Say Goodnight, Gracie

by Julie Reece Deaver

  “I’m trying to be practical. I’m trying not to get my hopes up.”

  Sometimes nothing less than body contact will do. I threw my arms around his shoulders and whispered: “Just put your pants on, okay? Those legs of yours are driving all the girls in here and a few of the boys absolutely wild.”

  The jacket ended up on my head.

  Jimmy’s mother was out sweeping the front porch when we got home. When she saw us, she stopped the broom in mid sweep and leaned on it.

  “How’d he do, Morgan?”

  “He did great, Mrs. Woolf. They asked him to dance solo.”

  “They asked a lot of people to dance solo,” Jimmy said. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Uh-huh,” his mother said. She started sweeping the porch again. “Oh, Jimmy . . . by the way . . . someone called a few minutes ago and left a message for you.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Someone from the city. Some . . . choreographer, I think. You’re supposed to call him back—”

  I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone move so fast. Mrs. Woolf’s face broke into this terrific smile. She really has the neatest dimples I’ve ever seen.

  “He got the callback,” she said to me in a low voice, “but I wanted him to hear it from the choreographer.”

  “I knew he’d get it. You should have seen him. He was wonderful!”

  “I think the biggest problem you and I’ll have from now on is making sure he doesn’t get too big for his britches.”

  “Not Jimmy,” I said.

  “I got it!” Jimmy yelled. He came flying out of the house and put his arms around his mother and whirled her around and around the porch. Then he grabbed me and did the same thing. “I got it, I got it, I got it!” he kept hollering.

  “Jimmy, stop! I’m getting seasick!”

  He stopped abruptly and I grabbed the porch railing. “What if I mess up?” he said. “What if I sprain an ankle or something?”

  “Now, now, none of that talk,” Mrs. Woolf said.

  “When’s your audition, Jimmy?”

  “A week from tomorrow at four thirty.”

  “Want some company?”

  “What do you think?” He put his arms around me and started to whirl me around again, but a bit more slowly this time. “You have to be there,” he said. “You’re my rabbit’s foot. My four-leaf clover. And if I pass this audition, I’ll buy you a steak dinner—”

  “With onion rings?”

  “Of course.”

  “And if you don’t pass it?”

  “Then you’ll buy me one.”

  I didn’t set eyes on Jimmy for five days. He stayed home from school and shut himself up in the dance studio in his basement and rehearsed for hours on end. Wednesday afternoon I called him up and he wouldn’t even come to the phone.

  “He’s overrehearsing,” Mrs. Woolf said. “I don’t like to see him taking this audition quite so seriously. . . . Why don’t you come over, Morgan? Maybe you can drag him out into the sunlight and talk some sense into him, huh?”

  “You think he’ll listen to me?”

  “I think so. Come on over.”

  As soon as I pulled into Jimmy’s driveway, I could hear music from the soundtrack of Oklahoma! blaring out of the basement windows. Mrs. Woolf came out to meet me, her hands over her ears.

  “I’ve got the entire record memorized,” she said. “I’m sure the whole neighborhood does too.”

  “You know what they say about geniuses, Mrs. Woolf. They’re all obsessive about something.”

  “Try to get him to take a break, will you? He’s starting to lose his perspective, and I want him to be able to live with himself if he doesn’t pass this audition. . . .”

  “I’ll talk to him.”

  I went in through the back of the house and opened the door to the basement. The music was deafening. I went down and sat on the stairs and watched him dance for a minute. He didn’t even notice me. He was completely wrapped up in what he was doing: a quick series of spins, one after the other, around the perimeter of the studio. It made me dizzy watching.

  “If you don’t stop that, you’re going to turn into butter,” I said.

  “Hi,” he said. He went over and shut off the stereo, then leaned against the wall and tried to catch his breath. “What do you think?”

  “I think you’re sweaty.”

  “About the dancing.”

  “Oh. It looked good.”

  “I’m having trouble with the jetés.”

