And when she squeezes my arm, I know she means it.
Ms. Harper bursts back through the door, her mouth set in a firm line, and makes a beeline for Ms. Bishop. They talk in the corner in hushed voices.
“We have an announcement!” Ms. Harper says. She motions for us to come closer so the people in the audience won’t hear what they say.
“The role of Glinda will be played by”—her eyes scan our faces until they lock on mine—“Charlotte Andrews.”
Mouths drop open. “Charlotte Andrews?”
“Charlotte Andrews!” someone from the back says.
“Charlotte?” Sophie says.
ME?
I’m whisked into the dressing room so quickly that I don’t even get a chance to look for Ms. G and find out what she said. But I know she’s the reason why the dress of my dreams is slipping over my head. It’s like all the colors are somehow brighter than they were a minute ago, but I think a lot of that has to do with the huge lightbulbs above the mirror at each seat. Ms. Bishop pins the hem at the bottom because it’s a tad too long.
I sit down at Aubrey’s seat, and the fabric poofs up a lot higher than I imagined.
“Glasses, please,” Ms. Bishop says.
I hand them over.
“Okay, where’s your makeup, Charlotte?” Ms. Harper asks.
“I, um, don’t have any.”
She turns to everyone in the dressing room. “Girls! Emergency! I need stage makeup! All you’ve got!”
There’s a flurry of movement everywhere as they reach for their cosmetic bags. Ms. Harper digs into a drawer and pulls out a wide-barreled curling iron. “Time to get you Glinda-fied. You ready?”
Yes, yes, so much yes! I nod. “Sure.”
“Concealer!”
A small tube appears out of nowhere.
Ms. Harper says, “Hey, Ms. Bishop? Would you see if you can find a replacement for Charlotte’s part of the horse? Once her hair is done, there’s no changing out of her costume.”
“On it!” says Ms. Bishop. “What about the tree?”
“I think we’re covered. Hey, Sophie!” Ms. Harper calls. “Is she in here?”
Sophie rounds the corner.
“Can you handle Charlotte’s apple tree lines on top of your own?”
“I think so.”
“Perfect! That’s one thing done.”
“Okay, one second half of a horse, coming right up,” Ms. Bishop says as she slips out of the dressing room.
“Foundation!” Ms. Harper says, holding out her hand.
A few bottles are passed around until they reach Ms. Harper. “Hmm. That one,” she says.
One of the Munchkins starts dabbing it onto my face.
Ms. Harper works on my hair.
“Where’d you learn to do that?” I ask.
“I have a little sister,” Ms. Harper says.
“She taught you?”
She laughs. “No. Definitely not. But sometimes she let me practice with her hair if I pestered her long enough.” She studies my face. “Blush!”
Four compacts arrive a moment later.
“You kind of remind me of her a bit, actually,” Ms. Harper says as she swirls a makeup brush across the powder.
“Really?” I like that.
“Mmm-hmm. Hey, Grace, pass me that hair spray, would you?” She shakes the can four times, and says, “Hold your breath!”
It’s like being covered with tree sap that dries crunchy. When she’s done spraying down every inch of my hair, she says, “My sister definitely would’ve written the editor that letter.”
I look down. I want to tell her that I wrote it, but I can’t make my mouth move.
“Just like you did,” she says.
I snap my head up. “You read my journal!” Oh my gosh, SHE READ MY JOURNAL. The one where I wrote about the Bad Thing. I can’t breathe. What must she think of me now?
“Sure did. And I think what you did…” She pauses for a moment.
I’m going to die. I’m going to fall right out of this chair, and then they’ll be down two Glindas in one night. That has to be some kind of record.
“Sending those letters was remarkable.”
Relief pours over me. I can’t take credit for this when it was a group effort. That’s not fair to everyone else. “We sent the letters, Ms. Harper. All of us.”
“But you got that train rolling.”
I smile. “Maybe.”
“What gave you the idea?” Her blue eyes are kind as she brushes a setting powder across my face.
“I wanted to do more than write about standing up for what I believe in. I had to actually do it.” If Ms. Harper knew the real me, she’d know that writing was the only voice I had before I found the courage to speak onstage. But things are different now.
“I’m glad you did. Oh, and I’ve been meaning to ask,” she says, dusting my eyelids with glittery gold eye shadow. “How would you like to write for the school paper?”
My eyes fly open, narrowly missing the makeup brush. “Are you serious? I thought that was just for seventh and eighth graders!”
She nods. “I’m so serious. We could use that voice of yours. And I promise that you’ll get credit for your work in this paper!”
I break into a big smile. “It would be nice to know what that’s like.”
A dab of lip gloss later, and Ms. Harper is beaming. “Don’t turn around yet! You still need the accessories. Hey, Sophie, grab that choker, would you?” Ms. Harper lowers the crown onto my head, pins it in place, and sprays that, too! That thing is never coming out of my hair. “Okay,” she says, handing me my glasses, “stand up for me.” Finally she scoots the shoes in front of me, and once they’re on my feet, she hands me the wand. “Go ahead. Look.”
