“You’ve heard from them already? That’s great,” I told him. “I’m surprised you never got involved with the newspaper here. I mean, if you like writing so much.”
“Small potatoes,” he said. “And I’ve only been here a year. Where are you going to go?”
“Probably the University of Maryland,” I told him, not wanting to admit it was a done deal, “though I’m still waiting to hear from UNC. I like the idea of being able to come home whenever I want.”
“Yeah?” said Ryan. “Well, if you’re going to major in counseling, I suppose you could go almost anywhere.”
“Uh … not really,” I said, but the screen lit up at the front of the room and we settled back to watch a video on quantum gravity, our minds on anything but.
More and more people were hearing from colleges—Liz got accepted at Goucher, her second choice—but even that took a backseat to the buzz about Jill and Justin’s wedding. It was all Jill talked about when we saw her at lunchtime. It was less than two weeks away, and there was so much to do, she kept saying. The Colliers had worked out an agreement with the church that they could have the wedding the day before Easter if they left all the flowers for the Easter-morning services and had vacated the building by three.
Penny said what none of us dared say: “I’d think you’d want the wedding at the start of spring break, so you could have a week to yourselves.”
“Not enough time to get ready,” Jill said woefully. “Mrs. Collier is moving this along at the speed of sound as it is, and she needs every extra day she can get. We’ll be spending the weekend at the Hay-Adams, though—forty-eight hours of pure luxury.”
I’d been noticing the little “fault lines” that had appeared on Justin’s forehead the last few months—all the bickering and tension with his folks, I guess. I thought I had problems making the leap from high school to college, but what if I had to throw in marriage and a baby too? If anyone should be at the breaking point, I’d think it would be Justin.
Some of us had received invitations and some had not. We couldn’t quite see the reasons for the selection. Karen, of course, as one of the bridesmaids, got an invitation. Penny did not. Gwen got an invitation, Pamela did not. I got an invitation, Liz did not. All Gwen and I could figure was that Gwen, as class valedictorian and med-student-to-be, would be a prestigious addition to the guest list, and that I, as features editor for The Edge, might do a write-up of the wedding. Fat chance.
“Did I tell you that Justin and I have an apartment now?” Jill was saying. “We move in over spring break.”
“Where?” we wanted to know. “What’s it like?”
Jill toyed with a coil of her hair that had recently got new highlights—glorious strands of gold and brown. “Sixteenth Street in D.C.,” she said. “I wanted one overlooking Rock Creek Park, but Justin said we couldn’t afford it. This has to come out of his education trust fund. It pays for room and board while he’s in college, and the trustee will stretch the meaning to include a basic apartment off campus, and I do mean ‘basic.’ Ha! I’ll bet if Justin was marrying into one of those families in Capitol Hill real estate, the Colliers would spring for a gorgeous apartment we could show to all our friends.”
“You can still show it to us!” I said.
She gave me one of her condescending looks, as though I didn’t count, and continued: “First they said Justin had to buy the diamond ring himself if I wanted an engagement ring. Well, we’d already decided on that. I certainly didn’t want to wear one of his mother’s cast-off diamonds. Then they said we had to pay for our own honeymoon. I guess that’s okay too, because if Mrs. Collier paid for it, she’d have Justin going to Paris and me to Siberia. But to make him pay for so much other stuff while he’s in school … I mean, she’ll do everything she can to break us up, I’ll bet, even after we’re married.”
“It just might be … that they’re doing everything they can to help you two become independent,” said Gwen, and I was glad Gwen said it, not me.
Jill ignored her. “They didn’t even mention baby expenses, but that’s okay. Mom says she’ll buy the car seat and stroller. The one good thing about our new apartment is it’s on the top floor, so we won’t have to listen to footsteps overhead. It’s a one-bedroom with a den, but we’ll do the den over for the baby. The living room faces the courtyard, so we’re directly across from another apartment, and there are no balconies, but there’s a little playground not too far away, so I can take the baby there.” Jill seemed on a talking jag she couldn’t stop. “Mom says fall’s a good time to have a baby because the weekends are unusually good, and of course Justin will be studying a lot, but—”
“I can come over on weekends and keep you company,” Karen said.
