Encore Edie

by Annabel Lyon

  “Can I talk to you a sec?” I say to him when Regan is out of earshot.

  We go into the props closet and I explain my idea.

  “Edie, no,” he says.

  “No, but listen.” I tell him again, explain my research, explain why it’s perfect. “You keep saying you don’t want to do it. I wouldn’t take it away from you if—”

  He’s shaking his head. “Did you talk to her mom?”

  “It’s going to be a surprise.”

  “Did you talk to Mr. Harris?”

  “Surprise,” I say again, rolling my hand in the air like a policeman conducting traffic. Can we please move this conversation forward a little faster? “She won’t mess up. She knows every word of every part. She could do the whole play on her own if she had to.”

  Raj keeps shaking his head as if he doesn’t want to hear what I’m saying. “Does she understand what she’ll be doing?”

  “Edie!” Regan’s voice calls. “Anybody seen Edie?”

  “She’s going to be in a show,” I say. “It’s her dream come true.”

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “I have to tell Mr. Harris,” Raj says. “I’m sorry, Edie, but it’s not right.”

  He opens the door. It’s Merry.

  “Regan calling you,” she tells me. Her face lights up when she sees Raj. “What are you doing?” she asks us.

  We step into the hall. “I was telling Raj my idea about having you in the show,” I say.

  She laughs and claps her hands. Raj looks at the floor.

  “Edie!” Down the hall, Mr. Harris is waving me over, frowning.

  Raj looks from Mr. Harris to Merry to me. “Damn it, Edie,” he says, and walks away.

  “Where’s he going?” Mr. Harris asks. “He’s in the first act.”

  “Bathroom,” I say. “Uh, Mr. Harris—”

  Around us, the actors are appearing in full costume and makeup. People gasp as Nathalie, as Cordelia, walks by. Even Mr. Harris smiles.

  “You’ve pulled it off, Edie,” he says. “I didn’t think you would. Today I’m going to sit in the audience. You don’t need me anymore.”

  I say, “Uh—”

  “Go send one of the guys to haul Raj out of the bathroom so we can get started.” He taps his watch. “It’s time.” And he’s gone, behind the curtain and down into the audience, where he can’t help me or stop me either.

  Regan’s idea for the costumes was that all the characters should be enormous Elizabethan insects. The girls wear great panniered gowns and ruffs; the guys wear doublets and hose; everyone has wings and a mask. King Lear is a stag beetle, black, with black wings and antlers. Goneril and Regan are flies, a bluebottle and greenbottle respectively, because, Regan says, they buzz around Lear as if he’s already dead. They have bulbous eyes made of tiny mirrors and dresses in hard metallic colours. Cordelia is a dragonfly, a banded demoiselle with a soft green dress and enormous see-through double wings made from iridescent cellophane and silver wire for the frame and veins. Regan told me those wings took her longer than any other costume she’s ever made, they were a complete waste of time, and she would never make anything so fussy and detailed and difficult ever again. Funny how she smiles every time she looks at them.

  Only the Fool doesn’t get a costume. In this glittery, fantastical world, where everything everyone does and says is lies and make-believe, only the Fool wears street clothes—jeans and a hoodie. He’s the only human being in the play.

  “Thirty seconds,” I call. We bring the house lights down and the roar of the audience behind the curtain disappears. Silence. “Fifteen seconds,” I mouth. “Ten, nine, eight—” I see Sam signalling the band teacher. The saxophones and trumpets, on the far side of the stage, lift their instruments for the first jazzy sting of music. The cast, in their places onstage, are waiting. No one misses Raj yet. Merry stands beside me, her hood drawn up, hiding her face, so that at first the cast won’t even know there’s been a switch.

  The curtain rises. Applause. Gasps (Regan’s costumes again, I’m sure). Silence. We all wait for Lear’s first line.

  “Listen up, everybody,” King Lear says, and we’re off.

  The Fool doesn’t go on until near the end of the first act. At the last second, I pull down Merry’s hood and say, “Now.”

  She walks out onstage and says her first line. She says it really well, too, nice and clear and loud, so no one could miss it: “Who called for a fool?”

