Why? Because I desperately needed something to go right in my life.
***
“So, who do you think might have cut the webbing?” I asked in my most discreet, secret spy voice. I probably needn’t have bothered since the Oceanside cafeteria noise was ten decibels louder than a jackhammer.
Becca chomped off a bite of tuna salad sandwich to delay answering me. Her short pixie nose matched her hair but contrasted with her long legs and arms. While being tall helped make you a great basketball player, it did nothing for your love life. Few of Oceanside’s seventh grade boys had hit their growth streak, and Becca tended to look like an Amazon when she stood next to one of them.
On the other hand, I was waiting for my growth streak. I resembled a mushroom with a short stalk and a bushy, red cap. Except in my case, the cap was actually flyaway, frizzy, red hair. Whenever possible, I tried to straighten it into smooth locks that resembled The Little Mermaid’s. My efforts usually only resulted in more frizz.
If my hair wasn’t enough to scare away the boys, my mouth was.
I tried to stick to motto #1: “Think before speaking.” Or acting. Or being late to Lynnet’s class.
I really thought that by coming up with a firm, solid motto I could change my life. Fat chance. Having a motto was not enough. I actually had to put it into practice, and there was no magic wand to help.
I waited for my BFF to swallow and answer, inwardly fussing myself out for getting another tardy and Paulette Zollin for throwing up in the hall where I’d step in it.
“The webbing was probably worn out and no one noticed until it fell.”
“But Mr. Harold said—”
“I don’t know how Mr. Harold could be 100 percent sure the webbing had been cut deliberately.”
“So you’re saying the spotlight falling was an accident?” My tone left no doubt I thought her naiveté was ridiculous.
“I suppose next you’re going to jump to the conclusion that the Diva rigged it because she needed to eliminate you, her competition for the lead role?” Becca rolled her eyes and smiled impishly.
“I wouldn’t put it past her …” I arched my eyebrows and allowed my words to trail melodramatically.
“Moving on—have you started using the diary I gave you for Christmas yet?”
I sighed internally. Becca was not going to be pleased that I hadn’t. I regretfully shook my head “no.” Personally, a diary seemed like a stupid idea even if you didn’t have siblings who might find it and share the embarrassing contents with the entire world.
I was saved from having to dream up another legitimate sounding excuse when Becca turned her attention to a guy in her English class who’d stopped to ask about their homework. Becca immediately gave him her full attention, leaving me to my McIntosh apple and thoughts about the play.
Of course my theory was ridiculous. How could the Diva have rigged the spotlight to fall on me? Manual labor might chip a nail or something.
But she has henchmen. Henchwomen?
When the guy walked away, Becca turned toward me and dropped her voice. I leaned forward in expectation of a juicy tidbit of gossip.
“By the way, I heard that Mitch D’cava is signing up to do tech. Georgia told Amy that the Diva gave him an ultimatum.” She raised her eyebrows in a knowing look.
Mitch, AKA the Caveman, had been my crush back in sixth grade. It wasn’t an original thing. Every girl in sixth grade had adored him and not just because he was athletic, witty and cute. He was also new to Oceanside, thus making him an exotic species. The Diva had reeled him in quicker than you could say “baby sugar glider.”
Oceanside Elementary and Middle were unique among Virginia Beach schools. Because they were old, the buildings were smaller and pulled from a smaller geographic area. It wasn’t until ninth grade that we’d get split up between the two nearest high schools and have an infusion of new blood. Not only that, the neighborhoods Oceanside drew from were polar opposites: either haves or have nots. Becca, whose dad was an ex-Marine and soon to be police officer and whose mom was a teacher and certified health nut, was one of the few middle class exceptions.
Lastly, for some reason unknown to me, we rarely got any students from transient, military families. Oceanside was its own little, unchanging ecosystem. Thus, everybody knew everybody. But I knew a couple of things I doubted anyone else knew about the Caveman, things that had only elevated my crush on him.