  “Your mother thinks you’re taking this thing too seriously.”

  “Is that what she told you?”

  “She says you’re overrehearsing.”

  “God, Morgan . . . you understand how important this is, don’t you?”

  “Sure. I know. Oklahoma! You’ll have to join Equity. You’ll be on the road five months. Really the big time. I know.”

  “Try to contain your enthusiasm, will you?”

  “So what happens when you overrehearse and pull a muscle, or you’re so tired Saturday that you blow the audition? What happens then?”

  He looked at me a minute. “My mother asked you to come over here and talk to me, didn’t she?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  “It makes a lot of difference, Morgan.” He got this wicked smile on his face. “She must think you have some sort of power over me.”

  “Well,” I said, “don’t I?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So you’ll take a break, then?”

  “All right, Hackett, you win. I guess I’ve done enough dancing for today.”

  “Good. Let’s forget about the audition, okay? Why don’t we go downtown; get something to eat?”

  “Is it all right if I take a shower first?”

  “It’s not only all right; I highly recommend it.”

  “Want to join me?”

  “Maybe next time,” I said.

  Friday afternoon I was sitting in English struggling over a book report when Jody, this girl who sat next to me, gave me a nudge with her elbow.

  “That cute guy you’re always hanging around with,” Jody whispered. “He’s trying to get your attention. . . .” She nodded toward the door, and I saw Jimmy peeking around the doorjamb. He motioned for me to come out into the hall. Now, this was tricky. Getting out of Mrs. Klein’s class for any reason was next to impossible. She didn’t even issue a bathroom pass unless there was a puddle at your feet.

  “What’s going on?” Mrs. Klein asked. She looked at me, then out into the hall. Jimmy had disappeared.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Are you okay now?” Jody said to me. She looked at Mrs. Klein. “Morgan felt faint a few minutes ago.”

  Mrs. Klein bit her lip and looked at me. She was trying to decide whether or not to believe what Jody had said. “Do you want to go to the nurse?”

  I cleared my throat. “Uh, yeah . . .”

  “I’ll write a pass out for you.”

  I mouthed the words “thank you” to Jody, and she smiled and went back to her book. As soon as I had the pass, I went out into the hall and looked around. Jimmy was standing in a small alcove next to the drinking fountain. He was carrying his duffel bag. His dance shoes were knotted and dangled from his shoulder.

  “Do you know how much trouble you almost got me in?” I asked, waving the pass at him. “She only let me out of there because Jody told her I was sick. I’m supposed to be on my way to the nurse—”

  “My audition’s been moved up,” he said. “I have to leave right now; do you still want to come?”

  “Are you crazy? I can’t just walk out of here!”

  “What’s the big deal? If your seventh-period teacher doesn’t take roll, they’ll never even miss you—”

  “Yeah? And what if he does take roll?”

  “Morgan, this isn’t worth having a coronary over, okay? You don’t have to come; I didn’t want to leave without letting you know.” He looked at his watch. “I’ve g
ot to go; I’m driving in, and I don’t know what traffic’ll be like.”

  I stood there and watched him walk away. I balanced a couple of things in my head: one, going back to English and on to seventh period like I should, or two, going along with Jimmy and sitting in the back of that enormous theater and watching the outcome of his audition.

  “Wait!” I whispered. I ran after him and caught up with him on the stairs, and damn him, he was laughing.

  “I knew you’d come,” he said.

  “Don’t be so cocky,” I said. “And stop laughing. Someday I might not come. Then maybe you wouldn’t take me for granted.”

  We walked out of the building and down the hill to Crescent, where Jimmy’s MG was parked. He threw his stuff into the back of the car, and we got in.

  “I’m glad you’re coming,” he said.

  “I don’t know what happened, Jimmy. I just couldn’t help myself.”

  He started the car. “Could it be, Morgan, that I have a certain power over you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “How interesting.”

  I looked at him. “Shut up and drive.”

