Fame, Glory, and Other Things on My to Do List

by Janette Rallison

  Mary turned the cookie over in her hands. “This is probably laced with ex-lax, isn’t it?”

  “You’re such an ungrateful pig,” Lauren answered.

  Kate walked over to them and held out her hands, pleading. “You guys, this is not the time to fight. We’re trying to deliver a message of peace to the audience. How can we do that if we can’t find peace together, right now?”

  Mary pursed her lips. Her fingers tightened around her cookie until I thought she’d crush it. “I don’t care what message I’m delivering, I don’t trust Lauren.” She handed the gingerbread man to Kate. “But if you want to trust her, by all means, go ahead and eat my cookie too.”

  “We need to get along,” Kate said, but by that time Mary and Lauren had both turned and walked off. Still, Kate bit off one leg and than the other of the Maria cookie. As she gnawed on the middle she leaned up against the counter by me. “Man, I can hardly wait until this play is over. It’s nothing but stress and more stress. My stomach has been doing backflips since dress rehearsal.”

  “You’ll do fine,” I told her.

  “Andre is never going to stop with his political correctness cracks.”

  “Eventually he’ll find something else to occupy his attention.”

  Tye, who’d gone out to check on the size of the crowd, ran back into the greenroom. “The place is packed, and guess what—there isn’t just one news camera in the auditorium, there are three. They’re taking turns interviewing Jordan’s dad and Mrs. Shale.”

  A chorus of squeals went up from the girls in the room. Jordan, who stood in front of the costume rack reciting lines, suddenly began spitting them out like he was being interrogated by the play-police.

  “I don’t want to do this in front of reporters,” Kate said. “I feel sick.”

  “You’ll be fine.” I patted her shoulder. “The whole thing will be fine.”

  Which just goes to show you that I’d make a lousy fortune-teller.

  Personally, I wasn’t even nervous when the curtains came up. I mean, I’m used to having main parts in plays, so being a background dancer isn’t enough to rattle me. And as for my part as Velma—with lines like “Oo, oo, ooblee-oo”—who would be able to tell if I screwed it up? Plus, my parents never came till closing night, so I didn’t have to think about them watching me from the audience.

  I wasn’t even flustered when half the Jet dancers finished the opening dance two measures ahead of the song, making the rest of us look like we were behind. Big deal. What self-respecting gang members have rhythm anyway? It’s hard to count the beats to songs with all that cracko-jacko they’re doing.

  But the cameras seemed to have a bad effect on everyone, and as the play went on, the mistakes increased. Jeff delivered all of his lines in a rush, as though he couldn’t wait to get them out of his mouth. Kate said hers like she was in pain.

  Annabelle tripped during the “I Like to Be in America” dance number and just barely saved herself from falling into the orchestra pit. With one of her legs flailing, she took out a clarinet player, which sort of ruined the continuity of the song.

  The gang members kept forgetting their cues, and they either skipped big chunks of dialogue or had breaks where they just stood around not knowing who was supposed to speak next. In those parts Andre always improvised in a horrible way.

  When the actor who played A-rab forgot his, “Where you gonna find Bernardo?” line, Andre struck an Elvis-like pose, then said, “So you Jets want to sit here shooting the breeze, or do ya wanna do something fun like holding up a Circle K?”

  The other cast members stared at him blankly.

  “We’re hoodlums, so we should do hoodlum things. You know, rob convenience stores, trip roller skaters, and let dogs out of peoples backyards. Or, hey, I know, we could find Bernardo at the dance tonight at the gym. How about that, A-rab?”

  “Great, Daddy-o,” A-rab said.

  “And great Mommy-o too,” Andre replied.

  Which just goes to show you some people can’t be trusted in front of a camera.

  During the scene where the gang members yell insults and then set up the rumble, instead of saying the revised line, “Jerk!” one of the Jet gang yelled out, “Spic!” then clapped his hand over his mouth like he’d just been caught cursing at a church service. He looked helplessly toward the camera and said, “I didn’t mean that.”

  Andre smiled stiffly at the rival gang. “Yes he did. He meant that insult and many more! We curse you Sharks and all your Sharky spawn!”

