We shrieked and cried, “Oh, Pamela, that’s you!” when the chorus girls, dressed like sexy cats, sang “Pet Me, Poppa,” even though we didn’t know how much of the movie version or even the Broadway performance would make it into the script of a high school musical.
But we got quieter as the movie went on, and I think we all began to realize that not only was Pamela right for the chorus, but she would be great for the part of Adelaide, Nathan Detroit’s girlfriend, who’s been trying for fourteen years to get him to marry her.
Pamela has short blond hair like Adelaide’s; she’s cute, like Adelaide; and—like Adelaide—Pamela can sing up a storm. If she didn’t chicken out, that is.
When Gwen finally put it into words—“Pamela, Adelaide is you!”—we all began talking at once. Every time Pamela raised an objection, we threw popcorn at her. Liz’s three-year-old brother heard the commotion and ran in to join the fun.
We watched the movie through to the end, of course, but whenever the ditzy Adelaide sang another song, especially “Adelaide’s Lament,” we knew just how right the whole musical was for our beloved, ditzy, risk-taking, act-without-thinking Pamela.
“All right already! I’ll sign up for the chorus!” she said finally, and at least that was a start.
When Monday came, we all escorted her down to the sign-up sheet to witness her signature for the chorus. It wasn’t till the next day that Pamela discovered Tim had signed her up to audition for Adelaide, too.
Patrick didn’t think we ought to have done that.
We’ve talked once since he got home from that thing in Baltimore. He asked how the dance went and—can you believe this?—whether Scott was a good dancer, and I said it went fine and I had no complaints about Scott’s dancing. That’s all he wanted to know, which was disappointing. I was still smarting from that.
“I didn’t sign Pamela up for the Adelaide audition,” I said. “It was Tim.”
“But you’re all pushing her. I think that when she’s ready to try out for a part, she’ll do it,” Patrick said.
Sometimes he really gets on my nerves. I’d been lying on my back on the bed, but now I propped myself up on one elbow, holding the phone to my ear. “Patrick, you’ve probably never had to be pushed to do anything in your life except eat broccoli,” I said. “You’re so motivated, you could move a mountain, but not everyone is like you. Right now Pamela needs all the support she can get.”
“Have you ever thought that maybe the more you reassure her, the more she might feel she needs it?” Patrick said. “If you just said, ‘Pamela, you know you can do it, and it’s up to you whether or not you audition,’ it might make her feel more confident?”
I wasn’t sure of anything except that I wanted Patrick to be a little bit jealous that I went to the dance with Scott, and if he couldn’t be jealous, couldn’t he at least be curious? Didn’t he even wonder if Scott held me close when we danced? Kissed me? I should be the topic of conversation here, not Pamela.
“Maybe you’re right,” I said flatly. What did I mean to him, anyway? Maybe he just asked me to the prom because he was afraid if he put it off, he’d forget. Maybe he just wanted to make sure he had a date. Old reliable Alice.
“Anyway,” Patrick went on, “the orchestra got the music for Guys and Dolls last week. I’ll be doing percussion.”
I forgot momentarily that Patrick plays the drums for both the band and the orchestra—Patrick, the master of all trades: orchestra, band, track, Chess Club, debate team.… Why the heck didn’t he run for class president while he was at it?
“Good for you,” I said.
There were a few seconds of silence, and then he asked, “Alice? Something wrong?”
“Yes,” I said. “Life is so easy for you, Patrick. You succeed in everything you do while—”
“Whoa! Whoa!” he said. “Where did you get that idea?”
“But isn’t it true?”
“Not by a long shot. You don’t know the half of it.”
I felt a little foolish then. “When will I know the other half?”
“Oh, when the time’s right,” said Patrick.
I didn’t ask when that might be, because with Patrick, there’s never enough time. But he made it sound as though he might make time for me somewhere down the line. I guess I’d wait.
