The Cloudy with a Chance of Boys

by Megan McDonald

  “Okay, I’ll just be a little while longer, if anybody needs me, you know where to find me. I’ll wait till they’re done practicing in here and then I’ll lock up.”

  “Can I go out there, Dad?”

  “Not today, honey. I don’t think Mr. Cannon would like us interrupting practice.”

  “How about if . . . can I just take a peek from backstage? I’ll stay behind the curtain.”

  “Sure. I don’t see why not.”

  Silence. More rustling. More crackling.

  Alex held up the monitor and we glued our ears to it, trying to hear. But all we could hear was a lot of rustling and clomping and crackling and static.

  Somebody coughed.

  “What’s happening now? Do you think it died?” asked Alex.

  “It didn’t die,” I told her. “I just heard a cough.”

  “What cough? Who coughed? Was it a guy cough?” Alex asked.

  “How should I know a guy cough from a girl cough?”

  “Well, you know, was it deep like a man teacher’s do you think? Or was it just, you know, heh-heh, like a younger person?”

  “You’re seriously warped, you know that.”

  “Why can’t we hear anything? It’s not working. Do you think Joey bumped it? Or turned it off or something? What if she put it behind the curtain, like I told her, and now we can’t hear.”

  “Take a chill pill. Just wait till Joey gets back. She’ll tell us what’s going on.”

  Alex started biting her fingernails. I pulled her hand away and she stuck her tongue out at me.

  “This is so cool,” I said. “It’s kind of like that Hitchcock movie.”

  “The one where they have a chase scene on Mount Rushmore?” she asked. “Or the one where millions of birds attack people? Wait, it’s the one where the creepy guy has a skeleton in the basement, huh?”

  “Psycho? You’re psycho. I meant the one where the guy is holed up in this room in a wheelchair. All he does is stare out the window all day. And he thinks he sees a murderer in the building next door. So he sends somebody over there to find out.”

  “The only murder around here is going to be Joey’s if she doesn’t get back here soon.”

  Just then, Joey Reel, Her Royal Spyness, burst into the room with a mud-streaked face and a hole in her jeans.

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  “Stevie. Hurry. Quick. You have to make Dad a sandwich!”

  It had been three days. Three days of listening in on play practice with the baby monitor. Three days of watching Alex mouth the words as Scott Towel and Jayden struggled through their lines.

  Joey yawned. “Why do they call it eavesdropping? Why not ears-dropping? My ears are dropping off. Even kissing would not be this boring.”

  “Shh! Joey! I can’t hear,” said Alex.

  “So? All they ever do is go, ‘perchance, perforce, blah-blah. Anon! Anon!’”

  “Yeah, how come we never get to hear Scott Towel and Jayden say stuff to each other?” I asked. “Un-Shakespeare stuff, I mean.” I could hear Shakespeare anytime, but I never got to spy on a boy and girl talking before.

  “Because they’re practicing for a play? How should I know? Maybe they talk to each other all the time, but they don’t stand near the baby monitor. Maybe they have Pianophobia. Shush, you guys. I mean it.”

  Alex flipped through her script book. “It’s the party scene at Juliet’s house. They’re in Act 1 Scene 5. Mr. Cannon only has two kisses in Romeo and Juliet and this scene has one of them. And this is the one where Juliet’s not dead.”

  We could hear Scott Towel’s voice say, “My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand, To smooch that rough touch with a tender kiss.”

  “Smooch? He said ‘smooch.’ Was he supposed to say ‘smooch’?” I asked.

  Alex rubbed her forehead like it hurt her head to listen. “No, it’s ‘smooth.’ Smooth. I don’t know why he’s messing up like this.”

  “Good pilgrim, your hand is wrong, wait, good pilgrim, your wrong hand is, uh! I give up,” we heard Jayden say.

  “Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much!” said an exasperated Alex. “What’s so hard about that?”

  “Everything,” said Joey.

  “How can they screw this up so bad?” Alex asked. “This is a disaster. Even Scott keeps messing up. Can’t anybody in Drama Club act anymore?”

  “The Nurse is funny,” said Joey.

  “Yeah, she’s the only good one. And that was supposed to be my part. What is my problem? Maybe I should have stuck it out.”

