Short

by Holly Goldberg Sloan

  I feel my face turn red, which happens when I’m embarrassed or angry. Right now I think that I’m both. I want to yell: STOP LOOKING AT OLIVE LIKE SOMETHING’S WRONG WITH HER!

  But I don’t.

  Instead I walk right up to the table, and I sit down and manage, “Hey, Olive, thanks for coming here today.”

  She just smiles.

  Olive has on sunglasses. She lowers them as she asks, “Do you want ice cream? My treat.”

  I brought a dollar and seventy-two cents, because that’s all I had in my coin purse. I’d like to pay for both of us, but that’s not possible.

  We go inside, and we each get a scoop of mocha almond fudge in a sugar cone. I believe this is a great combination, and I like this flavor of ice cream even more since I started drinking the cold coffee left around by my parents.

  Olive and I return outside, but instead of going back to the table by the door, I head over to a bench that’s under the shade of a tree near the side of the building. I’m not hiding us, but I don’t like people to stare at Olive.

  When we take our seats she says, “I don’t care if people look at me.”

  I guess I’m busted, but I answer, “It’s nicer in the shade. Plus I don’t have on enough sunscreen.”

  Olive nods but she probably knows that’s not why I wanted to move.

  I wait for Olive to say something else, but she doesn’t.

  I’m thinking she’s going to talk to me about commitment and how I’ll be able to figure out a way to do the dancing that Shawn Barr wants. I’m guessing that she will speak about being brave and also about finding power in the world.

  I take my time with my ice cream, but when I get to the last bite of the cone, Olive still hasn’t said a single thing. Not one word.

  She finishes eating, and she gets to her feet and says, “I’ll see you at rehearsal, Julia.”

  It’s not a command and it’s not a question.

  It’s just a fact.

  It’s the way it is.

  She will see me at rehearsal.

  She tilts her head at an angle, and it blocks the burning edge of the sun. She smiles and then turns and walks away.

  I have a thousand things in my head that I could call out, but I surprise myself. All I manage is, “Okay. See you at rehearsal.”

  I walk home, and I try to figure out what happened. I decide that Olive believes in me. I think showing up and eating the ice cream was her way to say that.

  Maybe you don’t have to speak to be heard.

  Because I don’t remember silence being so loud before.

  THIRTEEN

  I want a good-memory reminder of this morning in my scrapbook, so when I get home I open a can of olives I find in the cupboard. I put them in a bowl in the refrigerator (after eating seven). I then tear off the label and leave the empty can in the recycling. The label says:

  PITTED BLACK OLIVES—EXTRA LARGE

  I find scissors and carefully cut the paper to remove the part that says “Pitted Black” and also the S until I just have:

  OLIVE —EXTRA LARGE

  This isn’t a joke. It’s how I feel.

  Olive isn’t tall but she’s large in my life.

  I glue the paper label into my scrapbook and write the date in red ink next to it. I wish I’d taken a napkin or a cup from Dell Hoff’s, because that might be a better memory trigger.

  But I have to work within my limitations.

  Mrs. Vancil spent a lot of time last year in class making this point. She said that the solution to any problem could be found at least in part within twenty feet.

  Okay, maybe not the best solution, but at least a solution.

  I don’t think this applies to being in the space shuttle and losing oxygen (which is a recurring dream I have) or to being trapped on the Titanic on the bottom deck when things go wrong, but I understand my teacher’s bigger point. If you look around, you can find stuff in your own kitchen cabinet.

  It’s only two hours later when I leave for rehearsal.

  I’m nervous in the car, but I sit up front because I don’t want Mom asking me a lot of questions. I turn on the radio right away and I pretend that I’m really interested in the music. I can’t face any kind of conversation, plus I’m supposed to be recovering from a sore throat.