He did have a point about Pamela. The way we kept pushing and persuading her must have made her feel as though she couldn’t do it on her own. So when she called me that Tuesday night and said she was furious at Tim for putting her name on the list for Adelaide and she wasn’t going to audition tomorrow, I said, “You’re right, Pamela. He shouldn’t have done that. And I apologize for all of us for trying to make you do something you don’t want. I think you know you can sing and dance better than most of us, and we know it, but it’s entirely up to you.”
We didn’t see her before school on Wednesday. Gwen said she checked the sign-up list, and Pamela hadn’t crossed out her name for either the chorus or for Adelaide, but we didn’t know if she was going to audition or not. No one else could attend the auditions—only the names on the sign-up sheet. Mr. Gage (the choir director), Mr. Ellis (the drama coach), and Miss Ortega (the dance teacher), along with a piano player, would be the only other people in the room during tryouts. They said they didn’t want any cheering sections watching from the wings.
I got all this from Charlene Verona, the girl who drove everyone nuts back in ninth grade when she got the part of Tzeitel in Fiddler on the Roof. I hoped she wasn’t trying out for the part of Adelaide and was glad when she said she auditioned to play the role of Sarah Brown.
Pamela didn’t call me Wednesday night, and we didn’t call her. Gwen and Liz and I made a vow we wouldn’t even bring up the topic at lunch the next day. It was a struggle, though. It was Charlene, of course, who spilled the beans. She breezed by our table as we were finishing our sandwiches and said breathlessly, “We both got callbacks, Pamela! Wouldn’t it be great if I played Sister Sarah and you played Adelaide?”
We looked at Pamela and began to grin.
“Way to go, girl!” said Gwen.
Gwen and I went to visit Molly after school on Thursday. She was up in her room, working at the computer, baseball cap tipped at an angle on her head.
“Hey!” Gwen said. “How you doing?”
“Busy!” Molly answered, giving us a smile.
We threw our jackets on the bed. “Homework?” I asked.
“Stage crew,” said Molly. “Mr. Ellis put me in charge of props.” We stared. “He called last week and asked if I wanted to be part of stage crew again this year, and I said yes. So he e-mailed me a list of all the props, and I’m seeing how many I can find for him.”
“Great!” I said, sending Mr. Ellis a hug by mental telepathy. “What have you got so far?”
Molly read off some things from her screen. “The print shop’s working with the auto shop to make a Times Square street sign; an art class is doing the lettering for the Save-a-Soul Mission; the band’s supplying a bass drum; a church is supplying the hymnbooks; a thrift shop is loaning us some fifties dresses; and a restaurant says we can borrow two fake palm trees for the scene in Havana.”
Gwen and I hooted with laughter. “Oh, Molly, you’re amazing!” Gwen said.
She grinned. “That’s what my doctor said.”
“Really?”
“So far so good,” said Molly.
“Wonderful!” we told her.
“So who’s trying out?” she wanted to know. “Pamela would be so good with that music.”
“Actually, she tried out for the part of Adelaide, but the cast hasn’t been posted yet,” I said.
“Adelaide?” shrieked Molly. “The ditzy girlfriend? The one who sings ‘Take Back Your Mink’? She’d be great!”
“Yeah, but there are lots of girls trying out, and they always cast seniors when possible,” I said. “But drink the rest of your milk shake and I’ll show you the photos we’re using in the newspaper of the Sadie Hawkins
Day dance.”
Molly made a face, picked up her half-full glass, and dutifully drank the rest of her shake. Then we sat together on the cushioned window seat in her bedroom and I showed her the first photo.
“Omigod!” She gasped. “Is that … is that Liz?”
“Stupefyin’ Jones in the flesh,” I said.
Gwen hadn’t seen the photos yet either—they’d be coming out in the next issue of The Edge—so we had some laughs. I wondered after a while whether this was helping or hurting … if I wasn’t just reminding Molly of all the things she was missing. But she genuinely looked as though she were having a good time. And when we put the last photo back in the envelope, she said, “I plan on coming to one of the performances of Guys and Dolls and going onstage for a curtain call with the rest of the crew.”
“Yay, Molly!” I said.