All of this was in thanks to our sixth grade English teacher, Mrs. Munn, who believed in peer editing. She’d partnered me with the Caveman. Thus I knew that as a kid he wanted to drive a concrete mixing truck, that he detested Bluegrass music, and that basketball was his favorite sport. All of that wasn’t nearly as interesting as the fact that his mom was pursuing a music career. He said that he hadn’t seen her in four years, but he was okay with that. He hoped she made it big so he could join her out in L.A. one day.
I wondered if he’d support me in the same way if we ever dated? Would getting the lead in the school play garner me his attention? Would he dote over me the same way as he doted over the Diva? I dreamed about any guy doting over me, for that matter.
It didn’t really matter because none of the middle schoolers would get the lead roles. Those were for the high schoolers who were working with us on the play. I wasn’t sure of all those details yet.
Despite that knowledge, I let my imagination run wild. In my dreams I was fabulous in the lead role. I was also popular, surrounded by many friends and a loving family, a good person, kind to the kids who weren’t popular, a source of justice for the oppressed . . .
My daydream was interrupted as the Caveman lunged into view, deftly balancing his own lunch tray with one hand while grabbing an orange that had rolled off the Diva’s tray, rescuing it before it splattered onto the floor. I sighed.
Must be nice. Having someone look out for you.
No one looked out for me. Dad was too sloshed to know I existed. Mom was too tired after forty hours a week at the drug store and then moonlighting as a house cleaner. Teachers tended to be annoyed with me, probably because I blurted things out, daydreamed in class, and was occasionally tardy. Like my red hair, my life frizzed out of control. But everything was going to change soon.
I was going to prove myself with this play. Maybe I wouldn’t have a star role. But I was going to be dedicated, someone to keep an eye on for future school productions.
My bad luck streak was about to change . . .
CHAPTER 4
“Gabby?” Becca stared at me like I’d grown a third eye.
I had zoned out again, not an easy feat in a crowded cafeteria.
“Uh, what?”
“I asked what you thought of that transfer student.” Becca ever so subtly nodded toward a new kid exiting the chow line. He had long legs, longer sandy colored hair fashionably styled, a lean build, and the look of a rabbit wandering into a convention of foxes.
“I’d say he has no idea where to sit.”
Oceanside Middle School had its lunchtime cliques like everywhere else and figuring out where to sit your first few days could be a major undertaking. If I ever had to transfer to a new school, I was going to skip lunch and pretend to meditate so kids thought I wanted to be alone.
Becca and I usually sat with Claudia and Margaret, our BFFL (Best Friends For Lunch). Our group tended to be smart without being nerds or brainiacs, middle class, socially mediocre, nice people. Eating together protected us from being loners or seat gypsies. Today, however, Claudia and Margaret both had a French club meeting.
“We should ask him to sit with us,” my BFF said a bit too eagerly. Her face was a bit flushed and her eyes riveted on either the black jeans and faded Def Leppard T or the kid wearing them.
“Sure. Why not?” I took a bite of PB&J. A glob of peanut butter stuck to the roof of my mouth.
“You ask him,” she pleaded.
I was about to mention my mouth was coated with super glue peanut butter, and it wa
s Becca’s idea to invite him over when I remembered the huge favor she did for me yesterday afternoon at auditions. Becca knew I could be counted on to act boldly first and think of the consequences later, so if anything gutsy had to be done, it was always up to me.
I gulped, stood, and, when I caught the kid’s eye, waved him to our table. His shoulders relaxed as he ambled our way, acting like he’d been looking for us and not just any safe harbor in the adolescent storm.
Becca was not in any shape to speak, so I hurriedly washed down my remaining PB&J with juice so I could strike up a conversation.
“I’m Gabby,” I offered as the kid dropped into a seat across from us. “This is Becca.”
“Hi. I’m Brandon.” He smiled at both of us.
Getting a close up look, I felt my heart start to thump. Brandon had gorgeous green eyes and a cute face. He looked more than fit, muscled even, but not bulky like guys who played football. And he smelled good, like he used aftershave or something. It was hard to tell exactly with all the competing smells, mostly greasy French fries and dirty gym socks.
