The Ostrich and Other Lost Things

by Beth Hautala

  “Gold,” I said. I took a deep breath. “And red and orange and blue and purple and pink, and all of them.” My heart was pounding, but I didn’t look away. I didn’t move. Not even when Charlie leaned in like he was trying to feel the truth in my voice.

  “Really?”

  I looked at myself in his glasses, and then I closed my eyes so I could see—or not see—the world the way he did.

  “Really,” I said.

  “Well, I think you’re all the colors, too, Olivia.”

  I kept my eyes closed. I couldn’t see a single thing. But inside I felt like an explosion of color.

  27

  Opening Night

  AFTER CHARLIE AND I talked, we spent the whole afternoon looking for Jacob’s ostrich. But we were still no closer to finding it than before.

  For the rest of the week, I was even busier. Charlie and I searched for the ostrich every day after my work at the zoo and before rehearsal, but we still had nothing to show for it. It took everything I had to forget about searching in the evenings and just focus on being Peter Pan during our final rehearsals. There were costume checks and lighting cues to work out, and the final set pieces were moved into the theater. I got to practice flying for real in the harness, and the dress rehearsal went well. Everyone hit the right spots onstage and Jacob didn’t melt down, or do anything too weird, or say anything he shouldn’t. He remembered his one line, and Dorothy and Stephen stood up and clapped for us at the end.

  We were ready. Tonight was opening night.

  I wanted everything to be perfect. But I was extra nervous because Jacob’s ostrich was still missing. All I could do now was concentrate, try my best, and hope that Jacob did the same.

  * * *

  • • •

  The plan was to eat an early dinner and then head to the theater. But I wasn’t very hungry. My stomach was too full of butterflies.

  I had a lot to do before the show started, and I was excited to put on my costume and do my stage makeup once I got to the theater. Jacob was already wearing his costume. Since he was very particular about his clothes and getting dressed, Mom had talked to Stephen and Dorothy, and they agreed to let him put it on at home. All the Lost Boys in the play wore jeans with holes and T-shirts. The shirt was fine, but Jacob hated jeans. He never wore them.

  “My pants are scratchy!” he moaned at the table. He flipped a piece of broccoli off his plate and onto the floor. “I don’t like green!” He rocked back and forth and drummed on the table with his hands.

  “Jacob,” Mom said. She kept her voice very calm and low. “Jacob, I need you to take a deep breath and count with me. Okay?”

  Jacob didn’t look at her, he just plucked at his jeans and kept rocking and pushing broccoli around on his plate. But he counted and took deep breaths.

  “One . . . two . . . three . . . four . . .” And then he let out a big breath and smiled. Just like that, it was over.

  “Good job, Jacob,” Mom said. Jacob smiled. Mom smiled. Then she looked at Dad. He smiled, too, and they both turned to look at me. Even though I hadn’t found Jacob’s ostrich, even though I was nervous, I smiled back. Then we quickly finished eating and raced to Tulsa for opening night.

  * * *

  • • •

  Backstage, everyone was in various stages of getting ready.

  Katie, the head of the costume department, tucked a strand of hair back under my cap, pinning it down with a bobby pin. My cap was brown and pointed, but made out of newspaper. You could even see the print coming through the brown paint. And it had a peacock feather stuck in it. Purple and blue and green. I had assumed my costume would be green and have tights and stuff. Like in the movie. But Dorothy wanted to do things differently. So, all of our costumes looked like a punk rock band of kids had spent the afternoon with a group of woodland creatures and traded clothes with each other. The Lost Boys wore jeans and T-shirts with holes in them, but then they had extra stuff, too. A vest made of pretend animal fur. A crown of pretend feathers. Gloves with pretend claws. That kind of stuff. It was pretty cool, actually. My costume was made out of felt leaves—brown and red and orange, all tied together with gold netting. I had a leather belt thing that was also a kind of holster for the fake sword I carried. On the bottom, I had on brown corduroy pants cut off just below the knee. And Chucks. Spray-painted gold. They reminded me of Charlie.

