Backstage after the show is bedlam. People are crying and hugging and friends and family are pouring through the stage door. There are flowers everywhere. I can’t even keep track of who hugs me and congratulates me and tells me how amazing I am. We got a standing ovation, and not one of those where people gradually come up out of their seats, but one where the whole audience was up the second I hit the last note of the song and stayed up all the way through curtain call. My ears are ringing from the noise of it.
Cameron grabs me and he has this smile on his face like I’ve never seen. At first he doesn’t say anything, he’s just looking at me like he can’t believe what happened.
“Don’t lie,” I say.
“It was a little intense in places,” he says. “Maybe just relax a little more tomorrow night.”
“Got it,” I say, and I give him a huge hug and say “Thank you” into his shoulder. And when we break the hug he still keeps his hands on my shoulders and I can tell there’s something else he wants to tell me. When you’ve been friends as long as we have, you know when someone has something important to say. For a second I wish all the adoring fans would go away so I could talk to him in peace.
“What is it?” I say.
“My parents came,” says Cameron. He’s hardly spoken to his folks since he came out to them over a month ago, so this is a big deal.
“Cameron, that’s great!” I say.
“They said they loved it,” he says, and now tears are shining on his face and he’s not even trying to wipe them away. “And they said they love me.”
Of course I completely lose it and now we’re both crying and hugging again, and then Elliot is there and honestly I don’t even remember the next few minutes — it is just this blur of hugs and crying and joy. And then things start to calm down a little and the crowd thins ever so slightly and I see Cynthia, holding Roger’s hand and coming towards me.
Honestly, I am too emotionally drained to handle this right now. I don’t have the energy to put on an act for the benefit of everyone else backstage — plus if I say what I really want to say to Cynthia and make a big scene, that would kill everyone’s opening night buzz. All I can think to do is stand there and nod and then make some excuse to go hug someone else across the stage as quick as I can.
“Oh my god, Aggie,” says Cynthia, “it was so great. I’m so — ” And I can tell she wants to say “proud.” Is she actually going to give away our secret now, in front of all these people? I think I really will have to make a scene if she does that.
“I’m so glad I got to see it,” she says. And then she pulls Roger, who has been sort of hanging back, forward and lets go of his hand and says, “You know Roger Morton, right?”
You know those movie musicals where there’s a huge dance number and then suddenly the boy and the girl are alone in a circle of light and everyone else just disappears? This is like that. Roger is suddenly standing right in front of me and it’s like everyone else knows to back off and leave us alone. Or maybe I just imagine that, because honestly, I can’t see any further than his face.
“Hi Aggie,” he says.
“Hi Roger.” It’s a little better than my last attempt at a conversation with him.
“You were amazing up there.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“And you wrote the script, too?”
“Yeah,” I say. And then, just to prove that I can say more than that, I say, “I wrote the script.”
“So are you gonna be a playwright or an actress?” he says.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’d like to be one or the other.”
“I’ll bet you’ll be both,” he says, and I have to admit, that thought had never occurred to me. Maybe I don’t have to choose.
“Maybe so,” I say.
“Listen, Aggie, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. I was kind of afraid to ask, but then I talked to Cynthia because she said she was helping you out some with your — ” (Please don’t say singing!) ” — math and she said I should ask because she said you’re really cool and that she thinks you would say yes.”
What the heck does he want me to do? Wash his car? Baby-sit his little sister? Tutor him in playwriting? Of course I’d say yes to any of those in a second.
“So what did you want to ask?” I say.
“It’s just that I was wondering if maybe — well, you know if you might — “
Oh my god! Roger Morton is nervous around me. You’re not nervous around somebody unless —
“I was wondering if maybe you might go out with me sometime?” he says.
Holy crap! Do you mean to tell me that I’ve spent the past week consumed with unadulterated loathing of Cynthia Pirelli because of that backstabbing conversation she had about me with Roger backstage at Hello, Dolly! and the conversation was, “See, there’s Aggie, isn’t she beautiful? You should really ask her out.”
All I can say is thank god we’re in a church, because maybe I can get her to forgive me.
“You want me to go out with you?” I say — mostly because I just want to hear him say it again. I mean, I’ve only dreamed of this moment for nine years — let me savor it a little, OK.
“I know I’m not all smart like you and everything,” he says.
He’s actually afraid I’m going to say no! How sweet is that?
“I just thought that maybe, since we’re both into theatre and everything — “
I can’t let him suffer any longer. “Yes, Roger,” I say. “I would love to go out with you sometime.”
And now there are hands on my shoulder pulling me back to reality and I can hear the noise of the crowd again, and just before one of the youth group kids turns me around and says that I was wonderful and that his mother just has to meet me I lean forward and give Roger a kiss on the cheek and whisper, “Call me.”
And then the world is back to normal. Well, not normal, because I’m in a room full of people who love me, and nobody cares that I’m fat, and above all Roger Morton is standing a few feet away with his hand on his cheek, smiling at me, and even in the crazy backstage light I can tell that he’s blushing.