  4

  I called my mother from a pay phone at the theater.

  “Hi,” I said. “Guess where I am.”

  “In the city at the Shubert,” she said. “Enid called and told me about Jimmy’s audition.”

  “I don’t know when we’ll be home. . . . It’s almost four now, and they’re just getting started—”

  “You be careful, you hear? Don’t go wandering around the city after it gets dark—”

  “I’m not going to be wandering around—”

  “Well,” my mother said, “I never worry as long as I know Jimmy’s with you.”

  “Sure. If any mugger tries to attack me, Jimmy’ll just give him one quick tour jeté in the gut. Works every time. Better than a karate chop.”

  There was a sigh on the other end of the phone. “Honestly . . .”

  “I’ve got to go see show business history being made,” I said. “I’ll call you in a little while; let you know how it went.”

  Jimmy was sitting down near the stage watching one of the other dancers audition. I tiptoed down the length of the theater, my steps in time to the music the pianist was playing. I slid into the seat behind Jimmy’s and tapped him on the shoulder.

  “I’m back,” I said. “What did I miss?”

  “The choreographer’s been rejecting people right and left. . . . Christ, look at that guy up onstage, Morgan.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “He’s all technique and no style. . . . Dancing has to tell a story, especially in a play like this.”

  “Maybe he’s nervous.”

  “Maybe he’s a crappy dancer.”

  “Meow,” I said.

  “He is! Look at the guy, will you?”

  “I’m looking at you right now, and I’m not too crazy about what I’m seeing.”

  “You wait till you’re up against a hundred other actresses for a job, Morgan. Then we’ll see how generous you are.”

  I didn’t say anything. Jimmy was under a lot of pressure, so I decided I’d let him go on being a pain until the audition was over. After that he’d have to shape up.

  “Thank you!” The choreographer shouted at the dancer onstage. “Next please!”

  I watched the dancer walk down the wooden ramp that led from the stage. “I guess you know a crummy dancer when you see one, Jimmy.”

  He turned in his seat to look at me. “Don’t pay too much attention to the way I’m acting, Hackett. I get sort of crazy and hypercritical when I see the competition in action—”

  “Don’t you think I know you by now? You’ve been hanging around my life every day for seventeen years. . . .”

  “If I make the play, you’ll have a little breathing space. I’ll be gone for five months.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I know.”

  But the truth is, I hadn’t thought about his being gone until that moment. He had been a day-to-day part of my life for as far back as I could remember. It was going to feel very strange without him around.

  “Cheer up,” he said, looking at me over his shoulder. “Without me around to cramp your style, you’ll probably have a torrid love affair with that hall monitor who’s always drooling over you.”

  “Very funny. Just be careful who you drool over while you’re on tour. Penicillin doesn’t cure everything, you know.”

  “I’ll keep it in mind. I’m going backstage to warm up, they have a barre set up there—”

  “A bar, huh? Don’t drink too much.”

  “Listen, Morgan—do me a favor, will you? Sit in the back of the theater while I audition, okay? I think . . . it’d be sort of hard to dance with you sitting right here near the front.”

  “I’ll sit in the back row, all right? You won’t even see me.”

  He grinned. “Thanks. See you later.”

  It didn’t take me long to figure out the mechanics of the thing: The choreographer yelled, “Thank you!” at a dancer when he really meant “Take a hike!” I felt sorry for those rejected dancers. I couldn’t imagine what it’d be like to finally get the chance to audition for an important show and then—bang!—have all your dreams yanked out from under you because you weren’t the right type or maybe you were a little nervous or your tempo was a bit off.

  I had to wait about a half hour for Jimmy to appear onstage. He walked slowly out to center stage, nodded to the pianist, and for about the ten millionth time that day I heard the first few notes of the Oklahoma! overture.

  Jimmy started with a little something to grab their attention: a series of quick spins like he’d rehearsed in his studio, only something was different here.

  Something was wrong.

