Seeing Cinderella

by Jenny Lundquist

  Raven tried out as the Fairy Godmother, glaring if anyone in the audience even sniffed during her audition. Ana made a regal Fairy Godmother—probably because she was trying hard to pronounce each word perfectly. Scott went next. He forgot a few lines as he strutted across the stage, but I didn’t think it mattered. In my opinion, he was a perfect Prince.

  “And next up,” Mr. Angelo said, squinting at the sign-up sheet, “I can’t read this. Mr. . . . I.P. Freely?”

  The class burst out laughing and Mr. Angelo let out a long-suffering sigh.

  “Here I am,” said Charlie Ferris. “Freely is my code name. But you can call me Ferris. Charlie Ferris.”

  “All right, Mr. Ferris, you may begin.”

  Charlie seemed like a natural. He blew a kiss to an imaginary Cinderella and had the class laughing as he pretended to trip over a left-behind glass slipper.

  “Why are you taking drama this semester?” Mr. Angelo asked when Charlie finished.

  Charlie hesitated. Then he broke into a wide grin. “Easy A.”

  “Brilliant answer,” Mr. Angelo replied, sounding like he didn’t mean it at all.

  Charlie shrugged and jumped off the stage, winking as he passed us.

  “Did you see that?” Stacy said, nudging Ellen. “He just totally winked at me.”

  I rolled my eyes—Stacy’s favorite topic of conversation seemed to be all the boys who noticed her each day.

  When Ellen’s turn came, my stomach knotted up like a cinnamon pretzel. But it didn’t turn out to be quite so sweet.

  Ellen chose the same scene Mr. Angelo handed me, and she had the graceful onstage thing down. But I never thought Cinderella was that confident, like she just knew her stepsisters were a bunch of hags, and she was destined to be a princess. Maybe it was just me, though; everyone clapped loudly after Ellen finished.

  I put my glasses on and kept my head down after that, studying the script and trying to cram the lines into my head. The pretzel in my stomach wasn’t going away; it squeezed tighter and tighter as my turn neared, threatening to make me barf up the Red Hots and corn dog I’d eaten for lunch.

  “Are you okay?” Stacy asked when I started taking deep breaths.

  “I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Of course you can,” Ellen answered. “I’ve seen you act out your stories. Drama is practically the same thing.”

  “Is not. And I do not act out my stories.” Well, sometimes I did. But only in my room, and, since that time Ellen caught me, only with the door locked.

  “Callie, you’re up!” Mr. Angelo turned his head and beckoned me toward the stage.

  I felt all eyes on me as I walked up the stairs to the stage. Splat! My flip-flop caught the last step and I went sprawling, head first, onto the stage. Stifled laughter wafted up from the audience below.

  “Go, Polka Dot!” shouted a voice from the audience. Charlie Ferris, it sounded like.

  “Ah, a comedic Cinderella,” Mr. Angelo said. “I like it, continuing Mr. Ferris’s use of physicality. Well done. Continue, please.”

  “Th-thank you,” I stammered, pretending like I’d meant to fall. As I looked out at the audience, the air waved and shimmered. Screens launched up by every person in class and I began to read their thoughts:

  Raven (slumped down in her seat and scowling): Stupid drama. I can’t believe Mr. Angelo called my mom. My attitude is fine. It’s not my fault this stupid class reeks.

  Charlie (sitting with his head in his hands): I know I screwed up. I should’ve spent more time practicing last night and less time hanging out with Scott.

  Scott (fidgeting in his seat): This is such a waste. I told Charlie we didn’t need to practice so much. Who cares about Cinderella anyway?

  Stacy (leaning forward): Wow, she looks really scared. Is that part of her audition?

  Ellen (looking anxious): Tara probably won’t fly home for the play unless I get the lead. Mom and Dad probably wouldn’t come, either. But I think I was better than anyone else—and Gretchen Baxter is the only one left, so hopefully I’ll be Cinderella.

  Wait—what about me? I wanted to say. Gretchen Baxter was auditioning after me. Wasn’t Ellen just a tiny bit afraid of the possibility, no matter how slight, that I might actually get cast as Cinderella? Not that I wanted to, but still.

  “Whenever you’re ready,” Mr. Angelo said.

