The auditorium goes wild. I clap once or twice in between stealing glances up at my mom. She looks at me like she doesn’t even know me. I’m so dead.
“We wish you all the best, Maddie.”
Maddie hugs the Wicked Witch.
Glinda says, “There’s just one more thing.” She goes off-curtain and returns with a bouquet of red roses and a big envelope. “From all of us in Oz, we hope to see you again this summer…ON BROADWAY!”
“What!” Maddie squeals.
My jaw drops.
“That’s right! We’re sending you and your mom to New York. You’ll have backstage passes and everything. Let’s give her another hand, folks!”
The cheers are deafening.
Maddie wipes her face and gives Glinda a huge hug. She disappears off the stage with her roses and her card.
My mom’s eyes bore holes into the side of my face. I stare down at my feet.
“You and I need to talk.”
I nod and dig my toe into the floor. So dead.
The lights go back down, and the play continues. Wicked shows the other side of the story between the Wicked Witch and Glinda, and all the moments of hurt and love that make friendship so complicated. But nothing lasts forever, and before I know it, the show ends, and real life is waiting.
At first, I think we’re going to have to face Maddie and her mother, but Mom makes a beeline for one of the side doors. Once we’re safely in the SUV and the doors are locked, she pulls out her phone.
I’m going to be sick.
A moment later, Maddie’s video plays. I listen, feeling an inch smaller with each passing second. When Maddie says, “I’ve never felt so alone in my whole life,” I cringe and glance over at Mom. She looks the saddest I’ve ever seen her. She shakes her head, and when she looks at me, her eyes are glassy. “I knew something was wrong.” She sighs. “Tell me, Charlotte. It doesn’t matter how bad it is. It’s time.”
I feel a catch in my throat, and the tension moves up my jaw. “I don’t know.” My face grows hot, and my eyes start to fill with tears.
“You used to tell me everything.” She starts the car and pulls out into traffic. “Middle school doesn’t mean you have to do everything by yourself, you know. I’m still your mom.” She glances over at me. “I will always be your mom, and I’m going to love you no matter what. And this has been going on for weeks. Aren’t you tired of keeping it all bottled up inside?”
I stare down at my hands. It’s like she’s in my head.
“Tell me.”
At first I say a word or two, and then a few “I don’t knows.” But the story wants to be told, and I’ve been carrying it on my own for so long. I start with Ben and the gum, and how I, Charlotte Andrews, did the right thing, and it didn’t matter. When I get to the part where they called me ugly and made fun of my speech, steam practically comes out of her nose.
“You wait until I speak with Mr. Sinclair tomorrow.”
“No!” I cry, my voice growing louder. “You c-can’t!”
“I’m your mom. I sure can.”
The tears start coming again. “Look, I know you don’t understand, but you can’t do that. You can’t! If you do, sure, it will be fine for a day or two, but then T-Tristan and Josh will be worse than they were when it happened. The only way I get to survive is if we don’t say anything. If you do, my life is over!”
In a quiet voice, she says, “What happened next?”
I squeeze my eyes shut and tell her every detail about the Bad Thing, how that moment passed by so fast and I walked by Maddie on the bus like she was nothing.
Mom listens, the crease between her eyebrows deepening.
“And then it was too late to fix it. I wanted to, but…I made a mess of everything.” I hang my head and sob, tears dripping onto my glasses, until I feel the warmth of her hand on my shoulder.
“Oh, Charlotte.”
I look up at her in between ragged breaths. We’re in our driveway, and I didn’t even notice.
She wipes a tear from my cheek. “I wish you’d told me sooner.”
I take off my fogged-up glasses. “But I couldn’t! You would’ve told Mr. Sinclair, and then it would’ve been so much worse. You should’ve heard the guys bragging about getting away with everything. I never wanted to leave her sitting by herself. But after all that happened, I just couldn’t do it again. That day was so awful. You just can’t imagine what it was like.”
She unbuckles her seat belt and wraps both arms around me. “No, I can’t. But I know someone who can.”
I sob into her shoulder. Maddie, Maddie, Maddie.
She sighs. “So, you left the only friend you had to avoid getting picked on.”
My eyes well up with more tears. “Yeah.” It sounds even worse when she says it out loud. Maybe there will be a day when I won’t feel guilty and afraid, but I can’t picture what that would even feel like. Is that my punishment for this? To feel this way forever?
Mom rummages in the glove compartment and hands me a few fast-food napkins. “You’re in a pickle, kiddo.”
“I d-d”—I want to say “don’t know how to fix it,” but I can’t get past the D sound. I pause and take a deep breath. “How can I fix it?”
“You can’t fix this. But you can start by saying you’re sorry.”
“Mom! I already tried talking to her at school. I called her. I even wrote her a note saying I was sorry, but she crumpled it up and left it in my seat! She’s not going to listen to me.” I blow my nose into a napkin.