  Our school principal’s name is Mrs. Porter. She’s older than my mom, and wears dark suits and heels. Her hair is short and grey. On the walls in her office are her degrees, including two Ph.D.s, and photos of her kids, two tall, grinning boys in their university graduation gowns with their arms around her shoulders. On her desk are more framed pictures, an electric pencil sharpener, a laptop, a phone, some closed files, and a mug that says Because I Said So. I have time to notice all this because she’s been on the phone with my mom for the last ten minutes.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Snow,” she says. “No, I think it’s best dealt with immediately. Edie can wait with me until you get here.” She hangs up and says, “Your mother says she’ll pick up Merry’s mother on the way.”

  I shrug. I’m trying not to cry.

  “You may wait outside until they get here.”

  “Where’s Merry?”

  “Mr. Harris and Mr. Dick are taking care of Merry. We will discuss this further once your mother gets here. You’ll sit and wait here, please.”

  Here is a chair just outside her office. I sit and listen to her fingers tapping on her laptop while we wait for the Furies to arrive.

  What happened was a complete disaster. Merry had hardly begun when the audience began to boo. Merry burst into tears. Mr. Harris stormed up onto the stage, ordered the curtains closed, and stopped the show. When I tried to say something, he swore at me. Everyone heard. Then Merry ran over, still crying. While I hugged her and rubbed her back, Mr. Harris tried to explain that they were booing me, not her. I’m not sure she understood. Mr. Dick appeared and led Merry away, while Mr. Harris told everyone to take off their costumes and go home. Then Mrs. Porter came and led me from the theatre to her office. That was the longest walk of my life. Everyone who had been in the audience was in the halls now, milling around, not sure what they were supposed to do for the rest of the afternoon. Everyone glared at me and muttered behind my back.

  I realize—now—what it must have looked like: everyone thinks I was making fun of Merry. I realized the moment they started to boo. They thought I was trying to get everyone to laugh at her, putting her onstage and making her be the Fool. They didn’t realize that she could actually do the part, that it wasn’t just a grotesque practical joke. That, I realize, is what I have to explain: that if we all just give her a chance, she can actually do the part.

  I knock on Mrs. Porter’s door and ask if I can run to my locker if I promise to come right back.

  She looks at me, a long, cool, assessing look, and then says, “All right, Edie.”

  In my locker I have the binder with all my research.

  As I get back to the office, I walk slower and slower because I can hear voices: Mom, Aunt Ellie, Mr. Harris, Mr. Dick, Mrs. Porter, Merry.

  It’s Aunt Ellie who speaks first. “Oh, honey,” she says, and pulls me in for a hug.

  “Sorry,” I say, and then I’m crying for real.

  We all talk for a long time. Mrs. Porter tells Mom she’s thinking I deserve a suspension but she’d like to hear my side first. I explain about my trip to the university library, and show them my binder. I explain about Regan’s costumes, the insects and the single human person. I tell them about the night I spent at Merry’s, when she knew all the words to Guys and Dolls. I talk and talk and talk, until Mom says, “It’s okay, Edie. It’s okay. I think we all understand now.”

  “I owe your daughter an apology,” Mr. Harris says, and tells Mom about swearing at me, and then there’s a round of everyone saying they understa
nd that too.

  “I’m tired,” Merry says. “Mom, I’m tired. We go home.”

  “Sure we will, baby,” Aunt Ellie says.

  Then we’re all in the hall, getting ready to go. “Can I take a look at that binder?” Mr. Harris asks.

  I give it to him and follow Mom and Merry and Aunt Ellie to the parking lot. Merry and Aunt Ellie get into the back seat. Merry leans her head on Aunt Ellie’s shoulder while Aunt Ellie strokes her hair. I hesitate, and Mom, seeing me, does too.

  “I need to talk to Merry,” I say. “I need her to understand.”

  Mom looks back toward the school.

  “Except she won’t, will she?” I continue.

  “You’re a bright girl, Edie,” she says.

  We get into the car and drive home. Mom invites Merry and Aunt Ellie to stay for supper since they’re already with us, and Aunt Ellie says that would be great. I tell Merry she can nap in my room if she wants, and she does. I sit in the den pretending to do homework, waiting for Dad to get home, when I’ll have to explain all over again.