  The use of the radio to block people’s feelings isn’t just for cars. I think they play songs in stores and also in many restaurants and buildings and even elevators to make a kind of cushion. There are times at school when I think I’d do better if the teacher just let us listen to something pleasant with guitars and maybe a bit of soft drumming.

  During, say, math, as an example. Supportive music might help me with more complex equations.

  Who doesn’t need a soundtrack in life?

  The pounding drums on the car radio work, because by the time my mom drives into the circle in front of the theater, I’m not worrying so much that I’m the lead dancer. The music has gotten inside my head and pulled me away.

  Plus, I’ve decided that maybe being the lead dancer doesn’t mean anything and it’s just an honor. Like team captain.

  A lot of people have meaningless titles.

  At school they have Student of the Month. I’ve never been picked for that, but it seems pretty worthless. It’s not like you are suddenly allowed to show up a half an hour late or get special pizza for lunch.

  I left my flowerpot hat and Munchkin shoes at home so as not to point out that I’m the person who showed “initiative.”

  As soon as I enter the theater I see Shawn Barr stretched out on the picnic table, only today it’s set off to the side, not center stage. He doesn’t say hello in any special kind of way when I walk in, which is encouraging.

  Once everyone has arrived (except Nebraska Moonie, who Charisse says has food poisoning from shrimp jambalaya), Shawn Barr speaks to us through a bullhorn. It’s the kind where you press your finger on a trigger and it makes your voice sound like you’re part of the Coast Guard.

  I’m waiting for him to shout “Man overboard!”

  Instead he says, “Everyone up onstage!” It feels like the same thing.

  I stick with Olive. She’s now my anchor.

  Shawn Barr isn’t going to play the piano because of his medical condition, but there is a new helper waiting to do that. She has pages of sheet music. Shawn Barr didn’t have that, and I now realize he must know all of the notes by heart. I can’t believe I never noticed this before. I know how hard it is to play the piano even when you have the music right in front of you as the map of what to do.

  The woman hits the keys for the first song, and we begin by warming up our voices. I guess we sound okay, because Shawn Barr then says, “All right, everyone on their feet. Places!”

  Olive and I move to our spot and wait. Shawn Barr gives the piano player the go-ahead and we start the first dance that we’ve supposedly already learned. It’s amazing how quickly I forget these things. I try to silently repeat, “Left foot, right foot, turn, kick, forward, backward, right arm up, left arm down.”

  Then I get lost.

  I’m happy that I’m not the only one who is having trouble.

  Shawn Barr says, “Okay, let’s try that again. You must follow the choreography, but also be intuitive in your body expression.”

  It’s a lot to ask.

  I keep trying to plan ahead, but it’s not working.

  Suddenly I hear Shawn Barr say, “Julia Marks, as our lead dancer, would you move to the front?”

  My legs turn into cooked spaghetti.

  I also hear a buzzing like maybe mosquitos are stuck inside my ears.

  Then Olive saves me, because I hear, “As her partner, should I go too?”

  Shawn Barr nods. “Okay, sure.”

  Olive is really close to me now, and she whispers, “Just f
ollow my feet. Don’t think about anything else. Just my feet, Julia.”

  I nod because my throat has died and I don’t think I can speak. But I guess I can walk, since I find myself with Olive up front.

  Shawn Barr says, “Follow these dancers. You don’t need to worry about your singing. Right now this is all about moving together and then getting a pace.”

  Olive looks right at me, and her voice is soft. “Don’t think ahead. You don’t need to remember what’s coming up. Just copy me.”

  I’ve copied people before.

  It’s wrong to look over at someone else’s paper in the middle of a spelling test, but I’ve found myself doing that a few times.

  This is a different kind of copying, though. This is mirroring, like in our acting exercise from the first rehearsal.

  The music starts, and I keep my eyes on Olive’s feet. It’s like there’s nothing else in the whole world but her ankles and toes. I forget that I’m onstage and all these other Munchkins and Shawn Barr and Charisse are watching. Nothing matters but what Olive is doing.

