Of Mice and Nutcrackers: A Peeler Christmas

by Richard Scrimger

  Lance smiles and waves. His teeth are white and perfect, but his hand is wrinkled. He looks sharply around the classroom, and nods to himself. “Mice and nutcrackers,” he says, in a gravelly voice. “’Kay, I got it.”

  Miss Gonsalves is holding some papers in her hand. “These are your permission forms,” she calls out. “Has everyone given them back to me? Without a permission form, Lance can’t use you.”

  He lifts the big video cam onto his shoulder. Then he takes it down and fiddles with a few buttons and dials. Then he hoists it back up to his shoulder again. He can support the whole thing with one hand.

  “I’ll wander around, get some school atmosphere. See you guys on the stage, ’kay?” he says. He makes a gun with his free hand, and shoots us. Then he leaves.

  “’Kay,” calls Michael.

  Miss Gonsalves follows Lance out the door.

  Brad is at my elbow. On his face is a look of utter terror. “That guy is from … CITY TV? He’s going to film us?”

  “Yes, didn’t you know? Don’t you remember Miss Gonsalves telling us about her friend at the station downtown?”

  He starts to shake. “I can’t go on,” he whispers.

  You’ll never guess who pokes his head in the door next. No, not Dad. He’s in the audience with Mom. Not Bernie. He’s at home with Grandma.

  It’s Mr. Gebohm. His eyes are big and wild, and his jaw twitches. He steps into the room, and closes the door. We all quieten down. There’s so much craziness coming out of him, it’s like a force field.

  “Watch this,” he says, very softly, yet with a tremor in his voice like a volcano about to erupt. He reaches out his hand and, very deliberately, turns off the lights, so that the room is in darkness. Then he goes off into peals of laughter. “Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha.” Like a bad horror movie, only it’s not funny. Not at all.

  Mr. Gebohm keeps laughing. He can’t stop laughing. On and on he goes, doubling over. I don’t know what to do. No one says a word. Not even Michael. I think we’re all a little bit scared, except for those of us who are really scared. Who knows how long the scene would have lasted, but the door opens behind Mr. Gebohm.

  “Miss Gonsalves?” It’s Mr. March. He flips the light switch. “Oh, sorry, Mr. Gebohm. I didn’t know what was going on in here. I didn’t see you in the dark,” he says.

  Mr. Gebohm stops laughing, straightens up. “Yes. In the dark.” He draws his head up and marches out the door. He doesn’t just leave, he exits.

  Mr. March stares after him.

  “What do you mean, you can’t go on?” I whisper. Here I am worrying about Jiri and Mr. Gebohm, and it turns out Brad is the problem. The goat has had kittens.

  “I can’t. Not if we’re going to be on TV. I didn’t know we were going to be on TV. Why didn’t someone tell me we were going to be on TV?”

  “Miss Gonsalves told us at rehearsal – oh, wait. Were you late, that time? And, anyway, Patti’s been talking about it for days.”

  “I don’t always listen to everything Patti says, you know what I mean?” He tries to smile at me. Not much of a smile. He’s too worried. “My mom watches the CITY TV news every night,” he says.

  “So what?”

  “Don’t you see, she can’t see me onstage. She can’t!!!”

  Patti comes over then. “Hi, Braddie,” she says, slipping her arm under his. “Do you want to go over our lines together at the end?”

  He shakes off her hand, and starts taking off his Nutcracker uniform.

  “Wait. Wait!” I say. “What is going on?”

  His eyes are wild and scared. I grab him by the arm and lead him into a corner. “Brad, stop. Calm down. Tell me what is happening.”

  He’s trembling. “It’s … my mom,” he says.

  Isn’t it always. Unless it’s your dad. I have a clue, of course. “Is this anything to do with … filberts and almonds and pecans?”

  He nods, swallows, and then it all comes out. He’s been lying to his mom, telling her he was staying late to work on a science project with me instead of rehearsing. When she finds out he’s been lying to her, especially when she finds out he’s been acting, well, as Grandma would put it, there’ll be shell to pay.

  “Why?” I ask. “What’s wrong with acting?”

  He’s a bit calmer now. Across the room Patti is glaring at me. She doesn’t like the way Brad is leaning against me.

  “It’s my dad,” he says.

