By three thirty, in the eight hours since her meeting with Wayne Wallace, Julia had the house thoroughly cleaned, including Andrew’s repulsive third-floor bathroom and even Tracy’s closet. While she was in there, she noticed the dress she’d chosen for her daughter’s piano recital last month with the tags still on. Tracy had worn a blue sweater and slacks, despite Julia’s surprise gift. “It’s great, Mom,” Tracy had said, “but I’m more comfortable in pants.” Julia hadn’t wanted to return the dress, its Empire waist accented with sophisticated cording. She’d worked so hard to find a fantastic winter knee-length. Maybe she could at least get Tracy to wear it to the opening of Ellis Island. She considered which color tights would match it as she recycled the three Diet Dew cans she’d lined up on the counter during her cleaning effort.
At school, Andrew would be heading to his first rehearsal. She’d texted him twice that afternoon: How’s it going? and Excited for the first day?? She’d punctuated that second text with the jazz hand emoji all the theater moms loved so much.
There’d been no response, not that she’d really been expecting a reply after last night’s debacle. She’d nearly spit her prosecco when Andrew had sworn at her. Never had either of her children accosted her like that. And then he’d faced no consequences. Henry had taken Andrew out for dinner, like a celebration for disparaging his mother.
The cans recycled, Julia looked at her to-do list, the neat column of checkboxes and accompanying items recorded in black flair pen in her customized planner. Of course, most of the tasks had become moot the moment Wayne Wallace removed her from the Booster Board.
Should she send the list on to Robin Bergstrom? Julia opened her messaging app and read once again the response Robin had sent to her text. I’m really sorry about how this happened. When Wayne asked me, I felt I had to do my part.
That was all.
Julia resented her diplomacy, and a melancholy had overtaken her after she’d rinsed the sponge for the final time. She remembered Henry’s admonishments, his “Don’t text Robin” directive. As if Henry or Robin knew what it took to stage a high school production, to raise the funds needed for a first-class program. No, she’d been the one to learn the ropes and target the department’s needs over the past two years. She’d gotten up at four a.m. to mark the course of the annual 5K. She’d ordered the shirts and drafted the budget. She’d been the one to suggest the costume shop as the perfect use for the remainder of Henry’s unexpected distribution payment last spring. And she’d been the one to place the call to Wayne to remind him that it was Andrew’s turn, really, to appear on the Liston Heights stage in a significant role.
She looked from the to-do list to a photo on the front of the stainless steel refrigerator door, of Andrew, Maeve Hollister, and Allen Song at last fall’s one-act festival, their arms around one another, Andrew’s smile the broadest she’d seen it.
Julia looked back at her list. The one item she couldn’t pass on, regardless of what she decided about contacting Robin again, pulsed at her from the page. Call the Youngs, her handwriting read, the box next to it conspicuously void of a checkmark. Just the thought of picking up the phone made Julia feel nauseated. Despite her involvement in the theater department, she and Annabelle Young weren’t particularly close. And Wayne mentioned that someone—who? Certainly not Robin?—had repeated Julia’s assessment of Melissa’s performance in Witches over Willow Street. She recalled that night at the Percys’ holiday party when she’d made the comments about Melissa’s untrained alto. She’d also said something about the size of the girl’s feet, she knew, but had she pointed out the wooden quality of her delivery? She could picture an empty second glass of wine. Probably she had.
Oh, God, Julia thought, dread overtaking her.
During her cleaning blitz, Julia had rehearsed the call a few times. Now she ducked into the powder room off the kitchen. She ran her own dialogue once more while watching herself in the mirror. “Annabelle?” she intoned. “It’s Julia Abbott calling. Yes, hello. Listen, I need to tell you, I’m so terribly sorry for the misunderstanding at school yesterday.” Julia gave herself a tiny nod. Her voice sounded steady and sincere. Okay, she thought, breathing in through her nose. “It’s time.”
Julia marched back into the kitchen and picked up her cell phone from the counter where she’d left it. A text from Henry lit the screen: How’d the call go? Hold your horses, Julia thought. She referenced the notes section of her planner, where she’d written Annabelle Young’s number, retrieved from the Booster database, which Julia herself maintained. She dialed.