My feet barely touch the ground on the way to the full-length mirror. My jaw drops when I see my reflection. Is this real? My usually dull brown hair is shiny, with tons of curls. My cheeks are rosy, my lips shiny, and the whole thing just…There’s a small catch in my throat. “I look amazing.”
Grace says, “C’mon, you are amazing.” She says it like it’s something everyone knows, like cafeteria food is awful.
I stare back at the mirror. This feels like some kind of dream.
Ms. Bishop pokes her head back into the room. “It’s time!”
While we trail behind everyone else filing out of the dressing room, I say, “Hey, Ms. Harper?”
“Yeah?”
“I hope I don’t screw up the play. I’ve never done this before.” So many people are counting on me now. If I mess this up, it’s curtains for musical theater here. No pressure or anything.
She lowers her voice. “That’s not what I heard!”
My mouth drops open again. I knew it. I wonder what else Ms. G told Ms. Harper.
“You’ve got this. I think you earned this role more than anyone else. Just remember to tell ’em the truth. Get out of your own way, Charlotte.”
Ha! No one’s ever put it quite like that before. I wipe my sweaty palms on the skirt of the dress. “Okay.”
As we exit with the rest of the group, she says, “And have fun. Because if it isn’t fun, what’s the point? It’s just a play.”
It’s so much more than that to me.
She motions for everyone to gather around. “You’ve worked so hard for this night, and I couldn’t be prouder of each and every one of you. And I’m so excited to tell you that we have a sold-out show!”
We gasp.
“I know you’re hoping for a miracle, and I’d be telling the biggest whopper ever if I told you I’m not hoping for the same. But whatever happens here tonight, I’ll never forget this class. For what you did. For reminding me that there’s always hope. And for putting so much of yourselves and your incredible hear
ts and talent into the work. You surprised me at every turn.”
Ms. Harper smiles, and it reaches all the way up to her misty eyes. “Now go out there and show this community how amazing you are!” She looks around at all of us, and lands on me when she says, “I’m rooting for you.”
My heart feels like it could explode from happiness.
“Places!” Ms. Bishop says. “It’s time!”
* * *
I try to busy myself backstage by running all of the lines in my head, but that doesn’t do anything to make me less nervous. I peek out of a small crack at the edge of the curtain, and I wish I hadn’t. I’ve never seen so many people in an auditorium before! I wouldn’t even know where to look to find my parents, but they have to be out there somewhere.
The Kansas part flies by, and before I know it, Dorothy’s house has crashed in Oz, and the moment I’ve waited for forever is finally here. Don’t screw this up, Charlotte! Do not, do not, do not! It’s time to hold my wand high and tell the truth. I’m not Charlotte Andrews. I’m Glinda, and I’m Dorothy’s only hope.
I step into the light. I practically float onstage, which is great because I’m technically supposed to be in a bubble, but no way do we have the budget for something like that. So, they beam the spotlight right on me for effect. Dorothy shrinks back from me a touch, and I ask her the question that defines all of Oz: “Are you a g-good witch, or a bad witch?” And even though I stutter just a bit, I act like it didn’t happen. We continue the dialogue until it’s time for the Munchkins to come out. This is going to be tricky, but how many times have I sung along to this? How many days did I watch Aubrey prance around onstage? I’ve never rehearsed Glinda’s actions, but I know them by heart. I can so do this.
I open my mouth to sing, and thank goodness, it’s fine. It’s better than fine. I never stutter when I sing, and I sound good! I glide across the stage, giving my wand a gentle wave here and there.
After I point Dorothy toward the Yellow Brick Road, I exit the stage, and a surge of relief and adrenaline washes over me. One scene down; one more to go at the end! I can’t believe it went so well.
Sophie rushes up to me in her tree robe and whisper-squeals, “That was awesome!”
I didn’t know my smile could ever be this big.
Jack waves from his spot along the wall, his funnel hat on his knee. He’s faintly gleaming from the silver shimmer of his costume.
He’s actually waving at me. I wave back, and out of the corner of my eye I see my enormous pink sleeve rise. I pick my usual seat next to Sophie’s, even though she’s onstage right now for the big apple tree scene. Her voice rings out, yelling at Dorothy, and the apples land backstage right in front of us. I’ve never seen the action like this before!
Jack walks to the curtain to do his big scene. Sophie slides into the seat next to me.
“You were great!” I say. “Check out all those apples!”
“I mean, I guess I am pretty impressive,” Sophie says.
We both laugh.
“Gotta run. You know what time it is,” Sophie says with a wink.
I smile. I do, indeed. “See ya.” Sophie and whoever replaced me will be fine in the horse costume, as long as they have as much coordination as I do.
When the characters reach the Emerald City, the audience cheers for the horse of a different color! There’s a lot of laughter, too, but it’s because they love the costume so much.
Some of the other kids grin at me in between scenes. One of the eighth graders passes by and whispers, “You wrote an awesome letter, Charlotte!”
My smile stretches from ear to ear.
Sophie returns and removes the horse head. “Whew!”
“How did it go?”
“It wasn’t you, but we got it done.”
