Folding the paper in half, Emily sat up with her legs tucked behind her. “You know, Vicks, I hope you won’t take this the wrong way, but I could give you some talking points if you want. Just a few basic answers to questions reporters are likely to ask.”
Victoria felt bad. Was this why Emily had come into her room, to offer talking points? “What, you mean that sixty percent of all bankruptcies are the result of medical costs charged to people who had health insurance?”
Emily perked up. “See, you do know things. You’re just too shy to say them. Maybe you should do debate!” She lifted the paper slightly so Victoria could see that it was open to the JOIN A CLUB page. “That’s really how I learned to speak in public.”
This was so embarrassing. To think she’d almost confessed to Emily that she had a crush on Jack. Would Emily have offered her talking points on that, too? Victoria glared at her sister. “Did it ever occur to you that you need not-talking points? That people find it incredibly annoying to have to listen to some college girl’s ideas about how to run a campaign when they’re professionals?”
“Oh, please.” Emily waved away Victoria’s accusation. “When they feel that way they tell me.”
Victoria stood up and put her hands on her hips. “I think you should go now. I have a lot of homework to do.”
“Fine,” said Emily. She glanced down at the paper one last time, then got off Victoria’s bed. “But if Dad wins this election, you’d better be prepared for every reporter in this country to refer to you as the quiet, pretty one.”
“Better than being the annoying, won’t-shut-up one!” Victoria yelled after her sister’s retreating back.
“Later, Betty Crocker.” And with that, Emily, who hadn’t bothered to shut Victoria’s door, slammed her own.
Victoria marched over to her door and tried to slam it, but the edge caught on the rug, and it just sort of sagged shut. Of course Emily’s door slammed and hers didn’t. Of course Emily had a better parting insult than Victoria had.
Victoria went back to her desk and her math problem, but what had been difficult before was impossible now. The numbers swirled around on the page, and the longer she stared at them, the more completely they refused to stay put.
Closing her pencil in her book, Victoria walked aimlessly around the room. Emily got her so mad. Why was it that everything her sister did well was stuff her family valued, while everything Victoria did well was totally irrelevant? Even baking. Baking was what her dad did after a hard day of real work; it wasn’t the work itself. And her mother’s feeling was that if you were important and busy enough, baking was just something you hired someone else to do, like cleaning the apartment.
Her eye caught The Scoop. Even her school didn’t value the one thing she was good at. There were a million different clubs that boiled down to public speaking—oratory, debate, mock trial, model congress, model UN. But was there a baking club? No. Why had she even gone to Morningside? Natalya went to Gainsford because she was a genius, and Gainsford was the most prestigious, competitive school in New York. And Jane went to The Academy for the Performing Arts because she was a great actress.
Why did Victoria go to Morningside?
Because her sister had gone there.
Just thinking about how unfair her situation was made her even more furious. She grabbed the paper, spun around, and carried it over to her desk. Then she flipped open her computer and entered the Web address at the bottom of the page listing all the clubs. A minute later, the Morningside typeface filled her screen.
We’re thrilled that you’d like to start a club! Please take a moment to fill out the following form. When you are done, send it to your class dean. And remember: the more you tell us, the more likely it is that we will approve your request.
She stared at the screen for several minutes. Most of the answers were easy—the club could meet once a week. And it wasn’t that hard to figure out how much ingredients would cost. Obviously they’d meet in the school’s kitchen. Number of participants. Number of participants. The phrase made her feel cold and hot all at once. What if you formed a club and nobody came? She imagined the school’s industrial kitchen, then pictured herself standing there, the president of a club that nobody wanted to join.
She was about to shut her computer when her fingers found her necklace. Do what you’re scared to do.
Hands shaking, Victoria began typing, forcing herself not to add a sound track to the image of herself standing all alone at the first meeting of her baking club.
The sound track of Emily saying, I told you so, Betty Crocker.