  Once my hat was in place, I peeked out from behind the curtain. The theater was slowly filling with people of all ages. Ushers stood at the doors taking tickets and handing out programs and showing people to their seats. Excitement pulsed through the air like an electric current, bouncing from person to person.

  After a few minutes, I found Charlie and Vera sitting stage right, halfway up the aisle. They looked excited, too. I would try to deliver my lines especially to Charlie. So he could see the play by the way I said things.

  Eventually, I spotted Mom and Dad—three rows from the front, right in the center section. They were smiling and talking to each other, but they looked a little nervous. I hoped I would make them proud.

  “All right, can I have everyone onstage, please?” Dorothy’s voice pulled me from my thoughts as she called us all together for an opening night pep talk. I looked around for Jacob, who was standing on the other side of the stage. The makeup made his eyes look larger and darker than usual. All the Lost Boys wore hairstyles and makeup that made them look a little dirty and bedraggled. Like they played outside in the woods and never combed their hair or washed their faces.

  As Dorothy talked, Jacob flapped his hands and plucked at his jeans.

  “This is it!” she said. “Now, you’ve all worked really hard these past few weeks, and Stephen and I are so proud of this play.”

  “That’s right,” Stephen chimed in. “So, don’t worry if someone drops a line or misses a step. Just keep going. Now go out there and have fun! Break a leg, everyone!”

  “Places, please! Places,” called the stage manager.

  Everyone rushed to get into their places for act 1, scene 1, and I ran over to my brother as quickly as I could. “Break a leg, Jacob!” I whispered.

  “Break a leg, Jacob!” he repeated.

  I did my best to breathe.

  Then the lights in the theater dimmed, the auditorium grew very quiet, and the curtain lifted on the opening scene.

  The play was starting.

  “But it isn’t fair!” Wendy shouted, stomping her foot. “I don’t want to grow up!”

  “Everyone grows up,” insisted her father, Mr. Darling, matter-of-factly.

  “It’s a rule for being a person,” agreed Mrs. Darling.

  I watched from the stage left wings, my stomach turning and knotting. The audience was quiet, listening and taking it all in.

  This was it. This was what I’d been waiting for. I ran my fingers over the beautiful feather in my newspaper cap. I loved my costume. I loved the feel of the stage under my feet. The gloss of the wood. The heat of the stage lights that almost blinded me to the audience. I loved the murmur of voices and the feeling that I was doing something special.

  * * *

  • • •

  The play had six acts, and by the time we got to number five—the part where Captain Hook and I have a sword fight—I felt like maybe I really could fly. My insides were full of air and light. This was my favorite scene. The one where I rescue everyone—Wendy, Michael, John, and the Lost Boys—after they all get captured by Hook.

  The stage lights were hot, and sweat trickled down my back where my harness was buckled around my waist. I was breathless from singing and dancing and from flying across the stage. I’d only messed up my lines once. Just a tiny bit, and I don’t think anyone really noticed.

  Everyone onstage was tied up. Wendy was on the plank with Captain Hook’s sword at her back.

  “En garde, you cowardly codfish
!” I shouted, flying across the stage with my harness and invisible wire, my sword pointed straight at Captain Hook.

  “Codfish? Codfish!” Hook hated being insulted. He whirled around, our swords met, and the fight was on. We’d practiced this scene until we could do it anywhere, anytime. Right foot forward, right arm back, swing, duck, swing again. Dodge, slash left, then slash right, and swords meet overhead. Across the stage we went, turning and spinning, shouting insults at each other and both of us trying to beat the other with our fancy swordsmanship. Of course, Peter had the advantage because he could fly.

  “Are you afraid, boy?” Hook jeered as I flew out of reach again. “Who is the coward now? I, at least, keep both feet on the ground! But you! Look at you, always flying away!”

