Henry frowned. “Allen Song is going to play a Russian guy? Aren’t there any Korean dudes at Ellis Island?”
“Dad, that’s culturally insensitive,” Andrew said. Ever since both kids had been assigned to Isobel Johnson’s English classes, phrases like “culturally insensitive” and “multiple perspectives” had infiltrated their dinner conversations, the kids’ eyes twinkling as they quoted their teacher. Andrew continued. “Mr. Dittmer is totally serious about color-blind casting.”
“I’m totally serious about it, too.” Henry winked at Julia as he took a bite of steamed kale.
This was the trouble with Henry—always making jokes. Everyone found him hilarious, but he refused to focus. The phone buzzed in Julia’s hand. Try to chill, the text from Henry said.
“Chill?” she said aloud to herself. Her sudden anger propelled her to standing, her stool rocking on the hardwood floor. Couldn’t anyone—Robin, Henry, Andrew himself—understand the significance of the Ellis Island cast list?
She scanned the room, indignant, and landed for a moment on a framed black-and-white photograph of the Empire State Building against the New York City skyline, a memento from her Manhattan days.
“Enough,” she said, finally, remembering the bustling city, the marquees on Broadway. She’d take off her yoga pants and take a shower. There’d be more news when she got out.
JOHN DITTMER
John Dittmer, in his twenty-first year as the Liston Heights theater director, mentally reviewed the cast for a final time as he smoothed his khakis on the walk from the drama office to the teacher workroom. He’d print the list on pink paper, as was his tradition. He’d mark “FINAL” across the top in black Sharpie and post it on the Drama bulletin board at precisely two twenty-seven p.m. There was a certain ritual to these things, John knew, a solace in breaking teenage hearts in a routinized manner, tissues at the ready in his office for the ninth graders who’d been tapped for backstage crews instead of acting roles.
“Next year,” he’d tell these criers as he herded them toward his assistant director, who’d convince them of the importance of props and set changes.
After John’s meeting with the principal, the director had dutifully, if bitterly, switched the roles of Tryg Ogilvie—an unusually poised ninth grader with the height of a full-grown adult—and Andrew Abbott. Tryg would now be the most skillful luggage handler the school had ever seen, and with extensive coaching, Andrew could be a passable immigration inspector.
John punched his code into the copier in the teacher workroom. A pile of handouts sat in the output tray—something about “Apostrophe Appreciation Day.” Had to be Isobel Johnson, he thought, as he removed the stack and put it neatly on the workstation, a high counter covered with faux-wood laminate.
“Oh, John!” Isobel breezed in from the hallway, her calf-length black skirt swirling.
“Hi, Isobel.” John reached for the apostrophe handouts and held them out to her. They’d become friends in Isobel’s first year when they’d been assigned Wednesday afternoon bus duty together. She’d always been a minute or two late, half running to their spot on the yellow curb, students streaming onto the buses all around her.
“Thanks.” She smiled. “In a rush, as usual.” Pieces of her chin-length hair fell from the bun she’d fastened at the back of her head. “The kids’ phones are blowing up,” Isobel said. “You’d better post the cast list. Put the parents out of their misery.”
John wiped his brow as the copier hummed. He could hear it grab a single sheet of eleven-by-seventeen paper, the rollers pulling it through the machinery. “On my way,” John said wryly. “Bets on which parent is the first to call?”
Isobel shook her head. Suddenly, her green eyes darkened, and her smile fell away.
“What is it?” John asked, as he grabbed the warm pink sheet—he loved that feeling, paper hot from the copier. He put it on the laminate and uncapped his Sharpie.
“Sorry.” Isobel blinked twice. “I was just thinking of my latest parent problem. Unrelated.”
John waited. She swallowed hard and looked up at him. “Have you ever gotten a voice mail from a parent on your home phone?”
“I’m sure I have,” John said. “Liston Heights parents aren’t exactly skilled at adhering to boundaries.”
“But, like, a threat? If you don’t do such and such, you’ll lose your job?”
John put the marker down on the counter and frowned. “Who was it?” he asked.
“An anonymous concerned parent.” Isobel gripped her stack of papers. Her thumbnail looked white against the blue paper.
