Dad shrugged. Then he told one of his lame jokes: “What did the one hot dog say to the other hot dog? See you later! Hope we can ketchup soon!” Sam and I groaned.
After dinner, Dad gave me my medication. Sam took a shower and put on his suit. Dad took pictures for Mom and made Sam promise to have someone take more of him and Megan together later on. It was nearly time for us to leave for school, too.
“Last chance to bail on the dance and come see the play,” I told Sam.
“Last chance to give it a rest,” he answered. But I could tell he wasn’t mad.
Dad took a few more pictures for Mom.
“Oh shoot!” Sam said. “Almost forgot.” He bolted to the kitchen and returned with two boxes that I’d seen in the fridge earlier.
“This one’s Megan’s,” he said, setting the square box aside. “But this one is for you, E.” I took the long box he held out. Inside was a small bouquet of pink roses and baby’s breath tied with a ribbon.
“I saw them when I was picking up Megan’s wrist corsage. I wasn’t sure what color to get. I hope you like pink.”
I stared at him.
“What?” Sam said to me. “You can’t have an opening night without flowers. It’s a rule or something.”
“Thank you!” I said, hugging him.
“Hey. Watch the suit! I don’t want it to wrinkle.” Sam checked his buzzing phone. “My ride’s here.”
“Have fun,” Dad told him. “Make good choices.”
“Yeah, have fun,” I told him. And I meant it. If he could be thoughtful, then so could I.
Sam turned to me. “Sorry again I can’t go to the play.”
He paused and then smirked. “But break a leg this time, not your butt!”
The cafeteria didn’t look like a cafeteria anymore. It looked like a theater.
The lights were dimmed and there were chairs lined up in rows in front of the stage. There was even a ticket table with a fancy tablecloth and a poster of the script’s cover near the entrance. And there were playbills on the table for people to take. Real, live playbills! (I didn’t know what a playbill was until JJ explained it to me. Basically, it was a fancy program with the cast and crew’s pictures and biographies.)
I picked up one of the playbills and leafed through it until I found the bio I had had to write for myself a few weeks ago:
Eliza Bing is a sixth grader and is excited to be playing one of the Three Little Pigs because that was one of her favorite stories when she was little. This is her first production.
It felt kinda weird writing about myself in third person. The bios weren’t supposed to be more than three sentences, although Paige and other people with big roles got to write a paragraph. The part about the Three Little Pigs being one my favorite stories was sorta true. Actually, it was a book called The True Story of the 3 Little Pigs! as told to Jon Scieszka. FYI, the wolf had a very different perspective.
Call time, when everybody had to check in with Mrs. Delany, was at 6:45 sharp. Excitement jumped back and forth between everyone like static electricity. Mrs. D made sure we were all there and then gave us the pre-show pep talk because she said it’d be too chaotic to do it later.
“Welcome to opening night, friends! This is my favorite part of theater! Our hard work is behind us and now it’s time to reap the reward. Remember, we’re a family, which means love and respect and all that jazz until strike do us part. If you miss a line, keep going. The show must go on!
“So go out there, do your best,” said Mrs. Delany. “And, most importantly, have fun!”
Mrs. Delany had us snap our fingers twice. It was her own pre-show superstition, she explained. Afterward, we headed to our dressing rooms—which were really just classrooms that were near the backstage door. I was on one side of the girls’ dressing room with the rest of the ensemble. Annie was on the other side of the room.
Remembering how she called me Nimbus made me feel like I was wearing a wet coat. But I shoved it off; I had to get ready and I was there to enjoy the night.
Vivian and I got dressed in our Western shirts and helped each other adjust our piggy-ear headbands. Someone from the makeup crew helped us paint our faces pink and handed out pig snouts to put on later. “Don’t lose these,” she warned.
Cole popped in after everyone was changed. “The house is open and curtain is in thirty minutes. Break a leg and have fun, everyone,” he told us. “The parent volunteer has a headset, so let me know if there’s an emergency. Someone will come get you when it gets close to your turn to go on. Otherwise, stay put.”