Four rings, and then a woman’s “Hello?”
Julia cleared her throat and began just as she’d practiced, only maybe a little bit faster. She uttered “misunderstanding,” and then allowed herself a breath. Meanwhile, Annabelle paused, making a nondescript “ah” sound. Julia’s mouth felt sticky as she waited for the other woman to speak.
“I appreciate the call,” Annabelle said finally.
“Absolutely,” Julia said.
“Both Martin and I”—Annabelle’s voice grew louder in her ear—“well, we both really wish this had never happened.”
“I completely agree.” If Annabelle understood that the whole thing was an accident, perhaps she could steer the woman toward encouraging Wayne to reverse the board suspension?
“I have to say, I haven’t stopped thinking about what happened since Melissa called me crying from John Dittmer’s office after the incident.”
“She was crying?” Julia sank onto a kitchen stool. She noticed a damp smell and realized she’d forgotten to take out the compost.
“Yes. Melissa was embarrassed and in pain. And all of this on what should have been a very happy afternoon for her.” There was no mistaking Annabelle’s anger now.
The conversation probably wouldn’t be headed toward a board reinstatement. “I’m so sorry.” Julia felt helpless. It occurred to her to congratulate Annabelle on Melissa’s behalf, but as she opened her mouth to do it, she found that she hadn’t even registered her assigned role. Her elation over finding Andrew’s name overshadowed every other memory of the scene. “She’s really a terrific actress,” Julia offered.
“Look.” Annabelle’s voice became a shout. “Things have gotten completely out of hand. First, you publicly criticized Melissa’s work in Witches over Willow Street—”
Julia sat up straight, her cheeks warm. “I didn’t.”
Annabelle’s voice went cold. “We both know you certainly did.”
Julia tried again. “I’m not sure where you heard that, Annabelle, but I assure you that I respect Melissa’s talent very, very much.” Julia thought she heard a humph from the other end of the line, but Annabelle didn’t say anything further.
“Annabelle,” Julia ventured, “what else can I say except that the whole thing was a terrible accident? I obviously didn’t mean to hurt Melissa. I only meant to zip into the theater wing, check to see which role Andrew was given, and sneak back out. I got—” She paused. “Well, the bell rang, and there were so many students crowded around.”
Annabelle laughed then. “Checking to see which role Andrew was given, Julia? Do you mean which role you bought for him?”
“What?” Julia felt her own anger heightening. How could Annabelle suggest that Andrew hadn’t earned the part? That he hadn’t paid his dues?
“Anyone can see through the costume shop,” Annabelle said. “Andrew’s inspector will probably be the most expensive minor speaking role anyone’s ever performed on the Liston Heights stage.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Julia heard herself going shrill. “And can we get back to the heart of the matter?” She didn’t wait for a response. “I’m calling to apologize for an unfortunate accident. I would never purposely hurt a child. I’m wishing Melissa well in the play, and I’m looking forward to her performance.” The end, Julia thought.
> “Okay.” Annabelle sounded snide. “Thanks for the call.”
“You’re welcome,” she said.
“I’d say I’ll see you at the Booster Board meeting,” Annabelle added, “but I hear you’re taking some time off.” Julia’s eyes bulged, and her chin dropped. She was trying to be gracious! Only the most ungenerous person would gloat over her suspension. “I think that’s an excellent idea.” The anger had vanished from Annabelle’s voice, replaced by faux sweetness. “You could really use a big, long break.”
Julia pulled the phone from her ear and gave the red end button a decisive push. She felt a buzzing in her forehead and stood still, staring into the backyard through the sliding-glass door in the kitchen. Snow crusted over her favorite hydrangea, last year’s blooms brown and dry beneath the drift.
When her heartbeat had slowed, she walked back to the powder room and splashed cold water on her face. She stared at herself again in the mirror. This time she noticed the gray patch beneath each blue eye. She reached an index finger up to touch one, papery with a little give. Julia flicked off the lights. She grabbed her phone from the counter. It’s done, she tapped to Henry.
