William's Midsummer Dreams

by Zilpha Keatley Snyder

  The yo-yoing went on—up and down, down and up—right up until the moment that he was standing in the wings in full costume. It wasn’t until then that a scared-stiff William Hardison somehow managed a cocky, Puckish grin that seemed to flip a switch and turn it all on. Running his fingers up his pointed elfish ears, he tossed his head and skipped out onto the stage. Forgetting all about the huge crowd on the other side of the proscenium, he became the slightly magical elf who made fun of everything and everybody, except Oberon, king of the fairies, who was his lord and master and told him what to do in no uncertain terms.

  It was a familiar, if not entirely controllable transformation, but this time it happened barely in time for act 1, scene 2, where Bottom and Quince were already out on the stage saying silly things about the play they would put on to entertain the duke’s wedding guests—and where Mr. Andre had decided that Puck would put in his first appearance. A good decision, because it gave William a chance to ease into his role, by kind of sneaking up on it. By tiptoeing out onstage to duck behind a bush, and then a tree trunk, and peek out as he spied on the would-be actors. And only then, when he’d had a chance to work off any remaining twinges of stage fright, begin to laugh his head off, when Bottom insists he should be the one to play the part of the lion, because he could roar loudly, but at the same time, gently enough so that it wouldn’t cause the delicate ladies in the audience to faint.

  So when square-headed old Tom Grant opened his toothy mouth very wide and roared and then, like the MGM lion, tipped his shaggy head to one side, the audience laughed. And so did Puck, holding his sides, staggering around, and finally falling down with his legs waving in the air. And the audience laughed even harder.

  And then came the beginning of act 2, where the curtain opened on beautiful forest scenery, and where, in Mr. Andre’s version of Shakespeare’s play, Puck enters by swinging onstage on a vine. As always William had to move quickly while the set was being changed, to get up to the place on the ladder from where, a moment later, he would launch himself out into open space. After scrambling up the narrow ladder, he quickly unhooked the rope, a rope now decorated by plastic leaves and curling tendrils, and without even bothering to sniff for bacon grease, swung out and around and around again, before dropping lightly down, to strut and dance around the stage. The audience obviously liked that a lot too.

  Puck’s other scenes, the longer speeches as well as the lively acrobatic bits, also seemed to go very well, with lots of applause and bravos. And finally there came the end of act 5, where Puck, all alone on the stage, talks to the audience and says, “‘So, good night unto you all. /Give me your hands, if we be friends, /And Robin shall restore amends.’” And the whole audience not only gave him their hands, but also got to their feet and gave a long, loud, standing ovation. And gave another one for every one of the curtain calls he was shoved out to do.

  So opening night was over and done with and William had done well. Not only well, but according to what a lot of people were telling him, he had been excellent, sensational, incredible, and a whole lot of other words that he had trouble putting down in his journal, either because they made him feel so self-conscious, or because he wasn’t sure how to spell them without looking them up in the dictionary, which he was in no mood to do.

  But all the extravagant things that got said, by the important people who came to his dressing room, by everyone at the opening-night cast party, and even by the cooks in the cafeteria—all of it had a “too good to be real” feeling. Not to mention the reviews in the newspapers, even ones from places like Sacramento and San Francisco. Reviews that said people shouldn’t miss this year’s Mannsville’s production because there was a kid in the cast who was an absolute wonder. The whole thing, all of it, had an unreal feeling at times. Exciting and thrilling, of course, but at the same time, confusing. Writing about it in his journal helped William to sort it out a little, but not entirely. There were even times, when the excitement was beginning to dwindle away, when he wrote things like:

  The way I see it, being a big hit onstage is great in most ways, but not so great in a few others. Like for instance, the way people you know feel about what you’re doing. Most people seem to think it’s swell, but there are some others who don’t. Some of my friends have told me that Bernard’s father has been putting pressure on Mr. Andre to let Bernard be Puck now and then, maybe every Thursday. So far Mr. Andre says he can’t change the casting. Not while so many people are coming to the play just to see the Puck they’ve been hearing so much about.

