by Ted Michael
When we finally reached the front porch, I started again. “Becca . . .”
“Are you going to tell?” Even as she said this, her face wasn’t apologetic or embarrassed, but defiant. “Are you going to run and tell everyone at school how I live, what I—”
“No.” My voice was a whisper. “No, I won’t. But Becca . . .” I struggled to put together the words. “Why’d you quit the play?”
“The play.” She laughed. “Yeah, that’s what really matters. The play.” But in response to the question in my eyes, she looked away. “Howard. My stepfather. He said I couldn’t do it. He didn’t want me away from the house that much. I had too much stuff to do around here. He doesn’t like me out evenings.”
I thought back to eighth grade, to the overnight she’d missed. Since then, Becca had systematically missed every overnight trip, while attending everything else.
“He supports us, Mom and me,” Becca continued. “We’d be on the street without him. So I have to do what he wants. He’s in charge.”
It floored me to think she’d had it so hard all this time, when I was worried about chorus solos. “How long has this . . .?”
She shoved the script at me again. “Just leave. Please. You got what you came for. You got what you want. As usual.”
Again, I found I couldn’t look at her. I took my script, and left.
. . . . .
But at home, over the weekend, I couldn’t stop thinking about Becca. I couldn’t read the script without hearing her voice saying the words. I wanted the part, but not that way, not because the better person quit.
Becca came to school Monday, acting like nothing had happened between us, and I sleepwalked through rehearsal. Now that I had the part, I didn’t want it. I was second-best, and Becca, who deserved it, didn’t care.
The weeks passed, and I learned the part. I got the news that I’d earned a partial scholarship to study music performance at the University of Miami. My parents were thrilled. But at the dinner we had at a restaurant to celebrate, I told them I wasn’t sure. “Maybe I should major in music education.”
My father said, “Well, that seems like a sensible decision.”
But Mom looked at me, stunned. “Why?”
I tried to put what I’d been thinking into words. “I just think if I can’t be the best person in one little high school, I don’t really have a chance of making it when I’m competing against the whole world. It would be a waste to major in performance.”
“But we spent so much time . . . and money.”
“I’m trying to keep you from spending more for nothing. I’m not good enough.”
“You were always the best—one of the best. You got solos too. The university wants to give you a scholarship. You and that Becca are . . . equal.”
I wondered if that was true, or if it was just my mother talking.
“They say success is ten percent talent and ninety percent determination,” my mother said.
“But you still have to have talent.”
“You do have talent. And you have determination too. You’ve tried so hard all this time, even when . . .” She stopped.
“Even when Becca always beat me,” I finished for her.
“Not always,” she said.
I shrugged. “I’ll think about it, I guess.”
. . . . .
Then, in March, the week of the performance came. Alli’s mom and mine had gone shopping together to find the perfect calicos and had costumes made so we wouldn’t have to suffer with whatever the drama department came up with. Mine was green. It was ready two days before, and as I stood in front of the mirror, my mother fussing over me, saying I made the perfect Laurey, all I could see was Becca’s face. My whole body felt like the strings on a violin, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
The next morning, I found her in the hallway before school.
“What are you going to do after school’s over?” I asked.
She shrugged. “Get a job. Move out.”
“But what about music? You’re going to still do that, right?”
Her eyes filled with scorn. “Are you on drugs? No. I have three more months of putting up with this crap. Then I’m out of here.”
“You could go away to college.”
She shook her head. “You really are a piece of work—you know that? Away to college? I wish I could live one day in this fantasy world you live in, Meghan.”
“I just figured . . . I mean, you’re so good at singing and everything.”
“Yeah, that’s important.” She looked through the books in her locker.
“You could get a scholarship.”
“Maybe a partial scholarship for tuition. But no one’s going to pay room and board. I’m not a football player.” She seemed resigned, like she was talking about math homework. “I can’t work full-time to earn it if I’m majoring in music. And my grades aren’t good enough to major in anything else.”
