by Dani Jansen
I brought up the topic of selling ads at our next production team meeting. No one was exactly enthusiastic.
Zach looked at the ground as he apologized. “Sorry, Al. I’ve been dealing with some personal stuff lately and I’ve fallen behind with the costumes. I can’t help with the ads if we want to start fittings soon.” I remembered our conversation about the closeted boyfriend and told him not to worry about it. He was looking a little rough, now that I took a second glance. He had dark under-eye circles and his sneakers were scuffed.
Jenny didn’t even try to make an excuse. “I’m not doing that,” she said. You had to give the girl credit for being straightforward.
That left Annie and Becca. I looked at them both, and they looked at each other. I could feel another “no” coming on, so I decided to break out the puppy dog eyes. Becca laughed and Annie rolled her eyes, but I could tell they felt sorry for me. I was not beyond using pity to get the job done.
“I can’t this week,” Annie said. “But maybe next week I can go grovel for money for you.” Her tone told me she was serious, so I didn’t push her. I was hoping to get the ads sorted this week, but if that didn’t work out, it would be useful to have backup for the week after. Anyway, Annie’s blue hair might turn off some of the more conservative business owners.
We all looked at Becca who put her hands on her hips but eventually conceded. “Fine. I’ll knock on some doors this week. Maybe my dad will want to buy an ad for the store.” Becca’s father owned a local hardware store where all the suburban do-it-yourselfers went for advice and supplies.
“Great! Maybe he’d even be willing to help us build some of the set pieces?” I knew I was pushing my luck, but Ms. James still hadn’t been able to find me a student volunteer who knew anything about building. Obviously, having had just one shop class in Grade 8 was insufficient. None of my peers could build anything more useful than a birdhouse.
“Maybe.” Becca sounded skeptical, but I knew Mr. McArthur liked a challenge. I just had to present the set design as a creative experiment, a way to test his skills in a new way. Helping clueless homeowners build decks got boring after a while. Jenny’s designs and Mr. Evans’s unusual requests would certainly keep Mr. McArthur on his toes.
The rest of the meeting went well, if I do say so myself. Jenny showed us some pictures of the backdrops she was outlining. As usual, she dismissed our compliments but blushed under her makeup. Zach really was behind. He hadn’t made any progress since our last meeting, but at least he had a plan for how he would catch up. Costume fittings for some of the actors could start as early as next week, so I made a note to ask Mr. Evans to let the actors leave rehearsals for their fittings. Annie had managed to find an old ukulele a musician friend was willing to give away for free and had painted it bright turquoise. She was also collecting fake flowers and greenery for the fairy scenes. Finally, Becca said she’d been able to talk a couple of her acquaintances into helping out with lighting and sound at the show. I wondered what kind of persuasion that had required. We needed them, so I chose not to ask about her methods.
“We’re in pretty good shape,” I told my team. I was proud of them and I wanted them to know it. “Thanks for everything you’re doing.”
“Happy to do it,” Zach said before he left. He seemed down, but it appeared like the meeting had distracted him from his worries, at least for a little while.
Jenny grunted at me and stomped out the door. Her rudeness didn’t bother me anymore. I was starting to suspect it was a cover for extreme shyness.
Annie, Becca, and I left the meeting. It was nice to know we were driving home together without having to say anything. It felt like things were back to normal. I asked Becca if maybe we could go see her father at his store after we dropped off Annie.
“You don’t waste time, do you?” Becca twirled Harvey’s keys in her right hand as we made our way down the empty school hallway. I grinned at her. “At least the store isn’t too busy on Wednesdays. He’ll probably have time to talk to us.” I grinned some more, and Becca warned me, “But don’t get your hopes up.”
After we dropped Annie at home, Becca took me to her father’s store. She parked Harvey at the back of the parking lot. He wasn’t always well-behaved in parking lots, so it was usually best to park far away from other cars. He didn’t exactly accelerate smoothly, and the soccer moms in their SUVs didn’t like it when a car came mere inches from their bumpers.