  So it’s pretty easy to see why Bernard, and his Dean-of-Performing-Arts father, wouldn’t be all that happy about the way things are going. But they’re not the only ones. Like Sydney Apley, for instance.

  Sydney is the tall, good-looking guy who plays Lysander. He’s a real actor who’s been in some other Shakespeare plays, and even a couple of movies. Tom told me that Sydney has been saying things about how Mr. Andre is letting me upstage the whole show.

  I know what that means. When an actor upstages people, he moves to the back of the stage, which makes the other actors have to turn their backs on the audience when they talk to him. I don’t have any chance to do that, even if I wanted to. But upstaging can also mean just stealing too much attention away from the other actors, no matter where or how you do it. I guess I can see what makes Mr. Apley feel the way he does. After all, he’s had a lot more experience than I have, and he is, for sure and certain, a whole lot better-looking. But I don’t think I’m upstaging anybody, at least not on purpose. And I don’t want Sydney, or any of the other actors, to think I’m trying to.

  William put down his pen and thought for a while before he went on.

  Another weird thing is the way Clarice has been acting. I don’t know what it is, but I guess I’ve really made her mad at me. I mean, she’s just about the only person I know who has never once said anything to me about how well I’ve been doing. Everyone else has, even Bernard, at least sort of. I don’t know what I did, and I can’t find out because she won’t talk to me. I mean, not at all. Like, if I sit down at a table where she’s sitting, she gets up and goes to another table. It used to be embarrassing when she sometimes was kind of too friendly, but now it’s embarrassing in the opposite direction.

  Come to think of it, Clarice isn’t the only thing that’s changed a whole lot. Like my whole life, for instance.

  When he wrote that paragraph about changes, William thought he knew what he meant, but later, when he tried to make it a little clearer, he found that he didn’t know how. He thought for quite a while about all the ways a person’s life can twist and turn. In his case, how he escaped the Baggetts’ tumbledown farmhouse and managed to get himself and the other kids to his aunt’s house, but then Big Ed and two of his gigantic kids turned up again and dragged them back. Back to where William had to take the blame, and a lot of punishment, before all four of them finally—and legally—got rescued. And then, when he had barely gotten used to being a Hardison, he had the chance to become—Puck. A pretty successful and, you might even say, famous Puck. That was a whole lot of twists and turns for a life to take in not quite fourteen years. And now, finally, a life that had started out looking pretty hopeless had become … a dream come true? Yes, that’s for sure. But a life that, even so, still seemed to be coming up with some unexpected ups and downs.

  At last he decided he just wasn’t going to be able to put it into words that meant anything, at least not without a lot more time to think about it. Maybe he’d be able to someday, but in the meantime he would just go to bed and sleep on it.

  CHAPTER

  19

  So July slipped by, with day after day of Mannsville’s famous good weather, and even more famous Shakespearean production, and then suddenly it was mid-August, and closing night was only a couple of weeks away. The audiences had stayed big and enthusiastic, and all sorts of people were still telling William that he was a marvelous Puck, and that he had a great career as an actor ahea
d of him, and a lot of other stuff that he was beginning to be able to listen to without feeling too embarrassed to enjoy it. That, in particular, was one change that had happened slowly.

  There were some things, however, that didn’t seem to have changed all that much since the summer began—William’s height, for instance, and his lack of any really impressive muscles. As well as the fact that, while his face seemed to be the type for not-quite-human roles like Puck and Ariel, it still wasn’t about to remind anyone of Gary Cooper or Cary Grant.

  Of course, it was a dream come true to be at Mannsville and have an important role in one of their Shakespeare festival productions. Even when he wasn’t onstage being cheered and clapped for, there were a lot of good times, making new friends and learning how to talk to important people such as newspaper reporters and drama critics. And talking and making jokes with old friends like Tom and Virginia and, of course, Miss Scott and Mr. Andre. As well as people like Sergeant Blanding, the campus policeman whose beat included the theater on performance nights. Sergeant Blanding was an enormous man with a loud laugh, who liked to tell William that he was his biggest fan, and then add, “Really big, all two hundred and sixty pounds of me.”