“I haven’t gotten a message like that,” John said, carefully, “but it sounds like a very Liston Heights tactic. You gonna tell Wayne?”
“I suppose I should.” The bell rang then, signaling the end of passing time, and Isobel jumped. “Oh, goodness.” She turned away. “I’ve got thirty-six kids who will be staging a riot before I get back.” She pulled the door open and smiled back at him. “Break a leg, friend!” She began to run, her skirt flaring behind her as the door closed.
John sighed, picked up his Sharpie again, and wrote each capital letter deliberately across the top of his pink list. F-I-N-A-L. He shoved the cap on the marker with more force than was necessary and put it in his pocket. The paper in both hands, he walked back to the performing arts wing. Once he’d looked left and right, checking for empty hallways, he took two pushpins from the side of the drama bulletin board and tacked them to the top of the list. He smoothed the paper and secured the bottom with two additional pins. Then, as was his tradition, John rubbed his palms together, washing away the audition process before tomorrow’s first rehearsal.
JULIA ABBOTT
As soon as her hands were dry from the shower, Julia held her breath and grabbed her iPhone, clicking it awake. Nothing.
?!?!?!?!?! she tapped to Andrew. She knew for an absolute fact that fifth period had ended. Why not take a second to respond to his mother? Julia carried her phone with her into her bedroom. She placed it on her dresser and pulled on her clothes—black ponte leggings and an oversized Equipment blouse. She tilted her phone up for another look. Still nothing. She opened Instagram and searched the Humans of LHHS feed. Maeve Hollister, another member of the Liston Lights, was running it this week, and Julia thought there might be a hint about casting since Maeve would certainly land a lead role herself. Sure enough, the latest photo was of Melissa Young in profile, her head tilted slightly back as she laughed. The folds of the theater’s red curtain served as backdrop. I never set out to be a leading lady or anything, the caption began. Julia scoffed. Melissa was nothing if not ambitious, and Julia knew for a fact that her parents, Annabelle and Martin, had sent her to that prestigious arts camp in Michigan last summer. She scanned the rest of the post. It ended, In order to do your best, you have to ignore the haters, right? Like, people who think you’re too tall, too raw, or even that your feet are too big.
Her feet are too big. Julia set her phone down and watched it as she blasted her shoulder-length blond hair with a dryer, tapping the screen every few seconds to keep it from falling asleep. When her hair had gone from dripping to damp, she scooped it into a low ponytail.
“I’m going over to the school,” she whispered to herself as she dabbed on eye cream and reached for lip gloss. She texted Robin. Starbucks by school in 30? she asked. Cast list rehash?
She waited. Within a few seconds, the three dots appeared. Sure! and a smiley face with rosy cheeks.
Julia pulled her black Mercedes GLE into the high school parking lot at two twenty-eight. She cut the engine in a visitor spot in front of the performing arts entrance. As a member of the Theater Booster Board, surely she was justified in her desire to review the cast list. She’d then be able to contact the parents of the first-time actors, welcoming them to the LHHS theater family and, more important, coordinating their donations to the Theater Boost
er Fund.
Julia double-checked the pocket of her down jacket for her cell phone. Her idea was to snap a quick photo of the cast list, leave before Andrew or Tracy saw her, and zip over to Starbucks to speculate with Robin about Dittmer’s choices.
She hurried toward the entrance and waved the key card she hadn’t returned after last fall’s set build in front of the lockbox. On a beeline for the bulletin board, Julia stopped short when Alice Thompson, the twentysomething assistant director, stepped out of the drama office ahead of her.
Damn it! Julia twisted her mouth into a smile. Alice looked back and paused, surprised. Julia caught an acrid whiff of industrial floor cleaner.
“Julia!” Alice cocked her head. “What brings you to school today?”
“Oh, I just wanted to check in on, um, Andrew.”
“Is he sick?” Alice asked.
“He had the beginnings of a migraine this morning,” Julia lied.
“That’s too bad,” Alice said. “I’m just on my way to post the crew list. We have a few new assistant stage managers for the musical. Their parents will probably want to be included on the e-mail blasts, especially information on the annual fun run.”
