What If... All the Rumors Were True

by Liz Ruckdeschel

  Which was how they ended up roaming through stores that evening, in spite of Joan’s complaints.

  “I’ve had that backpack for three years, Mom. And I’ll probably have this bag for three more. This is not an extravagant purchase,” Haley rationalized. She was all for her mother’s social justice and environmental awareness, but sometimes a bag was just a bag—something you needed to carry your stuff in. Or was it?

  Joan went off to look for a new business suit—work clothes used to win cases against corporate polluters being exempt from her anticonsumerist stance—while Haley browsed the accessories aisles. She saw several bags she liked, but she had only enough money for one. It was so hard to decide. There was a snappy white patent leather purse with a hip late-sixties vibe, perfect for an artsy, individual type like Irene Chen. Then there was a versatile black satchel, a timeless classic that would fit well in Coco De Clerq’s wardrobe. The peach suede purse looked girlish and safe, like something Annie Armstrong would wear. And finally, Haley was tempted by a red-trimmed canvas tote, which was sporty and fun and reminded her of Sasha. Haley looked at the bags over and over. The school year was still young, and she wasn’t quite sure what kind of bag she’d need. Which one would suit her junior-year persona?

  What will it be? The bag Haley chooses now will determine her path for this, the most important of school years. Should Haley assert her artsy individuality? Have her buy the white patent leather bag and send her to try out for the play on "ACTING COACH". Maybe you think the canvas tote would be best. If so, go to the soccer game "FANCY FOOTWORK". To stick with the academic, college-bound set, it’s the peach suede purse and the debate team all the way "IT’S DEBATABLE". Or maybe you think Haley should opt for the elegant black satchel, in which case, CASTING CALL.

  You are what you eat? Maybe. You are what you wear? For sure—at least while you’re wearing it. Or carrying it, as the case may be.

  OPEN MIKE

  Unlike at karaoke night, tone-deaf people are not welcome to take the stage at an open mike.

  “I should not even be here,” Reese Highland said as the gang trooped into Drip, the local coffeehouse, for Wednesday-afternoon Open Mike. “I’ve booked up my life with every possible activity, and even my homework has homework.”

  “Tell me about it,” Haley groaned. “SAT prep is killing me. It’s those endless practice tests, on top of soccer and everything.”

  “At least you don’t have to round up a pack of clueless freshman klutzes and try to turn them into a passable cheerleading squad,” Cecily Watson complained. “Have you seen this year’s newbies? They’re about as graceful as a herd of Clydesdales.”

  Eager to see Sasha debut her new songs at Open Mike, they all settled at tables in front of the stage and ordered coffees. Haley found herself in a crew with Cecily, now captain of the cheerleading squad; Cecily’s boyfriend, football star Drew Napolitano; Sasha’s rocker boy, Johnny Lane; and Reese. Still, the whole excursion had sounded like more fun than it was turning out to be. Everybody was so stressed about preparing for college that they couldn’t seem to relax.

  “Those girls are wearing me out,” Cecily said. “I’m losing my pep. My pep, people! Though it would help if we had something to cheer about.” She cast a sidelong glance at Drew.

  “Hey, I’m doing what I can,” Drew said. “I trained hard all summer. I can’t help it if varsity football is weak this year. Turns out the seniors who graduated last year carried us more than we realized. I just hope the team is good enough to attract a few recruiters—or it’s no college for me, baby. I sure ain’t getting in on my grades.”

  “Why did I join the Math Olympics team?” Reese said. “What was I thinking? The first meet is next week and I’m going to make a total fool out of myself. I’m going to stand up in front of everybody and my mind will go blank. The admissions office at Princeton, Harvard, Dartmouth and Yale will hear all about it and they’ll laugh hysterically while tearing up my applications. I’m doomed.”

  “Oh, please,” Haley said. Nothing tragic ever happened to golden boy Reese. “You’ll be fine. I’m the one who’s going to be laughed out of the Ivies.”

  Johnny Lane rubbed his eyes impatiently. “All this college talk is boring my brains out. You get in, you don’t get in. Who cares? You can always go to state.”

  Haley gasped.

  “How can we not care?” Cecily said. “Our entire future is on the line.”

