by Carrie Jones
It stinks.
No, no it sucks.
Then I remember what sucks even worse.
We have a guest who makes my mother moan the moans. I shudder and put the pillow over my head like some sort of sissified cowboy who’s afraid of the damn day.
A real man would have waited a while, wouldn’t he? Like you, Mr. Wayne? You wouldn’t take advantage. Of course, you’d stay in an actual hotel like normal people do. And you wouldn’t be worried about a cast list, because you always get the part.
If Mike O’Donnell weren’t here I’d stay home sick. Do a few fake sneezes, run to the fridge before my mother gets up, mix some relish and ketchup and crumble up some Saltine bits and throw them in the toilet to make it look like I’ve thrown up, put a little on my tongue too, so that I have authentic diseased-person breath.
But Mike O’Donnell is here so I can’t stay home sick.
I paddle down the hallway to the bathroom to take my shower. My mother’s door is closed. So is the door to the guest bedroom. I guess they are keeping up appearances, I wonder for whose sake.
My mind keeps playing back the photo album, the one with all the newspaper articles in it. The headlines flash in front of my eyes: Man Killed. Man Stabbed. Town Mourns. Police Have No Suspects. Man Killed.
Sometimes I get so scared, Mr. Wayne. Sometimes I am so far from being the cowboy with the hat and the horse and my gun drawn and ready. Sometimes I’m so far away from anything I want to be and it’s like that sunset you’re always riding to but you never quite reach.
I don’t see him this morning. He is sleeping in.
“Jet lag,” my mother says, smiling like they’ve invented a fat-free ice cream that doesn’t taste like yogurt or Nutra-Sweet.
“Uh-huh.” I grab half an English muffin out of the toaster.
“Did you like Mike?” she asks.
I manage to say, “Sure.”
She glares at me. She wants to know. She puts my apple juice in front of me on the table, stands there waiting for an answer. I try not to imagine her naked. I try not to imagine anything.
“I didn’t really get to see much of him.”
Not like you, I think.
She nods.
I start to tell her about the cast list but she holds up her hand and says, “Do you think Mike likes decaf or regular coffee?”
“Gee, Mom, probably decaf,” I say but she doesn’t hear that I’m sarcastic, just takes out the decaf and I leave the kitchen to pick out clothes that will make me look good when I cry because I didn’t get a part.
Real men don’t drink decaf, do they?
Real men don’t do a lot of things, like bonking your mother the first night they’re here.
Just when I’m ready for Sasha and Olivia to pick me up there’s a knock on the kitchen door and my sister bursts in, and my mom rushes over to hug her. I lean against the counter and watch.
“So?” my sister says when they break apart.
My mom giggles like she’s six years old. “So what?”
“How did it go? Where is he?” my sister asks, her voice much louder, craning her neck to get a good look around the kitchen like the giant man from Oregon could be hiding in the breadbasket or something.
“He’s asleep,” my mom says, blushing. She wiggles her eyebrows at my sister.
“Oh, really …” My sister says, wiggling her eyebrows too. What is with the eyebrow wiggling? Can they not think of something else to do? And when did my sister suddenly get all pro–new man?
They laugh like this forever, and then when I can’t take it any more I ask, “Brian know you’re here?”
The kitchen goes cold and silent, like someone’s left the freezer door open for days. The look I get from my mother could turn me into an ice cube.
My sister pours herself some coffee. “I just stopped here on my way to work. He doesn’t need to know.”
She turns around. I see her eyes. She looks into mine. She looks away first. Caught her. My mom slams her mug on the counter. “You ready for school?”
“Yep.”
“Tell me about him, Mom. Is he still cute?” my sister’s voice is all fake cheery, going back to the original topic. My mom’s new man.
Before my mom can say anything, I break in. “He’s got newspaper clippings. They’re all about a murder in a bar.”
My sister whirls around and some coffee sloshes out of the mug onto her wrist. She shuts her eyes from the pain. I grab the mug, turn on the faucet and place her wrist under the water.
