The Curtain Call Caper (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries)

by Christy Barritt

  ***

  Most of the time, life sucks.

  I thought I might grab a bite before rehearsal started but, despite skipping breakfast and missing lunch, my appetite was non-existent. I stuffed my PB&J, juice box, and apple back into my backpack as I sat alone, isolated in the auditorium, waiting for practice to start. I glanced around and noticed Hannah once again in the back, reading.

  Now all my pent up and stuffed down anger had a target. I decided to demand an explanation.

  Why hadn’t she bothered to help with the cell project? She can’t show up for class, but she thinks she can intrude on my show? As I stormed through the auditorium seats, none of the high school kids said a word about Friday, but they sent me a few cold, disapproving looks.

  Halfway to Hannah, Amy Snyder blocked my progress and suggested I switch to tech because I was “so helpful backstage.” I skirted around her, looking back to throw a dirty look her way, only to run headlong into the Gorilla.

  “Watch where you’re going,” she snarled as she stomped back to the light booth muttering, “I hate running lights. Might be nice to be on stage just once.”

  I considered several ways, some tactful, some not, to start my conversation as I closed the distance to Hannah’s typical back row seat. I need not have bothered. She spoke first.

  “They’re immature. Just ignore them. If they can’t get a reaction from you, eventually they’ll quit trying.” Her eyes dropped back to her book.

  That left me momentarily speechless. Just as I opened my mouth to confront her, I was interrupted by Madame Cherise's voice.

  “Gabby! Gabby St. Claire! If you please . . .” Everyone else was on stage to rehearse the "It's a Scandal! It's a Outrage!" scene.

  Everyone stared at me, the cause of the delay. This would have to wait. I had been assigned to babysit Paulette during this scene and doing that well would prove I was responsible and dependable. Most of the time, the Princess was one of the harem clustered around the slippery traveling salesman, Ali Hakim. But since this was his solo, she had to shadow someone else, and I was the chosen one.

  I reluctantly trudged on stage and found my place. Somehow I knew the Diva would find a way to hurtfully relate the lyrics to me.

  I wished the scandal we were singing about were the only one in my life. Unfortunately, the middle school food chain was harsher at times than the life and death showdowns in the Old West.

  CHAPTER 23

  “My brand new costume! It’s been ruined!” shrieked the Diva.

  Her exhibition of her costume rivaled Barker’s Beauties on The Price Is Right. Grape jelly and peanut butter were smeared across the front of the green skirt and the matching gingham top dripped some liquid.

  “This just happened,” Lydia insisted. “I didn’t open the box the costumes were shipped in until today at rehearsal. I passed them out just before break.”

  Mrs. Baker shook her head, her hand over her mouth, and her eyes wide and troubled.

  I quickly checked my brand new pink one. It was fine. Thank goodness.

  “My dad is arranging for an agent, a real live theatrical agent, to come see me. You must get me another costume! This one is damaged.” The Diva laid it on thick. Most of the older actors rolled their eyes at her melodramatic theatrics, but the Devotees hovered, patting and consoling Donabell incessantly, each trying to outdo the other.

  “You wash it. There isn’t time to order another, even if we had the money to do it,” Gail the Gorilla fumed. “I think this was done deliberately.”

  She stared right at me.

  “Gabby always eats PB&J for lunch,” muttered someone.

  Technically, that wasn’t true. Sometimes we even ran out of that staple when funds were low, and I brought something else I could scrounge.

  “Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” cautioned Mrs. Baker.

  “I saw Gabby St. Claire bring her lunch into practice.” Everyone turned toward the deliberately amplified voice. It was the Caveman. “I saw her shove a brown sack into her backpack.”

  Every eye swiveled back my way, locking on me like a hunter sites its prey in the crosshairs of a rifle.

  “Check her backpack,” murmured a voice. I couldn’t tell whose.

  “We are not going to go through anyone’s backpacks.” Mrs. Baker put her hands on her hips. The situation was careening out of control. People wanted a scapegoat. I was an easy target.