“That doesn’t matter. You say it anyway, even if nothing changes. ‘Sorry’ is for you as much as it is for her.” Her eyes soften. “I know this is hard. I’ll help you find the right words.”
I rest my face in my hands and let my hair spill over my fingers. It all seems so pointless now. “She told me I can’t sit with her, Mom.”
“Can you blame her? She’s just hurt. She didn’t mean it.”
“I called her again yesterday.”
“And?”
“Her mom answered.” I sniffle. “She started saying all these things, and I just couldn’t do it. I told her I had to go.”
She sighs. “That bad, huh?”
I blow my nose with a loud honk. “It was brutal.”
“You can always try again.” She hands me another napkin.
My eyes widen. “Not with her mom, I can’t!” The shame was too much the last time. I’m supposed to be Maddie’s friend. How can I talk to her mom again when she knows what I’ve done?
Mom considers me a moment. “You know, choosing not to make a choice is still a choice. You have to do something.”
I nod. I figured that much out all by myself.
And as she cuts off the engine, I read the pause she takes before she opens the door. It means: Do the right thing, Charlotte.
When I get on the bus the next morning, Maddie looks me right in the eye. She knew I was at the play last night. I’d only been talking about it forever. She knows my mom knows.
I slow down and try to smile as I approach her seat, but she turns and looks out the window.
I slide into a seat in the back, pull out my notebook, and do the only thing I can do. I write more notes:
The world is better because you’re in it.
Don’t underestimate yourself.
You inspire me.
You don’t have to be afraid.
You are loved.
I fold and pocket the notes and look up when laughter rings out. Tristan and Josh waltz down the aisle, doing fake bows as they pass Maddie and slide into the seat behind her. For the first time ever, there’s a seventh-grade girl sitting next to her.
I look away and make eye contact with Lyric. She says, “Did you see the video?”
I nod.
She starts to say somethin
g else and then stops.
Weird. Why is she talking to me?
When we exit the bus, Mr. Sinclair stands at the back door of the school, his mouth set in a straight line. He motions for Maddie, and they walk ahead. I’m close enough that I see the crowd part when they enter the lobby. There’s almost a hush that falls over the hall, and a moment later, they disappear through the glass doors into the office.
I make my way to homeroom, stopping along the way to leave my notes on a bench, in a locker, and on the bathroom sink. I hope they help someone. Someone like Maddie.
As I enter the classroom behind two guys, one says, “Did you know Maddie’s going on tour with a rock star?”
The other replies, “No way! I heard some celebrity called and asked her to the spring dance.”
“Nice!”
“Where d-did you hear that?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes. “It’s all over the news. Duh. Where have you been?”
I sling my bag down at my desk. Have I lost Maddie forever? Is she going to make all new friends now? It might really be too late for me to make things right. But it isn’t too late for musical theater. I have a voice. It’s time I use it, just like Mom said I should. I pull out my notebook and write:
Dear Newspaper Editor,
My name is Charlotte Andrews, and I am in sixth grade at Carol Burnett Middle. I’m going to be in a musical this year for the first time in my whole life. It also might be the last time because they’re taking away musical theater next year! They say it’s so we can have a reading enrichment program, and a bunch of the teachers have to teach it. But we already read in our other classes. And we read in musical theater—how do you think we memorize our lines?
Please help tell our story so that maybe, just maybe, whoever’s in charge will change their minds. I know I’m just a kid, but I hope you believe me when I tell you that we need this class. We don’t take big tests in musical theater, so no one thinks it’s important. There’s just us, a stage, and all the work we do in between the beginning and opening night. But we put our whole hearts into it. The only way you’ll understand is if you come and see for yourself. We’re performing The Wizard of Oz in two weeks, October 18–20. Hope to see you there.
Yours truly,
Charlotte Andrews
The bell rings. I fold the letter and put it into my binder.
It feels so small compared to everything else, but it’s a start.
* * *
I stand shyly in the doorway of Ms. G’s office with my gym bag slung over my shoulder.
“Hey, Charlotte!” Ms. G says, glancing up from her desk.
“Hey.”
“I hope you’re not too upset with me for taking you out of PE.” She winks.
I manage a half smile. “I guess I’ll live. I was really looking forward to smelling like dirty socks for the rest of the day, but you’ve ruined everything.”
She chuckles. “You can go back if you want, and I can meet up with you later!”
“N-no, no. That’s okay.”
“How’s everything?”
I shrug and take my usual seat across from her desk. “Oh! I got to see Wicked last night!”
“Lucky! I’ve wanted to see that for years now. Someday!”
“Yeah, it was awesome.” Except for the part where my mom found out who I really am, and I lay in bed last night wondering if she still likes me. I know she loves me, but does she like me? Sometimes I don’t like myself because of what I’ve done. How can other people like me if I don’t like myself?
“How’s your play going?”
I perk up just thinking about it. “It’s good! You should hear the music.”
“I think I just might have to do that.”
I push my glasses up on my nose and grin.