“But I figured . . . I mean, they must support you a little. The singing lessons and things.”
“Oglesby taught me for free because he thought I had promise. I’m always sponging off someone else—that’s what Howard says.” She twisted around to see if anyone was listening. “I’ll get a job after high school, move out. That’s all I want, out. The singing was fun. It’s something I was good at, one thing that was mine. But there are more important things in the world than singing. Lots more.”
“But you’re . . .” I stopped. Becca was something special. She had a voice the world should hear. I was ready to admit that now. “Maybe if you talked to Mrs. Gower, she’d be able to help, to see if there was somewhere you could go.”
“Then what about my mom?” she continued. “I want to make money, now, soon, so I can help her too, so we won’t be at Howard’s mercy. What would you do in my place?” When I still didn’t answer, she said, “Not that you’ve ever been in my place.”
It was so unfair. It wasn’t like she’d reached out to me. But I wondered, would I have done anything differently if she had? Or would I have been just as self-centered? It was nice to think I would have cared then, like I did now. But I didn’t know. I’d always thought I was a reasonably good person. Now I was having my doubts. How could I not have realized that someone else had it so bad? How could I just have worried about getting a solo? It seemed so petty.
“It doesn’t have anything to do with you, Meghan.”
I nodded, though I didn’t believe it. “Will you be at the performance this weekend?”
“I’ll try to come. I really wanted . . .” She stopped, shaking her head.
“I know.” I nodded. “Becca, I’m sorry I never . . . I mean, I’m sorry we weren’t friends.”
She slammed her locker door. “What makes you think I wanted to be friends with you?”
She walked away, the click of her heels on the terrazzo floor echoing in my ears.
. . . . .
That weekend, I looked for Becca at every performance, scanning the audience during my first solo, then again when the lights came up and I went out to accept the applause. We got a standing ovation, and an old lady came up to me, crying, saying I was “just like Shirley Jones.” Becca never came. She was a ghost in school those next months and didn’t show for graduation, even though the choir sang and Mrs. Gower asked her to do a solo. I ended up singing that too.
In fall, I started college, double majoring in music education. “I’m not giving up,” I said to my mother, “just being practical. And besides, I like the idea of teaching. As a teacher, maybe I could really help a kid who didn’t have parents as supportive as you guys.” I thought of Becca.
But, in fact, I did pretty well in college, even getting a good part in the first Opera Workshop performance of the year, when few freshmen did. I wondered if, maybe, my competition with Becca had been a good thing. Maybe it had pushed me harder and harder, making me the best I could be.
I don’t know what will happen in the future, but music will alw
ays be part of my life, somehow.
And I know I’ll never see Becca again. I hope she’s happy, wherever she is. And I hope she still sings.
ANECDOTE: MONTEGO GLOVER
We did not think we were misfits at all.
In fact, we weren’t. We were twelve and thirteen years old—smart, arty (even if we didn’t know it) students who had been afforded a grand opportunity: a school that provided us with exposure to theater as a very normal thing and a teacher who excelled not only at teaching, but at inspiring and caring about our growth as artists.
I found the bones, muscle, and breath of the theater in this class and have always known that without it, a central component of my training as an actress would be missing. I was first introduced to the arts through public television. I had always been so taken with the many, many ways to tell a story. So it was no surprise that theater class (up close and personal) was home.
We studied the classics, pulled them apart, reconfigured them to assist us in telling our stories (and our teacher in her teaching). This is how we did it: Read art. Practice art. Make art.
Read art. Students were to read all the time, especially the classics. Read. Read a play. Read a novel. Get accustomed to reading. Reading, interpreting, discussing. Reading alone. Reading aloud. To this day I’m not afraid or opposed to reading for work or pleasure.