  It definitely was the best summer of William’s entire life—one he knew he would never forget. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t find some things to worry about when he woke up in the middle of the night.

  One problem that changed back and forth but never really went away was Clarice. She still wouldn’t talk to him at all. He tried for a while, but when her clenched teeth and slit-eyed glare got to be almost as embarrassing as her Helena and Demetrius act had been, he more or less quit trying.

  And as for Bernard, he seemed to have changed too. Strangely enough, he went on being almost friendly. At least he smiled stiffly now and then and said hi. But he never said much, and nothing at all, to William at least, about being his understudy. Not anymore. As the summer went by, Bernard was still around quite a bit, hanging out backstage or in the greenroom, even though everybody knew that the only role he was playing now was “the privileged son of the super-important Dean Olson of Mannsville College’s performing arts department.”

  It was on a Wednesday in mid-August when an envelope with William’s name on it appeared on the call-board in the greenroom. There was something familiar about the handwriting, and sure enough, when he opened it he found it was from Miss Scott. A short note that only said that she would like to see him in her office tomorrow, at ten o’clock in the morning.

  Miss Scott’s office was a small room in a building not far from the theater, and when William got there she was putting some papers away in a filing cabinet. She turned to smile at him and say, “And here you are, right on time. Please sit down. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  So William sat down and got out a pencil and his new promptbook, in case she wanted to suggest some new stage business. But after she finished with the filing, she sat down at her desk and stared at him for a long minute before she said, “Just look at you, William. When I do, what I can’t help seeing is Mannsville’s biggest success story of 1939. And of course, I’m very pleased. But, you know, I sometimes think that I, and the rest of the staff, should be thinking a bit more about the problems you may have to cope with because of what this summer has done to your life.”

  She was smiling, so he smiled back, but behind the smile he was feeling confused and more than a little embarrassed. What was she talking about?

  She went on, “Here you are. A kid who’s just barely teenage, and who comes from a … well, you might say …” She rolled her eyes and shrugged. “A difficult background?”

  “A disgusting background,” William said, grinning. “Very disgusting!”

  She laughed. “Well, all right. Whatever you want to call it. Of course—”

  But at that point William couldn’t help interrupting. “They don’t know, do they? I mean, Mr. Andre and everybody? Do they know all about the Baggetts and everything?”

  Miss Scott shook her head. “No,” she said. “I’ve told them about your Ariel role, of course, but that’s about it. And I’m sure Clarice hasn’t said anything about that part of your background either. She promised me she wouldn’t. But regardless of your background, people here have been amazed and surprised at your seemingly inborn talent.”

  Feeling his face getting warm, William ducked his head.

  “You surprised everyone, even me,” she went on. “That is, I knew of course, after your Ariel role, that you had a lot of natural ability, but I didn’t foresee the kind of success you’ve had here at Mannsville. And it has occurred to me lately that such a sudden transformation in your life might be …”

  She paused, smiling slightly before she went on, “I’ve heard about other young people who received early and seemingly easy success, who weren’t able to handle it very well. The thing is, William, I do so hope this summer’s acclaim hasn’t changed you too much.”

  William grinned and, sticking out his arms and legs, pretended to look himself over carefully. “’Fraid not. Looks like the same old scarecrow to me.”

  Miss Scott laughed. “As much of a natural clown as ever, too. And I hope just as brave and patient.” She paused before she nodded and went on. “I mean, you still have several years of school ahead of you, along with helping your aunt raise her big new family. And I’m afraid not all of your immediate future is going to be anywhere near as grand and glorious as this summer has been.”

  For a long moment William went on fiddling with his pencil before he looked up, raised an eyebrow, and said, “You mean you think I might just chuck it all and run off to Hollywood. Or something like that?”