  “The future will happen whether or not you go to Vassar,” Johnny said. He clapped his hands and whistled. “Bring out Sasha! Sasha Lewis, let’s go!”

  The room was still filling with people. A group of sophomores, led by Zoe Jones, crammed into a corner booth, giggling and spitting water at each other. Zoe’s hair stuck off the top of her head in two wild spikes, and a heavy dash of eyeliner made her catlike eyes even more feline, yet somehow she still managed to look beautiful. Maybe it was the red spandex bodysuit and tutu over combat boots. Haley had to admit the girl had a look of her own, especially for someone so young. She certainly didn’t lack confidence—Zoe was already the lead singer in Rubber Dynamite.

  “Look at them,” Cecily said wistfully. “Laughing like they haven’t a care in the world. Remember sophomore homework? Sophomore year is like kindergarten.”

  “Leave them in peace,” Drew said, eyeing Zoe, along with every other guy in the room. “Let them have their fun while they can.”

  “I remember fun,” said Cecily. “Wait until next year. We’ll be seniors, coasting along on a wave of senior cut days.”

  “We’ll be tearing our hair out, waiting to hear on admissions,” Reese said.

  “Hey,” Johnny said. “I believe I asked you all to cut it.” He stretched his long, denim-clad legs into the aisle and closed his eyes. “I wish this show would start already. You can’t even get a beer in this dump.”

  “Excuse me, but you are in my way.” Haley looked up as Mia Delgado sauntered past their table, followed sheepishly by Sebastian Bodega. “Please, can you move your legs?”

  Johnny opened his eyes and glared at Mia. “Go around. There’s no room at this table anyway.”

  Mia gasped, giving a dramatic toss to her long brown hair. She was wearing even more makeup than usual; her eyes were lined and spackled with blue shadow. “American boys are so uncivilized.” She walked around Johnny’s table and sat down in a seat right in front of him, blocking his view of the stage.

  “Show the lady some respect,” Sebastian said mechanically to Johnny before taking a seat next to Mia.

  “Whatever,” Johnny said.

  Mia turned around to glare at Johnny and fluffed her hair again. Then she said to Sebastian, “I’m sorry I was late to meet you, puppy, but I went to the auditions and had to wait such a long time for my turn!”

  Haley didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but she couldn’t help perking up her ears at the word “auditions.” That explained the huge hair and excessive makeup—Mia’s attempt to project “fairy queen” from the stage. She, like everyone else at Hillsdale it seemed, was trying out for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.

  “How did you do, Miacita?” Sebastian asked.

  “Wonderful!” Mia declared. “I was brilliant, of course, what do you think? You know that director, Mr. Lyons, perhaps he thinks I am too beautiful to be the lead.”

  “Too beautiful? That is impossible.”

  “You never know, Sebastian, you never know. What are these Americans thinking? Sometimes I just don’t understand them.”

  Sebastian patted her slender knee. “You will get the lead, Miacita, I feel sure of it. When have you ever been denied something you wanted?”

  Haley fumed as they laughed over this. It was true: Mia always seemed to get her shy, manipulative way. Thinking about Mia’s commanding presence and refusal to ever hear the word no, Haley began to wonder what she herself wanted. Maybe she wanted to be in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, too. Why not?

  Actually, there were lots of reasons why not: soccer, s
chool, SATs and everything else she had signed up for. Haley’s time was stretched to the limit. But when she thought about it, all her activities seemed so prosaic. So dull. So typical. Maybe drama was just what she needed to spice up her transcript—and her life.

  The auditions were going on all afternoon. If she hurried back to the auditorium now, she might make it in time to try out. Haley drained her coffee. This was it. Do or die. If she was going to make it to those auditions, she’d have to leave right this minute.

  Is Haley nuts? How is she going to cram another activity—especially a time-consuming one like drama—into her packed schedule? If she gets a major part, that’s going to mean a ton of memorization—on top of all the memorizing she’s already doing for SAT prep. Plus endless hours of rehearsal time…

  But then, her school record as it stands does lack zip. Zing. Zazz, if you will. If she’s going to get into one of her top schools, she’s going to need to stand out. And what college ever turned anyone down for doing too much?