  Isn’t it always. When it isn’t your mom.

  “What about him? I thought your parents were divorced. I’ve never seen your dad around. He doesn’t live anywhere near here, does he?”

  “No. He lives in Hollywood.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s an actor. He left Mom when I was little. Ran away to Los Angeles and changed his name. Mom has hated actors ever since.”

  “Oh.”

  “She keeps telling me how horrible actors are. How they’re untrustworthy and fickle and heartless. I’m all she has left, she says. She’s so afraid of losing me, she keeps after me to tell her all about myself. She can’t stand not to know what I’m doing. She wants to know all about me. And I … I just want her to leave me alone.” He covers his face with his hand. I think back to his mother’s phone call.

  Something hits me on the arm, and falls to the floor. I whirl around. The mouse king mask is lying next to us.

  Quiet in the classroom.

  Miss Gonsalves’ calm voice comes through very clearly. “Oh, dear,” she says.

  She stands under the clock, with her hands on her hips. Next to her is Lance, the video guy. Michael is snickering. Patti is looking upset. I pick up the mask.

  “Get your costumes ready, everyone, and line up by the door,” says Miss Gonsalves. “We’re onstage in five minutes.”

  Brad grabs my arm, hard enough to hurt. “So don’t you see, I can’t go out there tonight,” he whispers. “My mom thinks I’m at a birthday party. I made up an invitation and everything. If she sees me on the news, she’ll….”

  “Yes.”

  I try to think. Come on, brain! If only you could order ideas easily, like on the internet: point and click. Add this brilliant brain wave to your shopping basket?

  Got one! “Okay. Come here.” I grab his arm. The video guy is filming the class as they line up. He turns the camera on us. I put up my hand the way the lawyer does on the news, when the client is guilty. No comment, the lawyer says. “Wait a minute, Lance,” I say.

  “Huh?” He comes out from behind the camera. “What?”

  “Brad here does not want to be in the news clip,” I say. “When you’re filming the show, you’ve got to keep him out of it.”

  “What part does he play?”

  “He’s the Nutcracker.”

  Lance frowns. “But that’s the lead, right? I mean, the show is called Nutcracker, isn’t it? I don’t know that I can keep him out.”

  Brad groans. “You’ve got to, Lance,” I say. “You see, Brad’s mom hasn’t signed his permission form.”

  “What?”

  “Hey, that’s right,” says Brad.

  “But I thought that everyone agreed,” he says. He stares over at Miss Gonsalves, who is straightening mouse ears. “You said everyone had signed,” he says.

  “Not Brad,” I say.

  Up close I can see that Lance needs a shave. The hair on his head is dark, but his beard is gray. He sighs and nods to Brad. “I’ll shoot around you. If you get in the shot by accident, I still have two hours to edit you out. ’Kay?”

  “’Kay,” I tell him.

  “Let’s go,” calls Miss Gonsalves. Lance gets behind the camera again. Brad puts on his Nutcracker hat.

  “Thanks, Jane,” he says.

  I have to ask him one question. “Is your dad famous?”

  Brad shakes his head. “He does commercials sometimes. There was one for soap. He sent me a videotape of it last year. Mom found it in my drawer and threw it out.”

  Out at the front of the stage
, the grade 6 recorder club is playing “Jingle Bells” – I think. Backstage, behind the curtain, we are getting ready. Rustles, whispers, giggles. I’m halfway up the stepladder, hanging the hinged backdrop, when the stage phone rings.

  “Get that, someone!” I whisper. Essa is nearest.

  The backdrop is going to be fine. I show Michael how to work the trick knot.

  Essa listens, then hangs up. Her mouth is open wide. So are her eyes. She looks terrified. She runs over to me.

  “Jane, Jane, it was … him.”

  “Who?” I ask. But I know.

  “Mr. Gebohm!” she whispers. “He says he’s going to stop our show in five minutes.”

  The cast crowd around us. On the other side of the curtain, the recorder club finishes. The audience claps.

  Essa shivers in her mouse-gray bodysuit. “He has the power, he says. With one flick of a switch he’s going to turn all the lights out on you, the way you turned them out on him.” She stares up at me. “He thought I was you, Jane. He hates you. He said … terrible things.”