A few minutes later I try to find Cynthia, but she’s gone and so is Roger. In fact, most of the audience seems to have wandered off by now and it’s just the cast. Taylor seems to realize this fact about the same time I do, because out of nowhere she yells, “We did it!” and then we’re all screaming and cheering and converging on center stage for this massive group hug. Of course my joy is about more than just the show (so is Cameron’s, I know), but that just makes the celebration better.
Elliot throws a party for us that night at his house, mostly so he can be sure we don’t stay out too late. “We still have one more show to do,” he reminds everyone, and after he’s shooed the last person out at around 1:30, he drives me home.
“So what was that little conversation with Roger Morton,” he says as we’re sitting outside Mom’s house.
“He asked me out,” I say, grinning.
“No kidding,” says Elliot. He doesn’t seem surprised, but he doesn’t seem all that excited either.
“Isn’t that great?” I say.
“Of course it is,” he says. “I’m really happy for you, Aggie. It’s just been a really long day.”
“You’ve done a great job, Elliot,” I say. “We couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Thanks, Aggie,” he says. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Get some sleep.”
“That won’t be hard,” I say, and ten minutes later I’m in bed. Even though my heart is still racing, I must fall asleep pretty fast, because the next thing I know it’s noon and Mom is asking me if I want brunch.
Scene 3
I try to call Cynthia a couple of times during the afternoon, but it goes straight to voice mail and I really don’t want to leave her a message. This apology needs to happen in person. I should do science homework that afternoon, but I decide to pamper myself diva style instead, so I lounge around in my b
athrobe and mess around on Facebook and then I do my household switcheroo, which now involves a hug and tears from Mom. I watch a basketball game with my dad, and then at five I eat a sandwich and by six thirty I’m showered, made up, and ready to go. Karl drives me to the theatre and makes me promise to save seats for him and Mom and Dad in the front row. I try to explain to him that the front row is not necessarily the best place to sit, but he’s not having any of it. “That’s our girl up there,” he says, “and we want to sit in the front.”
The house is packed. Apparently the word got out after last night and people have been calling the box office (which is just the cell phone of one of the youth group kids) all day. They’ve brought in extra chairs and sold discount tickets to people who are willing to stand in the back.
“There are almost three hundred people out there,” says Elliot during our cast meeting a few minutes before curtain, “and fortunately not one of them is a fire marshal.”
Tonight is completely different from last night. Tonight, Stanislavski would love me. I am so connected to the fictional Aggie that I almost don’t even notice the first act. Suddenly it’s intermission and I’m worried that I’m too emotionally connected to the character, that maybe I’m so unaware of the audience that I’m not holding for laughs or projecting. But Cameron comes backstage and tells us everything is going great, that the buzz at the refreshment stand is amazing, that the audience is loving it. Then he catches me alone for a second and whispers, “Much better tonight.” And that’s all I need to propel me into Act II.
As we get near the end of the show, I’m still feeling only what my character is feeling — victory. We did it. I know that it won’t be long after the curtain falls that I’ll be depressed — and I have a feeling this post-show depression will be the worst ever — but for now, as I step into the spot to sing my song, it’s all about the joy and the triumph and defying not just gravity, but everything bad that’s ever happened to me.
And as I start to sing I realize that even though I may have triumphed over all those things — over being fat and sucking at math and having a weird family life and not getting a part I wanted — that those things are still a part of me, that they make me who I am, and who I am is a girl who holds almost three hundred people in the palm of her hand as I sing.
All of the chains that bound me
Have broken loose at last
I won’t let hate surround me
That’s all in the misty past
I love this girl within me,
Fat doesn’t mean a thing.
Today before the world
I raise my voice and sing.
And this time — well, I not only blow the roof off the place, but I end the show perfectly.
Now there isn’t just clapping and cheering when I finish, there’s crying, too, and there’s this energy coming off the audience that says not just “we understand you,” or “we sympathize with you,” but “WE ARE YOU.” It’s like everyone in the audience has seen their own insecurities in Aggie’s, and her triumph is everyone’s triumph. It’s exactly what theatre is supposed to be.
And now I am Aggie Stockdale again and the audience comes into view. There are Karl and Mom and Dad in the front row, clapping so hard I’m surprised their hands aren’t bleeding, and behind them is Mr. Parkinson with this smile on his face like, “She’s one of my students,” which, to be honest, is true. He did teach me most of what I know about acting. Next to him is Squatty Watty — surprise, right? And I swear the guy next to him looks like one of the firing squad from my School of the Arts audition, but that’s probably just my imagination. Melissa Parsons is there with her Mom, and Elliot’s parents are standing with Mrs. Baxter (who is wearing white gloves). Roger and Cynthia are there, too, and now it’s so obvious that they are just friends and he’s clapping like mad and then stopping to wave at me when I look in his direction and Cynthia is clapping, too, but not as violently as Roger. I try to catch her eye but she won’t look right at me, and suddenly I decide that enough is enough.