  If you think theater could add another dimension to Haley’s transcript, send her to audition on "CASTING CALL". If you think Haley should streamline her life and stick to soccer, go to "FANCY FOOTWORK".

  Sometimes life feels like one big open mike—trying new things in front of a hostile audience. It’s scary, but if you pull it off, the rewards make all the frenzy worthwhile.

  ON A ROLE

  You shouldn’t bother trying out unless you’re willing to play a supporting role.

  “Haley, you’re trying out too?” Whitney asked as Haley walked into the mobbed auditorium.

  “God, half the school is auditioning for this play,” Coco said.

  Frankly, Haley was surprised to see Whitney and Coco auditioning for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. Neither one of them struck her as having the ability, or the desire, to impersonate anyone but her fabulous self. And Shakespeare was never high on their list of priorities—he ranked miles above math but well below makeup, clothes and hair.

  “I thought it might be fun,” Haley said noncommittally.

  “Look at all those girls lined up for the lead,” Coco said, examining her perfect pearly pink nails. “Why do they even bother? Don’t they know it’s a lost cause?” She looked up at Haley and added, dismissively, “You’re not foolish enough to try out for the lead, are you?”

  “I thought I’d go for Helena or Hermia,” Haley said. “You know, we H names have to stick together. And that way, I’m less likely to miss a cue onstage.”

  Coco didn’t laugh. “Good. You wouldn’t have a chance.” She opened her paperback copy of the play and started reading.

  “Not that it makes any difference,” Haley said, “but why not?”

  Whitney pulled her aside. “Because you-know-who’s father funded the production this year—again,” she whispered, twitching an elbow in Coco’s direction. “So they have to make him happy. And he won’t be happy if she’s not happy. And she won’t be happy unless she gets the lead.”

  “Obviously,” Haley said sarcastically. “Why even hold auditions at all? Maybe they should auction off the parts to the highest bidders.”

  Whitney let a little laugh slip out but cut it short when Coco glared at them.

  “So you’re going to be Titania?” Haley said.

  “Ti-who?” Coco sniffed. “No. I told you, I’m going to be the star.”

  “Titania is the star,” Haley said. “The queen of the fairies? It’s the biggest female role.”

  “Of course,” Coco said. “I knew that. And it makes total sense. I’m queen of the school. Why shouldn’t I be queen of the fairies? Who knows more about ruling than me?”

  “And what about Mia?” Haley said. She couldn’t help herself. Mia got on her nerves, but Haley had a hunch Mia got on Coco’s nerves even more. Coco, after all, had very delicate nerves.

  “What about her?” Coco sneered.

  “I heard she’s trying out for Titania,” Whitney blurted out.

  “So did I,” Haley said with a satisfied smile.

  “So?” Coco said. “Does Titania have a Spanish accent? Shakespeare was a British playwright. This is an English play. I really don’t think Mia is much competition for anyone.”

  “Actually, this production is taking place in Athens,” Haley said. “Athens, Greece,” she added for Whitney’s benefit.

  “You call this English?” Whitney scanned a page of the play with her finger. “‘Skim milk, and sometimes labour in the quern, and bootless make the breathless housewife churn; and sometime make the drink to bear no barm—’”

  “Cut it out, Klein,” Coco snapped. “You’ve heard of skim milk, haven’t you? Not that you’d be caught dead drinking it…”

  “It’s so watery.” Whitney sniffed. “Maybe I’ll try out for Hermia. Isn’t she the girl everyone’s in love with?”

  “Not everyone,” Haley said. “Just Lysander and Demetrius.”

  “And you know who’s trying for one of those two parts,” Coco said. “Señor Sebastian. Among several other hotties.”

  “Awesome,” Whitney said. “I could handle some, um, face time with Sebastian. Is there kissing? Please let there be kissing.”

  “If you get the part,” Coco said, emphasis on the if.

  “Sorry, Whit—I guess being Mr. Moneybags’s daughter only gets you so many favors,” Haley said. She noticed Devon McKnight in line to audition for Lysander or Demetrius too. Interesting. If she got Helena or Hermia, whom would she rather kiss—Devon or Sebastian? It was a question for the eyes.

  “Does Titania get to kiss whoever Sebastian wants to be?” Coco asked Haley.

  “I don’t think so,” Haley said.