SITTING IN HISTORY on Monday morning, the day the cast list for A Midsummer Night’s Dream was going to be posted, Jane barely listened to Mr. Chinowitz dissect the importance of the upcoming election, and it wasn’t just because she always found it weird to hear people talk about Andrew Harrison’s campaign when his daughter was her best friend.
“…which is why you can see the history of this Senate seat as a history of both the Democratic and Republican parties in this country. Now, why is that unusual? Robert Hancock.”
For reasons he had not bothered to explain, Mr. Chinowitz called all the students by both their first and last names. Jane wondered if it had something to do with teaching an academic subject at a school where everyone cared more about creativity than history. Maybe this was his weird way of being creative.
Robert Hancock, who’d been tapping out a beat with his thumbs on his blank notebook, was now looking up at Mr. Chinowitz, a bewildered expression on his face. “Wait, can you ask that question again?”
Jane looked down at her desk. Every Tuesday the school put out Variety, a calendar of all the upcoming performances and auditions. In anticipation of not getting a part in A Midsummer Night’s Dream, Jane had slipped a copy into her notebook. She thumbed through it, checking to see what plays were holding auditions this week. Okay, they weren’t seriously doing The Vagina Monologues, were they? The thought of trying out for a play when she would be actively hoping she didn’t get a part was too much to bear. For the ten millionth time she relived her Midsummer audition—how she’d totally frozen on the second go-round, how she’d stumbled over breast like it was a dirty word she was embarrassed to utter in public. Maybe she deserved to audition for The Vagina Monologues. Maybe that would teach her to grow up and be less of a wuss.
English passed in a blur. Her phone buzzed and she looked down at the screen. J—what r we going 2 wear 2 the party?!?! N
Jane turned her phone to silent without responding. Did Natalya even remember that today was the day they were posting the cast list? Okay, so the most popular girl at her school had invited Natalya to a party at her house. It wasn’t like Jane wasn’t happy for her. But right now she had other things on her mind.
She glanced at the clock—it was eleven. The list was almost certainly posted; soon, people who weren’t free this period would know who’d been cast. She would have to play it breezy. Cool.
Hey, I figured I wouldn’t get cast.
Just getting some good audition experience.
Um, Shakespeare’s kind of five minutes ago, don’t you think?
As Mr. Stewart assigned the class two paragraphs comparing and contrasting George and Lennie, Jane stared at the cover of Of Mice and Men and tried to make her expression a study in blasé. Looking at the book as if it were a sympathetic classmate, she gave a small smile and shrugged in a way that felt worldly wise. By the time the bell rang she felt she’d hit on an acceptable expression of resigned pluckiness.
Walking out of English class, she literally bumped into either Wendy or Sharon, who was turning down the corridor at a trot. Would she remember Jane and her humiliating audition?
“Oops,” Wendy/Sharon said, swerving aside at the last second.
“Sorry,” said Jane as Wendy/Sharon continued down the hall.
“Later,” called Wendy/Sharon over her shoulder.
Jane’s response was automatic. “Later.” She
was grateful to Wendy/Sharon for being so chill.
The list had been posted, she was sure of it. Two freshman girls she didn’t know walked by her, glanced her way, then looked at each other and whispered something.
“I’m not blind,” she muttered as they passed. For the ten millionth time she thought about how awesome it would be if she’d had a great audition, if she were the only freshman to be cast.
Suddenly there was an arm around her waist.
“What the—”
She turned to face her attacker. There was Laurie. Oh god, sympathy from Laurie. LAURIE. Laurie who she’d ditched for being so annoying.
This moment had to be the low point of her life.
“Who’s the bravest?!” Laurie chanted.
“I am!” Jane chanted back.
“You are!” Laurie echoed.
Right then, Mark came out of the classroom Laurie had just exited. Jane steeled herself for whatever condescending comment he was going to make, but he just gave a brief thumbs-up, then pointed at his watch and quickened his pace.
“Gotta motor!” he called as he passed.
“Oh my god,” she said quietly.
