“I just don’t understand why the mean girls always get the great boyfriends. Are guys really attracted to that?” Becca asked. “Do I need to be mean to get Brandon’s attention?”
“I don’t think Brandon is like that. Besides, changing who you are is no way to get a guy’s attention. Guys like Mitch will have their eyes opened.”
What would it take for my eyes to be opened to the things I was oblivious about? Things like whoever was sabotaging the school play and, in effect, my life?
CHAPTER 14
After hanging up the phone, I flipped open my diary-turned-dictionary doubling as an investigational-crime-busting-notebook and made a T-chart, labeling one side “incidents” and the other “people.”
Under “incidents,” I listed the missing scripts, the cut webbing holding the spotlight, the falling boards, and the ruined costumes. Across from each one, I noted some information and possible suspects.
The scripts were missing before most of the high school kids had been cast. Only the Gorilla and another kid who never came back were at practice that day so I wrote “Gorilla” under “people” and across from “missing scripts.”
When the boards fell, several of the tekkies had been out of sight backstage. It was assumed they’d been roughhousing and accidently bumped them, causing my bruised fingertips.
I placed the word “tekkies” in the slot where “people” and “boards” met.
No one knew exactly when the webbing was cut so I moved on to costumes. The costumes had been fine when we tried them on Tuesday. They’d been stained sometime between the end of Tuesday’s and start of Wednesday’s rehearsals. I had nothing more to jot down since it could be just about anyone who had access to the dressing room backstage.
Plus, if something was going on, it had messed with my life, Mrs. Baker’s dissertation thing, and a whole bunch of other people’s lives. Somebody ought to do something and, in this case, I, Gabby St. Claire, would step up to the plate.
Is it bad luck to talk about the theater in baseball terms? Who knows?
But I had a more immediate problem. The ink infested skirt. If I didn’t come up with a way to get the ink out of my costume, it was going to be curtains on my chances to be an actor. I started a new list: People to ask about stain removal.
***
“Osmosis always involves water moving through a semi-permeable membrane, while diffusion involves a liquid or gas.”
I racked my brain for a way to raise my hand and ask Ms. Shernick about ink stains moving out of gingham. Ms. Shernick was my last hope.
I’d asked everyone I could think of, including my mom since she cleaned houses, and my FACS teacher. My teacher had said the stain was too large for one leaking pen and suggested a dry cleaner. Dry cleaners cost money so that was out.
You’d think ink stain removal would be one of the main subjects covered in Family and Consumer Science class instead of useless information like reading nutrition labels and how not to burn your clothes when you ironed them.
Duh! Don’t buy clothes you gotta iron!
The Gorilla had, very reluctantly and only because Brandon had supported me, allowed me to bring one of the skirts home to try and remove the ink stain after Thursday’s practice. Brandon had also sweet talked her into waiting until Monday to order a replacement. It was do or die because the Princess’s and Diva’s checks had been turned in.
The Diva had made a big production of writing a check, from her own personal account, to pay for her new costume. It had dutifully impressed most of the high schoolers that she had her own check book. I just wanted to vomit. That girl would do anything for attention.
The kid playing Curly was still sick Thursday, and everyone was impressed that a seventh grader could fill in for him so smoothly. Bran, as the high schoolers called him, just shrugged it off but they were right. He was beyond smooth. He was a natural.
To him, dancing was like speaking: an effortless way to communicate. His confidence was infectious too. Everyone had noticed how Lana had stepped up her dancing to match his. Bran knew all of Curly’s dance parts and most of his lines so he’d filled in for the sick guy in an amazing sort of way. Plus, he didn’t look like a kid standing next to Lana because he was tall and Lana was short.
I had to admit that the idea to bring in a “middle school contingent” to make Lana and some of the others look older had been brilliant.
I hated watching them together, but not as much as the Diva did. Her eyes would narrow, fists clench, and her mouth would purse like she’d just sucked a bushel of lemons.