McArthur Hardware smelled like wood and glue and paint. There was something wholesome about the smell, though that feeling was maybe influenced by my childhood memories of playing hide-and-go-seek in the aisles. We wound our way through shelves stocked with screws, nails, and bolts. Becca waved at a few of the employees wearing the blue-and-red-striped apron uniform. At the back of the store, Becca knocked at a door marked Employees Only. I remembered how important we felt walking through that door when we were little.
At the end of a short hallway, Becca’s father was seated at his desk, his office door open. He smiled wide when he saw us, setting aside a stack of papers he’d been reviewing. He was a big man with a smile to match. “Hi, girls! I can’t remember the last time you visited me at work. Are you here to ask for money to go get ice cream?” Mr. McArthur teased us, hearkening back to the days in middle school when we would take the school bus to the strip mall where his shop was located just so we could get enough money to go to the convenience store next door to get Popsicles. “I don’t have any screws that need sorting today, unfortunately.”
“Darn.” Becca’s sarcasm was half-hearted. Mr. McArthur had never made us sort screws for long. He would put us to work for five minutes before giving us the money we needed and shooing us out. It might have had something to do with our singing. Time might have passed faster for us when we sang while we worked, but it probably slowed to a near stop for everyone else.
Becca plopped down in a chair across from her father. She mostly looked like her mother, her dark hair and brown skin part of her Moroccan heritage, but she had her father’s eyes, right down to the sparkle of humor. I took the empty seat beside Becca.
“So. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Mr. McArthur pushed his reading glasses to the top of his head. He was a little chubbier and a little balder than he used to be, but he still had the muscled arms of a man who had always worked with his hands.
“Alison has something she wanted to talk to you about,” Becca explained.
They both looked at me, and I stuttered, “Well, ah, Mr. McArthur, you see, we’re working on the school play, you know?” I sounded like an idiot. Not the kind of person who persuaded others to do them favors.
But Mr. McArthur was kind. “Yes, I do know that. Is there something you need help with?”
“Well, actually, yes. See, we need to build some stuff for the set. I think they’re called platforms. Also, trees. Well, not real trees, but things that look like trees that our set painter can, uh, paint. And maybe some other stuff that the director hasn’t thought of yet.” I paused. “You know how the birdhouses went in Grade 8.” Mr. McArthur nodded. Becca still had a scar on her right thumb thanks to that project. “I don’t know anyone who can build stuff that’s safe. Except for you. So I was kinda hoping you might, you know…help us build the sets.” The rambling was embarrassing. This is what happened when I didn’t rehearse what I wanted to say. I probably should have written a letter and passed it along to Mr. McArthur via Becca. It was too late now, though.
“I don’t know, Alison. I’m awfully busy.” Mr. McArthur gestured at the paperwork on his desk, proof that the owner of a small business didn’t have time to volunteer to build sets for the high-school play.
“I totally understand, Mr. McArthur. But it will be such an interesting project! Think about it. Have you ever built a tree? It’ll put your creative juices to work.” Creative juices? I was starting to sound like Mr. Evans, which was truly terrifying. But
I couldn’t stop now. “Plus, you’re so good, I’m sure it’ll hardly take you any time.”
Mr. McArthur held up his hands in surrender and chuckled. “Okay, okay, okay. You can stop with the flattery. I’ll do it.”
“You will?” I looked at Becca, who seemed just as surprised as I was.
Mr. McArthur shrugged his shoulders. “Why not? Might even be fun.”
“Thanks!” I stood up and reached out to shake his hand. Mr. McArthur chuckled again and took my hand. I could feel the calluses he’d earned through years of physical work. Much like Becca, he came across as tough, but underneath he was kind and generous. Before we left, I agreed to send him the “specs” as soon as I had them. I also made a note to myself to figure out who would have the specs.