  “Maybe it’s not too late,” I suggested. “Maybe there’s still a part —”

  “Shh!” said Alex. “Mr. Cannon’s yelling. I want to hear.”

  “People, people. What is going on today? Scott, your delivery’s flat. Jayden, you’re tripping over your own tongue. You could try practicing simple tongue twisters. It’s a great vocal warm-up exercise to help with Shakespeare.”

  “But I don’t even get what half of it means.” Jayden.

  “Sure you do. Romeo is laying eyes on Juliet for the first time. I’m sure you’ve heard of love at first sight? He’s blown away by her beauty. He feels unworthy of her love. Let the feelings come, and the words will follow.”

  “But why does she call him a pilgrim? Did they even have Thanksgiving back then? And why does she keep talking about hands and stuff?” Jayden again.

  Mr. Cannon. “‘For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch, And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.’ Now you try. Don’t look at the script right now. Just try to feel the words inside you.”

  “For saints have hands like pilgrims, palm by palm by palm holy kiss.”

  “Let’s move on. I want to get to the end of this scene. Romeo? ‘Have not saints lips.’”

  Alex mouthed the words, motioning to us to keep quiet. Scott Towel. “Have not saints lips, and holy palmers, too?”

  “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer,” Alex whispered, her eyes closed.

  “Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in . . . Ping-Pong?” Jayden.

  “You should have been Juliet,” said Joey. “Not her.”

  “Take five, people. We’ll pick it back up with Benvolio.”

  “Oh holy of holies,” said Joey, imitating Juliet. “Kiss thy pilgrim hand and smooch thy pilgrim lips.”

  “Even Joey is better than Jayden,” I said.

  Just then, the monitor crackled and the voices got louder. “Shh! It’s them!” said Alex. “Scott and Jayden! They must be standing right next to the monitor.”

  “I hope they don’t look behind the curtain,” said Joey.

  “My fault? All I did was say ‘smooch.’” Scott.

  “Yeah, no wonder I was thrown off.” Jayden.

  “My bad. I make one mistake. You’re not even making sense.” Scott.

  “Can I help it if Juliet talks in tongue twisters?” Jayden again.

  “You’re supposed to read all your lines the night before so this doesn’t happen. We sound like idiots out there. I don’t know why Mr. Cannon . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Why Mr. Cannon what?” Alex practically screamed.

  “Oh, don’t even go there. Look, I’m Juliet. Not her.” Jayden.

  “Who her?” Scott.

  “She’s talking about me!” said Alex.

  “Alex Reel. Who else?” Jayden.

  Alex turned to look at me, her eyes wide as dinner plates.

  “Hey. This isn’t about her.” Scott.

  “Oh, isn’t it? Little Miss Woe Is Me I Can’t Be in the Play If I’m Not the Lead. She’s been the lead in every play since, like, the third grade.” Jayden.

  “Second grade,” said Alex.

  “At least Alex Reel takes it seriously. At least she knows her lines. Look. Just forget her, okay?” Scott.

  “I will if you will.”

  “What a snot,” said Alex. “Go back to The Princess Diaries,” she called.

 
“Who says —” Scott Towel.

  “Oh, come on. Don’t even try to lie. You wish Alex got the part, don’t you? Just say it.” Jayden.

  Silence. Static.

  “Say yes, say yes,” said Alex, crossing her fingers.

  “Well, I’m sick of her! ‘Ooh, I’m so pretty with my big green eyes’ and ‘Ooh, I’m so into Shakespeare’ and ‘Ooh, I’ve known all the lines since I was, like, four.’ Well, guess what? Mr. Cannon didn’t pick her. He picked me. Deal with it.” Jayden.

  Alex leaned back on her feet. “I so do not sound like that,” she said.

  Crackle, crackle. Static. White noise.

  Alex shook the monitor. “Hey, what’s happening to this thing? Don’t break on me now.”

  “Yeah, crackle, well, crackle, that was in a lake.” Scott.

  “And guess what else? You’re going to be kissing me, Romeo, not Alex Reel.” Jayden.

  The monitor crackled again.

  “We’ll cheese a snack.” Scott.

  Joey looked at me. I looked at Joey. We both looked at Alex. “Did he just say ‘that was in a lake’?” I asked.