  I sat up straight in my seat. “Loosen up,” I whispered. “Try to relax and be yourself! God, what are you doing?!”

  These were not the free, confident moves of a professional dancer. Jimmy was moving around that stage like a scared amateur. Even I could dance better than what he was doing up there, and brother, that is saying something.

  “Thank you!” the choreographer shouted. The music stopped abruptly. So did Jimmy. He stood there like he’d been slapped across the face. “Next, please!” the choreographer yelled.

  My heart sank. I watched Jimmy walk down the ramp. He stood by the stage and changed his shoes. He stuffed them into his duffel bag and started up the aisle. I didn’t know what in the world I was going to say to him; I only knew I’d have to choose my words very, very carefully.

  “Well,” I said as he got closer, “look . . . there’ll be plenty of other auditions—”

  “Yeah, let’s look on the bright side, Morgan. Let’s just do that, huh?” He walked right past me and out of the theater.

  “Jimmy, wait!” I ran and caught up with him out on the street, but he wouldn’t stop to look at me, and he wouldn’t slow down, either. I had a hard time keeping up with him. “Jimmy . . . look . . . I know how disappointed you are, but this isn’t the end of the world—”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No! I don’t understand why you’re taking this so hard! You’ve lost other auditions before—”

  “Did you see me up there? Did you?!”

  “Yeah, I saw you! You got scared and it messed you up! So what? Next time it won’t!”

  “What are you, a dance expert? I’ve been dancing all my life!”

  “And I’ve been watching you! You better get used to this, Jimmy, because the better the show, the tougher the competition. There are going to be a lot more rejections before you finally make it—”

  “You’re just real encouraging, Morgan, you know that? Real perceptive, too. How often do I get a chance like this? How soon do you think I’ll get another one?”

  “God, I cannot believe this is you! When are you going to start acting like a professional?”

  “Professional?” He stopped and looked me right in the eye, a weird
expression on his face. “What do you know about being a professional?”

  “Careful, Jimmy . . .”

  “You’ve never had the guts to go out for a real job, Morgan, and you don’t know what it’s like to lose one! You’re just a lousy unprofessional!”

  I felt I’d been socked in the stomach. I turned away from him before I started crying. I walked in the direction of the Shubert. I didn’t know where I was going and I didn’t particularly care.

  “Come on, Morgan,” Jimmy yelled. “Hey, come on! Don’t be stupid! How do you think you’re gonna get home?”

  I didn’t answer him. He was right, of course. I was being stupid. I had no way of getting home to Glen Ellyn, not even enough money for a phone call, which meant I’d have to make the long trek over to my aunt’s hospital and see if she’d float me a loan for train fare. I walked slowly for a while and tried to figure out why Jimmy’d acted the way he had. What he had said was bad enough, but the anger behind it all—that was something I couldn’t understand and didn’t know how to deal with.

  I walked block after block, alternating feeling sorry for myself with being furious at Jimmy for leaving me alone to handle the fifty-seven varieties of weirdos that emerge in the city as darkness falls. My mother’s words echoed in the back of my head: I never worry as long as I know Jimmy’s with you.

  Ha!

  I wondered what she’d think of Saint Jimmy now.

  5

  I really felt like Jimmy had done one heck of a job beating me up from the inside out. He knew what he was doing, all right. He wanted to hurt me. That’s what was starting to sink in. That’s why I couldn’t shake that socked-in-the-stomach feeling. When I got to the hospital, I took the elevator up to the psych floor and headed straight for my aunt’s office. I couldn’t wait to unload the story of my crummy afternoon on her. I knocked on the door to her office and stuck my head in, but it looked like she’d gone for the day. That’s when I kicked the doorjamb. Hard.

  “I broke my toes once, doing that,” I heard my aunt say.

  I turned around slowly. My aunt was leaning against the counter at the nurses’ station. She was wearing a black linen suit and holding a bunched-up stethoscope in her hand.