  “Coward? I am no coward!” Peter hated being insulted as much as Hook. I landed and planted both feet firmly on the stage. “You want to fight? Fine! Let’s fight. No flying!”

  “No flying?” Hook looked at the audience with a wicked grin.

  “No flying!” I shouted. “I give you my word! And my word is as good as my life.”

  Hook laughed a sinister laugh and lunged as we fought across the stage again. But this time there was no flying. And by the time Hook pinned me to the ground, I was truly out of breath.

  “Wait!” Wendy screamed as the evil captain raised his sword. But I shook my head at her.

  “It’s okay, Wendy,” I said. The audience was completely silent. “To die will be an awfully big adventure!”

  Hook plunged his sword. But just before it touched me, Tinker Bell—a bright flickering light rather than a real person—swept in across the stage. When everyone else was focused on her flicker and Hook was distracted, I wiggled out of his grasp. Again he swept with his sword and missed. He lunged, and tripped, and before the audience knew what was happening, Hook tumbled overboard off the set with a loud “Arrrrrrrrggghhhhhh” and disappeared from view into the waves and the mouth of the waiting Tick-Tock Croc below—through a trapdoor in the stage.

  Silence hung over the stage for just a moment as the Lost Boys and Wendy, Michael, and John collected their breath for a mighty cheer.

  And then my brother fell to his knees.

  “My pants are scratchyyyyyy!” Jacob cried out, long and loud into the quiet auditorium.

  No one said a word. Everyone onstage and everyone in the audience was silent, trying to understand. And then someone in the back snickered. And then someone else. And then lots of people were laughing.

  I couldn’t breathe.

  All of the buildup and the hard work, every line I’d remembered, every step and cue, every exit and entrance onstage, every part every character had played so perfectly to get us to this moment came crashing to a halt. The laughing continued and everyone forgot all about Peter Pan, and the Lost Boys, and Wendy, and Hook, and the pirates, and never growing up. They all laughed at my brother, rocking back and forth onstage, desperately scratching and plucking at his pants.

  And then, slowly, they realized it wasn’t part of the play.

  Slowly, the laughing stopped.

  I wanted to fall through the trapdoor with Hook and stay there until it was over. I wanted to shut my eyes and pretend it was a bad dream. I wanted to jump off the stage and fly away on my invisible wire. But I didn’t do any of those things. I just stood there and stared at my brother. And then I looked into the audience at Dad and Mom—half sitting, half standing, their eyes wide, not knowing what to do or how to help.

  I looked into the wings. Even Dorothy stood as still as a statue. I didn’t see Stephen anywhere. I was the only one who could help.

  But I didn’t want to.

  I didn’t want to be Olivia Grant.

  I didn’t want to be the sister of the strange Lost Boy onstage, crying and scratching and rocking back and forth.

  Right now I was Peter Pan. I wanted to have sword fights and adventures and fly and be the hero.

  So, I didn’t move a muscle. Not even when Jacob looked at me. When he met my gaze for the briefest moment—something he almost never did. I just let him cry and wail all alone onstage.

  And then the lights came on, and the curtain came down.

  * * *

  • • •

  For a minute, everything was total confusion. The audience started talking and laughing, trying to figure out what was going on. Everyone onstage stayed in their places, trying to figure out what to do next.

  Suddenly Mom and Dad were backstage with Jacob, leading him into the wings and out of view. I kept trying to shake the look he’d given me out of my head. The look that said he was afraid and confused and sorry and knew he’d ruined everything. A look I had pretended to ignore as I stood perfectly still onstage and did nothing to help.

  And now what? Was the play ruined? I had no idea what I was supposed to do.

  Some of the other cast members started moving around, but all I could do was stand in place. I was frozen.

  A few minutes later, Dorothy called us all together onstage again and announced that we’d be picking up right where we left off. The stage manager called places again, and on the other side of the curtain we heard Stephen speak.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! We apologize for the brief interruption.”