We were waiting for the official cast to be posted on Friday, the last day before spring vacation. Callbacks had been the day before, and those who were on the final list today were to pick up their scripts and music to study over the break. After we came back, there would be four weeks of rehearsals, with performances the next two weekends.
A little crowd had gathered just before homeroom, but the list wasn’t up yet. I went by after first period, and it still wasn’t there. Tim was checking too.
“Fingers crossed,” he said.
Just before lunch, we heard that the list was up. Pamela wouldn’t come. Gwen and Liz and I rushed down to the choir room and strained to see over the heads of the others. The hall was already filled now with squeals and cheers as well as murmurs of disappointment. All the big parts had gone to seniors, and a girl named Kelsey Reeves would play Adelaide. But Pamela was listed as her understudy, and she made the chorus, too.
“Do we cheer or console each other?” I asked Gwen.
“Cheer,” said Gwen. “This might be just what she needed. It will give her confidence without scaring her to death.”
What I was thinking, though, was that this had been Pamela’s chance to shine. The school alternates each year between plays and musicals. During our freshman year, the musical was Fiddler on the Roof. During sophomore year, the play was Father of the Bride. Now it was time for a musical again, and in our senior year, it would be a play.
But I think Gwen was right about Pamela. We cheered when we saw her, and I think she was both happy and relieved. The casting group had recognized her talent without making her the center of attention.
“I’ve got to learn the whole thing, just like Kelsey Reeves,” she said excitedly. “Same costumes and everything, except I’m in the chorus too, so I have to learn all their songs! And dance! I have to do some of the dances!”
“Say good-bye to Tim for the duration,” I joked. But I was ashamed that I’d managed to stick a little needle in the celebration.
The fact was, none of us would have a lot of time over spring break. Dad asked me to work at the Melody Inn—the store was having a spring clearance sale; Pamela was memorizing Adelaide’s lines and learning the songs; Liz was putting in applications for a summer job; and Gwen was working five afternoons instead of two at the health clinic.
Some kids were going on trips with their families. Karen and her mom, for instance, were going to New York, and Justin’s folks were virtually kidnapping him for a trip to the Bahamas because, as Jill said, they were doing everything possible to separate her from Justin. Charlene Verona said she didn’t have time to be in the musical after all (now that she didn’t get a lead part) because she was getting ready for a ballet recital, and Patrick was working again part-time for the landscaper he’d worked for last summer. That left Mark Stedmeister, who was repairing an old car he was buying from his dad. I didn’t know what Brian Brewster was doing, and I didn’t care.
I’d promised myself I’d start looking at prom dresses over spring break, but to be honest, I dreaded it. Neither Liz nor Pam nor Gwen had been invited to this prom yet, so if we went shopping together, it would be all for me.
I’m just one of those girls who doesn’t especially like to shop. I want to be gorgeous and have nice clothes; I just don’t like to go looking for them and trying stuff on.
When I went to work on Saturday, I asked Marilyn what I should do. Dad’s assistant manager was looking more beautiful by the day. I figured marriage had something to do with it.
“Where should I start looking?” I asked.
“Depends,” said Marilyn. “What did you have in mind? Long or short? Full or slinky?”
“Long,” I said. “I want to feel like I’m at a prom, not a cocktail party. I love the halter-top dress I wore to the Snow Ball, but I don’t want to wear that with Patrick. But then, I don’t want to spend a fortune, either.”
“Maybe … a creamy aqua? Say … a formfitting dress, simple top, spaghetti straps, three overlapping layers at the bottom, each with a two-inch satin border?”
I didn’t know how anyone could mentally design a dress so fast, and I tried to visualize it. Marilyn even drew it on the back of a cash register receipt—the first layer of the skirt ending below the knee, the second layer ending mid-calf, and the third just below the ankle.
“Sold,” I said. “Who sells it and how much?”
She laughed. “A friend loaned it to me, and you and I are about the same size. You can wear it if you’ll dry-clean it after.”
My eyes opened wide. “Marilyn! Really? I didn’t think you ever dressed up!”