There was nothing to do but wait. Vivian and I played Hangman on the whiteboard with a bunch of other people.
Mrs. Delany had collected all our cell phones (“Too distracting!”), so I checked the clock on the wall: 7:52. The play started in eight minutes.
I told the parent watching the door that I had to use the bathroom. Instead, I snuck down the dark hall and up into the wings of the stage. Everyone in the first act was quietly milling around, waiting for the curtain. Some people were fidgeting. Others were pacing or looking at their scripts one last time. Paige was off to one side, alone. She had her eyes closed and was taking deep breaths. It reminded me of how we meditated at taekwondo. She looked calm.
No one paid attention to me as I crept to the edge of stage left. I hoped everyone in the audience was busy reading their playbills or looking at their phones as I carefully pulled back the heavy curtain the tiniest bit.
My left knee shook. I scanned the audience as quickly as I could. Oh man! Was Dad running late?
I let out the air in my lungs when I finally found him. He was in the sixth row on the right side of the house.
The seat next to him was empty.
Cole put his finger up to his lips and ushered us through the backstage door. The fairy-tale and nursery-rhyme characters ensemble was about to go out for the first time.
JJ held out his hands to me and Vivian, and the three of us did a simultaneous fist bump. It was too quick to notice any electricity between me and JJ. Plus, all I was thinking about was whether or not my jelly legs would hold me up for much longer.
We hurried onstage and took our places while the curtain was closed. No one in the audience was talking, but you could hear people rustling about and a couple of fold-up chairs squeaking.
I adjusted my snout and took a deep breath. But it felt like my chest was hollow and there wasn’t enough air in the world to fill it. Cole cued the stagehands, and the curtain opened.
My brain froze but thankfully my body remembered where to go. It was a farm scene, and pretty much all I had to do was wander around in the background until Anthony (Mr. Goat) walked past and fake-sneezed. A minute or so into the scene, he did.
“Achoo!”
“Gesundheit!” I said.
I couldn’t believe how strange (and really loud) my voice sounded in the big room. But it was also cool to have everyone listening to me.
Being onstage was amazing! I didn’t have any more lines in that act, so I got to relax and watch the other actors. It was like having a front-row seat to the play.
Without being too obvious, I scanned the audience again. I counted the rows and found Dad. Now there was someone next to him! Mom had made it after all! A camera was in front of her face.
I waited patiently for her to look over so I could smile or sneak in a wave. But then…
Nope.
The lady moved the camera. And then scooted over to the next seat. She’d only been looking for a better shot of her own kid.
I’d been right. Mom wasn’t going to make it. Dad caught me looking his way and gave me a thumbs-up.
It didn’t help.
There was nothing I could do but hope that Dad would be able to tell Mom about my performance. And since Mrs. Delany said the show must go on, I got ready.
My next s
cene was coming up. It was the one where the fairy-tale characters were walking around shops, doing our thing, while Cinder Ellen (Paige) went into the dry-cleaning shop to pick up her stepmother’s dress for the Barnyard Bash. It was also the scene where Cinder Ellen sees the sheriff’s son and develops a crush.
The shuuuush-shuuuush of the curtain opening, the bright, warm lights on my face, and the buzz of being onstage again were just as strong and thrilling as the first time. Even if Mom wasn’t there.
Vivian, JJ, and I stood in the “street,” near the stick vendor.
“Straw is superb,” JJ said, holding up a fistful of hay. Vivian shook her head. “Silly boy. Sticks would be stupendous.”
I stamped my foot like a toddler and said my line. “No! Bricks are best!”
There was a smattering of laughter. It felt great, like jumping into a pool on a hot day. I couldn’t wait to hear the audience’s reaction to my new line.
I had a few minutes before Paige got “stuck” in the shop. JJ, Vivian, and I continued to quietly fake-argue about building materials. Mostly it involved JJ making funny faces at us (since his back was to the audience) and me and Vivian trying not to break character.