  The phone rings. “Edie,” Mom calls.

  It’s Mr. Harris. “I can’t get a hold of Raj. I tried phoning him to let him know he’s got his part back, but he’s probably pretty angry. Assume he won’t be there tomorrow night.”

  “What’s tomorrow night?” I say.

  “Our first performance,” Mr. Harris says. “You think we’re cancelling the show? The tickets have been sold. We’re not doing refunds. The school needs the money. The show goes on, and you find a Fool between tonight and tomorrow. And you let me know who it is this time. Got it?”

  “Not a problem,” I say. “I know someone who’ll be perfect for the part.”

  Thursday is one of those extra-warm early summer evenings where the air prickles with a golden haze, exactly like the prickle of nerves in the palms of my hands. I eat a quick grilled cheese at home and take the bus back to school; Mom and Dad and Dex and everyone will come by car, later, and drive me home after. The janitor has left the school doors unlocked, and I find him in the theatre, chatting with Mr. Harris. Mr. Harris hesitates when he sees me and then says, “That’s fair.”

  I’m wearing jeans and a hoodie.

  “Who’ll do your jobs backstage?”

  “Sam,” I say. “I already asked her.”

  “You sing?” he asks doubtfully, and I feel myself flush lobster red. I’ve been trying not to think about that part.

  Soon the cast and crew start to arrive. Regan’s glance slides over my clothes, but she won’t quite meet my eye. She takes her enormous garment bags into the change room and stays there. Sam is next, and she won’t quite look at me either. She takes my place in the wings and stands there examining her cuticles as if that’s the most urgent part of the job. The cast trickle in, and it’s the same again and again: as I greet them, they mumble at me, or slide past to find Regan without quite looking at me or saying anything. Pariah: that’s a word I know. I tick the names off my list until I’ve got all but two: Raj, as expected, and Nathalie. I brave the change room just in case she slipped in without me noticing.

  I’m met by hostile glares all around. I realize not only Regan and the cast but the understudies and most of the crew are in here too, hiding from—I guess—me. “Anyone seen Nathalie?” I say.

  Shrugs.

  “Could someone try calling her house?” I say. “Does someone have her phone number?”

  More shrugs. Nathalie is one of the most popular girls in the school, and I’d bet the complete works of Shakespeare she’s on the speed-dial of every girl cool enough to have her own cellphone. That’s probably twenty phones in this room alone.

  “Is she sick?” I ask. “Does she have a migraine? Please, guys. Anyone know?”

  “Can I borrow your phone?” Regan asks Mean Megan. Mean Megan hands it to her. Regan stares at me until I leave the room.

  A couple of minutes later, Mean Megan finds me in the bathroom. I’ve been washing my hands for the last five minutes or so. “Nathalie has a migraine,” she says. “Her mom says she’s too sick to come tonight.”

  “Mei will be happy,” I say. I’m kind of happy too; Mei deserves it.

  “No one’s seen Mei either.”

  I’m not worried. Mei is reliable; Mei will be here. Mean Megan asks if Dexter’s coming. “Later,” I say. “With my parents.”

  “I don’t see her much anymore,” Mean Megan says. “Ever since—” Ever since Mean Megan got a part and she didn’t, I guess, but then she says, “Is she bringing her boyfriend?”

  “She doesn’t have a boyfriend,” I say.

  “You’re so weird,” Mean Megan says. “You’re so smart sometimes, and then you’re so stupid. Like what you did to Merry.”

  “I didn’t do anything to Merry. I wasn’t trying to—” Make a fool of her, I was going to say. Except, of course, that was exactly what I was trying to do. “I wasn’t trying to make fun of her. I just wanted to make people think. She can do the part, but nobody gave her a chance.”

  “Think about what?” Mean Megan says.

  “About—” I look at myself in the mirror. “About laughing. About what laughing is and why we do it. About what’s funny, and what isn’t, and comedy, and tragedy, and how it’s all so confusing. Like how we all laugh at Raj all the time when really he’s a sad person. And how Merry is so happy all the time and every time I think about her I feel sad. And how Dexter is so smart and pretty and perfect at everything and just because she doesn’t get a part she hardly speaks to me anymore. You think you hardly see her? She totally avoids me. I’ve hardly had a conversation with her in months.”