Becca’s knee banged into mine under the table, but I had no idea what to say next. Then the lamest thing jumped out of my mouth. “Where are you from?”
“Suffolk.”
“Uh.” Good one, Gabby. Neanderthal grunting will really impress him.
Brandon nodded and scooped a fork full of mac and cheese into his mouth. Becca quickly followed suit, biting into her apple. Apparently, the eating-so-I-have-an-excuse-for-not-talking was a universal middle school cop out.
It was up to me to keep things rolling, and I still had no idea what to say. Once again words just sprang from my lips with no intelligent thought behind them. “You in any of our classes?”
I shoved Becca’s knee under the table, letting her know she could jump in any time.
Brandon nodded. Again our eyes met. He was adorable.
“He’s in pre-algebra,” Becca declared, making me look brain dead for not noticing. “A couple of rows behind Donabell.”
“Lucky you.” I hoped he didn’t recognize me as the tardy vomit carrier. “I think they stick all the new kids in Ms. Nazi-witch-queen’s class because it will take their parents a while to figure out she’s the worst teacher in the school. Maybe the world. Then it’s too late to get you transferred out.”
“What did she mean by she’d see you after school? Do you get tutored?” Brandon asked, popping another baby carrot into his mouth.
Extra great. He thinks I’m a flunky.
“No, it wasn’t for tutoring.” My words rushed out a little too quickly, too loudly and were followed by silence as I tried to formulate the best possible spin on my situation.
Would he believe it was for extra credit? To help the teacher clean the classroom, out of the goodness of my heart? Because—
“Three tardies and you get detention,” Becca explained.
Extra great with vomit on top. My BFF finds her voice to tell him that.
“But it’s not like it’s my fault.” I cut Becca a look then relaxed because this was a subject I could really warm up to. “They gave me FACS first bell which is on the complete opposite side of the school and you’d have to be a track star to make it all the way to 332 on time. Plus, the teacher has it in for me.”
“Why?” Brandon asked.
Becca and I both shrugged in unison. That was a great question. She made me feel a bit like trouble with a capital T.
“She’s mean to everyone,” offered Becca.
It was about time she contributed something positive to the conversation. I could finally take a sip of juice to counteract my suddenly dry throat. Not that talking to this hot guy was making me nervous or anything.
“But she has a select few she’s especially horrible to,” I explained. “Moi being one of them.”
Moi was about all the French I knew, but I hoped it made me sound sophisticated. Of course, Madame C spoke French, and she didn’t seem the least bit sophisticated.
“And she couldn’t have picked a worse day because we had auditions for Oklahoma,” Becca added.
“Oklahoma? A middle school is doing Oklahoma?” Brandon’s emerald eyes seemed to sparkle. He sat up straighter.
Becca quickly dropped her eyes, bit into her apple, and nudged me under the table.
“Actually, the play is this intergener-something-or-other joint project with two of the high schools. So older kids get to audition, as well. Personally, I don’t think we need them.” I shrugged.
“I think they only let us middle schoolers in because they wanted to use our stage for rehearsals,” Becca added. “This is some project for Mrs. Baker’s dissertation or something.”
Brandon nodded. “Whatever the reason, I’m going to try out.”
I hated to be the bearer of bad news, but that wasn’t going to happen. I nudged my BFF’s knee so she could be the harbinger of doom. Someone had to let him know that it was too late to audition.
Becca gave me a dirty look before finally saying, “They already had auditions for singing and the major speaking parts will go to the high schoolers, so today’s auditions are just to cast people for extras in the ensemble or dancing.”
I noticed Becca’s deflated voice, but Brandon didn’t seem to pick up on it.
“We were supposed to have all the auditions Tuesday, but a spotlight fell and shattered all over. Somebody could have been killed,” I added. Like me.
“Those things are expensive, too,” he said.
“Yeah, we got a big lecture about it,” I said.
My BFF nudged me under the table, indicating she was going to speak. “Bad karma,” added Becca.