Because Mark hadn’t just given her the thumbs-up, he’d also avoided her.
And there was only one reason on earth Mark would have passed up this opportunity to gloat over her failure:
She hadn’t failed.
“Oh my god,” she repeated.
Laurie looked at her, confused, and Jane spun around to check the hallway clock. Her next class started in two and a half minutes. “Laurie, I’ve gotta run.” She wanted to see with her own eyes, didn’t want to hear another word from Laurie or Wendy/ Sharon or anyone. She turned in the direction of the theater and started booking down the hall.
“See you later!” Laurie called after her.
And for the second time that day, Jane responded, “Later!”
No matter what happened to her for the rest of her life (if she really did win an Academy Award or a Tony or get her own miniseries on A&E), Jane was positive she would never, ever forget the moment when she saw her name on the cast list for A Midsummer Night’s Dream.
HELENA: Fran Sherman
HERMIA: Bethany Morales
DEMETRIUS: Hugh Price
LYSANDER: Daniel Milosch
TITANIA: Emily Chang
OBERON: Josh Fox
PUCK: Willis Avery
NICK BOTTOM: Jay McDonald
PETER QUINCE: Mark Alley
HIPPOLYTA: Jane Sterling
PEASEBLOSSOM: Dahlia Long
Jane had never known what people meant when they said they were so excited they couldn’t recognize their own name, but now she did. It wasn’t that you literally couldn’t read the individual letters. It was that they didn’t add up to anything. She saw the words Jane Sterling and had to remind herself that Jane Sterling was her. She was Jane. That’s me! she kept saying to herself. Me! My name is up there. I’m Hippolyta. She remembered the character of Hippolyta from reading the play in English. It was a good part. Not a lead role, but not a tiny one either.
There was a ringing in her ears. As she read and reread her name, the door opened, and whichever Wendy/Sharon she hadn’t run into earlier emerged. Jane had to fight the urge to throw her arms around the girl and say, I love you, Wendy/Sharon!
Wendy/Sharon gave her a nod. “Hey.” She looked behind her at the list, as if checking to make sure it was still up, then waited to hear the click of the door locking behind her.
“Hey,” Jane answered.
Wendy/Sharon headed down the corridor, then turned back briefly. “See you at two forty-five,” she reminded Jane. “Don’t be late.”
Rehearsal. She had rehearsal after school. And as the reality of what she’d accomplished sank in, Jane felt her eyes welling up. She reached into her bag to get her phone, and when she took it out she saw she had seven missed calls.
No sooner had she switched her phone off silent than it started to buzz almost angrily.
This time she picked up. “Vicks!”
“I’ve only been calling all morning!” Victoria’s voice was half relieved, half peeved.
“Let’s just say you’d better be free October thirtieth because it’s opening night.”
Victoria screamed. “Oh my god!!! I knew it. You got a part. What’s the part? Oh my god! Oh my god! Oh my god! You did it, darling!”
And somehow, even though it was Victoria talking to her, Jane felt like the words came straight from Nana.
SITTING IN FRENCH class after getting off the phone with Jane, Victoria couldn’t help thinking about what a dismal start her high school career had gotten off to. Natalya had been invited to a party by the coolest girl in her grade. Jane was the only freshman who had gotten a part in her school’s major fall production. Could Victoria at least…
A. talk to the boy she couldn’t stop thinking about?
B. stop thinking about the boy she couldn’t talk to?
C. impress all of her teachers with her superb command of the subject matter?
D. none of the above.
Victoria drew a huge D on the blank page in front of her, then traced tiny D’s inside of it. Then she wrote Jack in loopy script and quickly crossed it out, drawing lines through the word hard enough to rip the paper.
She didn’t know what she’d thought would happen after they’d run into each other in (okay, after she’d stalked him through) the West Village, but that Monday morning when she’d arrived at the bio lab seconds behind him, she’d been sure something would be different between them.
“Hey,” Jack had said, seeing her come through the door. He’d smiled at her.