  “She has a boyfriend, dummy,” Mean Megan says, but somehow in a patient way, not a mean way.

  “You think I wouldn’t have noticed?”

  “I told you.” Mean Megan taps her temple with her finger. “You’re weird, Edie. You see stuff most people don’t, like Merry knowing the play by heart. And then you miss stuff most people don’t, like your sister and—”

  “Edie!” Regan barges into the bathroom. “Here you are. I just talked to Mei’s mom.” She waves Mean Megan’s purple cellphone as if it’s some kind of explanation. “She’s not coming.”

  “That’s impossible. She’s never missed a rehearsal.”

  “She has some kind of virus. They think she picked it up while she was volunteering at the hospital, because they’ve had an outbreak there too.”

  “But we can’t do the play without Cordelia.”

  “My wings,” Regan says. “No one will see my wings.” She looks as if she’s going to cry.

  “Megan, you can do it,” I say quickly. “You can sing.”

  Mean Megan’s already shaking her head. “I don’t know the lines,” she says. “That’s a huge part. I’ll go ask around, but I doubt there’s anyone who can fill in at such short notice.” She runs out of the bathroom. Regan says she’ll get Mr. Harris.

  Backstage, the cast stands around, half dressed, not sure if we’re going to have a performance. I stand where the curtain meets the wall, peeking through the slit, watching the audience filter in. With a start, I see Mom and Dad, Mom in a dress and Dad in a suit, as if they’re going to the theatre, which of course they are, even though it’s odd to think of it that way. I see Aunt Ellie and Daniel and Merry, who’s walking carefully down the steps, focused on not tripping over her feet. I see Dexter, and then I start again. She’s got two people with her, two people I know. What boyfriend? I think. That’s just—

  Regan comes back with Mr. Harris. He looks grim but puts a hand on my shoulder, surprising me. “This isn’t your fault, Edie,” he says. “You couldn’t have foreseen this. I’ll make an announcement.”

  Mean Megan comes back too, shaking her head. “It’s the lines,” she says. “They’d kill to do the singing, but none of them knows all the lines.”

  “Wait,” I say. “Everybody just wait.”

  I step through the curtain, hop down off the stage, and ru
n up to where my family are just taking their seats. “Merry,” I say, ignoring Dexter and her guests, “I need you to help me.” I take her hand and lead her past my astonished family, up onto the stage, and through the curtain, to where Mr. Harris and Mean Megan and Regan are waiting. “Merry knows the lines,” I say.

  There’s a long moment when everything feels suspended, as though time stops while we all look at each other. Then suddenly everything is moving again. Mr. Harris tells Regan to take Merry to the change room and get her dressed. He asks Mean Megan if she knows Cordelia’s songs. There’ll be no business with a screen or lip-synching; there’s no time. She’ll just sing when Cordelia’s supposed to sing and let Merry do the rest. “You want her to sing for you too?” he asks me.

  “No,” I say. “I’ll be fine.”

  “You can’t sing,” Mean Megan says.

  “I know,” I say.

  When Merry comes out in Cordelia’s costume, the soft green dress with the great dragonfly wings, backstage goes silent.

  Sam goes up to Merry. “You look beautiful,” she says.

  Merry is smiling so broadly she can’t even answer. She takes Sam’s hands in hers and starts to laugh.

  All around me, people start to clap. They clap, and whistle, and stamp their feet, a standing ovation for Merry to make up for yesterday’s boos. Surely the audience can hear us, but Mr. Harris doesn’t tell us to shush.

  “Ready?” Mr. Harris says when the noise finally dies down.

  After the performance, I push through the crush of people in the hall outside the theatre to find my family. I don’t have any makeup to remove or costume to change out of, so I’m out before any of the rest of the cast. Mom and Dad and Aunt Ellie give me hugs, and so do Daniel and Robert and Robert’s mom, and finally so does Dex. They’re all laughing.

  “Oh, Edie,” Mom says. “You’ll always be my Edie.”