“It’s nothing,” she says, even though her skin’s a hot lobster red.
“Yeah, right,” I say. “You’re good at pretending things are nothing.”
Before my sister can say anything my mom starts gushing. “Oh, Jessica. Are you okay? Is it blistering? Oh no.”
My mother pushes me out of the way and takes over. I go look in the fridge, but it’s about as appealing as a sand bath. I stick with my muffin and don’t listen while my mom and Jessica giggle about Mike from Oregon.
“Have a good day at school,” my mom says when Olivia and Sasha finally honk outside the door. “And ask your friends not to honk. I don’t want them to wake Mike up. He might be a late sleeper.”
“Uh-huh,” I say again. I gulp my juice, throw my backpack over my shoulder and take a bite of my muffin, zipping out the door while trying not to look at my mother and my sister and their silly smiles.
When I get into the car, the Sandemans give me a good look-over.
Olivia raises her large eyebrows at me. “Something’s happened.”
I shake my head.
“No. No. Something has happened. I can tell by your aura. Little black spots everywhere,” Olivia insists.
“She’s just nervous,” Sasha says, jumping up and down in her seat. She’s all excited. “Aren’t you? It’s okay. I’m nervous too. Is that it? Are you just nervous? Isn’t being nervous so amazingly amazing?”
Olivia puts the Bug in gear and says, “I don’t think that’s it.”
I try to hide in back. It’s no good for people to know things about you. It’s no good to wear your pain like prom makeup—out there for everyone to see.
When we’re going down the driveway, I imagine the house exploding behind me. Maybe there’s dynamite hidden in the cellar. My mom lights up a cigarette. An ash falls. Ka-boom. Roll credits.
“Do you guys ever watch John Wayne movies?” I ask as we turn onto the road.
“John Wayne?” Sasha says. “He’s so macho, so old-timer. So white man.”
She starts doing this really good impersonation, which is strange because she’s so little like me. Suddenly it’s like she takes up all the space in the car. Her voice comes out slow. “You’ve got it wrong, Lily. I didn’t kill that hombre, I swear I didn’t and by God I’m a gonna prove it to ya.”
I stare at her, open-mouthed. More than anything I wish I could do that; wish I could sound just like that.
Sasha and I run to the auditorium after the first bell rings. Our arms are linked and she tugs me along, a step or two ahead of me. She tugs because she knows how scared I am.
“Failure isn’t everything,” she chirps. “Plus, I’ve got this good feeling.”
“What good feeling?” I ask as we race by the art department and start up the stairs, scurrying past everyone else who still look half asleep, carrying their books, trudging along to class.
“That you didn’t fail,” Sasha says. She makes her eyes wide and emphatic.
We slow down once we’re up the stairs so no one sees quite how anxious we are. At least this is why I slow down, and Sasha lessens her pace, too.
“Act casual,” she says.
Casual.
Our arms are still linked and we just see the crowd aro
und the auditorium door when this guy in an ancient Metallica T-shirt that’s as black as the tops of the pimples on his face mutters to us, “Lezzies.”
Sasha and I look at each other and she laughs. “Are you a lesbian?”
“Not that I’ve noticed,” I say.
She nods. “Me neither, although I might be bi.”
“Really?” I ask, forgetting about the play for a moment, a real moment. Then I realize she’s kidding.
“Well, sexuality isn’t an either/or thing,” she says, squeezing my arm. “Like no one is just gay or just straight. It’s all shades of gray, you know?”
I shrug.
“Like I think you’re cute,” Sasha says, smiling at me. “All cuddly and tiny and sort of Spanish-sexy even though you aren’t Spanish. Are you? I can tell that you’re attractive, but I don’t want to kiss you or anything.”