I vaguely wondered if anyone had called the Caveman to tell him what he was missing while he was home sick.
Do guys call each other every night like Becca and I do?
I doubted it. But someone ought to be telling him. After all, he treated Donabell like a queen. I wondered what it would be like to have someone treat me that way.
“Gabby?” Ms. Shernick’s voice swatted me out of my Brance (my ultra-secret code name for when I daydreamed about Brandon).
The final bell of the day had rung and the Frantic Friday Freedom Rush had commenced as kids zoomed out of the door to their wonderful weekends. I took my time gathering my stuff since Hannah had Ms. Shernick’s attention.
I wasn’t trying to overhear. Really I wasn’t. But I did.
“Court is an excused absence but this paper is unacceptable because of the content, not because it’s late.” Ms. Shernick’s disturbed voice carried despite the Friday madness in the hallway.
Hannah just shrugged. She didn’t reach to take the paper even though Ms. Shernick was persistently trying to give it to her. I could tell the science teacher was exasperated from the way her eyebrows closed together like two caterpillars trying to kiss.
“You may have the weekend to revise and resubmit,” she said, thrusting the assignment on top of Hannah’s Bible.
Hannah reluctantly tucked it into her binder. “No thanks. I’d rather fail the class than write anything giving credence to your evolution nonsense.”
Without another word, Hannah left. Ms. Shernick let out an ever so subtle sigh, as if she was annoyed. I hoped it wouldn’t ruin my chances to get her expertise on stain removal. I tried to put Hannah and her strange behavior out of my mind. I’d never heard anyone say that to a teacher before.
I’d have to think about it later. Right now, I had other issues at hand. I explained to Ms. Shernick what had happened, and she examined the spot on my costume.
“Sorry, Gabby.” My life science teacher handed the stained garment back as Mr. Harold, the custodian entered to dump the trashcan. “I don’t have a solution for you.”
“It’s okay. I figured it was worth a shot.”
Just then, Ms. Shernick’s eyes lit up, almost as if a light bulb had come on. “Mr. Harold! Just the person this young lady needs to talk to.”
I automatically bristled. No one referred to me as a young lady unless I was in deep trouble. I was about to say I hadn’t done anything wrong, out of habit, but wisely I kept my mouth shut—this time.
“Mr. Harold has been cleaning up after messy students for longer than I’ve been teaching,” Ms. Shernick explained. “I bet he knows a trick or two.”
I held the skirt out. Mr. Harold examined it and nodded. I figured it was a good sign.
And I could really use some good signs here lately.
CHAPTE R 15
Forty-five minutes later, I was at home assembling a small army of cleaning products. Mr. Harold had gone above and beyond, convening a cluster of custodians, all of whom were eager to help.
“Hairspray will loosen the stain.”
“Naw, this one’s older than fifteen minutes. Gotta do hairspray right away.”
“Soak it for half an hour in a quart of water mixed with a half a teaspoon of dishwashing soap.”
“How about white vinegar?” asked the lady I had nearly taken out the day I hustled to auditions. Her name was Mrs. Rodgers, and she seemed not
to have any hard feelings.
“Might damage cotton,” someone else replied.
“As long as it’s not acrylic, you can try rubbing alcohol.”
“Gotta have a pad underneath though when you pour the alcohol on it. It pulls the stain into whatever is underneath and you don’t want that to create a second stain.”
I had nodded, hoping all of this would make sense later.
“Worse comes to worse, you can try the dish soap again with a tablespoon of ammonia.”
“But only a half hour or so. Then rinse really good with clear water.”
“Let us know how it works out,” Mr. Harold had said.
He seemed like the kindly grandfather type. I never had much grandparenting since all four of mine either lived far away or had passed on. As I worked on the skirt, I wondered what it would be like to have a close-knit extended family or how things might have been if my brother Tim hadn’t disappeared.