  I, Gabby St. Claire, am not going to be intimidated by false accusations.

  “I have nothing to hide.” I put my hands on my hips and stared back at everyone. “Go ahead. I give you permission to check.”

  I pointed toward where I’d stashed my stuff in a seat at the back of the auditorium.

  The Diva herself marched over.

  I held my breath, even though I knew I hadn’t done it.

  She pulled out the brown bag and held it away from her body like it might have cooties. She pulled out a baggie.

  My heart sank. It contained half of my PB&J. Only half.

  She rummaged a moment and held up a sippy straw that came with a juice box, and then dumped the contents to show the box was missing. My sad, little apple with one bite missing rolled down the aisle toward the stage.

  I froze. Conversation froze. But only for a second.

  Then everyone pointed and the room erupted into noise, accusations, hateful comments, and snide remarks. My only comfort was that Bran the Man had left at break for some kind of appointment. At least he wasn’t seeing this.

  Mrs. Baker had to clap three times to re-establish control. My mouth was dry. I had nothing to say in my defense.

  “She couldn’t have done it,” Paulette spoke softly. “She’s been helping me the whole time.”

  Relief flooded me. It was short lived.

  “Like she’d be able to keep track.” The voice was male but muffled enough to make it unidentifiable. It was a cruel remark but hopefully over the Princess’s head.

  “Enough!” commanded Mrs. Baker, sharply.

  Based on the silence that followed, everyone seemed to be in shock. Our director had never, even in the most exasperating circumstances, used such a tone.

  No one moved. Nothing moved except the trickle of a tear down the Princess’s face.

  She had understood.

  I felt bad, truly bad for her and a bit guilty, as well. In all our years together, no one had ever said what they thought about her lack of intelligence so bluntly in front of her. It was an unspoken law. Now, because of me, she’d been hurt. I could only hope she’d forget the brutal slam.

  “Gail, put the costume with my stuff. I’ll take it home and wash it.” Mrs. Baker’s calm voice was restored. Turning toward the rest of us, she continued. “We’re done for today. Tomorrow we work on ‘The Farmer and the Cowman.’”

  The swarm of cast and crew broke up into smaller groups, each abuzz with conversation but none of it loud enough for the teacher to hear.

  I numbly stared at what was left of my apple. The horde had trampled it into a smashed mess. It was gross, but I didn’t care. I scooped it up along with the rest of the “evidence” Donabell had dragged from my bag. Wiping the goo off my hand onto the bag, I wadded it up and slowly took my time plodding out of the auditorium.

  I’d give Hannah a piece of my mind some other time. If I left slowly enough, the others might be already gone, whisked home by loving parents.

  When I emerged from the building, the sun was low, a few feeble rays casting their dim light. Darkness was descending. In more ways than one. I felt a cold, insidious gloom creeping into my soul. I glanced around. Only one car remained, a navy Rolls Royce. I tossed the brown paper mess I still carried into the trashcan. A tap on the shoulder startled me.

  “I’m not that stupid. I know you didn’t do it. Just like I know you’re not a fake friend,” Paulette said. “I know that because you helped me not miss the activity bus that time Donabell lied to me about having to go to the office.” A tiny smile crosse
d her lips in contrast to the tear stains she hadn’t quite wiped away.

  “Thanks. I’m sorry about what they said . . . about you . . .” I started, unable to think of a good finish. Paulette might just see through any false drivel I could muster.

  “I know. You’re not like them. You’re nice.” Paulette smiled a little bit more then walked to the Rolls.

  Maybe today wasn’t a total failure.

  CHAPTER 24

  Nice. Who wants to be known as “nice?”

  I dragged myself home. I didn’t even bother to feel sorry for myself for not having a ride.

  Popular, fun, exciting, attractive—utterly!

  Caring, loyal, smart—yes.

  Responsible, mature, charming and delightful—of course!

  Accepted—absolutely!

  But nice?