“For sure,” Julia said. “I’ll walk with you.”
They fell into step as they neared the drama board. “You don’t have to go out of your way,” Alice said.
“It’s no problem.” Julia pointed at the board. “Maybe I’ll just take a quick peek at the cast list now that I’m here. Is it posted, do you know?”
“It is!” Alice smiled. “And I think I saw Andrew on it someplace.”
“Oh,” said Julia dismissively, “he just loves being part of the productions.” The two were no more than fifty feet from the eleven-by-seventeen piece of pink paper. Julia could see “FINAL” printed across the top in large letters.
Right then the bell reverberated in the hallway. Students rushed from the classrooms that lined it on either side. Backpacks, backward caps, and swinging ponytails surrounded the two women.
“I have to get this posted,” Alice apologized, weaving ahead through the throng. Julia followed uncertainly, hands in her pockets. A circle of nervous-looking students had already formed around the list. A girl Julia didn’t recognize ran her finger down the paper until she found her name. She turned, beaming, and rejoined a friend who hovered on the fringes. The two high-fived. Julia could smell the watermelon gum in the mouth of the girl standing next to her.
Alice sidestepped her way out of the growing crowd and waved as she headed back toward the theater office. “Hope Andrew feels better,” she called. Julia nodded, her mouth increasingly dry. She watched for a moment as others searched the list. The circle grew. She knew she was running out of time, and yet she was so close. She set her lips in a line, took her cell phone from her pocket, and opened the camera app. Her eyes trained on the cast list, she marched forward, lightly shoving the oblivious teens who stepped into her path.
“Excuse you,” said one before turning and realizing she was an adult.
Julia reached the circle around the board, now two deep, and cleared her throat. Could she take a photo by lifting her camera above her head? A quick calculation revealed that she couldn’t—the very tall Tryg Ogilvie, the ninth grader who had played the Scarecrow in last year’s (marginal, Julia thought) middle school production of The Wizard of Oz, ruined the shot. She exhaled and turned to her right, scanning for options. She caught sight of Tracy exiting a classroom at the end of the hall, walking with Isobel Johnson, even though her English class was in the morning. Why were they together? If Tracy saw her here, she would be mortified. It was now or never.
Julia’s arms shook with adrenaline as she moved. Her left hand gripping the phone, she bladed her right arm into the crowd and hooked some students roughly to the side. Her vision blurred slightly; blood whooshed in her ears. “Pardon me,” she grunted. “Theater Booster Board coming through!” She caught a few frowns in her peripheral vision, and as if across miles, she heard Anika Bergstrom say, “Mrs. Abbott?”
“Hi, honey,” Julia answered without making eye contact. “Booster Board business!” Now standing in front of the cast list, incredulous students all around her, Julia quickly snapped a photo of the paper. “Got it!” she whispered, and then, involuntarily, her feet rooted to the floor. She began scanning the names for the telltale double As of “Andrew Abbott.” She started at the bottom of the list with the ensemble—groups of immigrants from different European countries—and with Andrew absent from that section, she began to hope, salivating lightly and color rising to her cheeks. The students, recovered from the initial surprise of her entrance, started to move again, to crowd back toward her, some reaching over her shoulders to point at names. Julia barely registered someone’s finger slide into her line of vision and run down the list.
Finally, she found Andrew. And near the top! She raised her own index finger, as the students around her had, and traced back from his name to his role.
“Inspector Adams,” she whispered, and inhaled deeply. “Inspector,” she said more loudly. She closed her eyes and smiled, glee rising from her gut. The failed auditions, the board meetings, the lessons, the coaching, the emerald fucking shoes, the goddamn costume shop. And now! Finally! Andrew had the chance he deserved.
Without thinking or opening her eyes, she raised her right arm over her head and closed her fist, her bangle falling to her forearm. Energy coursed through her hand, radiating to her knuckles. She breathed into her belly. Yes, she thought to herself. Yes! Anxiety that she didn’t even realize she’d been carrying bubbled up and out of her. “Yes!” she hissed aloud, holding the “s.” She found herself jumping up a little, her eyes still closed. And then she felt her arm descending in a fist pump, a dance really. She swung her arm in front of her face and then back from her waist, fast and hard. Fast and hard, until her elbow encountered an obstacle, stopping its trajectory with a sickening thud.