Back to business, she thought. Julia sank onto her stool and flipped open the cover of her MacBook Air to begin an e-mail to Robin. She’d send the documents for tomorrow’s board meeting after all, let them see all of the work she’d done. If they didn’t start publicizing the 5K, it wouldn’t raise money, and she didn’t want Andrew’s big chance attached to a subpar production. Julia’s fingers hovered over the keyboard for a beat before she started typing. Dear Robin, she began, I’m attaching a folder of crucial Booster files, as well as to-dos for the fund-raising subcommittee. I’m assuming, as my replacement on the board, you’ll also be taking care of the annual fun run. She paused. Just the thought of Robin planning a fund-raiser seemed laughable, and she felt a smile forming despite the stress of the phone call. As you may not be aware, she continued, we’re facing a budget shortfall due to the overages on the sets from the one-act festival. Who would have thought the giant apple tree could have required so many materials? Anyway—Julia built to her closing—I’m sure you’ll come up with something, and the 5K will go off without a hitch. Break a leg!
She clicked SEND. Done, she thought. And good luck managing all of that without me. She scanned her in-box before closing her laptop and paused on a notification from Facebook. Lisa Lions has tagged you in a video, the message title read.
Oh, shit, Julia thought. It had been bad enough that the video at the drama board had been circulating via Instagram and group text, but at least most of the parents lacked direct access to those things. If it was on Facebook, her entire circle would see it. And it was posted by Lisa Lions? Julia didn’t actually know who that person was—the username was obviously not a real one, the last name the mascot of Liston Heights High School. But she’d friended the “woman” that fall to gain access to a secret Facebook group that many of the other mothers had joined. “A Behind-the-Scenes Look for Parents Who Need to Know,” “Lisa” had called it. And it was true she’d enjoyed some of the posts there—little tidbits about faculty skirmishes and gossip about who took the longest to grade geometry finals. She and the other theater moms, Annabelle Young included, had laughed about it at many Booster meetings.
Hands shaking now, Julia clicked the link from her e-mail. She lowered her head to the kitchen counter as she saw the footage there at the top of the Inside Liston group page. Lisa Lions, her avatar the athletic department’s logo, had written, Your kids have all seen it, but have you? It’s Moms (or rather just one mom in particular) Gone Wild at the drama board. And then the bitch had tagged her, Julia’s name highlighted in blue. Julia looked to the upper-right-hand corner of her screen, her notifications accumulating as other users had added their comments on the video. She had nine so far.
The very definition of “going too far,” someone named Sheila Warner had written.
Was that poor girl hurt? someone else asked, to which Lisa Lions responded, Bruising to the abdomen and of course the shock and embarrassment of getting wrecked by your costar’s mother.
Julia stopped reading right there.
ANDREW ABBOTT
Andrew pushed through the vestibule into the theater, and the door whooshed closed behind him. The front rows overflowed with cast and crew members talking loudly and laughing, everyone waiting for the start of Ellis Island’s first rehearsal. Andrew recognized Melissa Young’s chin-length black hair immediately. She leaned forward in her seat, chatting with Anika Bergstrom. Andrew willed himself down the aisle, placing one Converse deliberately in front of the other. Behind Melissa and Anika, Allen Song dipped his head toward Maeve Hollister, pointing out something in the script. Andrew touched his back pocket, making sure his copy was still there.
When he was close enough to the front, he ducked into a row by himself. His leg immediately started to jiggle, and his palms felt damp. He looked at the concrete floor. The residue of a wad of gum, stained brown around the edges, poked out from the seat in front of him. A minute later, the directors walked onstage. “Gang!” Mr. Dittmer shouted.
The noise from the group diminished. “We’ve arrived at one of my favorite moments. You’ve all worked hard to be here, and I know you’re as committed as I am to making Ellis Island a powerful theatrical experience.” He paused, surveying the students. Tryg Ogilvie sat in the center of the second row, his head six inches above everyone else’s. Andrew felt a wave of anger, and his eyes narrowed at the back of Tryg’s head. Thanks for the Instagram post, asshole, he thought. As if things hadn’t been bad enough. And then, that morning, Andrew had seen Tryg’s photo on the Humans of LHHS Instagram account, a hand in his light brown hair, head cocked toward the drama bulletin board with the pink cast list out of focus behind him. “Of course I’m thrilled to be one of the only ninth graders in the cast,” the blurb began. Tryg already had 412 likes, and at the same time, the video posted on his own account was everywhere.