“Okay, let’s get serious for a second,” Ms. G says now. “How are you doing with your goals?”
“Fine.” Everything is fine, fine, fine.
“So, when you start to stutter, what do you do?” She sips her coffee.
“I’ve been trying to pause. Then I take a deep breath and say the word again. Sometimes I say something completely different because I know the word is going to get stuck. Sometimes I say it anyway.”
“That’s good. When would you say you stutter the most?”
The words just fall out of my mouth. “When everyone’s looking at me, or when my mouth can’t keep up with my brain. It also happens more when I get excited or nervous. And sometimes for no reason at all.”
She raises an eyebrow. “How’s that working out for you onstage?”
“Better. I know what I’m going to say, and I just keep using easy onset. It’s also easier to say the words when I’m playing someone else. I have no idea why, except that I’m not me anymore.”
She smiles at me. “You know, there are some famous actors who stutter.”
“Really?” I can’t even imagine it.
“Really.”
“But…how do they not get stuck on their lines?”
“I think they work with the script, and they keep trying. Just like you!”
I consider it for a moment. “It’s just so weird that I’m doing something that usually makes me stutter more. But it’s not like it was my idea. My parents made me.”
She laughs. “So I’ve heard.”
I gasp. “They told you?”
“Sure did,” she says. “Do you feel like being in musical theater is helping?”
I think for a moment. “I don’t think I’ll ever stop stuttering. But…” I search for the right words. “I’m not as afraid of messing up as I used to be.”
She smiles. “I think that’s great, Charlotte. Practicing onstage is making you more confident! Would you say you’re doing better at looking people in the eye when you’re talking to them?”
I nod. “Yeah, but you can’t tell my mom! She’ll say ‘I told you so’ for the rest of my life!”
Ms. G chuckles and rests her chin on her hand. “Okay,” she muses. “I won’t tell her, but don’t you think it’s kind of obvious?”
“No, I’m not that confident.”
She says, “I was thinking brave.”
The best part about being a tree and a horse is that I don’t have to dance, which is probably the greatest casting decision ever. Instead I get to sit in the audience with Sophie and watch everyone else stage the songs. Ms. Harper reminded us again at the beginning of class that this is the last year that we get to do this. It won’t be, if the other kids and I have anything to do with it!
Sophie passes me a note.
Write any letters?
I nod and flip open my notebook to show her.
After she reads it, she scribbles:
This is really good! Can we share it? So the others can see an example?
I nod.
She glances around quickly, and when she’s sure no teachers are watching, she snaps a picture of it with her cell and sends out a group message to the theater kids with phones. Then she jots down.
I wrote a letter to two school board members. Mailed them today.
The bell rings. Jack and Grace hop down from the stage and rush over to get their bags.
Sophie says, “But if we really want people to notice, we need more letters.”
Jack says, “Hey, what are you doing this weekend?” as we push through the auditorium doors on our way to the buses.
I do a double take. Is he talking to me or Grace?
Grace shrugs. “No plans yet.”
“Charlotte?” he says.
He’s talking to me? “Uh, same.”
“We should invite the rest of the class over to my dad’s house to write letters. He won’t care,” Jack says.
Sophie grins. “Love it! What do you
think, Charlotte?”
I nod. “Go big or go home!”
Jack clasps his hands together. “This is going to be awesome. I’ll spread the word.”
We split up and rush to our buses.
Once I’m seated, I pull out my notebook to work on another letter. After a few minutes, I realize we haven’t left school yet. I tilt my head and look out the window to try to catch a glimpse of whatever is keeping us. Everything looks the same as it usually does. Then I hear a familiar voice and look up. Mr. Sinclair stands at the front of the bus, the PA mic in his hand. “Good afternoon, all. I just wanted to tell you that I have been investigating some news around this bus today, and I’m still not done.”
Is it because of Maddie’s video?
“If I hear any reports of bad behavior, if you so much as look at someone else unkindly, there will be severe consequences.” He studies each seat. “And I might remind you of our school’s policy on bullying. It won’t be tolerated. Also, for those of you who participate in athletics and clubs, remember that they are a privilege. If you can’t treat others with kindness, you will find yourselves ineligible to participate.”
Josh and Tristan share a silent look of panic. Maddie didn’t even mention them in the video, but the idea of losing their spots on the football team gets their attention.
“Do you see this camera?” He motions to a new lens above the bus driver’s head. “It’s going to be recording everything that happens on this bus. I expect there will be no more issues.”
Finally Mr. Sinclair leaves, and the bus pulls away from the curb. I settle back into my seat and stare at the houses and the autumn leaves as we speed by. It’s quieter than usual, but I can still hear kids talking about Maddie visiting movie stars and NFL teams. Maddie laughs with a girl sitting next to her, and it’s like they’re the best of friends. She never even talked to Maddie before today. Why would she start now? And why would that seventh grader sit with her this morning? I frown. They’re being too nice.
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