Someone grunted behind her and then cried out. Julia heard the movement around her stop. She blinked her eyes open. The pink of the cast list swam before her, and she felt the plastic case of her iPhone weigh down her left hand.
“What the hell?” someone said, and Julia turned. Melissa Young—the lead actress with the size eleven feet—was doubled over in front of her. The girl moaned, rubbing the place where Julia’s elbow had connected with her abdomen.
“Holy shit,” one boy whispered. Others looked at their shoes. Maeve Hollister rubbed Melissa’s back as the girl started to straighten up, her black hair hanging in front of her face.
“I’m so sorry,” Julia whispered to her as she turned and began walking back toward the door. “I’m so sorry!” she called, louder. She kept her eyes trained forward although she could feel the kids’ gazes. As she reached the outskirts of the crowd, focused only on the exit, she heard a distressingly familiar voice to her left.
“Mom?” Tracy said. Julia looked up to see her daughter’s wide blue eyes, complexion paler than usual. Isobel Johnson stood beside her, her mouth pinched in a thin frown. Both stared. Tracy finally said, voice tremulous, “What are you doing here?”
ISOBEL JOHNSON
After helping Melissa to a chair in John Dittmer’s office, Isobel patted Tracy Abbott’s shoulder sympathetically.
“Have a good afternoon, kiddo,” she said as Tracy turned toward the math hallway.
“God,” Tracy mumbled, “my mom is so crazy.”
“We’re all a little crazy,” Isobel said as the girl walked away. The scene at the drama board had been crazy, she agreed. Julia Abbott was clearly irrational. First the voice mail, and then the cast list?
Isobel planned to spend her free period telling Wayne Wallace about the message. She was rehearsing her recounting of it, her lips moving a bit, when Lyle Greenwood caught her. She and her “work spouse,” as Mark referred to him, had bonded during the very first wee
k they’d known each other. In the beginning, they’d gone for drinks after new-teacher orientation, already rolling their eyes at Eleanor Woodsley’s overzealous tour of the building.
“How’s it going?” Lyle asked.
“I just saw the weirdest thing.” Isobel looked back at the thinning crowd near the drama board, just a few glum stragglers left checking the list.
“Tell!” Lyle clapped his hands over the manila folder he carried.
“You know the Abbott kids?” Isobel asked. “Tracy and Andrew?”
Lyle nodded. “Tracy was in my class first trimester,” he said. “Nice girl. Mom was hyper, though. Must have called me once a week.”
“Yeah, both of her kids are in my classes now,” Isobel said. She swerved around a slow-moving student with headphones on his neck. “Anyway,” she continued, “I just walked by the drama board. The cast list for Ellis Island was posted.”
“Right,” said Lyle. “My last class couldn’t talk about anything else.”
“Julia Abbott was there, standing in front of the bulletin board, taking photos of the list.”
“The mom? Oh, God.” Lyle shook his head. “That woman needs to get a life.”
“It gets worse. She found Andrew’s name and then, well”—Isobel hesitated, deciding how to characterize what happened next—“she somehow elbowed Melissa Young in the stomach.”
“What?”
“I think she was sort of celebrating? Like she’d scored a touchdown or something?” Isobel slowed her pace to demonstrate the movement. “And she totally clocked Melissa.”
“Figures.” Lyle frowned.
“It was so odd. And”—she lowered her voice—“it’s the first time I’ve seen Julia Abbott since the Sadie’s dance.”
“Right,” Lyle said, knowingly. “That was unpleasant.”
“Yes!” Isobel whispered. “Remember what she said?” She put a hand on the sleeve of Lyle’s checked button-down, and they stopped walking. Isobel imitated Julia. “‘I know other people say you’re not quite good enough for Liston Heights, but my kids seem to enjoy you.’” Just repeating the words made Isobel feel sick. She tried to remember the quality of the voices—the one in her head from the dance and the one on the machine at home. She wasn’t entirely certain they matched.
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 3