  “Whatever,” Coco said. “As long as I don’t have to play opposite that giant donkey head. Who is that anyway?”

  Across the room, Shaun Willkommen caroused with Irene and Devon while wearing a papier-mâché donkey’s head. He must think it will help his chances of playing the weaver, Nick Bottom, Haley thought—since Bottom spends half the play under a spell that turns his head into an ass’s.

  “Yuck, it’s that mullet-head Shaun,” Whitney said. “I’d recognize that potbelly anywhere. Ick, just look at him.”

  “Actually, I think Titania does have to kiss Donkeyhead,” Haley said happily. “I mean, Bottom.”

  “Ew, the character’s name is Bottom?” Coco said. “How disgustingly appropriate. Why would the lead want to kiss that?”

  “It’s right there in the play,” Haley said, flipping through her copy until she found the part where Titania thinks she’s in love with Bottom. Haley was beginning to hope Coco did get the lead—seeing her kiss Shaun’s donkey mouth in front of the whole school would be delicious.

  “But how can they expect me to—”

  “It’s called acting, Coco,” Haley reminded her.

  “Maybe the script can be changed,” Coco said.

  “You can’t change it.” Haley stabbed the book with her finger. “It’s right here in black and white.”

  “I can change it if I want to,” Coco said emphatically. “Or there won’t be a play.”

  Mr. Lyons, the drama teacher, clapped his hands and called for order. “All right, people! Let’s keep things rolling. I’m still looking at Titanias. Let’s see who’s next.” He glanced at his clipboard, opened his mouth, hesitated and then called, “Coco De Clerq.”

  “That’s moi.” Coco snatched up her script and sauntered over to the stage. “Hi, Mr. Lyons.”

  “Hello, Coco,” Mr. Lyons said. “Would you please read Titania’s scene with Oberon, act two, scene one? I’ll read Oberon.”

  Coco flipped through her book until she found the part. “‘Titania and Oberon enter.’”

  “Right. I’ll read the stage directions,” Mr. Lyons said. “Here I go. ‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.’”

  Coco stood on the stage, her hand on her hip, staring at the book.

  “That’s your cue, Coco,” Mr. Lyons said.

 
“Oh. Okay. ‘Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania.’”

  “That’s my part. I just read it,” Mr. Lyons said.

  Haley sat down. The crowd in the auditorium had grown quiet. Everyone was watching. There was an electric feeling in the air that they were all about to witness a train wreck, and no one wanted to miss it.

  “So you read the next line,” Mr. Lyons prompted.

  Coco cleared her throat. “‘What, jealous Oberon! Fairies, skip hence! I have forsworn his bed and company!’”

  Haley glanced at her script. Were there really so many exclamation points in Titania’s speech? Turned out there weren’t. So why was Coco shouting all her lines?

  “‘Tarry, rash wanton: am not I thy lord?’” Mr. Lyons read.

  “‘Then I must be thy lady!’” Coco screeched. “‘But I know when thou hast stolen away from fairy land! And in the shape of Corin sat all day! Playing on pipes of corn and versing love to amorous Phillida!’”

  “Okay, uh, good, Coco.” Mr. Lyons put down his book. “I think you have a real, uh, grasp of the dramatics here. Can I talk to you for a minute?” He beckoned her off the stage.

  “Does this mean I get the part?” Coco walked toward him, beaming.

  “Just let me speak with you for a minute, please,” Mr. Lyons said.

  Coco and Mr. Lyons huddled at the edge of the stage for a few minutes. All Haley could make out was a loud “What?” from Coco early on. A few minutes later, she strutted down the aisle toward Haley and Whitney.

  “What happened, Coc?” Whitney said. “Did you get it?”

  “Even better,” Coco said. “He wants me to be his assistant director. He thinks I have a natural flair for storytelling.”

  Yeah, right, Haley thought, looking dubious.

  “Assistant director? Wow, that’s awesome!” Whitney exclaimed.

  “Mr. Lyons says I’m too good an actress for a silly little school production,” Coco explained. “And that he’ll need my skills to help raise the level of the acting all around.” She smiled smugly, as if she actually believed it—but Haley knew what was up. Mr. Lyons didn’t want to lose his funding, and at the same time, he didn’t want to direct a bomb.