“Oh, we’ll be fine,” Jill said hurriedly. “And I love, love, love my dress!”
On Thursday, just as he did last week, Mr. Ellis said there would be no rehearsal—that all of us should have a relaxing evening with our families before the weekend performances. Gwen let Liz and me off at the corner, and we walked the half block to Elizabeth’s house in the sweet April air.
“I think Ryan’s hot for you,” Liz said as we sauntered along, elbows bumping occasionally. There was a delicious scent of blossoms, and I realized how little time we’d had just to stroll like this.
“Oh, really?” I said, and we exchanged smiles.
“Yeah?” she said, studying me closely. Then, “Yeah?” a little louder. “And you … ?”
I continued facing forward “Oh, it’s just a … fling.”
“A lot can happen in a fling,” said Liz. “How do you feel about him?”
“I don’t honestly know,” I said. “He’s … hot, like you say. He’s interested in me. We’ve actually kissed—”
Liz came to a complete stop. “My God, Alice!”
“Oh, it was sort of a cross between friendship and … ”
“Passion?” she asked.
“Something like that. Not that much. He wants us to go out over spring break.”
“Are you?”
“Yeah. I suppose. Patrick wouldn’t want me to just sit around.”
“Hmmm,” said Liz. “Well, I guess you’re never going to know if Patrick’s ‘the one’ unless you experience other guys.”
“Experience? Uh … as in all forty-nine flavors?”
“I don’t know about that. Come on in. We’ve got some passion fruit sorbet. Just what you need.”
It seemed perfectly wonderful to hang out like this, as though all the hurry and worry of senior year was behind us. Felt like it did back in eighth grade when we hung out on each other’s porches after school.
There was mail in the box, which meant Mrs. Price was out somewhere with Nathan. Holding the envelopes in one hand, key in the other, Liz let us in.
Inside, she dumped her backpack on the sofa beside the mail. And then she gasped and grabbed for an envelope that had landed on the floor.
“Alice!” she cried. “It’s from Bennington!”
“Omigod!” I said. “Open it! Open it!”
“They rejected me,” said Liz, staring at the white business envelope in her hand.
It was déjà vu, but I managed to say, “Liz, you haven’t even looked.”
There were already tears in her eyes. “Everyone says! If it’s an acceptance, it comes in a large envelope with a whole bunch of forms to …” The tears were spilling onto her hand.
She gave the envelope to me. “You read it. Just tell me.”
We pushed the books and mail off the couch and sat down together. I opened the envelope, and Liz closed her eyes. I scanned the letter. “You’ve been wait-listed,” I told her, trying to put some hope in my voice. “That’s not a no.”
“Wait-listed!” Liz wailed, her eyes filling up again. “That’s even worse! That means I go on not knowing. And even if I get in eventually, it means I’m second choice.” She was crying again in earnest. “Alice, I had my sweatshirt all picked out and everything! I have
a map of the campus and a map of the town and …”
I put my arm around her, but oh, I knew the feeling. “This isn’t the only place you applied. And you’ve been accepted at Goucher.”
“But I don’t want to go anywhere else! I w-want to be a Bennington Girl!” she wept. “How can I go all summer not knowing where I’m going to college? How will I know if I should buy ski clothes for Vermont or sundresses for Georgia?”
“Did you apply to a college in Georgia?” I asked.
“No,” she said, and cried some more. I almost wished I had taped this so I could play it back to her when she was sane.
“Liz,” I told her, “this is the final weekend of the play, and you have a leading role. No matter what happens, an actress dries her tears and the show goes on. You’re going to put on a magnificent performance because you know you must!” I was putting on a pretty good performance myself.
“The play!” Liz said, and her eyes got huge. She wiped one arm across her face. “My eyes are going to look swollen, aren’t they?”