Finally it’s time. Dorothy clicks her heels together three times, and I am done.
When the curtain closes on Dorothy after the final scene, the applause thunders throughout the auditorium. We line up when the curtain reopens, and we all run onto the stage, forming one long line. We hold hands and bow together. Dorothy steps forward, and several people stand up. We bow again, and this time everyone in the audience stands. A standing ovation! For us! Then we all extend our arms to Ms. Bishop, who’s standing at the piano. More applause. Finally we gesture toward Ms. Harper with our right arms outstretched, and the applause grows even louder. One of the parents runs forward and gives each teacher a bouquet of roses.
It couldn’t be any more perfect. The curtain closes, and in this moment, I feel like I can do anything. Anything at all.
Grace turns and gives me a huge hug. “CHARLOTTE! You did it! That was awesome! Who’s the superstar now?”
I hug her back even harder. “You were the best Dorothy.”
“Oh, please.”
“No, really.” When Grace opens her mouth onstage, everyone knows she belongs there.
Ms. Harper walks backstage. “I am so proud of you!” she says. We all rush in for a teary group hug.
When I pop out on the other side of the curtain, cheering erupts from my parents in the second row. I run down the side stage stairs, and as soon as I’m close enough, they throw their arms around me.
“Charlotte!” Mom says, wiping a tear off her cheek. “You were not a tree!” She laughs. “Or a horse—I don’t think.”
“You should’ve seen her when we realized you were Glinda,” Dad says. “She tapped my arm for two minutes straight!” Dad shakes his head and laughs.
“Well, it was a very exciting moment!” She turns to me. “How did it happen?”
“Long story. Can I tell you on the way home?”
“Nope. You can tell us over ice cream! We’re going out to celebrate,” Mom says.
“Yes!”
Dad says, “The sooner you change, the sooner we’ll be eating sundaes!”
“I’m going, I’m going!”
Mom grabs me in another hug, and we jump up and down and cheer.
On Monday morning, I stroll down the sidewalk toward the bus stop. I walk around an upside-down message in chalk and look over my shoulder to read it.
Be your own hero
My heart swells. Kindness finally caught on, and it feels amazing.
Lyric stares at me from the curb. I drop my bag and examine the tic-tac-toe game drawn on the driveway. There’s a piece of blue chalk that someone left behind. I think I’ll leave a message of my own.
I pick up the chalk and write in big, bold letters:
You matter
As I’m finishing filling in the last letters, I feel Lyric’s eyes on me. I glance up and find her standing by my bag, studying the words I wrote on the pavement. “What?” I say.
“I didn’t say anything.”
The bus wheezes up the hill and onto our street. When it’s almost here, she nods at my sidewalk art and says, “I just…I think it’s really nice of you to write that.”
I glance up at her and smile.
The bus doors open.
I place the chalk back where I found it, grab my bag, and go up the stairs. I glance toward Maddie, but the seats around her are already full. Ben waves in his usual first seat. “Hey,” I say, sliding in next to him.
“Hey,” he says. He’s holding a library book in one hand and a note in the other.
“What’s that?”
“This?” He holds up the note. “It’s the weirdest thing. I keep finding these notes. Check it out.”
In bright purple ink, it reads:
Hey, you. Yeah, you. You belong. Really.
I wish I knew who else was writing notes!
“Charlotte, what is it?” he asks.
“Nothing. I just…That’s really nice.”
“Yeah, I thought so, too.”
I found the note in pink gel pen in my bus s
eat the other day. Then I found another one in my dressing room locker in the same handwriting. But this one was written by someone else. So, there are two other people writing notes like mine now?
“I also have this one.” He digs into his pocket and hands me another note, this one in neat black ink. It says:
We all mess up. It’s okay.
Oh my goodness. I study one note, and then the other. No way the same person wrote them, which means…three other people are writing notes? And what about that message on the sidewalk? Did I cause this? Is that even possible? I’ve left so many notes all over the school. Could it be that my words inspired other kids to leave notes of their own?
A small shiver travels up my neck. I did it! Something I wrote was so powerful, other kids heard my voice. I did something that mattered. But now I have to figure out how to use my voice to fix things with Maddie. I hand the notes back to Ben.
“It’s like all these people decided to speak up at the same time,” he says with a shrug. “It’s nice and all, but I don’t get it.”
I say, “Maybe there’s nothing to get. Maybe they just wanted to do something good.”
“Maybe.”
“Hey, Ben?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you remember when you said it was brave of Maddie to snitch?”
He nods.
“I thought about that a lot, and well…You know the student writing that Ms. Harper shared in English about speaking up for what you believe in?”
“Yeah.”
“I wrote it.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Wow, Charlotte. That was really good.”
I blush. “Thanks. But I wrote it because I kept thinking about what you said, and I thought it was something I needed to do.”
“And did you? Speak up, I mean?” He tucks his notes back inside his library book.
I sneak a peek back at Maddie. Her head is bowed down, and no one is trying to talk to her anymore.
I turn back to Ben. “Not the way I wanted. But I will.”
Say It Out Loud Page 15