  “Yes, sorry. I’m ready.”

  A little fear might do Ellen the Overconfident some good, I decided as I slipped my glasses off and tucked them in my back pocket. Mr. Angelo wanted a comedic Cinderella? Well, he was about to get one. I didn’t know how to act. But I knew how to make people laugh at me. I stomped over to center stage and unleashed . . . Klutzarella!

  First, I pretended to accidentally squash a friendly mouse with my new glass slippers. Then, when I spun around in my huge new ball gown, I pretended to take out a coachman. Then I pretended my hair snagged on my new diamond tiara. And then …

  And then, something happened. As I stuttered out my lines—about how grateful I was to my fairy godmother—I forgot where I was. I thought about Cinderella. A girl who was never seen. A girl who probably had so many talents, but no one ever knew. All they ever saw were her stepsisters. She might even have missed the ball because no one ever saw her. No one believed she was princess material.

  “Okay, Callie. That’s good,” Mr. Angelo called from the front row.

  That was it? Had I even finished my lines? The audience was silent, and everyone stared at me like they didn’t know who I was.

  Had I really been that bad?

  If I really wanted to know how I did, I could’ve put on my glasses and read everyone’s thoughts. But I didn’t want to see that the entire class thought I’d choked.

  Although, I thought as I walked off the stage, if I’d been really horrible, maybe Mr. Angelo would let me off the hook, and I wouldn’t have to be in the play at all.

  Chapter 7

  Super Freaky Glasses Rule #6

  Don’t wear your glasses at the dinner table. Spying on people’s thoughts while they’re eating is as rude as chewing with your mouth open. Plus, it makes you nauseous.

  Pacificview Drama Class Final Cast List

  Cinderella . . . . . . Callie Anderson

  Prince Charming . . . . . . Charlie Ferris

  Fairy Godmother . . . . . . Ana Garcia

  Wicked Stepmother . . . . . . Stacy Wanamaker

  Wicked Stepsister No. 1 . . . . . . Raven Maggert

  The rest of the penciled-in cast list was a blur. I took my glasses off, hoping this was some kind of super freaky glasses trick. But when I looked at the list again, my name was still at the top.

  Mr. Angelo said he wanted to talk to me before he posted the cast list. I thought he wanted to let me down gently, and tell me I should transfer into a different elective. I’d been smiling when I walked into drama ten minutes early.

  I wasn’t smiling now.

  “You’re kidding, right?” I said, handing the clipboard back to Mr. Angelo. “Right?”

  “No. You saw it correctly. I’d like you to play Cinderella.” Mr. Angelo smiled widely, like he’d just handed me a bowl of cinnamon ice cream.

  But it felt more like a bowl of confusion. With a seriously large side order of no-way-ain’t-gonna-happen.

  “I think there’s been a mistake—I don’t want any part, remember?” I said, slipping my glasses back on. “Especially not the lead.”

  “I thought you might feel that way,” Mr. Angelo said, sighing. “That’s why I asked you to come early. I would like you to play Cinderella. But frankly, you act as though the very idea of stepping on that stage makes you ill. I don’t understand why. I think you’re quite talented, and your audition was amazing. . . .”

  While Mr. Angelo complimented my great talent, a blue screen sprang up next to him, fast as Pinocchio’s lying nose, and showed me he wasn’t being totally honest: A klutzy, fumbling Cinderella. I love it. I bet it’s never been done.
And she’s a fairly competent actress to boot. Principal Reynolds thinks he’s going to cut drama’s budget next semester? I’ll give him such a great fall show he’ll have to eat his words.

  “But I won’t give the lead to someone who doesn’t truly want it,” Mr. Angelo was saying. “So I’m offering you a choice: You can be Cinderella or, you can be Cinderella’s understudy.”

  I looked down at the cast list. Ellen had been cast as Cinderella’s understudy. My understudy. I had to admit, something about that sounded strangely good, but also strangely weird. Like I was living in some kind of alternate universe. But then reality came knocking.

  I pictured myself standing onstage. In front of a whole auditorium full of people. Even if Mr. Angelo thought my fumbling klutziness was funny, I knew there were so many ways I could screw things up for everyone. I wished I’d kept Klutzarella to myself. Ellen really wanted the lead. What would it mean to our friendship if she had to be my understudy all semester?