  And then the next thing I know the song is over, and I hear something.

  It’s clapping.

  Shawn Barr says, “Much better, people!”

  Olive reaches over and takes my hand and gives it a squeeze. I feel like I just ran around the track at school, and my face has that kind of hot feeling. The buzzing in my ears isn’t as bad as before. Then Shawn Barr says, “Let’s go again.”

  The buzzing returns.

  The piano starts back up, and I again copy Olive. Somehow, some way, this goes on for what seems like six days, and then these words come through the bullhorn: “Let’s take a break and work only on singing.”

  It’s the greatest thing I’ve ever heard.

  We all sit down.

  I’d like to lie on my side and tuck my knees to my chest. If I had a blanket and anything to use as a pillow, I’d be asleep in two minutes.

  But we’re not done, we’re just shifting gears.

  The thing about singing is that I make sure I look as if I’m really loud, but I’m careful to actually sing softly. That way my voice mixes with the others, who can all carry a tune. I know the words now, because I go to sleep hearing the melody and I wake up almost humming about the yellow brick road.

  Today Shawn Barr wants us to try singing in the crunched-up way, which sounds more high-pitched. Randy is great, and I can hear his voice even though there are thirty-nine of us onstage.

  I guess Shawn Barr hears Randy’s singing too. “Today I’m assigning parts,” he says. “There are solos for the Mayor of Munchkinland, the coroner, and three members of the Lollipop Guild. Quincy will be the coroner.”

  I look over at Larry because I know he would want a special part. The air in my lungs is released when I hear Shawn Barr say, “Larry will be one of the three Lollipop Guild boys. He will be joined by Jared Nast and Miles Beck.”

  Larry raises his hands over his head like he just won a huge prize. Jared Nast and Miles Beck smile.

  Shawn Barr keeps going. “I want Randy Marks to sing the part of the mayor.”

  I wink at Randy (even though my winking isn’t the best; it sometimes just looks like I’ve got something in my eye). He seems happy, but not really that different from usual. Maybe he knew he was going to be the mayor. I don’t talk to him much about the play when we’re at home. We’re both too busy.

  Suddenly I realize that there is no special part for Olive.

  That must be a mistake.

  Shawn Barr continues, “There is also the Lullaby League, which will include three girls: Desiree Curtis, Sally Ettel, and Nina Slovic.”

  I’m sitting next to Olive, and I can just feel her disappointment. Her body is in knots.

  Then Shawn Barr says, “Also—one last thing—I’ve decided to use a few of you Munchkins to fill out the flying monkeys. We have the boys coming from Cleveland, but we need the crew to start working the wires. My add-on monkeys will be Olive Cortez and Julia Marks.”

  A flying monkey?

  Did I hear that right?

  Both of us?

  Olive leans over, and she’s excited but does her best to keep her voice low. “We get to do two parts! That’s so great!”

  I slap my hands together in a clap of total excitement, and everyone looks at me. I guess I have leadership qualities, because suddenly everyone else starts to clap.

  Shawn Barr says, “Yes, let’s hear it for our featured performing artists!”

  That’s what we are: featured performing artists.

  Shawn Barr told us recently that self-respect is critical to a good performance, and while the words “actor” and “actress” are okay, he wants us to say “performing artist” as much as possible. “This isn’t Clown College,” he said.

  I secretly think any place called Clown College sounds fun, but I understand he was making a point. I wonder what he’d think of my mom’s outfit from the Goodwill store.

  I can’t believe how quickly things change in the theater business.

  This morning I was ready to quit and spend the rest of the summer thinking about writing Piper a letter, and now I’ve survived one whole rehearsal as the lead dancer and I even got a promotion! I’m breaking out into other parts of the show!

  That’s what we’re doing: a show. I feel like my insides are exploding, because my stomach is going flippity-flop.