  One flick of a switch. He must be downstairs in the Electrical Room. I can picture the big Frankenstein switches on the wall. I know where he is. But the knowledge is no good to me. I can’t get there in five minutes. Even if I could, I couldn’t deal with him, not by myself. Would Miss Gonsalves … no, she’s out front, getting ready to sit down at the piano. Would Michael and Jiri … no, there’s no time. No time.

  “What’ll we do?” asks Patti, for all of us. “What’ll we do, Jane?”

  “I’m scared,” says Essa. “We can’t do a show in the dark.”

  The applause is dying down out front. Principal Gordon Gordon is at the microphone, introducing “the grand finale, the high point of the evening’s entertainment.” He’s nervous. He hesitates over Miss Gonsalves’ name.

  Brad nods his head. “Essa’s right. Maybe we should give up and go home.”

  There’s a murmur of assent from some of the cast.

  “But …” stammers Patti. “But, Braddie, the TV camera is out there.”

  He looks away with a shudder. He’ll take any excuse not to go on. “That makes it worse, Patti. You don’t want to make a fool of yourself on TV.”

  Patti doesn’t reply. I think she’d rather look foolish, on TV, than smart, not on TV.

  “Let’s tell Miss Gonsalves,” suggests Jiri.

  “Let’s find Gebohm, and make him say g’bye! Ha-ha-ha!” says Michael. Always the joker.

  “No,” I say. “There’s no time.”

  Brad is starting to undo his costume. Déjà vu. Didn’t I just deal with this?

  “Stop!” I say, loud as I dare. Onstage, Gordon is talking about how special it is that the local TV station is here to record this moment for the ten o’clock news. Everyone should make sure to watch, he says. “Stop, Brad. Come close, everyone! Listen to me!”

  I try to think of something to say. Something inspiring, something that will work.

  Add this brilliant brain wave to your shopping basket?

  “We are going to go ahead with the show,” I say. “We don’t have time to find Gebohm. We don’t have time to explain everything to Miss Gonsalves or Mr. Gordon. It’s up to us.”

  “But –” Essa starts.

  I hold up my hand. “Are we going to fold just because of a phone call? What if Gebohm is bluffing?”

  I don’t think he is. But it’s a place to start. “We’ve worked hard on the show. We are going to put it on.” My tone is firm. I sound sure of myself. Actually, I’m not sure of myself at all, but these are the words that come to me. I stare across the dimly lit backstage area at the phone. It’s just not fair. It shouldn’t be this hard. Gebohm shouldn’t have it in for us. For me. But he does.

  “So we wait a few minutes, and then if the lights are still working, we go on?”

  “No, Brad,” I say. “That’ll delay the show. We go on when Gordon finishes talking. And we put on the show, as we rehearsed.”

  “How can we move around in the dark?” asks Essa. “We’ll bump into each other, or fall off the stage.”

  Details, details.

  “If it’s dark, we’ll get a light,” I say. I sound sure of myself, but I don’t – just now – know where I’m going to find a light. Don’t ask me the question, Essa, I plead silently. Don’t ask where I’m going to find a light.

  “Where are you going to find a light?” she asks.

  I smile at her. Important to show confidence. No words come to me.

  Jiri coughs gently. “I brought my knapsack backstage,” he whispers. “There’s a flashlight inside. I used this flashlight when I was hiding under the stage, practicing my lines.”

  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. If I had any lingering doubts about my decision to let him stay in the show, this removes them. “That’s great, Jiri,” I say.

  But Essa is shaking her head. “I don’t like it. There’s still Air. Gebohm to consider. I don’t want a teacher being mad at me.”

  “I’m with Essa,” says Brad.

  There are murmurs of doubt. The cast is shifting from foot to foot.

  I’ve had enough. “Shut up, Brad. And you too, Essa. I am not going to give up here. This show will go on. I don’t know how, exactly, but it will. I know it. Do you understand? I know it. Same way I knew about our rehearsal here, last week.”

  “But if Brad isn’t….” Patti lisps at me.

  “If Brad isn’t here, we do The Nutcracker without him. I don’t care. If none of you want to go on, I’ll do the show myself, holding the flashlight. Do you understand? Get your knapsack, Jiri.” He trots away.