“I didn’t think I did either, but my girlfriend of mine—a wealthy girlfriend—invited us to a charity ball. She told me if I’d come, she’d even loan me a dress, and the ball was last week. She’s in no hurry to have the dress back. I’ll ask her if you can borrow it for one night, but I’m sure it’s okay.”
“You’re like a fairy godmother!” I squealed, hugging her.
“Hey. Try it on first. Then you can thank me,” she said.
I told Sylvia about it when I got home, and she said we could go to Marilyn’s some evening and see how it fit.
“Do you think I’m weird that I don’t like to shop?” I asked her.
“No,” said Sylvia. “I think your dad and I are lucky, that’s what!”
• • •
We had brunch at a restaurant on Sunday and invited Les along. He happily reported that he was nearing the finish line on his thesis and would probably graduate in May. Dad was overjoyed, and we all raised our glasses to toast Lester’s MA in philosophy.
I had to rib him a little, though: “That’s great, Les, but can you say ‘self-sup-port-ing’?”
He grinned. “Don’t rush me. First things first. George Palamas is getting married in the fall, so we’ll be looking for another guy to share the apartment. Meanwhile, we’d like to take off for a week if we can find someone to look after Mr. Watts.”
The three men have had an agreement with old Mr. Watts, who owns the house—that they can live upstairs rent-free if they’ll do odd jobs around the place and that one of them will always be there in the evenings in case Mr. Watts has an emergency. He has a nursing aide during the day.
“So where would you like to go?” asked Sylvia.
“We’re looking into flying to Moab and taking a mountain bike tour,” said Les.
“Moab?” I said. “Where’s that? Arabia?”
Les leaned over the table. “Can you say ‘U-tah,’ Al?”
Frankly, my knowledge of geography really sucks. I knew there were mountains in Wyoming and Colorado, but Utah was a blank.
“I think I’ve failed you there,” Dad said apologetically. “We didn’t do much traveling as a family, did we?”
“Much?” said Lester. And then, realizing, I suppose, that Dad felt guilty enough, he said, “We drove from Illinois to Maryland when we moved, didn’t we?”
“And we’ve been to Tennessee,” I said, remembering the trip we made last fall just before Grandpa McKinley died. “I’ve been to New York and to the ocean a couple of times.”
�
��I hope that both of you will see a lot more of the world than I have,” said Dad.
Sylvia laid one hand on his arm. “We’ve been to England, remember.”
He winked. “I was so fascinated by you that I don’t even remember the rest.”
“You old romantic!” she said. “Someday we’re going to Paris.”
That afternoon when we got home, I went to my computer and e-mailed Pamela, Liz, and Gwen:
The summer we graduate from college, i want the 4 of us 2 drive 2 california and back. Deal?
Deal, Liz e-mailed back.
Deal, agreed Pamela.
Unless I’m accepted at medical school, wrote Gwen.
8
Murder in the Mansion
Wonder of wonders, Patrick called me Monday night.
“Hi. What’s happening?” he asked.
“Well, it’s St. Patrick’s Day, so I made some lime Jell-O. I mean, we really live it up around here,” I told him. “So how are you celebrating? It’s not everyone who has a holiday named after him.”
“I’ll be loading fertilizer all week,” he said, “but I’d like to do at least one fun thing before spring break is over. How about going to a mystery dinner on Thursday?”
“You mean I won’t know what I’m eating until I’ve swallowed?”
He laughed. “No, it’s part of the entertainment. The waiters are part-time actors, and there’s a mystery to be solved somewhere during the evening. Customers get to help solve it.”
Only Patrick could think of a kitschy idea like that and not be embarrassed about it. But it sounded like fun. “Sure!” I said.
When I went to work the next day, I told Marilyn I was going out with Patrick on Thursday.
“Aha! So it’s not just the prom! I knew you’d get back together!” she said.
I thought about that. “Patrick’s a complex person,” I said.
“Aren’t we all?” said Marilyn.
Dad told us that if we’d be willing to work a couple hours overtime that night, he’d treat us to lunch at the new restaurant next door. David went with me to place the order, and we brought back Cobb salads, with cheesecake for dessert.
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