I step forward and hold my hands up to quiet everyone, which takes a minute or so, but no one looks particularly surprised that I want to make a little speech after the last performance.
“There are a lot of people who are responsible for the production you saw tonight,” I say, “and most of them are listed in your program. I want to thank all of them who helped bring this crazy idea to life. But there’s one person I want to thank who you won’t find in the program, and that’s my good friend Cynthia Pirelli.”
I can actually hear the gasp from several members of the cast behind me. Elliot is staring daggers at me from the piano. They all think I’m going to say something awful. Well, if they’re gasping now, just wait until I’m done. I can see Cynthia in the third row, and I stare right into her eyes. I want everyone to hear this, but I want to say it to her.
“Cynthia was the person who inspired me to write The Fat Lady Sings, and it was her friendship that encouraged me during some of the toughest times of the production. Some of you might know that I did a complete rewrite of the second act just a couple of weeks ago, but you probably don’t know that I did that at Cynthia’s house when I felt like I had nowhere else to go. And not only did she encourage me and make me coffee and sandwiches, she actually came up with one of the big ideas that helped me make that act work.”
Now the whole place is dead silent. I mean, this is dramatic stuff — at least half the audience is from school and they all know that I’m supposed to hate Cynthia for stealing my part. Elliot looks like he could slide off the piano bench at any moment. I’m pretty sure Cynthia is crying, but she keeps looking at me.
“As you know, our show is called The Fat Lady Sings, and I guess you’ve probably figured out that the fat lady is me. What you might not know is that until recently I wasn’t much of a singer. Mr. Parkinson, you know that, right? Can you imagine what a disaster it would have been if you had cast me as Dolly? Anyway, the only reason the fat lady sang tonight was because I had private voice lessons from a great teacher, a great actress, an amazing singer, and a true friend — Miss Cynthia Pirelli.”
I gesture to Cynthia so everyone will know that the speech is over, and the place goes berserk with applause and cheers. Of course it takes my friends a few seconds to snap out of their shock-induced stupors, but eventually they join in and finally Cynthia is forced to take a little bow and wave to me. But that’s not enough for me, so I hold out my hand and people start pushing her towards the stage and then she is there and we are hugging and people are cheering and I whisper, “Forgive me” into her ear.
I can’t even hear what she says back, but I can tell by the look on her face that we are OK, that there won’t be any more misunderstandings — that this time, we are friends for life.
Backstage is fantastic. It’s like nobody in the audience wants to leave, like they’re on this high and they don’t want it to stop. Honestly, they look the way we all felt after Wicked. I can’t believe we could do that to people. Mom and Dad are all over me hugging and crying, but Karl manages to pull them off and he shakes my hand and says, “I’m proud of you kid,” and of course I start crying, but I figure that’s gonna happen a lot tonight.
I’ve just finished a rib-crunching hug with Taylor when I find myself face to face with the guy I thought was from the firing squad.
“Miss Stockdale,” he says, holding out his hand. “Arthur Grant, from the North Carolina School of the Arts.”
“I thought I recognized you,” I say, shaking his hand. Taylor steps back and motions to Cameron and Elliot to come watch this little piece of drama. “You were at my audition, right?”
“Exactly,” he says. “I don’t usually come to things like this, although I have to say your producer was quite persistent on the phone, but then I got a call from an old fraternity brother of mine, Bob Watkins — he’s your principal, I believe — and he said I should come.”
Squatty Watty? Who’d have believed it?
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br /> “I hope you enjoyed it,” I say.
And everyone around me has gone quiet now and is waiting to hear what he will say.
“I’m glad I came, Miss Stockdale,” he says. “It was a most illuminating evening.”
“I don’t know what the hell ‘illuminating’ was supposed to mean,” says Cameron after Mr. Grant has gone, “but at least he said he was glad he came.”
I convince Cynthia to come to the cast party — she doesn’t want to at first because she claims she didn’t really help with the production, but finally I tell her that if she has to do more than she has already done she can come tomorrow afternoon and help with strike. The party is at Cameron’s house, which is another good sign that things are getting better with his parents. He’s not kidding himself by believing that they’re just going to accept him overnight. “But they’re trying,” he says, “and that’s a start.”
This time Elliot doesn’t make anybody go home early. We all want to stay as long as we can stay awake, not just because we feel like we really have something to celebrate and we want to ride this high as long as we can, but also because we know that tomorrow afternoon we have to go back to the church and take down the set and face the fact that it’s really over — and that will suck big time. So the grey of dawn is just creeping into the sky when Elliot and I are once again sitting in his car outside Dad’s house.
“Some night, huh?” I say.
“Yeah,” says Elliot. “Hard to believe it’s over.”
“Don’t say that yet,” I say. “As long as I’m awake it’s still the night of our triumph.”
“Listen, Aggie, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about,” says Elliot.
“Sure,” I say. He sounds all serious and it flashes across my mind that maybe he has a crush on somebody, but who? Suzanne? Taylor? Cameron?
The Fat Lady Sings Page 16