  “Idiot!” One of the Sharks yelled back, but it was uncertain whether he was speaking to Andre or his character because he said the line with a smirk.

  “Wop!” A Jet yelled in return, and then winced at his mistake. “I mean, Whopper! That’s right. You’re nothing but a big burger who’s growing stale in some fast-food joint!”

  “We accept!” Jeff shouted, which didn’t really make sense anymore.

  Backstage the Jet girls all planned on dumping our gang boyfriends so we didn’t have to be seen with them in tomorrow’s performance.

  From the wings Mrs. Shale shook her head, grasped her shirt with one hand, and muttered, “Oh, oh, oh!” as though she was being struck with something.

  Right before our eyes West Side Story became a comedy. I wondered if the scriptwriters were alive and if they could sue us for defaming their musical.

  Only Jordan managed to keep any dignity during all of this. He said his lines flawlessly. Thoughtfully. Unfortunately, he almost looked odd doing it that way, since the rest of the cast was falling apart around him. Still, when he rammed the prop knife into Jeff, his anger seemed real, and when he stood over Jeff’s prone body and cried out, “Maria!” I wanted to cheer for him.

  During intermission Mrs. Shale gave us a talk that would have rivaled those given in the locker room during the Super Bowl. Our whole lives would be affected—no, apexed—by whether we could pull our acts together and stop humiliating her as a drama teacher. After she delivered her speech, she marched out of the greenroom to let us “think about it.”

  Like that was going to suddenly change everything. Like “apexed” was even a real word. As soon as she left, half the cast raided the soda machine. Andre, Tye, and Jeff drank their root beers without stopping for a breath, and then tried to burp to the tune of “I Feel Pretty.”

  I bought two Diet Sprites and brought one to Kate. She set it down on the makeup counter without opening it, then wrapped her hands around her stomach and slumped into a chair. “I feel sick.”

  I patted her on the shoulder. “You’re doing great, Kate. You knocked ’em dead with that last song.”

  “Yeah, well, death would explain their lack of applause.”

  “They clapped,” I said. Maybe not a lot, maybe not vigorously, but still there had been definite hand motion going on.

  She leaned her head against the chair. “I don’t think I can go back out there.”

  “Yes, you can. You can do it.”

  Kate gave a small whimper, then leaned forward and threw up on the floor.

  “Okay,” I said. “Maybe you can’t do it.”

  Kate shot up out of her chair and ran out of the room with her hand covering her mouth. I stared bleakly at the mess and hoped she made it to the bathroom in time for the next wave of nausea.

  “Can somebody get me some paper towels?” I called. “And a few plastic bags. And some latex gloves. And a lot of Lysol.”

  The room grew deathly quiet, and then everyone started talking at once. Most of the comments were along the lines of “Oh, gross!” A few people ran out of the room to either get supplies, Mrs. Shale, or perhaps fresh air. Mary walked up to Lauren, gripping her Coke so tightly I thought she’d crush the can between her fingers.

  “You!” she yelled. “You did this! You put something in my cookie, Kate ate it, and now she’s throwing up. You tried to poison me!”

  Lauren’s eyes flattened into angry slits. She walked up to Mary clenching her
own drink. Without a word, she flung the soda in Mary’s face.

  Mary stood gaping for a moment. The liquid trickled off the ends of her hair and fell in brown streaks onto her costume. Then she tossed her Coke all over Lauren. The next moment the two lunged at each other. Lauren grabbed Mary’s hair and yanked her head downward. Mary plowed into Lauren’s stomach and pushed her into the makeup counter. Bottles of foundation and tubes of mascara scattered everywhere. A bowl of Cheetos flew up in the air. For a moment they rained down like pieces of orange confetti. I took hold of Mary’s arm, yelled “Stop it!” and tried to pull her off of Lauren. Jordan came around the other side and put his arms around Lauren so she couldn’t make anymore flailing attempts to punch Mary. I pulled one way, Jordan tugged the opposite way, but neither girl let go of their grip on the other. Lauren had a hold on Mary’s shoulder, and as Jordan yanked Lauren backward Mary’s entire sleeve ripped off.

  “Look what you’ve done!” Mary screamed. “You’ve ruined my costume! You’ve ruined everything!”