  The last three days had been the worst in my thirteen years. Who knew what the next thirteen or thirty would hold? Not me. I felt overwhelmed and powerless now. How much worse would it be in high school or as an adult? How did people manage to grow up without giving up?

  My parents had been popular once. My dad a jock surfer, my mom a talented beauty pageant queen. Now they were . . . ?

  I never thought much about it. Never made the connection until just now. Being popular, smart, pretty and athletic didn’t always last, didn’t guarantee you a happy adulthood or success or anything. Was there any point to being popular in school? Was there any point in life?

  My feet had unconsciously detoured to the park where Tim had disappeared when I was 10 years old. It seemed even more rundown in the fading light, like the trailer park next door to the duplex where I lived.

  Actually, the worst day of my life happened right here.

  Thinking about Timmy put the last three days in perspective. Last time I had seen him, he was spinning himself in a circle, the rusty swing chains winding up so that when Timmy pulled his feet up, the swing would unwind him in a delirious whirl. He’d always squealed when it spun him around, one of those joyous little kid noises of unrestrained happiness.

  I was supposed to be watching him, taking care of him. But instead I was engrossed in my own world, thinking about how I’d get Donabell back for “accidently” knocking over my juice at lunch. I wished I could shift my blame to her, to convince myself that, if Donabell weren’t so mean, Timmy would never have disappeared. But it wasn’t her fault. It was mine. I’d failed to watch him and poof, he was gone.

  My mom still mourned him; she just didn’t show it. Dad did. His life had spiraled downward ever since. He started drinking, lost his license, lost his manager position at the surf shop.

  Timmy and I had loved going to work with him on Saturdays in the summer. Most of the time it had been busy with streams of locals asking my dad for his expert advice on which new board design looked most promising. Sometimes lobster red tourists smelling of tanning oil came looking for his autograph and a tip or two about which section of the beach would have the best waves that day. My father was in his element then, his gleaming white smile a contrast to his tanned face. I was proud to be his daughter.

  But the best times were when business was slow. Dad, Timmy and I would pretend we were surfing, catching monster waves. Dad would give us pointers.

  “Keep those five toes on the nose, Gremmie!” he’d shout over the pretend roar of breaking waves. Gremmie was his nickname for Timmy; it meant a beginning surfer.

  “Beach Bunny,” he’d yell to me. “Prone out on that mondo wave or you’ll get a sand facial.”

  I’d drop to my belly and pretend to duck under the curl, then jump back up for a spectacular finish shouting, “Kowabunga!”

  I kicked at some of the dead leaves huddled against the wooden perimeter of what used to be a sandbox. Once Timmy was gone, so were those Saturdays. The only thing left was his room. It was exactly the same as it was the day he vanished. Dad still insisted that Timmy was coming back someday and steadfastly refused to allow even one tiny, insignificant change to his old bedroom.

  Where was Tim? Was he ever coming back? Was dad—the before-Tim-left-dad—ever coming back? How was I supposed to go on with life when everything seemed against me?

  No answers came to mind, no brilliant flashes of insight. I thought about talking to Becca when she called but decided I really needed to ask someone older, someone who . . .

  Someone who had successfully navigated adolescence? Did anyone? Or did grown-ups just put on an act? What made anybody successful? Happy?

  I had no idea who I might ask. I felt alone, isolated, unattached.

  I felt for a moment like that poor Judd Fry loser from the play. Alone. Unlovable. And rejected.

  CHAPTER 25

  “You all have worked hard to make this a production I am proud of.” Mrs. Baker’s gaze took each of us in turn as individuals. “Tomorrow after school we will have an attended dress rehearsal. This is a free show for a few people so we can gauge how an audience will react, when you need to pause for laughter and applause, and to give you a feel for live performances.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us this before? My parents already bought tickets,” complained Amy.

  “That’s why,” answered Gorilla Gail. “So we’d sell tickets.” She picked her way through the cast and crew strung out on stage, handing everyone a blue ticket with the word “comp” stamped across it.