“Hey,” Victoria had said. She’d smiled at him and then…
Jack had gone to his lab table.
Victoria had gone to her lab table.
The. End.
U should have asked him how the concert wuz! Jane had texted her.
Its not 2 l8! Natalya reminded her.
Except that it was. Each time she saw him in the halls, or as they were walking into class, she’d tell herself, Now. Now. Ask him now.
Hey, Jack would say.
Hey, Victoria would say.
Lather. Rinse. Repeat.
“Non, non, Maeve. Ce n’est pas ‘je suis le livre.’ J’ai le livre. Répétez. J’ai le livre.”
Maeve, who usually sat toward the edge of the room and who never spoke unless Madame called on her, echoed what Madame Desbonnet had just said, and Madame said, “Bravo, mademoiselle.” Maeve looked down at her desk.
Maeve seemed quiet but nice, and Victoria had the feeling they could be friends. But so far she’d been too shy to approach Maeve.
Hmmm. Perhaps this was the problem with two shy people becoming friends: neither one was brave enough to make the first move.
There was a knock on the classroom door, and a moment later it swung open and Madame Desbonnet took a slip of paper from an older woman Victoria didn’t recognize. Madame Desbonnet glanced at it, then looked around the room until her eyes found Victoria. “Mademoiselle, va parler avec Dean Gordon après la classe.”
Totally confused, Victoria managed to nod calmly in response. It sounded like Madame Desbonnet had just told her to go talk to the freshman dean after class. But why? Was she in trouble for something? She stared down at the D’s she’d been drawing. Were her grades bad enough that she was going to get some kind of a warning? But she’d only had a handful of quizzes so far, and on each she’d gotten her usual eighty-something. Could Dean Gordon have somehow found out about her plans to sneak out to a party without telling her parents? Her heart raced at the possibility, but not even her father’s campaign manager could have made Victoria believe such a paranoid theory. Dean Gordon was a pudgy balding man in khakis and rumpled sweaters who, when it came to saying hello to students in the hallway, favored the greeting, “How ya doin’, tiger?” This did not strike Victoria as a man with the power to read teenage minds.
• • •
Victoria was about to push open the door labeled DEAN GORDON when she had a terrible thought. What if this was about her father? What if the dean was going to ask her to invite her dad to speak at Morningside? Also, Victoria, we were hoping you’d introduce him. Your sister was always such a talented public speaker.
The thought of standing frozen at a podium in front of the entire school made Victoria need to lean her forehead against the cool plaster of the wall. But then she took a deep breath. Her father was busy. Really busy. So busy she barely saw him. Normally that was a bad thing, but right now, it was a completely legitimate excuse. He travels a lot, Dean. I don’t think he can come speak.
Before she could come up with another scenario with which to terrify herself, Victoria twirled her fingers through the chain of her necklace, then knocked crisply on the door. “Come in!” called a male voice.
Pushing the heavy wooden door, Victoria found herself standing in a waiting area with an empty desk. Behind the desk was a pale blue wall with a door leading into an inner office. Next to the door were two plastic chairs.
In one of the chairs sat Jack Hastings.
For a panicked second, Victoria wondered if he would know, just by looking at her, how much she’d been thinking about their conversation on Leonard Street; how she’d played it over and over in her mind until it was as tattered as a page of one of her favorite cookbooks.
For a long second, neither of them spoke. In the silence Victoria felt hyperconscious of everything—the cool breeze through her T-shirt, the loud click of the door as it shut, the hum of Dean Gordon’s absent secretary’s computer, how her bag dug into her shoulder from the weight of her books.
Jack looked up at her from under his bangs and said, “We’ve got to stop meeting like this.”
Victoria couldn’t have responded if her life depended on it.
“That was a joke,” Jack said finally.
Victoria nodded.
He tried again. “So, you come here often?”
“No,” Victoria said, relieved that her voice was working again.
“Well, by all means, have a look around.” He spread his hands out to show her what she should check out.
The Darlings Are Forever Page 10