When we reached Harvey, Becca performed the car-starting rituals. As we pulled out of the parking lot, she said, “See? You get people to do shit. It’s like some kind of weird magic power.”
I thought that it was probably the gift of getting people to feel sorry for me, but I wasn’t about to give up any power I had in this battle royale against the Red Binder.
CHAPTER 26
The brass bell over the glass door tinkled. Again. The first dozen times, I thought the sound was musical. That was before the infuriating conversation with the gum-chewing clerk who couldn’t figure out how to page the manager for me. It was also before I roamed the aisles of Avon Craft Supplies looking for the manager, only to find her back at the front cash, chatting with the gum-chewer, who hadn’t bothered to tell the manager I was looking for her. And it was before said manager insisted on having me make my pitch standing at the front counter in front of her gray-haired customers, all of whom seemed to think I was “adorable,” but who kept interrupting me to ask for a particular knitting needle or to argue the price of a glue gun. At this point, I wanted to rip the brass bell off the wall and run it over with my father’s Volvo. But I didn’t. I kept my cool and asked the manager if she would be interested in buying a quarter-, half-, or full-page ad in the program.
The manager looked up from a stack of cross-stitch patterns long enough to say to me, “Oh, I don’t think so, dear. We have commitments to other organizations, and we don’t have the budget to support any more causes this month. Why don’t you leave me your phone number, and I’ll call if things change.” She was trying to be nice, but I knew she was brushing me off.
This was my fifth store of the afternoon, and they’d all given me the runaround. The Laundromat owner had to “consult” with his wife before committing. The king of used car sales wasn’t sure about buying an ad to a Shakespeare performance when there were “more popular” avenues open to him. The grocery store manager and the florist just told me to leave the price list with them and walked me out, darting looks left and right as they shooed me out the door. It was like they were afraid to be seen with me, which sounded completely paranoid. I knew that. And yet…I didn’t know how else to explain it. I’d done my share of fundraising for walk-a-thons. When people said no to a kid asking for money, they were usually apologetic. But they weren’t nervous.
I hoped Becca was having more luck than I was. We’d agreed it would be too much to ask her father to both volunteer his time and buy an ad, so Becca was targeting the other businesses in the strip mall where McArthur Hardware had been a mainstay for twenty years. Becca knew all the owners and managers. We hoped they’d remember the little girl in braids who liked to follow her daddy around.
Becca called me as I was leaving the craft store. I sat on a bench on the sidewalk and kicked at some pebbles. “Al, this is seriously weird. Old Mrs. Lawrence had zero interest in buying an ad. She used to buy out almost all my cookies when I was in Brownies, just to be helpful. I thought it might just be an off day for her, but I got a no at every store I went into.”
“Yeah, I’m not having any luck either. Do you think our prices are too high?” I stood up and paced the sidewalk.
“I don’t think so,” Becca said. “Mrs. Lawrence didn’t even let me show her the price list. No one has said anything to me about the prices. You?”
I stopped pacing and sat back down on the bench. I leaned forward, elbows on my knees, and stared at the concrete. “No. You’re right. No one has said anything about the prices.”
I could hear the creaky sound of Becca opening and closing her car door. “Maybe it’s just a bad time to ask,” she suggested. “We can give it another shot next week.”
“Maybe. Thanks for trying, Becca. Now get off the phone before you start driving!” Becca wasn’t an attentive driver at the best of times. I would not have her getting into an accident because she was on her cell talking to me.
“Yes ma’am.” Becca chuckled and ended the call.
I might have stayed there feeling sorry for myself, but my phone buzzed. It was another message from Charlotte. Over the last two days, she had inundated me with photos of corgis doing “cute” things like attacking empty bottles and chasing their own tails. She was on a campaign to get me to love corgis. I wasn’t any fonder of corgis, but I was falling hard for the girl sending me the texts. I smiled like an idiot as I texted her back. Even though I was sitting on a splintery bench looking out at a drab suburban street, I felt great.