“Darn,” I say in this mock-exasperated way and she starts laughing so loud she sounds like braying donkeys, and people look at us. I’m glad I’ve pulled that off. I can’t imagine what Sasha would do if she knew I worried about people thinking I was gay. She’d think I wasn’t open-minded enough, I’m sure, and repressed and therefore part of the problem of gay oppression. Then she and Olivia would counsel me on all our car rides home.
We’ve gotten closer to the list and I can tell that the people around the door are mumbling, some of them are smiling, some of them look angry and I wonder why. If I don’t get a part I won’t be angry, just sad.
One big blonde girl with all this blue mascara on gets close to us and mutters, “Two freshmen!”
She walks away, her tall-girl heels clacking at the floor like they’re trying to break through to the calculus room on the next floor down.
Then, believe it or not, Fire Engine Pants boy, aka Mr. Tyler Reed, comes up and says, “Sasha! Congratulations!”
She leans back, tipping her torso backwards, all flirty, and I think that for all her continuum-bisexual-spectrum talk she is so straight it’s disgusting. “Congratulations?”
“Haven’t you seen yet?” he asks. He’s cute this boy, brown-haired, with green eyes tinted blue like God made up this special shade just for him and he knows it.
“No!” she says and lets go of my arm.
He laughs. “Come on!”
He takes Sasha’s hand and pulls her through the crowd. I’m left standing at the edge of the crowd too scared to push my way in, thinking about maybe going to study hall and not looking at all, because there is probably no point. I wonder if I should wait for Sasha.
“Lily!” she yells, jumping up so that her short head appears for a minute above the crowd.
“Liliana!”
She has jumped up again.
“Come up here!” she says and I come, mumbling apologies for my elbows as I push through.
When she can reach me, Sasha grabs my arm with her hand and I see the pretty dangly charm bracelet she has, silver and amethyst. It’s beautiful. The hand that’s below this bracelet pulls me to her and to the auditorium doors. She hugs me and I wait a second before I remember that it’s polite to hug her back, to show her that I am happy she is happy. I can feel all the warmth of her and this sweet musky smell like incense, or scented candles. I breathe in. I knew she would get a part and I’m so glad for her, so glad that we’re friends. But I also ache … I ache like I haven’t seen water in days and it’s been a long, hard cattle drive. I ache because I am still me, Liliana, also known as Lily, a nothing girl. Not a hero. Not a cowboy. Not even an actress in a stupid high school musical.
It’s hard for a pilgrim to go alone in this world, you know, Mr. Wayne? Sometimes you need someone to ride shotgun.
“I knew you’d get a part,” I tell her and smile as two girls in matching sweaters look for their names on the list, sigh and walk away.
Then Sasha starts bouncing up and down and saying, “We did it! We did it! You were so good. I knew you would!”
“Did what?” I ask into Sasha’s black fruity-smelling hair.
“Look!”
I pull away from Sasha and look at the door. There are two white sheets with names on them. One sheet is the cast. One sheet is crew. Tiny writing. I look down the list for my name and find it. I’m on the list. I look across to see what part I am. Probably Nurse #3.
I’m Nellie Forbush.
“Isn’t it great?” Sasha asks.
“Who’s Nellie Forbush?” I ask. I can’t remember anymore.
Sasha laughs at me. So does Mr. Tyler Reed. So does Stuart Silsby, who is standing on his tippy-toes trying to memorize all the names of who got what parts. He mumbles them under his breath.
“Just the lead,” he says, rolling his eyes.
Sasha makes big eyes at me. Tyler Reed laughs and punches me in the arm and then makes googly eyes at Sasha, and Stuart repeats it again in a sing-song, duh voice: “Just the lead.”
“The lead?” I whisper.
Sasha nods her head.
“Me?”
“Sasha’s the comic lead. You’re the romantic lead,” Tyler explains. He hits me on the arm again. If I wasn’t so stunned I would belt him back, maybe in the chin. I’m going to bruise. Paolo Mattias is standing in the back of the crowd. He looks at me. His lips don’t move. He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t frown. He looks away. He leaves. Jerk. He probably saw me hug Sasha and thinks I’m gay too now. Like father, like daughter.