“We’re going to start,” said the director, “with a time-honored tradition in the theater. The read through.” He paused, lifting his copy of the script in the air and smiling. “When I’m finished talking here, the crew will meet Ms. Thompson in the lobby. The rest of you cast members will join me onstage with your scripts.”
Andrew lifted his hip and pulled his copy from his pocket. He flipped to his first line on page four. “‘Good day, sir,’” he repeated to himself. That was it. Easy enough.
“The goal is to get oriented,” Mr. Dittmer said. “Just to hear the words in our mouths and see each other’s faces. Ms. Thompson?” He smiled, glancing at her. “Do you have anything to add?”
“Nope,” she said cheerfully. “Let’s do it!”
“Okay, then!” Mr. Dittmer waved the actors onstage with his clipboard. Andrew waited until most of the kids had moved in their assigned directions. Then he stood, his mouth uncomfortably dry. Melissa took Allen Song’s outstretched hand to help her up from the orchestra pit while Andrew chose the stairs, grabbed a chair from stage right, and dragged it toward the circle that was forming in the center. He aimed for a spot next to Maeve, at whom he smiled nervously.
Maeve smiled back. “Hey,” she said to him. “Yeah, sit next to me.”
A momentary relief relaxed Andrew’s shoulders. “Thanks,” he said, and then when he was close enough, he whispered, “I’m kind of nervous.”
“It’s gonna be okay.” Maeve leaned back toward him. “No one thinks it’s your fault.”
“Are you sure? I mean, I’ve been worried.”
“I talked to Melissa about it.” Maeve patted Andrew’s knee with her book. “You weren’t even there.”
“But—” Andrew’s chair scuffed the stage.
“Look,” Maeve said, “I know it sucks, but everyone knows your mom is a total psycho.” She offered a sympathetic smile. “That’s not on you.”
ISOBEL JOHNSON
In the parking lot the next morning, Isobel dug in her tote for mascara. She flipped open the mirror on the driver’s-side sunshade and swiped a coat on each eye, pushing her glasses back into place once she’d finished. She inspected her hair—only slightly poofy today—and exited the van, bag over her shoulder. There were copies to make for first period, but with twenty-nine minutes to spare, she couldn’t help thinking she was golden. She smiled to herself. Surely, she’d picked up that “golden” expression from the kids, either her own or her students.
When she reached the door, she paused to check her outfit in its reflection. Her green A-line skirt was unwrinkled, her blouse trendy beneath her hip-length down jacket. Her sister, Caroline, had even sent a note with this top—Try it with last season’s green skirt. Isobel wondered what she’d do without Caroline’s seasonal hand-me-downs. Both times she’d needed maternity sizes rather than the usual sixes or eights, she’d caught Mark frowning at her outfits over their morning coffee.
“You could spend a little money on your own clothes,” he’d said just once, but she shook her head. The maternity items were from Savers, and she’d already told him any extra cash was going in equal amounts to a new account for their children and to the Rochester Area Charitable Foundation, to which she made a monthly contribution. Mark knew enough to drop it. Isobel had been happy to lose the pregnancy weight from Riley rather quickly, though, because in her first Grow and Glow at LHHS when the baby was six months old, she’d been wearing some oversized pilled-acrylic trousers with an elastic waistband. Mary Delgado had told her that Liston Heights parents really expected more professional attire. That had been humiliating, but she’d gotten the message.
She pulled open the door. As Isobel’s eyes adjusted to the light, she made out Eleanor Woodsley and Mary Delgado huddled in conversation just beyond the door to her classroom. A twinge of trepidation zinged from her collarbone, and a reflexive broad smile overtook the lower half of her face.
Minor Dramas & Other Catastrophes Page 10