Practice art. New and older students worked together on every aspect of making plays. But in class, new students observed acting coaching of older students. It’s an amazing teacher observation. Also, new students had no speaking lines in any plays for the first two years. Amazing. The only tools you were permitted for the first two years were body, sounds (non-speech), and music if needed (not singing). It placed our attention on the process from the inside and gave us time to really work on that skill. No speaking lines gave our less verbal students a safe place to build confidence, and our more verbal students an added layer of training that only strengthened their words, once they were speaking, of course. Imagine the day you know you’re permitted to have speaking lines! Speaking became a grand and glorious experience, words were savored. Words were respected. And less was more. A lesson I carry into my work (and my life) to this day.
Make art. Literally. We made costumes, and practiced and designed makeup on ourselves and each other—fun for some, dreadful for others, but learning all the time. We built sets and made props. Each student was encouraged to play to their strengths, but also encouraged to try other disciplines within the art form. To cross-train. In fact, it was a requirement, but one that every student understood because we were validated. And of course, once we discovered that our natural skills could contribute to the growth of other skills, the creative realm opened up even more. By the time we were ready to present our plays, we had poured ourselves (and every new thing we’d learned individually and as a unit) into every element of our production. And we were proud. We were proud whether our audiences got it or not. A lesson in and of itself.
In the end, it was in this class that I discovered my passion in life. I might’ve found it another way, but this experience, five years of learning this way, have turned out to be my bedrock.
MONTEGO GLOVER starred as Felicia Farrell in the Broadway hit musical, Memphis, for which she was nominated for a Tony Award. She also received both the Outer Critics Circle Award and the Drama Desk Award as well as a Drama League Award Nomination. Montego is thrilled to have been with Memphis since its conception, earning her third IRNE Award nomination as well as a San Francisco Bay Area Theatre Critics Circle Award nomination before moving the show to Broadway.
Born in Georgia and raised in Tennessee, Montego attended the Chattanooga School for the Arts and Sciences and continued on to receive her BFA with honors in music theater from Florida State University. She made her Broadway debut in The Color Purple. She has been privileged to travel around the country performing at the Geffen Playhouse, La Jolla Playhouse, Seattle’s 5th Ave Theatre, The Huntington Theatre, and Pittsburgh CLO, among many others. Her favorite roles include Sarah in Ragtime, Lorrell in Dreamgirls, Hermia in A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream, Aida in Aida (IRNE Award for Best Actress in a Musical), and Ti Moune in Once on This Island (Helen Hayes Award nomination). Her TV credits include Hostages, Smash, Golden Boy, The Good Wife, White Collar, The 2-2, Law and Order, Made in Jersey, Guiding Light, and Wonderful World of Disney. www.montegoglover.com.
STRINGBEAN AND GOOSE
Laura Goode
1. Feet Filth in Five Days
After the relative popularity of “Feet Filth in Five Days,” in which Goose didn’t shower or change his socks for five days, and Stringbean filmed his feet in various stages of grossness, their YouTube channel, stringbeanandgoose, had 539 subscribers.
“This is disgusting,” wrote one commenter, banjoqueen2904. “Freedom of speech gone WAY too far.”
“Whaaat r this kidz smoking? ” added jaxrox42 thoughtfully.
“Uglytown, USA,” wrote mizmichelle1985. “population: these kids and their weird feet. Why would anyone want to record ugly shit like this?”
“It’s too bad you can’t capture smell in video,” noted minotaurXLZ, “because I bet the smell of this would knock over a steel duck.”
Stringbean agreed, then wondered who in the hell had ever seen a steel duck.
2. The Thing About Ugly
The secret truth was that part of fifteen-year-old Stringbean loved these comments, was fascinated and titillated by them. In her own weird, contrary way, the more people vocally opposed what she posted on YouTube, the better Stringbean felt about how she was doing. Stringbean had read somewhere that all great performance artists started out being misunderstood and condemned. So, she concluded, if she was being misunderstood and condemned on YouTube, she was probably on her way to greatness.