“For girls,” Sasha says. “Tyler here is one of the male leads. So is Stuart.”
“Really?” I say, my voice breaking like a boy going through puberty. “Really?”
I start jumping up and down, hugging her.
Sasha just laughs, and jumps up and down with me. “Liliana! We’re the freaking stars.”
The warning bell rings and we all take off for classes. Stuart trails behind me, detailing his part in his super-nasal hyper voice. “And I get to wear coconut shells like a bra and sing this song. It’s a complete humor part, which should expand my range, you know, since I’m so used to playing the straight male lead. Like in Annie Get Your Gun. Remember that?”
I remember when they did Annie Get Your Gun in eighth grade at middle school, Mr. Wayne. I was too wimpy to try out for that in eighth grade. But now I’m in high school. Now, I can recreate myself. I can be the type of girl who is the lead. I can be the type of girl who can be a cowboy and a liberal Democrat. Someday, Mr. Wayne, I’m going to have to take you to task on all that Republican conservative right-wing stuff you pulled. But not now. Not now. Because today I am the lead!
I make it into study hall just in time but I don’t remember my feet taking me through the halls. I want to hug everyone. I smile at Mary Bilodeau and don’t worry about being a loser by association. I smile at Alyssa Cutler and don’t worry about her being too popular to smile at. I smile, smile, smile and make it into my study hall seat. Mr. Farley gives detention to anyone entering after the final bell and I scurry in the door just as it rings, plop down in my desk and shove my backpack underneath.
“Almost late, Miss,” he says to me. He doesn’t know my name. He doesn’t know anyone’s except Ron Baldwin’s, and he only knows his because he’s always getting into trouble because he passes people notes in study hall that say: Want some wed?
He means weed. He can’t spell. Or maybe it’s some secret code so he won’t get caught.
I nod at Mr. Farley and everyone looks at me. I don’t say that I’m sorry for being late, but the nod seems to be enough to keep Mr. Farley from losing his cool the way he did when he saw Ron Baldwin passing a cigarette to a friend a couple of aisles over. You would have thought it was OxyContin the way Mr. Farley went on about illicit substances and pollutants and contaminants and delinquency, huffing and steaming and sending him to the principal’s office. Ron got suspended. He’s still gone. So I pu
t my feet in his empty seat, pull out my notebook and write.
In my head I hear a million feet dancing … square dancing. There’s a celebration just for me, Liliana Faltin. The desks of study hall are pushed back to the sides of the room and Mr. Farley’s the caller. He’s got on lederhosen and a cowboy hat for some reason.
“Do-si-do and around we go,” he calls. “Bow to your partner. Bow to the corner.”
I start giggling to myself. I can’t help it. I just can’t help it. I shake my head and try not to laugh too loud.
I forget all about my mother’s man, my sister, my Uncle Mark.
Mr. Wayne, I cannot believe I got that part. I can not believe I got any part. Did you ever feel that way? Did you ever doubt yourself, or did you know what you were meant to be ever since you saw yourself as an extra in that old John Ford western? When you saw your body, bigger than life on that movie screen, when you saw yourself twenty feet tall, did you say: Yep, partner, that’s where I’m meant to be.
In my pocket is a note from Nicole. She gave it to me before I checked the cast list.
Liliana,
I am writing this after my mom made me hang up the phone with you. She can be such a bitch. But anyways, I wanted to tell you that even if you don't get a part in that play, it's okay. I mean it's not that big a deal. It isn't about you or anything and stuff. Not you personally and your worth as a human being. Yada. Yada. Yada.
It's like when we didn't make the soccer team in seventh grade. We survived. Right? And anyways I'll still be your friend. Even if no one else will.
Just kidding.
Have you found out Fire Man's name yet? Please, please, please find out. Next Friday there's a football game and I bet he'll be there. Everyone goes.