  “And ‘we’ll cheese a snack’?” Joey asked. Joey and I busted up laughing. I snorted, and Joey held her sides like they hurt.

  “I hope he said, ‘That was a mistake.’ You know, like he thinks picking Jayden was a mistake. And the second part was, maybe, ‘I’ll be right back.’ No wait, I think it was, ‘We’ll see about that.’”

  “Wow,” Joey said. “You’re like a master spy who cracked the code.”

  “Yeah,” I said to Alex. “Who knew? You speak Scott Towel!”

  On Saturday, I came downstairs from reading in bed till almost noon, my favorite weekend thing. It’s rare in our house to have a quiet Saturday morning, and usually Joey jumps on my bed, waking me up by eight o’clock. (Unless Sir Croaks-a-Lot beats her to it.) Today, I hated to leave the warmth of the covers.

  I thought I smelled something cooking . . . or was it burning? Maybe it was just the wintry smell of wood smoke from neighboring chimneys. Whatever it was, it did not smell like breakfast.

  In the kitchen, Mom had zucchini littered all over the table and countertops and she was talking out loud to herself.

  “What’s with the zucchini factory, Mom?”

  “Stevie, honey, I’m so glad you’re here. I need your help.”

  “Where is everybody?”

  “They’re all next door at the theater. Something about a trap door in the floor? Dad wanted to show Joey, and Alex went too.”

  “So you started talking to zucchini?”

  “Of course not. Just thinking aloud. I’m trying to come up with a recipe for next week’s show. They want me to do a show on healthy foods for kids. So I’m working on a way to get kids to eat zucchini.”

  “You’re going to need a magician to get kids to eat zucchini, Mom. The Nutrition Magician!” I couldn’t help cracking up at my own joke.

  “The Nutrition Magician?”

  “Don’t ask. He came to our school to give an assembly. It’s a long story.”

  “Well, I’m no magician, but I thought I’d try out a recipe for zucchini-crust pizza. But as you can see, this one came out with a lake in the middle — see how soggy it is? And this one fell apart completely.”

  Mom exhaled loudly, wiping her hands down the sides of her jeans and plopping into a chair. “I just have to sit for a minute. Would you mind grating the rest of this zucchini?”

  My mom is an actress turned chef. A.k.a. Fondue Sue. She has a cooking show (even though she’s the world’s worst cook). She recently graduated from Hamburger Helper to Tuna Helper, but it still tasted like tofu. And her chicken Kiev, well, let’s just say it should go back to Ukraine.

  I started grating.

  “So, what’s new, kiddo?” Mom asked.

  I paused. “Is this about detention?” I asked.

  “Did I say detention?” Mom asked, holding up her hands defensively.

  “Mom, don’t worry. It was no big deal. Honest. Olivia and I were just trying to be nice to some new kid, but we weren’t supposed to be talking during an assembly.” Grr. Grate, grate, grate.

  “Well, that’s good of you two. What’s her name?”

  “Um . . . well . . . actually, it’s a him.”

  “A him, huh?” Mom said teasingly.

  “It’s not like that! Why does everybody — never mind.” I pushed down on the zucchini and grated my knuckle instead. A little bubble of blood appeared.

  “Youch. That hurt,” I said, sucking on my thumb to stop the bleeding.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to tease. I didn’t realize this was a sensitive topic. I know this is a tough age, honey, but —”

  “Mom. Spare me. Not the ‘tough age’ speech. Can we just please not talk about this!” Sheesh. What was wrong with me? I was beginning to sound like Alex. And I was supposed to be the normal one. Middle child. Peacemaker.

  “So. Any ideas for my zucchini pizza?” Mom asked, changing the subject.

  “Maybe press all of the water out of the zucchini before you mix it up into the crust? And I would bake the crust by itself first, so it hardens, before you put the sauce and cheese and stuff on it.”

  “Good idea. I’ll try that.”

  “Maybe turn the oven up, too. To four fifty?”

  “Okay. Got it. Thanks.”

  Done grating, I set the grater down. There was an awkward pause, where the room felt too quiet.

  “Well, I better go get a Band-Aid for my thumb.”

  “Are you sure everything’s okay, honey?” Mom asked.

