. And yes, you do.”
“It was just so hard to hear her—”
“Tough.”
She fumbled over a chair and it toppled.
Dobbins helped her put it right. “The trouble with people who have extraordinary talent is that things come easily for them. Not that you don’t work at your acting—I know you do. But there’s something inherently present within a person of talent.” He indicated she should sit and took a seat himself.
“Does Melissa have talent?” she asked.
“That’s of no concern to you. She’s been chosen. This is her part, her slice of time to shine or fade.”
Lane looked at her hands, then up at him. “She and I talked. We’re okay.”
“That’s good, but actually it doesn’t matter. There are going to be people you work with whom you don’t like. Despise even. To be a success you have to work beyond what is and find out what could be. And you, Lane Holloway, could be great.”
She covered her mouth with a hand. “Really?”
He leaned forward and patted her knee. “Really.” Then he sat back with an expressive sigh. “What you’ve just learned here, during this situation, is a lesson you had to learn. You’re probably lucky to have learned it early rather than late. Here rather than on some movie set.”
He’d lost her. “And the lesson is…?”
“Humility. You didn’t get the part you wanted. You are not the star of this production. But you do have a part—a good one. And so you need to be the best nurse you can be. Learn your craft through all parts, all participation. Put your heart and soul into the small opportunities, and the big ones will fall at your feet.”
Her stomach stirred with excitement.
He looked at his watch. “We both need to get home to our families. Life goes on without us.” They stood and finished the chairs. “There’s just one more thing I want to leave with you.”
“What’s that?”
“A very famous man named Thomas a Kempis o
nce said, ‘Lord, give me the willingness to be obscure.’” He put a hand on her shoulder. “Think about it, Lane.”
She would. She would.
Lane hung up the phone. Her insides pulled.
“What’s wrong?” her dad asked from his recliner. The opening strains of Dallas came from the TV.
“It’s Friday. Brandy and I were supposed to go out like we always do. She’s late, but I got sidetracked going over my lines, and now she’s really late. And no one answers.” She got her coat from the front closet. “I’m going over there.”
Her dad stood. “You want me to come with you?”
She was already out the door.
At Brandy’s house, the porch light was off, but there was a lamp shining from the living room. Lane’s shoes sounded too loud on the wood porch. She opened the screen door and knocked softly, then listened.
She knocked a little louder.
She heard rustling inside and felt the slight tremor of footfalls. The curtain on the door was pulled aside. Brandy opened the door a crack, but Lane pushed her way inside. “Where have you been? I’ve been worried.”
Brandy was looking at the floor, her head tilted oddly. Lane took hold of her chin and turned her face into full view. Her cheek was swollen. “Who?”
But she knew who, even before Brandy looked up the stairs leading to the bedrooms.
Lane grabbed Brandy’s coat from the hall tree and held it open for her arms. “You have to get out of here. You can’t stay and let her hurt—”
Brandy took the coat but did not put it on. “She didn’t mean to hurt me.”
“That’s what you always say.”
Brandy touched her cheek, wincing. “She did get me good this time. She was talking big and swung the bottle, and…” Her smile was full of sarcasm. “My face got in the way.”
Lane took a step toward the door. “Come on. Come home with me. Now.”
Brandy shook her head. Her forehead wrinkled and her eyebrows nearly touched as she tried to get herself under control. “I need to get far away, Lane. Way far away. I can’t stay with you, with anybody here in Dawson. It’s too close, plus… I’m not a charity case.”