My big moment was getting closer.
I started thinking about Paige’s trying to get me to drop the ad-libbed line. Which made me mad. And then I thought about Annie’s being so jealous that she threw away our Rules to Surviving notebook and called me a dark rain cloud that ruined everything. Which made me even madder. But even if I wanted to (and I didn’t), I couldn’t skip the line now. It wasn’t about me, or me getting laughs. It would mess up the scene.
Rob, the boy who played the farmer’s son, walked across the stage.
This is it. Get ready!
“Hot diggity! The e-vites go out today,” Rob said.
Paige was going to rattle the door and say, “Oh my. The door is stuck. Somebody let me out.”
And I was going to say, “Not by the hair of my snouty snout snout!” Everyone was going to laugh before Rob walked over and saved the day.
Only that’s not what happened.
Paige opened the set door, breezed onto the stage, and went on with the scene.
My line stuck in my throat like a wad of bread. JJ’s eyes grew wide. Vivian gave me a sympathetic look.
I kept my poker face until the end of the act. Right before the curtain closed all the way, I caught a glimpse of Dad in the audience. Mom was sitting next to him, this time for real.
Back in the dressing room, Paige and her gang gushed about the first half of the play. I sent Vivian to eavesdrop.
“Okay,” Vivian said when she got back. “Paige claimed that she just forgot. She said her brain was on autopilot and since it wasn’t originally in the script…”
Vivian let Paige’s lie sink in.
“I’m sorry you didn’t get to do your line,” Vivian told me. “You’d’ve nailed it.”
My eyes wandered over to Annie, who was still standing near Paige. Her eyes flickered in my direction.
“Forget about it,” Vivian said. “Let’s get ready.”
I didn’t have any lines in the Barnyard Bash scene. My job was to hang out in the background with the rest of the ensemble on the hay bales.
In my other scenes, it’d been fun watching the rest of the cast perform. But it wasn’t anymore. I felt like a voodoo doll Paige had stabbed with long needles. I wondered if Mrs. Delany would say something to her about skipping the line. Even if she got in trouble for it and Mrs. Delany told her to do the line tomorrow, Mom wouldn’t get to see it.
The sound guy cued the music and everyone got up to dance. JJ did this funny move he called the “sprinkler” and it made me and Vivian laugh. (Which was okay, since we were at a party.) And at least I got to wear my blue dress with the lucky gold ribbon that matched my new gold belt.
I could see Annie waiting in the wings, ready for her cue. She’d added bows to her kitten slippers. She was definitely going to get the big laugh she wanted when she waltzed onstage. But I didn’t have time to worry about Annie. A girl named Debbie jumped on top of a hay bale, and that was everyone’s cue to take the dancing and laughter up a notch.
Paige was downstage, saying her monologue. Rob, the farmer’s son, interrupted her to lock elbows, and swung her around to the music.
Rob was supposed to interrupt her. The thing was, he did it too soon. Paige’s eyes grew wide but she stopped saying her lines to dance because that’s what she was supposed to do—keep going no matter what. If you were in the audience, you probably wouldn’t notice anything out of the ordinary. But the rest of us onstage were like, Uh-oh.
The music kept playing. Paige kept twirling. Rob gave her a tiny nod. From the wings, Cole was mouthing “Next line!”
Paige plastered a smile on her face, but her eyes gave it away. She was panicking. Big-time.
Finally, Paige’s brain kicked back in and she said something.
Only it wasn’t her next line. And what was even worse—she’d skipped us ahead by a whole scene!
Cole shoved the boys playing the sheriff and his son onto the stage.
Those of us in the ensemble looked around at each other. We weren’t supposed to be onstage during this scene.
Now what?
I could see Annie still offstage. She looked like she was about to cry. Without Paige’s cue, she’d missed her entrance. And now that we were ahead, she wouldn’t even get to be in the show at all.