I had to stop letting that memory pop up. When I did, I went to a dark place. My mom told me repeatedly it had not been my fault he vanished, but I knew she’d only said that because moms don’t want kids feeling bad over stuff they couldn’t fix.
I was supposed to be watching him. I had failed. And now he was gone and dad drank and mom had to work two jobs because my father lost his license and a good job. All because I . . .
I rubbed harder, scrubbing out my thoughts.
The fabric tore.
I stared at the disaster in front of me, trying to ignore the dark thoughts that invaded my mind.
One fact remained, though: Once again, I had ruined something. It appeared that my list was growing longer and longer.
***
Mrs. Baker looked pale and tired, like the stomach flu wasn’t completely out of her system, but I admired her dedication, running rehearsal alone Friday since the French Club and Madame Cherise were on a field trip. It was a tech rehearsal so only tekkies and people with speaking roles were needed.
I watched from the back of the auditorium. I was only here to pick up another skirt and see if I could get the ink out. I would sneak backstage during break and see if I could grab one.
In the meantime, the kid playing Curly was also still sick so Bran the Man filled in, absolutely mesmerizing in the lead role.
My unbiased opinion.
This play might just be a success after all. I just had to snag another skirt and figure out how to remove the ink. My mom said she’d help, but I had to quit scrubbing on the one I tore or the edges would fray and she couldn’t sew it up after we got the stain out.
At 4 p.m., the halfway point break, when everyone else headed to the restrooms or their backpacks for a snack, I sauntered backstage. Tekkies had been working on a backdrop of a field with “corn as high as an elephant’s eye.” A number of the stage lights sat on a workbench with different squares of colored cellophane spread around like a gorgeous rainbow. I picked a red one up and gazed through it.
I wondered if this was what rose-colored glasses were like. Not that I’d been accused of wearing any.
“I wouldn’t touch the gels.”
I hadn’t known anyone was backstage and barely stopped myself from shrieking. I whirled around and was shocked to see Hannah, sitting scrunched up in a corner. She didn’t smile, didn’t frown; she just stared at me matter-of-factly.
“You’ll leave a fingerprint and they are really hard to clean.”
I wanted to ask her what she thought she was doing backstage and why she was here. I wanted to ask her why she’d been to court and how many times and why. Not that these were any of my business, but I was a curious sort. Plus, I was trying to track down who was responsible for the mess-ups. Hannah was definitely moving onto my suspect list.
But, while I was deciding how to phrase one of those questions so it came out so smoothly she’d let her secrets slip, something furry ran across my foot. I screamed and jumped back, nearly falling over the fake fence that was part of the scenery. I reached out to grab something to steady myself, but my hand met thin air.
I landed on my butt. Hannah snickered, and I planned to say something smart and clever and sarcastic once I thought of something smart, clever and sarcastic to say. Then I realized the snicker hadn’t come from Hannah, but instead from behind me. Someone else had witnessed my graceless fall.
I spun around, but no one was there.
Get the skirt and go!
After giving Hannah a dirty look, I quietly slipped over to the costume rack and stuffed the pink skirt into my jacket. As I was easing my way out, I saw a flicker of movement.
That’s no ghost!
A rush of excitement flashed through me. I was going to catch the saboteur!
I tiptoed to the stack of flats leaning against the back wall where the noise had come from. The frame of each four foot wide and twelve foot tall flat had canvas stretched over it so the tekkies could paint on them and create the scenery. They were lightweight but awkward to handle because of their height.
I peered around the first one.
Nothing.
I took a few more quiet steps and peeked behind the next one.
Again, nothing.
Only one flat remained. The vandal had to be hiding behind it. But I’d need to tip it a teensy weensy bit. Technically, that might be against one of the jillion rules–“two people to move a flat.”
I took hold of the edge. Suddenly, the flat jerked out of my hands and careened forward. As I tried to stop it, I realized it had a fresh coat of slippery, wet paint. It glided out of my hands and fell onto the table with the gels. A second and third crash sounded as the other flats tumbled forward hitting the table with the gels.