  I listened as Stephen turned everything around with just a few words. “We trust you are ready to return to Neverland, where our brave hero, Peter Pan, has just saved the day!”

  Everyone clapped, and the curtain rose again as the audience’s attention turned to me, standing in the spotlight.

  I tried to look for my parents, but the glare was too bright; I couldn’t see anything.

  I wanted to scream at everyone to stop. I hadn’t saved the day. I hadn’t saved anything or anyone and I never would. I wasn’t a hero. And I was most definitely not brave.

  But I was playing the role of Peter Pan, so I did the only thing I could think of. I raised my fist in the air and crowed the best crow I could manage. And I cheered, too. Because that was my job, and I’d already let enough people down.

  Then I said my line and led the Lost Boys—minus Jacob—in a celebratory chorus.

  “Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray! Hip, hip, hooray!” we all shouted.

  But the whole thing felt like one big lie.

  Neverdo List, Entry #5

  Never leave Jacob alone onstage when he needs me.

  28

  Ruined

  AFTER OPENING NIGHT, Jacob didn’t rejoin the show. Mom and Dad sat me down that night and explained that the stress of being onstage, in front of an audience, was too much for Jacob. I had been right. The very thing I’d been afraid of happening had happened, just like I’d predicted it would. But I didn’t feel good about it.

  We’d all been so excited about Peter Pan that we had pretended. We had pretended at dinner on opening night, and we had pretended on the way to Tulsa. We had pretended once we got there and went off to get ready, too. We’d pretended that Jacob was okay. Because sometimes, when you want something so much, you let yourself pretend it’s true.

  But pretending doesn’t make real things less real—it just covers them up for a little while. And when they get too real to be covered up anymore, those real things are just as they always were. Except they feel harder to deal with than you remember.

  I wasn’t happy that Jacob wouldn’t be rejoining the play, but it was a relief not to have to worry about him after that. I could concentrate better. Performing was easier once he was out of the show.

  But it didn’t feel quite as fun.

  * * *

  • • •

  And then, just like that, it was Thursday. Peter Pan was over. We’d performed six shows in six days. It was a lot, but it had mostly been great. Dorothy and Stephen had even let me keep my costume. The newspaper cap with its peacock feather, the gold netting laced with fe
lt leaves, the gold painted shoes, my sword and scabbard. All of it. I couldn’t wait to show Charlie.

  “So, are you sad the play is done? I would be. You did so great, but I really think the final show was your best.”

  Charlie had come to two of the five performances. Now, I was back at the zoo, and he was helping me with my remaining Responsibility Hours. It was late July and I had just one week left at the zoo.

  His cane swept the ground in front of us, rattling grass and weeds as I raked up hay in the donkey cage. Puffs of milkweed seeds flew up in little clouds whenever we brushed by them.

  “Thanks,” I said. “But anything would have been better than opening night.”

  “Not true! I think it was really brave the way you kept going after Jacob fell apart up there!”

  Brave? Was he serious?

  “Charlie, I just stood there. Jacob was having a meltdown. He was all alone and upset and scared, and I didn’t do anything to help him. That wasn’t brave. It was cowardly and selfish.”

  “Well, didn’t everyone just stand there for a minute or two?”

  “Yes, but I’m his sister. I was the one person who could have helped, and I didn’t.”

  “So . . . why didn’t you?”

  “I don’t know,” I said softly. But that wasn’t the whole truth. “I guess part of me didn’t want to.” It felt strange to admit it out loud. And I was worried what Charlie would think. “Wow. That sounds really mean, doesn’t it?”

  Charlie was quiet for a minute.

  “Just . . . honest, I guess,” he said. “And you help Jacob a lot. You’re always there to answer his questions and fix stuff that he can’t do on his own. I’ve heard how you talk to him. But I don’t think it’s, like, your job. You know? You can’t do everything for him all the time. Even when you think you should help, maybe it’s okay if, once in a while, you don’t.”