“Everything that happens to an actress is something she can use onstage, remember? Laughing on the outside, crying on the inside? Think of the play, Liz, and we’ll worry about Bennington later,” I said.
Liz hugged me, still sniffling. “What would I do without you, Alice?”
After we each ate a dish of passion fruit sorbet, I went across the street to our house, part aching for Liz, part smiling at her “Bennington Girl.”
We have a mail slot in our front door, and some days there are so many catalogs on the other side that I can hardly get the door open. This was one of those days. Crate & Barrel, JC Penney, J. Crew, Territory Ahead …
And then I saw the words “University of North Carolina” peeking out from under the Crate & Barrel catalog. What was this—National Letdown Day? But the envelope from UNC was large. Heavy.
Mechanically, I opened it. Dear Miss McKinley: We are pleased to inform you …
Too late. But I wouldn’t have gone anyway. I was a Maryland Girl now.
20
IN THE DINER
I guess actors always keep the possibility of disaster in mind—a set falling over on someone or actually breaking a leg onstage. Nobody thought of the possibility that college rejections the day of a show could affect a cast. At school on Friday, a few other people had heard from colleges, and someone referred to the hall outside Mrs. Bailey’s office as the “wailing wall.” I was pretty much over my own disappointment about William & Mary—it was just a dull ache in my chest. And even though I’d confirmed with Maryland that I was going there, I could still say, Oh, yeah, well, I was accepted at UNC too, but … And it was nice to know I was saving Dad a heap of money.
Liz came to school subdued, and I let her talk about Bennington when she felt like it. It was her story to tell, if she wanted to. By the time we gathered for the evening performance, she wore a stoic, determined look on her face, a “bravely carrying on” sort of look that made Mr. Ellis say, “Mrs. Gilbreth, your husband dies at the end of the play, not the beginning,” and somehow Liz took on the warm maternal glow we needed, she needed, to see the play through.
Then the unexpected happened. Maybe what did it was a number of people saying “Break a leg” before the play instead of Watch out for the dog.
I don’t think any of us in the cast were particularly nervous. We’d had two good performances the weekend before, and we arrived at the dressing rooms to find that someone had steamed the wrinkles out of our costumes, so everything was fresh and ready to go. Gwen came with a bunch of friends. She was sitting with Daniel Bul Dau and Yolanda. I could see them in the second row. Phil Adler and some of the other people from the newspaper were behind them.
In the play two of the Gilbreth boys are coming down the stairs holding their dog—the dog their father didn’t want—and the audience hears Mr. Gilbreth shouting, “Get him out of here!” from above.
Dan had just said, “Of all the dumb dogs,” and Fred had replied, “What do you expect for five dollars?” when the dog wriggled loose and began running from one actor to another onstage, tail wagging, leaping up, and putting its front paws in people’s laps.
It was total chaos. “Guinness, no!” people were hissing, but the two-year-old Lab upset an end table and scrunched up the rug. When Jackie, his true owner, who wasn’t even supposed to be onstage, came running in to get him, the dog thought they were playing and barreled away to the delight of the audience, which screamed with laughter. What could we do but pretend it was all part of the play? When Jackie finally belly flopped on the dog and dragged him off the stage, I managed to say, “That dog! Where was he this time?”
And Bill answered, “Up on Dad’s bed again. The basement window … across the coal bin … up the back stairs … Dad’s bed!”
“Dad was right about the dog,” I said, continuing on. “Now he’ll think he’s right about everything.”
“Clothes, makeup, everything,” Pamela said, and we were finally back into the script.
When the phone rang, right on cue—Joe Scales, the cheerleader, calling to ask my character out—the scene played without a hitch, and I loved that a low chuckle went through the audience as I said innocently into the phone, “Where have I been all your life? Mostly, I’ve been right here… .”
Afterward, everyone was talking and laughing about the dog, and if Liz was still depressed over Bennington, she didn’t show it. Mr. Ellis said we’d played it well. “Good show, guys,” he said. “But tomorrow night, hang on to that dog!”