  “We can fix it,” I said, my breaths coming in rushes. “We can safety pin it back together.” I didn’t let go of Mary. Jordan didn’t let go of Lauren. I could feel Coke soaking through my shirt from Mary’s wet hair. “Are you done fighting?” I asked.

  Mary jerked her arms away from me, then stood turning the ripped sleeve over and over in her hands. “Where am I going to find safety pins?”

  Lauren shrugged off Jordan’s grip and flung her wet hair away from her face. “I didn’t put anything in your stupid cookie. Kate probably got sick from watching your pitiful performance.” She ran her hand across her hair and looked down at the big brown spot on her dress. “Now I’m all sticky.” Without another word she stormed out of the greenroom.

  “I’ll try to find safety pins,” I told Mary. “Go wash the soda off your dress.”

  She nodded, then huffed out of the room, the sleeve still clutched in her hand.

  I turned to the makeup counter hoping to see safety pins amongst the clutter and spilled bottles.

  “I’ll look in Mrs. Shale’s office,” Jordan said.

  “Thanks,” I called over to him. I sifted through a stack of Q-tips and bobby pins. Nothing.

  Jordan opened the door, but before he left, he called my name. “Hey, Jessica. You know how you said one day I’d understand what you see in drama?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “I’m still not seeing it.”

  Then he left.

  I went through the entire makeup counter and everyone’s coat pockets. I found paper clips, loose change, a battery, countless sticks of gum, and some things that would no doubt shock Tye’s mother if she ever checked in his jacket. But no safety pins.

  Some of the cast came back with cleaning supplies. Using an entire roll of paper towels—I mean, Kate is my best friend, but anybody’s throw-up is way too yucky to touch—I cleaned up the mess. No one knew where Mrs. Shale had gone, although several people suggested it may have been into hiding. While Jeff helped me bag up the toxic waste, Jordan came back with a roll of duct tape. “It’s the best I could find,” he told me. “Can’t she just wear another dress? How about the one you wear as Velma?”

  See, that’s really sweet. I mean, when a guy doesn’t realize that a girl who’s built like Pamela Anderson cannot just switch dresses with me—well, it says something good about him. “It wouldn’t fit,” I told him.

  “Besides,” Jeff said, “you’re going to need it to play Anita. I mean, you can’t wear Kate’s dress. She probably got vomit on it.”

  “I’m not playing Anita,” I said. “We can’t switch actresses midperformance. The audience will wonder why Velma is suddenly Maria’s best friend.”

  Jeff pulled the ties on the garbage sack, then twisted them into a knot. “You have to play Anita. The play already stinks. What’s going to happen if Kate starts heaving onstage?” He didn’t give me a chance to answer. Holding the garbage sack away from him like it might try to reach out and grab him, he walked out of the greenroom.

  “Maybe Kate is feeling better now,” I said to no one in particular.

  Jordan cocked his head and walked over to me. “Don’t you want the part? I thought this was every understudy’s dream. The agent is here, the reporters are here, then out from the lower ranks of the Jet rabble—a new star appears. You might actually be able to turn the play around. It’s your chance at fame.”

  I screwed the Lysol lid back onto the bottle and put it on the makeup counter. “If Anita is suddenly a tall blond girl instead of a short brunette, it will make the play worse, not better. Besides, even if I felt horrible, I would drag myself out onstage and finish my part. Kate might not want me to take over now.”

  Jordan leaned up against the counter. “Ah yes, the show must go on. The show is all important. I forgot for a moment that you were one of those types of actresses.” He smiled, but it was still an accusation. “The drama teacher screwed you over when it came to both trust and casting. The Marias are trying to claw each other to death—one of whom took the part you wanted, the other took your last boyfriend. What the principal didn’t already rewrite, Andre is rewriting onstage. Your best friend is in the bathroom throwing up, and you’re still trying to salvage this play.”

  Anyone else would have admired my dedication to putting on a good play. Unfortunately, I liked the one guy in the world who saw this as a character flaw. With palms up, I held my hands out to him. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “Drama is more important to you than anything else.”

  No, it isn’t, I wanted to say, but we’d already had this conversation. He hadn’t believed me then. I didn’t know how to convince him now. “Jordan—” I started. I didn’t get to finish.