  “I’m sure,” I said, even though inside I felt a little shaky.

  Upstairs, the house was quiet. It was rare to have the house (almost) to myself. I walked past Alex’s room on my way to the medicine cabinet. I paused, listened. Just familiar kitchen sounds, of Mom opening cupboards, running water, clinking dishes.

  Without thinking, I ducked into Alex’s room and hurried over to her dresser. Before I even realized what I was doing, I yanked open the third drawer, rifled through her pile of T-shirts, and dug out the black shirt. The one. The one Joey and I had discovered the other day.

  Grabbing the shirt, I peered out the doorway of her room, looking both ways down the hallway to make sure the coast was clear. Then I quickly rushed into my room and shut the door.

  I yanked off the LIFE’S A BEACH shirt I wear to sleep in, unfolded the other, and pulled it over my head. What was I doing?

  I couldn’t help myself. I wanted to see it in the bathroom mirror. But what if Alex came back and found me out? I pulled my fuzzy robe off the hook and put it on over the shirt, dashed down the hall into the bathroom, and locked the door.

  I took off the robe. Turned on the light. Stared at myself in the mirror.

  The Girl in Black.

  A basket of tub toys from when we were little still sat on the corner shelf over the radiator. Purple hippo. Toy boat. Mostly Joey’s old rubber ducky collection. It seemed like forever ago since Joey and I had taken baths, drawing with crayons on the tub walls.

  An army of blue, green, and red devil duckies with horns stared at me accusingly.

  “What are you looking at?” I said aloud. “I should have burned you in the fire,” I told the red one. So there.

  I tugged at my hair, brushed my bangs down almost over my eyes. I turned to the left, turned to the right, looking at myself from every angle — front, side, other side. I made pouty-lips. I made a tough-girl face.

  I hardly recognized myself.

  Who was this girl who stared back at me in the bluish bright light of the bathroom?

  Is this what it felt like to try out for a role in a play, to get to be somebody else? To imagine yourself as other than what you were?

  Is this what it felt like to be Alex?

  To be grown up? A teenager? Someone who liked boys?

  My pulse quickened. I felt secret and alone. I felt a little bit daring, like the kind of girl y
ou’d find in Bad-Girl Detention.

  A knock on the bathroom door made me jump out of my skin.

  “Stevie? Are you in there? Can you come out so I can ask you a question?”

  Holy tamale! Mom!

  I cast around, looking for my robe, threw it back on over the shirt, tied the belt, and opened the door.

  “What’s up?” I asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “Stevie? What are you wearing?” Mom asked pointedly.

  I clasped the collar of the bathrobe together with one hand. What . . . how . . . Had she seen?

  “Honey, are you sure everything’s okay? What are you doing in your bathrobe in the middle of the day? It’s almost one o’clock. Don’t you want to go over to the theater with the others? What’s Olivia doing today?”

  “Mom — you had a question?”

  “How many eggs do you think I should use to hold the crust together?”

  “How about if I come down and help you?” I suggested sweetly. “Just give me two minutes.”

  One minute to put the shirt back where it belonged. Hidden. Safe.

  And one minute to come back to being Stevie again.

  Sunlight streamed through the windows of Mr. Petry’s classroom, casting the whole room in a curious yellow. It had been sunshiny now for three days in a row, but I still felt myself squinting in the bright light after so many days of gloom. Mom said this morning it was like breaking free of a Dickens novel.

  On Thursday, Earth Science was half over when Mr. Petry pulled a fast one. Passing out worksheets on the scientific method, he said, “For the remainder of class, I want you to buddy up with your partner. You have ten or fifteen minutes to discuss your weather experiments.”

  Moans and groans rippled through the classroom.

  “Start with your question, form a hypothesis, and fill in the worksheet. What’s your best guess as to the outcome? Don’t forget to add sections on gathering materials, observations, and data. Projects are due next week, people.”

  Wire Rims dragged his chair over to my desk, sitting a little too close. He had on a gray thermal under a black shirt with a troll doll(!) on it.

  We hunched over the worksheet. “So, what’s our hypothesis?” Why are you wearing a troll doll shirt? How weird is that? “We have to think up a question that we’re going to answer.”