Mrs. Cary came out of the girls’ dressing room just then to report that a water pipe overhead was leaking and it would probably be morning before anyone could fix it. She suggested we take our costumes home in case the drip got worse during the night.
So, still wearing our makeup and third-act costumes, we stepped around the wet newspapers on the floor, collected the clothes we had worn in Acts I and II, and with Gwen and Yolanda helping, carried them out to the car.
When the waitress at the Silver Diner saw us coming this time, in costume, she began hastily clearing tables as fast as she could, and we swarmed in, taking up half the booths.
“It’s on him,” Sam said, pointing to Brad Broderick, who was still in his three-piece suit and who, with lines on his forehead, gray powder in his hair, and a padded potbelly, looked at least sixty-five.
“Me?” cried Brad, standing regally by the counter. “Why, children, I’m sailing for Europe tomorrow. I thought this was my send-off party.”
Everyone in the diner turned to watch now, some of them smiling, others just looking puzzled. But Brad hadn’t been cast as the star of the play for nothing. He looked around the diner and said, “But I think we’ve got time for one last check.” He pulled his stopwatch out of his vest pocket, then his whistle, and gave a loud blast.
Now all the customers had stopped eating and were staring at us, and the manager came out of the kitchen, curious. All nine of us children scrambled out of the booths crying, “Coming” or “I’m here, Dad,” and we lined up in front of the counter, holding out our hands for fingernail inspection.
The manager watched, grinning, as Brad went down the row, making up his lines: “I’ve seen better” and “What have you been digging?” When he got to young Jack, he bopped him on the head with a menu and said, “Filthy! Utterly filthy! Shame on you!”
The customers were laughing, enjoying the show, even though they didn’t know who we were or what the play was about.
When Brad got to me, though—he’d started at the younger end of the line—he said, “Oh, Anne, Anne. You always were my favorite daughter, and since I’m leaving forever, I think you ought to know a deep family secret.”
I played along. “Oh, what, what?” I cried. “Tell me!”
“Anne … ,” Brad said, holding me out in front of him, hands on my shoulders. I could tell he was still in the process of making this up. “Anne … I’m not your real father.”
; The cast was hooting and laughing, and customers had turned in their seats to give their full attention.
“Oh, Daddy,” I cried. “What are you saying?”
“That I am your lecherous Uncle Harry in disguise,” Brad said, and with that, he pulled me to him, tipped me over backward, and gave me a movie-star kiss while everyone cheered and applauded.
The guy playing Bill, one of the brothers, yanked the cap off his head and went around to the tables, holding it out for tips, but not long enough for anyone to put anything in it, and the whole diner was laughing and clapping.
I couldn’t tell if Ryan was all that amused when I went back to our booth. He was smiling, anyway. But I knew I’d remember this night forever.
* * *
Dad and Sylvia came to the final performance just to see it again. I think all of us in the cast had a catch in our throats when we said our lines for the last time. We wanted this performance to be our best, and so we probably overacted some of the scenes. When Penny recited the line, “Lincoln freed the slaves … all but one … all but one,” friends in the audience cheered wildly, simply because Penny was so popular herself.
When the curtain fell at last, then opened as we all joined hands and stepped forward for our bow, a lot of us had tears in our eyes. A couple of the guys, even. Elizabeth and Chassie were smiling even as tears ran down their cheeks, and when we looked at them and laughed, they laughed with us.
Dad and Sylvia were still clapping along with the rest of the audience—a rhythmical clapping now, as though nobody wanted the evening to end—and ushers made their way down the aisles with bouquets of flowers, more flowers than usual because it was the last night. I could see a huge bouquet of red roses bobbing down the center aisle, but I couldn’t see who was carrying it till Amy’s head came into view. She came right up to the footlights and handed them to me.
Surprised, I bent to receive them, a little embarrassed. Most of the other bouquets were wrapped in cellophane, held together at the base with a rubber band, but these were exquisite, and I gave Dad a fond but surprised smile as I accepted them.
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