She was getting braver. Or just didn’t want me to monopolize the conversation with the cutest guy we’d ever sat with at lunch. Of course, Brandon was the only guy who’d ever voluntarily sat with me at lunch. Any other time I had male dining companions, it was because I’d been assigned to the silent lunch table for some classroom infraction.
“Good karma.” Brandon laughed. “I’m going to make sure I get to audition. Once the director sees what I can do, I’ll be in.”
Brandon was all smiles now. I was trying to decide if he was conceited, funny, or just plain adorable. I decided on adorable.
He nodded again, appearing satisfied and sure of himself. “This first day of school is turning out way better than I ever thought it could.”
His smile took me in, wrapped me in its warmth, and made me wonder what it would be like to bask in Brandon’s glow on a daily basis.
Then I glanced at Becca and frowned. Based on the far off look in her gaze, my BFF was obviously thinking the same thing.
This. Was. Not. Good.
CHAPTER 5
“To get your attention at rehearsals, I will clap once. Please get quiet and clap once in response. If I need to, I will clap twice, just in case someone didn’t hear the first clap. Please continue to be quiet and clap twice in response.” Mrs. Baker went over procedures for rehearsals.
I listened attentively, not like I usually did in class.
I, Gabby St. Claire, will not mess up.
I almost added “again” but stopped myself. The spotlight was not my fault, no matter what nonsense the Diva spread all over school about me ruining auditions.
“If our director has to clap three times, you all are in trouble.” A surly high schooler stood next to Mrs. Baker, arms crossed, and a scowl on her face. Her brown hair was pulled back into a severe ponytail and, even before she spoke, I knew from her wide stance that she was bossy.
“This is Gail, our stage manager. The stage manager is in charge backstage. She’ll be directly in charge of the tekkies and indirectly in charge of everyone in the cast,” explained Mrs. Baker, indicating Gail with one hand. “We are fortunate to have someone with experience to manage that aspect of our production.”
“Do not touch anything backstage unless I tell you to,” ordered Gail. She uncrossed her long arms and put her hands on he
r hips. “Long ago, people gave me a nickname. I now embrace the name. It’s the Gorilla. Some say Gordrilla, cause I’m like a drill sergeant. I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m okay with that nickname as long as people realize who’s in charge.”
Something about the way she said the words did remind me of a primate. I wondered if she grunted instead of spoke or pounded her fist into her chest while talking about herself in the third person.
“Gail the Gorilla,” I whispered to Becca, and we both stifled giggles.
“Please, adhere to that request,” added Mrs. Baker in a more kindly tone. “That broken spotlight will cost a small fortune to replace. But it is not just items that carry a big price tag I want everyone to take care of. Even the most insignificant prop or costume piece becomes irreplaceable once the show starts. For example—”
The doors in the back of the auditorium opened and Mrs. Baker, as well as everyone, looked to see who it was.
“I hope it’s not Principal Black come to ruin everything,” I muttered.
“Chillax, girlfriend. He is not going to cancel the show,” murmured Becca.
I breathed a sigh of relief as I recognized Mr. Zollin striding toward the front of the auditorium. His daughter, Paulette—the Princess, as we called her—waved to him.
“Hello, Mr. Zollin,” the Diva said in the most respectful tone I’d ever heard leave her mouth.
“Suck up,” I muttered.
“Two-faced,” Becca agreed.
Madame Cherise was on her feet faster than you could say “Oklahoma,” a delighted smile plastered across her plump face. Her hand fluttered vaguely as she trudged down the stairs, sensible tan loafers clump-clump-clumping like cow hooves. Mrs. Baker stepped down to greet Mr. Zollin as well, but with more grace and less noise.
Gail the Gorilla’s mouth was moving, but I tuned her out. It wasn’t fair the Princess would be cast no matter how awful her audition. Ever since third grade, when she failed at playing a tree stump in our class’s ecology presentation, the Princess had been cast as something in anything and everything put on by a class or school. We all knew it was because her family helped defray expenses. But it wasn’t fair.
The Curtain Call Caper (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries) Page 2