Even though I was mad at her and she’d hurt me, I felt bad for Annie. She was excited about being onstage. This was gonna be her big moment.
I thought about my last big moment, at my gold-belt test. I’d been excited, too. And nervous. I remembered what Master Kim No. 2 had said: a good martial artist takes what he or she knows and adapts to solve a problem.
Okay. Here’s what I knew: we were in serious trouble onstage.
Here’s what I also knew: blurting things out usually got me in trouble. But sometimes it didn’t.
And here’s the final thing I knew: Mrs. Delany said if anything went wrong, to just keep going. The number one rule in theater was “The show must go on.”
I glanced over to Annie. Maybe we weren’t friends anymore, but she’d been the one to get me here onstage in the first place. She deserved saving. And so did everyone else in the cast.
So forget rules! Following the rules hadn’t gotten me anywhere the last few months. You didn’t need rules to survive sixth grade. And it turned out there weren’t any magic rules to being a best best friend.
Well, okay, there was one rule. And I suddenly knew what it was.
“Excuse me,” I said loudly. Everyone’s eyes locked on me, and I was sure you could hear my heartbeat way in the back of the audience.
I turned to Vivian. “Didn’t you say the hay was making your allergies act up?”
She looked confused.
“And so you made an appointment….” I prompted, and held my breath.
It took her a second, but Vivian’s eyes lit up when she finally got it.
“Oh yes! Thank you for reminding me.” She turned to Paige and the rest of the cast downstage. “I have a doctor’s appointment. I’d better run.”
She hurried offstage.
It was the perfect improv. Thank you for getting it! I told her telepathically.
JJ grinned and went next. “Please pardon me as well, friends,” he ad-libbed. “But I need to shampoo and style my snout hair. I’m entering a pig-stache contest.”
He twirled his imaginary snout-stache and dashed offstage.
One by one, everyone in the ensemble improv-ed some excuse for needing to leave. People tried to outdo the person before them.
“I have a major headache,” Jack said, holding his head. “I feel like someone threw me down a hill!”
“And I
seem to have busted my water pail. I need a new one,” his sister Jill said.
“Ooo. Check it out. I just got a text that the pillow I wanted is in stock,” Pooped Piper announced. “Gotta go.”
“I promised my mom I’d pull weeds,” Jack Beanstalk said. “There’s a really big one in our front yard!” (This got a huge laugh from the audience.)
“I’ve got to scramble to work!” Humpty Grumpty said.
“And I’m late picking up my kid from soccer practice!” Mr. Goat said.
Eventually all the people who were supposed to be offstage were offstage. I was the only one left.
“I should be saying good night as well,” I said. “B.B. Wolf is coming over for dinner and I need to get…ready.” (I made air quotes over this last part.)
The audience roared and I headed offstage. But at the last second, I stopped.
“Hey Sheriff,” I said, addressing the boy with the badge. “If you don’t mind me asking, who called you about the party?”
Annie stepped onstage. “That would be me!”
The fairy-tale and nursery-rhyme characters were the first to take a bow. We lined up in small groups. I went out with JJ and Vivian and the three of us grabbed hands, raised them up, and leaned over in unison. I still couldn’t tell if there was electricity. JJ’s hand was mostly just sweaty.
I’d bowed a lot in taekwondo, but this was my first official theater bow. We practiced curtain call at dress rehearsal but we didn’t actually bow. It was another one of Mrs. Delany’s superstitions. “A show isn’t complete without an audience,” she explained.
But, boy, was there an audience now! And everyone was cheering and clapping and snapping pictures.
After everyone took their turns, including the crew, the curtain closed.
I couldn’t wait to do it all over again the next day.
Backstage, we hugged and complimented each other’s performances until Mrs. Delany called for us to arc up. “Bravo, friends!” She beamed. “I loved the energy and positivity. Your hard work showed. Yes, there were a few rough spots, but the important thing is we pulled through.
Eliza Bing Is (Not) a Star Page 16