  Mrs. Shale bustled into the greenroom. “Jessica, put on a dress. You’re now Anita.” She ran one hand across her forehead, wiping away a sheen of sweat. “I guess I’ll have to go out and explain to the audience that we’ve had an illness. Maybe it will garner some pity support for us.” Her head swung around the greenroom. “Where are Lauren and Mary? Intermission is supposed to be over, and we can’t do ‘I Feel Pretty’ without them.”

  “Is Kate going to be all right?” I asked.

  “Her mother is taking her home. It’s probably just a flu bug with bad timing.”

  Well, maybe. I didn’t want to think Lauren was capable of poisoning someone, but it did make me wonder. I was surprised Mary wasn’t here at Mrs. Shale’s side pointing this fact out.

  Mrs. Shale did a full turn of the room, then threw her hands up in the air. “WHERE ARE LAUREN AND MARY?”

  “Probably washing Coke out of their hair,” Jordan said.

  Mrs. Shale swore—something that teachers are not supposed to do in front of students but that Mrs. Shale was making a production-night tradition of—then she walked to the door.

  Jordan said, “Hey, you might need this,” and threw the tape at her.

  She looked at it blankly. “Why do I need tape?”

  “Mary had a wardrobe malfunction. We couldn’t find safety pins.”

  Mrs. Shale swore again, and gripped the tape. “I’ll take care of her costume. Jordan, you go tell the audience that Anita is ill, and we’ll be another couple of minutes. Make it sound bad. We need all the sympathy we can get.”

  Mrs. Shale left. Jordan left. I went to put on a dress. Five minutes later I stood in the wings repeating all of Anita’s lines in my head. Jordan had told me I could turn this play around. I wasn’t sure about that, but I was going to try.

  The curtain opened to reveal the inside of Maria’s bedroom. Maria was supposed to be dressing up to run away with Tony while her friends visited. But instead of looking like she was on her way to paint the town, Mary looked like she’d been hosed off in a barroom brawl. Wet hair clung to her neck in strands. She’d tried to wash out the big brown Coke spot on her white dress but had just managed to get her entire front damp.

  When Lauren, similarly attired like
a beached mermaid, asked Maria where she was going, and then said, “She’s just dolling up for us,” the audience laughed.

  Mary’s face turned bright red, and she forgot her next line. Lauren, who knew Maria’s lines as well as Mary knew them, didn’t offer any help. She just stood on stage, one eyebrow raised, a catlike smile plastered on her face.

  After a few more moments of silence and glaring, the orchestra struck up the music for “I Feel Pretty.” This might have smoothed over the rough spot, except that while Mary danced and sang, her sleeve came unattached. It slid down her arm, and with one quick move, Mary flung the sleeve across the stage, and it hit Lauren in the face. Lauren stopped mid–dance step, picked up the sleeve, and tossed it back in Mary’s face. Still singing, Mary grabbed the sleeve, walked over to Lauren, and tried to shove it down the front of her dress. Lauren grabbed Mary’s arm, and then the two of them wrestled, twisting on the stage in an arm-locked position while Annabelle stood stiffly dancing in the background and picked up the last chorus by herself. “I feel stunning, and entrancing, feel like running and dancing for joy . . .”

  Tye, who was to come onstage next, stood beside me with his mouth hanging open. I took hold of his arm. “Chino, go out there and break them up,” I whispered.

  He gave me an incredulous what-am-I-supposed-to-do look, but I just pushed him onstage. “Maria?” he called.

  She was supposed to say, “I’m in here. I was just getting ready to—”

  But neither Lauren nor Mary looked at him. They were too busy trying to push each other over and getting dangerously close to ramming into the set. Tye motioned to Annabelle to help him, and the two of them managed to pull Mary and Lauren apart. “So Maria,” Tye called out when he’d heaved Mary away from Lauren.

  She still didn’t say her line—which was too bad, since it would have been quite clear to the audience that what she was getting ready to do was strangle her backup singer. Tye, bereft of any of his cues, just stared out at the audience, gulped, then spit out, “About that rumble you didn’t think was going to happen—so it turns out Tony killed your brother.”