Someone screamed.
I realized it was me.
CHAPTER 16
Five minutes later, I was in deeper trouble than I ever imagined. The high schoolers surrounded me like a pack of rabid wolves as Gorilla the Hun tallied up the damage.
“Why were you backstage?” the kid playing Judd challenged.
“Why were you here at all,” asked another. “This was for main cast, not middle school meddlers.”
“She didn’t mean to do it,” Bran said coming to my defense.
I gave him a grateful look.
“One of the lights is dented. I hope you’re happy,” snapped Lydia. She held up a handful of gels that had gotten wrinkled beyond use when things fell.
Before I could think better of it, I sarcastically rattled off a retort. “You’re not supposed to handle gels and get fingerprints on them.” I crossed my arms defiantly.
Heedless of my timely warning, Lydia held one out to Gail. “She must have been messing with the flats. She’s got paint on her hands.”
Everyone stared at my hands, including me. Sure enough, they were smeared with paint. Now even Bran was looking at me like I’d messed things up.
“I wasn’t alone back here,” I protested. “Hannah Embry was scrunched up in the corner reading.” I pointed to the place I’d last seen her.
“Who?” Lydia asked.
Her accusatory tone made me want to blow my top. It was too dark to see where Hannah might have gotten to and I realized none of the high schoolers would have a clue who she was anyway since this was Hannah’s first year in a public school.
“This girl. She’s in my science class . . .” I tried to explain, but the Gorilla cut me off.
“Explain it to Mrs. Baker on Monday.”
“I’ll explain it to her now,” I quipped way more defensively than I meant to.
“I don’t think so,” snapped Lydia. “She felt sick again and had to leave.”
“Rehearsal’s over,” announced the Gorilla, taking charge. “Last thing we need is Principal Black finding us here without a faculty member. We’ll deal with this mess Monday.”
As people left, I heard remarks like, “Poor Mrs. Baker,” and snide comments like, “They should have screened the little kids better.”
It was bad enough when I just ne
eded a clean skirt.
Now I needed a clean reputation.
CHAPTER 17
“I just have to get to the bottom of this!” It was my turn to wail to Becca. “I didn’t do it, but nobody believes me.”
I’d gone over the events so Becca could help untangle the mess I was in.
“We’ll figure it out. Just get a grip.” She paused. “I did hear something from my mom.”
“So dish,” I said.
“Madame Cherise told my mom at some meeting that she only agreed to help with this production because originally the play was supposed to be South Pacific, and it has a song and some dialogue in French.”
“So?” I didn’t see any connection.
“Job security. Fewer students are taking French and Madame C thought doing a play with French in it might get more kids interested in French, thereby ensuring she doesn’t have to split her time between two schools like the Latin teacher does.”
“Interesting.” I considered that angle. Could Madame C have a vengeful streak? If enough costumes and set pieces were ruined, would the school have to switch plays? Would a teacher really go that far? For job security, I decided she might. I at least had to consider her as a possibility.
“However, I’m not sure an adult from school would really try to sabotage a kid’s play. Not even Madame C. I mean, teachers are overloaded as it is. None of them would have time for something that silly.”
My friend could have a point. I needed to move on to another suspect. “How about the Gorilla? Sometimes I get the feeling she would rather be onstage than managing the crew.”
“Maybe that’s why she’s grumpy,” said Becca.
“She knows the backstage like no one else. If anyone could have slipped in, pushed the flats, then scooted out unseen, it was Gail the Gorilla.”
“I can’t imagine why Hannah’d be backstage either,” Becca said for the forty-millionth time. “But if she was doing something wrong, she wouldn’t have just been sitting there reading. She never would have told you to leave the gels alone. She would have stayed hidden.”
The Curtain Call Caper (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries) Page 6