  “These are a different color than the regular tickets and can only be used Thursday,” added Mrs. Baker. “Put the ticket away and then places. We do a complete run through in five.”

  “Thank you, five!” we shouted in unison and scrambled to do last minute adjustments to costumes, hair and make-up.

  I tugged Paulette’s outfit in place and gave her a thumbs up. I no longer thought of her as the spoiled Princess.

  She’s more like a puppy—friendly but needing constant guidance.

  Movement in the back of the auditorium caught my eye. All week long Mrs. Baker had insisted we have closed practices. No one but cast and crew were allowed in here.

  So who is back there?

  It was Hannah. I was determined to confront her, but Paulette yanked on my sleeve.

  “We have to get in place,” she whispered.

  Making sure both of us were in the right place at the right time was supposed to be my job. I glanced around. Everyone else was in place, and I wasn’t about to be the one who got blamed for not starting on time. Hannah would have to wait.

  But now I was sure. Little Miss Law Abiding Hannah not only had no business being here, she was here in direct defiance of Mrs. Baker’s instruction. Surely that would be proof enough, but just in case, I was extra mindful so I could catch her red-handed if something else went wrong.

  But nothing went wrong. Even Principal Black, who’d dropped by to watch, had applauded.

  Despite how smoothly things went, I couldn’t help but think there was more bad stuff coming. Whoever had been behind these acts hadn’t been successful at shutting the play down. In my mind, that meant his or her job was incomplete. I braced myself, expecting more trouble.

  “Take five then we’ll move into Act Two,” shouted Mrs. Baker. She was in the middle of the empty auditorium, furiously writing on her tablet, and talking to her assistant who was writing just as swiftly.

  I couldn’t decide whether to breathe a sigh of relief when the first act closed without disaster striking or to be frustrated that Principal Black’s presence might have prevented me from snagging Hannah in the act of sabotage.

  But it has to be her.

  The more I added names and connected clues with opportunities and motives, I realized that Madame Cherise had been on a field trip the day the flats fell over and Gorilla the Hun had been in the light booth when the PB&J incident occurred. That only left Hannah.

  I’ll just confront her. Make her talk.

  I scooted Paulette into the dressing room to check her makeup and ran smack dab into Hannah, who was coming around the curtain from backstage.
>
  “Why are you back here?” I challenged, glowering at her.

  “I want to apologize,” she began.

  I cut her off. “It’s too late for that. You think you can almost destroy this entire show and then apologize and everything’s forgiven?”

  “Huh?” Hannah appeared to be confused, but I wasn’t going to be fooled by her Little Miss Innocent act.

  “Just wait until I tell Mrs. Baker.”

  “She’s the one who said I needed to apologize about not helping with the cell model.”

  Now it was my turn to say “huh?” “Cell model? What does that have to do with the play and Mrs. Baker?”

  Hannah frowned. “She’s my foster mom.”

  “Your foster mom?” My mouth flopped open.

  “Yeah. My parents are in jail for contempt of court. The day the model was due, I was in court, thinking I was going home because the judge was going to release them. But he didn’t. But that is no excuse for not doing my part. Will you forgive me?”

  “Places! Act two!” hollered the Gorilla.

  Things started clicking into place. Hannah was at rehearsal because the director was her foster mother. Hannah hadn’t disappeared the day the flats fell; she’d gone home with Mrs. Baker, who’d become ill. But if it wasn’t Hannah, was all of this just one big, stupid coincidence?

  “If you’re still mad, I understand. We can talk when you’re not needed on stage.” Hannah squeezed between the curtain and me and trotted back to her seat in the auditorium.

  Promising myself I’d sort it all out later, I double-checked that Paulette and Aunt Eller’s pans were in place.

  I’d ruled out my best lead. Just who was I left with now?

  CHAPTER 26

  The second act flowed and before I knew it “The Farmer and the Cowman” had finished. Everyone was acting riled up, like a fight was about to erupt. Aunt Eller climbed onto the soapbox. That was my cue. I reached for the long handles of the skillets I had preset, keeping my eyes on her.