  She laughed. “Something like that.”

  “I know.” He nodded. “I know what you mean. I’ve thought about it. About what it’s going to be like, going back to Gold Beach.” He grinned ruefully. “To a high school that doesn’t even have a drama department.”

  “And?” Miss Scott asked.

  He gave her a Puckish grin. “I think I can deal with it.”

  Miss Scott nodded slowly as she said, “Yes, I think you can too.”

  After that they only talked about fairly normal things like the weather and the sneezing fit little old Jerry, the changeling, had on stage the other night, and how it had cracked up the audience. And what the weather might be like for closing night. And then Miss Scott thanked him for stopping by and said she wanted him to keep in touch when he was back in Gold Beach. And that was about all there was to it.

  But later, when William had had time to think about what Miss Scott had said, he did wonder about some of the things she’d brought up. He didn’t think she needed to worry about the patience thing, though. Growing up as an undersized Baggett, patience was one thing you had to have a lot of.

  But Miss Scott had been wrong about bravery. Apparently she had somehow gotten the idea that he was brave. Bad guess, William thought. For instance, if he’d been brave, he wouldn’t have been so patient about being a Baggett. Jancy had been the brave one. She was the one who had decided it was time to pack up and make a run for it.

  Remembering the escape brought it all back. Brought back why and how the four youngest Baggetts had managed to set off in the dead of night—how they were hidden for so long in the Ogdens’ basement, how they finally made it to their aunt’s house, and had been safe and happy briefly, before they were kidnapped back again by the Baggetts. And then, at long last, being rescued by Miss Scott and Clarice’s lawyer parents, who got rid of the Baggetts for good and always. At least got rid of them legally, and in William’s case at least, when he was wide awake. He shrugged, telling himself to forget those scary Baggett dreams. Dreams don’t count, he told himself. What counts is what happens when you’re wide awake.

  But somehow, remembering some of those hard times after so many days, weeks even, of thinking only about what a famous Puck he’d become, made William feel … well, a little guilty, but also really eager to s
ee them again—all four of them. Easygoing Aunt Fiona, brave, tough Jancy, and too-cute-for-her-own-good Trixie. And Buddy? As for hardheaded, hard-sleeping, little old Buddy who had been William’s special responsibility and pain in the neck for so long? Somehow it seemed to William that most of all, he was looking forward to seeing Buddy again.

  He checked the calendar. August 14. If everything went well, like Aunt Fiona being able to get her brakes fixed, it would be not quite two weeks until all the Hardisons arrived in Mannsville. Okay, he told himself. Brave or not, patient or not, Miss Scott needn’t worry about him forgetting his family. He, William S. Hardison, really was looking forward to the day when he’d be back in Gold Beach, whether it was as a slightly famous Shakespearean actor, or as nothing more than an ordinary freshman at a high school that didn’t even have a drama department.

  So that was what William decided on August 14, and it was the very next day when he received a letter from Jancy. A letter from Jancy Hardison, with another one from Aunt Fiona tucked into the same envelope.

  Jancy’s letter began:

  It’s for sure now that we are all coming. Buddy and I happened to run into Mr. Fisher in the grocery store. You remember, he’s the nice guy who let us ride in his rumble seat? And Buddy talked him into fixing Aunt Fiona’s brakes for free. So now Aunt Fiona has written to Miss Scott and asked her to find a motel in Mannsville that doesn’t cost too much. So we’ll all be coming for a couple of days. And after closing night we can all ride home together. Isn’t that swell? I can hardly wait.

  Somebody sent Aunt Fiona a clipping from the Crownfield Daily that told about what a big success you are in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. And Aunt Fiona sent it to the Gold Beach Independent, and they printed it too. And Aunt Fiona’s friends keep calling her to tell her that they heard about what you are doing. Just about everyone in Gold Beach seems to know about you. Yesterday in the grocery store your friend Charlie Bowen talked and talked to me about how famous you are, and how much fun it was when you guys used to practice acrobatics in his barn.