  I don’t know about them, but I’m convincing myself. The show is going to happen. It must. I didn’t realize until now how important it is to me. It’s mine, after all – I wrote and directed it, lied for it, bullied for it, lost a friend over it. It’s mine.

  “Now, who’s with me?” I ask. “Who’s ready to go onstage in about a minute?”

  Silence. And then, an unexpected voice.

  “I’m ready,” says Justin. He smiles at me, trim and tidy. And calm. It occurs to me that he’s never caused me a minute of worry. He knew his lines first. He taught the dance steps. He’s never missed a rehearsal. He’s never complained about anything.

  He turns to the rest of the cast. “She’s right, you know. The show comes first. If you’re worried about looking silly, you’ll never be an actor.”

  Hero? Professional? Nice guy? Hard to say. I’ve never thought too much about Justin before, but I’m awfully glad to have his support now.

  “Thanks, Justin. Now, come on, you guys – hands in!”

  I hold out my hand, palm down. Justin puts his hand on top. Slowly, as if she wants to but doesn’t know if she should, Patti reaches out and puts her hand on top of Justin’s. I smile at her. She smiles back. It’s as close as we’ve been in days. Then Zillah shrugs and puts her hand in. Michael and Jiri are next. Then the rest of them – mice and toys and citizens of Candyland – crowd around with their hands. I’m feeling squished.

  Only Brad is left outside the circle. He sighs. “All right,” he says. “All right.” He puts his hand on top of the pile.

  I feel that I’ve pulled a truck up a hill. “Now, let’s have a cheer. Everyone together: Nutcracker! Whisper it. Ready? One … two … three …”

  “Nutcracker!” An enthusiastic whisper.

  “Good. Get ready now,” I say. “Michael, you’re on first.”

  I run to my position, offstage left. Jiri’s flashlight fits beside the light board.

  Gordon Gordon is pointing out that the lyrics were written by one of the Sunnyside School students. Applause. I can feel myself turning red. “A girl named….” Gordon pauses awkwardly. He’s forgotten.

  “Jane Peeler!” cries someone from the audience, and then, in a quieter but still audible voice, “You ham fool.”

  Grandma? Grandma? What is she doing here? Laughter.

  “Ahem. And now, ladies an
d gentlemen, boys and girls: The Nutcracker!” The principal trips on his way down the steps to the audience.

  The curtain rises on the Stahlbaum house on Christmas Eve. Reds and greens and yellows shine warmly down. So, not so warmly, does a single spotlight near the back, with a CITY TV stencil on the side. Miss Gonsalves begins the overture. You know it: dah, dah-dah-dah dah dah, dah dah dah. Michael keeps time, nodding his head as he counts the beats – twelve beats before he is to begin speaking. I count with him, in my head. One, two –

  The phone on the wall over my head rings.

  Good thing the music is loud. I jump for the receiver.

  “Jane Peeler, is that you?”

  “Yes,” I whisper.

  “The five minutes are up. Get ready.” He laughs crazily.

  With half my mind, I’m still counting with Michael onstage. Nine, ten, eleven –

  On the next beat, the lights go out. All of them. My reds and greens and yellows. The CITY spot. Everything.

  I drop the phone and flip the switches on the board. Nothing. Nothing at all. I try the houselights. Nothing. All you can see are little red dots – showing that the video cameras in the parents’ hands are turned on – and the red emergency EXIT signs over the gym doors. And in a moment everyone will be filing through them. And our Nutcracker will never be seen.

  A power failure. Mr. Gebohm’s revenge. I reach for Jiri’s flashlight.

  Time moves slowly. Very slowly. A great sinuous shape is time, writhing toward me, spiraling in on itself, revealing hidden treasure in every slowly passing coil. I am able, in a fraction of a heartbeat, to note my own feelings of shock and horror. And determination. My eyes widen, the hairs on my neck and arms stand up, my breathing quickens. My heart thuds like a hammer in my chest. All this in an instant, an eye blink. And that’s not all I can do. My mind races forward, leaving counted time a long way behind.

  Strangely enough my first thought is for Brad, waiting in the dark. Poor Brad, lying to his mom night after night, worrying all the time. I can’t imagine the Nutcracker Prince doing that. Maybe he wasn’t such great casting, after all. Funny, I used to think he was kind of good-looking, with his golden hair and lazy smile. No longer.