  For some reason, Stacy’s face came into my head just then. And as I scanned the rest of the list, I realized Scott had been cast as the Prince’s understudy. Would I get to practice with him a lot if I was Cinderella’s understudy?

  “The choice is yours, Callie,” Mr. Angelo said.

  “I choose the understudy,” I said, as students began wandering into class. “Let Ellen be Cinderella. She wants it more anyway.”

  “True enough.” Mr. Angelo nodded, but he looked disappointed. With a flourish, he pulled a pencil from behind his ear. The eraser moved furiously across the clipboard, and soon there was a new list: Ellen Martin as Cinderella and Callie Anderson as Cinderella’s understudy. Only a faint eraser mark showed the change.

  I had a feeling Ellen wouldn’t appreciate being second choice. I looked up at Mr. Angelo and said, “You won’t tell Ellen about this, will you?”

  Mr. Angelo grinned. “She’ll never know.”

  “I thought your glasses were supposed to stop your headaches?” Ellen looked at me quizzically over the dinner table. Ellen had asked if she could come over to practice her lines. She’d spent most of dinner giving Mom and Sarah a minute-by-minute account of her audition, and stopped only when she noticed me rubbing my temples.

  “They do. I’m fine.” Or as fine as I could be—without letting on I could read everyone’s thoughts. While Mom pretended to listen to Ellen, I knew she was actually waiting to ream me over the note she received from Señora Geck, which detailed my sorry performance in Spanish class.

  And I knew that Ellen, who thanked Mom several times for the casserole we were eating (a strange concoction of corn, eggs, and spinach I thankfully remembered to put in the oven on time), secretly thought it looked like cat barf. Ellen was talking as much as she could to avoid eating it.

  “Your glasses make your face look funny,” Sarah said, giggling.

  “Thanks, Sarah.” Spying on Sarah’s thoughts wasn’t very interesting. She usually said exactly what she thought, including when she told Mom the casserole tasted slimy. I wondered at what age people learned to hide their true thoughts.

  Ellen turned back to Mom. “And then Mr. Angelo said he’d never seen a Cinderella so sure of herself. He said he was counting on me to put on a great show for him.” Ellen’s voice was casual, but the screen hovering next to her showed a different story: So what if Mr. Angelo thinks I need to work on “emotionally connecting” with Cinderella? He can be so flaky sometimes. It’s Cinderella. What’s there to connect with? Wait till I tell Tara and Mom and Dad. Tara never once acted in a play!

  I closed my eyes and rubbed my temples again. “Mr. Angelo is counting on you because if Principal Reynolds doesn’t like the play he’ll cut drama’s budget next semester.”

  When I opened my eyes, both Mom and Ellen were staring at me.

  “How do you know that?” Ellen asked. “Did Mr. Angelo tell you that?”

  “That seems like an odd thing for a teacher to share with a student,” Mom added.

  “Um . . .” I trailed off, unsure what to say. Sometimes I really liked my glasses—like last week, when I read Stacy’s thoughts and discovered she was about to invite me to shopping with her after school. I liked to avoid malls the same way I liked to avoid snakebites and bee stings—so I’d hurried out of drama class before she could ask me.

  Other times I hated the glasses—especially when I read people’s thoughts and discovered what they thought about me. More than one girl from my old elementary school thought I was stuck-up because I never talked to them. And I didn’t know how to explain that it was because I was shy, not stuck-up.

  And other times—like right now—it was a real pain knowing everyone’s thoughts but having to pretend like I didn’t. If I told Ellen I had read Mr. Angelo’s thoughts, Mom would have me seeing a doctor faster than you can say “crazy weirdo.”

  “I guess I must have overheard them talking,” I said finally.

  “Oh, okay,” Ellen said, and then continued with her story.

  Mom took a bite of casserole and smiled at Ellen, but her thoughts were still on me: The semester’s barely begun and she’s already having problems. I’ll have to get her a tutor—maybe Ellen can do it. Ellen has tutored her before.

  “Ellen’s taking French this year!” I burst out, cutting off Ellen. Sarah giggled, but Mom and Ellen looked at me like I was a lunatic.