The thing about being ugly was that the stakes were much lower than being beautiful. If you were beautiful, people only ever wanted you to be more beautiful, and lamented if you became less so. If you were ugly, nobody really cared about whether you got uglier or not.
Stringbean felt a kind of affinity with the ugly, the ignored, the dismissed, the damaged, the demented, the cast-off, the clearance rack and the five-dollar-box, the auto graveyard and the compost pile, the abandoned hotel and the broken machine. Stringbean just found ugly things more interesting than beautiful ones, she supposed whenever anyone asked, which was never.
Stringbean felt strongly that she was not pretty, not fine-boned, slender, and thick-haired the way Junie Mae and her mother were, the Italian side from Big DeeDee. Stringbean’s own flat German face, inherited from her now-absent and lackluster father, was plain in an open, wholesome way: animated, vivacious, striking, but knock-kneed and gawky, too skinny everywhere but between her ribs and her collarbone. Stringbean had lived with this knowledge the way you might learn to live with a minor ache, a hangnail, or a chronic cramp. In two years, things would be vastly better, but Stringbean had no way of knowing that now.
3. James Bruce and Frances Rose
Nobody knew where Goose had come from except Stringbean, and for that matter, no one knew the origins of Stringbean but Goose. That is, everyone knew where the people Goose and Stringbean came from—Ladyslipper, Wisconsin, a town so small that your next-door neighbor probably knew your birthday more readily than Facebook did—but only the holders themselves knew the genesis story of the names. Still, no one, families included, called Goose and Stringbean anything but the same.
4. Good Worm Day
Goose and Stringbean were doing what they were usually doing on summer afternoons, which was shooting ugly things with Stringbean’s old home video camera, which she got for free on Craigslist.
Goose took the trowel out of the garden shed, picked a remote corner of Stringbean’s yard, dug the blade in with a stomp from his right filthy yellow Chuck Taylor high top, and flipped a clod of dirt. Stalking the scene as it unfolded, each time as though she’d never seen the action before, Stringbean pa
ced back and forth a few times with the camera, then crouched down to the ground, wriggled onto her belly, and slithered up to the worms camera-first.
In a manner that Stringbean was still doing her best to ignore, her burgeoning boobs had started to get in the way of this pursuit. Goose’s attempts to ignore them—Stringbean had started to notice despite her best efforts not to—were becoming less successful.
It had rained yesterday, and the worms were all at the epidermis of the soil, wriggling in exactly the glistening, disgusting tangle that never ceased to enrapture Stringbean.
“Cut,” Stringbean said, upending herself onto her knees and setting down the camera. “Flip-flop ugly pop!”
This was Stringbean-and-Goosean for “that was a good shot.”
“Yeah, that was flippin’ awesome. They’re juicy today,” Goose remarked, wiping a film of sweat from his brow and replacing it with dirt. “Wicked good worms.”
5. What Are You Supposed To: Age Fifteen
Stringbean had begun to wonder if they were too old for this. Not this as in making movies, which she was fairly sure she always wanted to do, always, but this as in getting so damn dirty all the time. This as in spending all her time with Goose. This as in doing what she always did, every day, all summer.
Stringbean was ready for things to be different, ready for things to happen already. Or at least some things. Maybe one of their 539 YouTube subscribers was someone who could get her out of here, Stringbean thought sometimes before she fell asleep. All the lucky ones were born somewhere more exciting, like Los Angeles: Carol Burnett went to Hollywood High School. She looked funny the way Stringbean looked funny, and she sang anyway.
Two facts:
Stringbean loved to sing.
Stringbean was afraid to sing.
Stringbean sang into the camera, late at night and sometimes even in that suspended place between sleep and waking. Stringbean sang with machines—an electric razor, a hand mixer, a vacuum—harmonizing with their hum, their whirr, their whine. Stringbean’s singing was ugly, like all things she loved most, and she was afraid to sing for 539 people on the Internet. She was even afraid to sing for Goose.