  Shawn Barr speaks again into the bullhorn. “Everyone is excused for today, with the exception of the just-announced featured players. Please go over your lyric sheets at home tonight and work on your enunciation. Some of you are having trouble. There is a big difference between stitch, ditch, pitch, and witch! Practice, people, practice!”

  The other Munchkin kids leave, and I’m going to be honest and admit I couldn’t wait to get rid of them. Now we featured performing artists can gather around Shawn Barr, and he doesn’t have to use his bullhorn. I think he’s happy. I know I am.

  He says, “Quincy—you are the coroner. Can you do an Irish brogue?”

  Quincy sort of puffs up and sticks out his chest and says, “I can do Kerry. Limerick. Donegal. Belfast. Derry. County Claire. And County Cork.”

  He uses different accents to say each of these, and while I have no idea what he’s talking about, I’m very impressed.

  Shawn Barr only nods. “Stick with just regular Irish.”

  Quincy makes two fists and starts doing rapid boxing moves. He’s punching an imaginary enemy.

  I think it’s funny, but Shawn Barr ignores him.

  The next instructions go to Randy. Charisse hands him a piece of paper with the words, but it turns out my brother already knows them, because he starts to sing and he sounds perfect.

  Shawn Barr nods when Randy finishes and says, “You are rising to the occasion. Do your best to keep a lid on any potential growth spurts in the next month. You’re right on the edge of being too tall for the part.”

  Randy smiles in his usual way, which is dreamy and what Grandma Mittens calls “self-possessed.” I use the word “possessed” to talk about demons. Randy doesn’t have those. At least not that I know of.

  Shawn Barr goes over the other assigned singing parts and explains that the Lullaby League girls should be in ballet slippers and work on their toes, which isn’t a problem for Desiree Curtis, Sally Ettel, and Nina Slovic, because it now comes out that they are ballet dancers.

  So I guess that was an inside job.

  I’m wondering why they aren’t lead dancers. They smile, and to me they look more coordinated than they did a few minutes ago. I also see now that compared to the rest of us they are pint-sized.

  Interesting.

  These girls are very nice, and I’m going to need to get to know them better. The problem is that friendship involves choices, because you can’t sit next to two grou
ps at once.

  Right now I’m choosing Olive, Quincy, and Larry, because they have more to teach me about the world.

  FOURTEEN

  Shawn Barr tells the other featured performers they’re done for the day except Olive and me.

  My brother Randy says he’ll wait outside in the front circle. Larry and Quincy look like they want to stay, but Shawn Barr waves them off.

  Two college guys, who we’ve seen around doing jobs like carrying things and moving lights, suddenly show up, and there is a new guy with them. He must be the boss, because Shawn Barr only speaks to him.

  His name is Gianni. No one says his last name. Shawn Barr explains that Gianni is in charge of the technical parts of the play.

  Gianni looks us over. He smiles as he says, “Nice to meet you, girls. How much do you weigh?”

  I stare at Gianni but I don’t answer his question.

  I actually have no idea how many pounds I am, because I don’t get on the scale very often. I haven’t really grown in a while, so I guess I weigh whatever I weighed the last time I checked. Only now I don’t remember what that was.

  Numbers are fuzzy to me. They come and they go.

  Olive is my size, but she has more curves. Maybe I should just say I weigh whatever she says minus a few pounds for a difference in body type?

  But Olive also stays silent. We don’t answer. We just look at this new guy.

  Gianni has what’s called a man-bun.

  He has a red elastic that’s holding back his thick hair. Maybe my staring at the man-bun makes him think about it, because suddenly he takes the elastic out and frees his long, wavy curls.

  I like his hair down in this style, but I don’t tell him because we just met. He says, “I think for today we should just start by seeing if the harnesses fit.”

  Since Olive and I didn’t answer the weight question, maybe he decided it was rude and that he should move on.

  The next thing I know, the other two guys bring over what look like a bunch of seat belts with straps attached.