  Mom didn’t realize I’d been reading her thoughts; she jumped to her own conclusion. “So Señora Geck told you about the progress report, then? You know you need a tutor? And if Ellen can’t do it then you’ve got to find someone else.”

  “Okay.” I took a huge bite of casserole before I said something nasty. Why did Mom assume that Ellen was the answer to my problems? I couldn’t wait for this weekend. Dad was coming to take Sarah and me on a “Daddy Date.” It would be nice to hang around a normal parent for a change. He wouldn’t care about my Spanish grade.

  “What time is Dad coming tomorrow night?” I asked.

  “About that . . .” Mom paused—but the screen hovering next to her said it all. Inside was an image of her yelling at someone over the phone. It didn’t take a genius to figure out my dad was probably on the other line.

  “Your father can’t make it this weekend,” Mom said, looking down at her plate.

  I grunted and took another bite of casserole. I wanted to tell Mom that if she’d stop screaming at Dad every time he called, maybe he wouldn’t be staying away so long. But I couldn’t. The thing was, I never told Ellen that Mom kicked Dad out. Not this last time—or any of the other times before. Sometimes I would want to tell her, but then I’d think about Ellen’s parents, and how she told me they still held hands and how it embarrassed her—and then I just couldn’t do it. So instead, I told her Dad was away because of work. Ellen always seemed to believe me, especially since Dad changed jobs so often.

  “Are you okay?” Ellen asked me. She looks upset, read the white words scrolling across the blue screen hovering next to her.

  “I’m fine,” I said, and took another bite.

  There was a silence, broken occasionally by the sound of scraping forks. Finally, in an overly bright voice, Ellen said, “If you’re free then, want to go to the dance tomorrow night?”

  “What dance?” I asked.

  Ellen rolled her eyes. “Really, Callie, do you walk around school blindfolded? There are only a ton of posters all over campus. The Fall Dance. It’s tomorrow night.”

  “Do you even have to ask? No way.”

  “Come on, it could be a lot of fun,” Ellen said, but the screen next to her told me her thoughts were elsewhere: Why are you even asking? You know she won’t go. She’s so selfish; she never does anything I want to do.

  I’m selfish? I’m selfish? I wanted to shout. What about all the things I did for Ellen? Like always meeting her at her locker before school started. Ellen never came to my locker, even though mine was closer to Mrs. Faber’s class. Ellen always picked what we did. Like today—I wanted to stay aft
er school with Mr. Angelo and the rest of the paint crew. But Ellen said we needed to practice our lines (translation: her lines) and couldn’t be bothered with something as ridiculous as painting.

  And, oh yeah, what about letting Ellen have the part of Cinderella in the first place. I’m selfish? Yeah, right.

  But I couldn’t say any of that. Instead I said, “I have absolutely no desire to go.”

  That wasn’t exactly true. A small part of me really did want to go. The part that imagined me laughing and dancing in a big group of friends. But in my imagination I had frizz-free hair, a freckle-free face, and I knew how to make people laugh instead of worrying they were laughing at me.

  In reality, if I went to the dance, I would stand awkwardly in a dark corner, drinking punch and trying not to look bored while one cute boy after another asked Ellen to dance.

  “Are you sure you don’t want to go?” Ellen asked. The words in the screen next to her changed then: Maybe Stacy would go with me. She’d be fun to hang out with.

  I hesitated. Imagining Ellen and Stacy laughing it up all night was almost enough to make me change my mind.

  Almost.

  “I’m positive. And anyways”—I glanced at Mom—“I have a lot of homework due on Monday.”

  My words had the desired effect because Mom looked up and said, “Yes, Callie will need to stay in this weekend.” No way is she leaving this house without putting some serious effort into her Spanish.

  “See,” I said to Ellen. “I can’t go. Go ahead without me and have fun.”

  But not too much fun, I thought to myself. Not with that best-friend stealer Stacy Wanamaker.

  After Ellen left, Mom went on and on about finding a Spanish tutor. Finally I told her I’d ask Ana. I looked down at my notebook paper as I rang the Garcia’s doorbell. Usually Mom paid someone to tutor me. But I knew we couldn’t afford that right now, so I’d ripped the story of “Cinderella and the Stupid Prince” out of my journal, hoping Ana would accept it as a gift.