I decided Becca was right. We’d probably have better luck next week. In the meantime, I had texts to answer and an outfit to pick out for Saturday night.
CHAPTER 27
By Saturday afternoon I was reduced to googling “What do lesbians wear on dates?” The results weren’t all that helpful. I went from worrying about what to wear to agonizing over who would pay for the date. I had technically asked Charlotte out, so some websites suggested I should offer to pay. But that seemed weirdly old-fashioned. Would she think I was pushy if I paid? Or would she think I was rude if I didn’t offer to pay? I checked my account balance to make sure I had enough cash left over from my summer job babysitting the Pratchett twins to buy supper. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that I had a good chunk of change sitting in my checking account. But then I remembered I still hadn’t decided what to wear and went back to worrying.
Thanks a lot, Google. You’re about as useful as the Red Binder today. The cursor blinked at me, completely unfazed by my criticism.
I stared at my closet for the hundredth time that week. I owned three pairs of jeans and an embarrassing number of T-shirts—too basic. I had a couple of cocktail dresses for family functions—too dressy. At the back of the closet, I found a jean skirt Becca had talked me into buying, despite the pastiness of my legs. I tried it on. My legs were so white they nearly blinded me. Otherwise, though, the skirt looked pretty good. My legs had a nice shape, despite their terrible color. Unfortunately, the one time I’d tried my mother’s self-tanner, I ended up looking like a streaky Oompa Loompa, so that wasn’t an option. The evenings were getting chilly. I wondered if I could wear the skirt with a pair of tights. It seemed worth a try, only I didn’t own any tights.
I knocked on my sister’s bedroom door. “Come in!” she shouted. I opened the door and gaped. Her room was even messier than usual. Annie was sitting on a chair in the middle of her room, her guitar resting on her lap and papers strewn on the floor around her, most of them crumpled. She looked like a tree losing its leaves.
Annie seemed frazzled, so I thought it was best if I didn’t say anything about the room. “Annie, can I borrow a pair of tights?”
Annie was so distracted by something she was writing on a fresh piece of paper that she took almost a minute to look up at me and say, “Huh?”
“I just wanted to know if I could borrow a pair of tights for tonight?”
“Sure. Whatever.” Annie waved her hand at her dresser. Three of the drawers were already open. I could see tights snaking their way over the edge of the top drawer. I walked over to the dresser on tiptoes, trying not to step on any papers.
“Can I take the purpl
e pair?” I asked as I held them out to her. I thought they’d look cool with my red Converse sneakers.
“Yeah, yeah.” Annie clearly wanted to get back to whatever she was doing, so I tiptoed my way back across the room.
At the doorway, I turned around. “Thanks, Annie.” She grunted and crumpled another piece of paper. “Are you okay?”
“Just stressed about tonight.”
I leaned on the doorjamb. “Tonight?”
“Yeah. I have a new song I want to play, but the bridge is giving me trouble. I know it’s just a dinky open mic night, but a lot of my friends are going to be there, and you and Mom and Dad. I don’t want to embarrass myself.”
I felt panic rising in me. How could I have forgotten that tonight was Annie’s show? How, how, how had I agreed to a date on the night my sister was playing in public for the first time ever? I’ll tell you how. I was twitterpated. I was so excited about my first date with a girl that I’d become a forgetful airhead.
Annie was looking at me, waiting for a response. I couldn’t let her know I’d forgotten about her big night. I had to play it cool. Time for a big sister pep talk. “Annie, I hear you playing your stuff through the wall all the time. It sounds great. You’ll be awesome tonight.”
“Whatever.” Annie picked up a fresh piece of paper and strummed a chord. She frowned. My pep talk might not have worked, but at least Annie didn’t know about my massive screw up. And she wasn’t going to. I just needed to do a little creative problem solving.
