The Curtain Call Caper (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries)

by Christy Barritt

  That was just gross.

  Then it hit me. A dictionary!

  I was brilliant! A genius! My diary would become my own special showbiz dictionary. I’d jot down words and terms we learned connected to my experiences.

  The only problem was where to start. I hadn’t actually learned any cool theater terms . . . yet. Then I remembered mom’s dog-eared booklet from her talent show days–A Girl’s Guide to the World of Stage and Screen. Kind of a prehistoric Backstage at the Beauty Pageant for Dummies.

  I raced downstairs, nearly wiping out on a throw rug in the hall, and thundered back upstairs clutching the book, as well as a paperback dictionary. I closed my eyes, flipped mom’s guide open to a random page and stabbed my index finger down.

  “If the event is held outdoors, the crew might use a boom mike, or microphone attached to a long pole extended over the heads of the competitors, to capture sound.”

  Boom?

  I chewed on the pink eraser of my pencil. My thoughts wandered back to my audition and the falling spotlight.

  Boom!

  Following the conventions of the paperback dictionary, I carefully crafted my first entry.

  Boom

  1. (n) vertical pole used for temporary lighting or to hold a mike

  2. (n) the sound made when a spotlight falls and nearly wipes you out

  CHAPTER 7

  Science was the best class of the day and not just because it was my last. The whole scientific investigation thing intrigued me: form a hypothesis, do an experiment, collect data, draw a conclusion. If I could figure out how to effectively do that, I could investigate anything, like falling spotlights and what kind of girl a guy like Brandon would ask out.

  Our teacher was Ms. Shernick, a middle-aged African American woman who everyone speculated wore a wig because her hair looked precisely the same every day. She was writing a project due date on the board.

  “The purpose of this project is to make a 3D model of a cell in order to better understand the organelles and how they work together,” droned Ms. Shernick, her glasses sliding down her nose so she could gauge the class’s level of attention.

  Heads were down, pen and pencils scratching across paper. I, however, was daydreaming about another paper. The one that had been posted two days ago, listing Becca, Brandon, and I as members of the cast of Oklahoma. The only drawback was that the Diva’s name appeared, as well. Mitch had been listed as a tekkie. I’d bet anything he just wanted to keep an eye on Donabell and make sure nothing happened to her. He was protective like that.

  “Choose what type of cell you will build, either a plant or animal cell. The organelles must be labeled or a key created to explain their function.”

  “No jail cells, Raff.” The snide remark came from a guy in the back and set the room to stifling laughter.

  Raff Valentini Diaz, the seventh grade juvie, looked pleased rather than embarrassed. Everyone knew he’d actually been in the local juvenile lockup for a number of months, that he was two years older than most everyone else, and that he wanted everyone to see his electronic ankle bracelet. He never wore socks, even when it was freezing cold like today. That monitoring device was his badge of honor.

  “Or detention cells,” murmured Amy Snyder, one of the Diva’s Devotees, looking pointedly at me.

  Donabell graced Amy with a “good job” nod. Then the entire bunch glanced smugly at me.

  I shot back what I hoped was an ugly face and slumped in my seat. I had been late to math again today and one more time would result in another detention. Story of my life.

  “The projects are due three weeks from Monday, giving you plenty of time to work on them with your group,” she finished.

  I slumped even lower in my seat. My group was comprised of Hannah Embry, a formerly homeschooled blonde who wore long, out-of-fashion skirts, carried a Bible, and kept to herself. She got exceptional grades but never spoke up in class unless she was called on and never said a word when kids teased her.

  And they had been unbearably mean at first.

  She was an enigma. No one seemed to know why her parents suddenly decided to enroll her in public school, if she had any friends anywhere, or why she wore a Med Alert bracelet engraved with the words “No Medical Intervention.” Because she seemed immune to snide remarks, snubs and even direct insults, kids eventually lost interest in teasing her, talking about her, and speculating if she ran away from an Amish commune.

  I didn’t mind her as a group member because she got her work done and did it well, meaning less work for me. But the third member of my team, Maria Cruz, was not an asset. She was from some South American country, spoke practically no English, and, even when she did, it was barely audible. She doodled or occasionally wrote something in Spanish in her notebook but never did any work.

  She wore her long, black hair with reddish blonde ends combed over her face like a screen of mosquito netting to keep out the bugs. Once, her face became visible enough so I knew she had dark eyes and wore makeup. Lots of it.

  What’s the point if no one can see it?

  Her clothes were neat, clean and fashionable for the Mocha Loco clique. Or gang if you believed the rumors. No one messed with her because, rumor had it, her cousin was BFF with Raff, and Raff would take care of business if anyone gave her a hard time.

  Ms. Shernick had explained to Hannah and I that she thought Maria might do well being paired with smart students, but I secretly wondered if she had clumped us together because both Hannah and I were fringers–part of no definite clique. Unable to fit in.

  It was a marriage made in silence.

  “This will count as a quiz grade. Now let’s review cell theory.” Ms. Shernick paced at the front of the room. “By 1859, Louis Pasteur proved that living organisms could not be produced by nonliving material. Live cells come from other live cells. These observations by Hooke, Leeuwenhoek, Schleiden, Schwann and Virchow led to cell theory.”

  Was it just my imagination or did all those names bunched together sound like some kind of law firm? I vaguely wondered if they would appear on a quiz or test and dutifully copied what was on the board into my notebook.

  I had a vivid imagination. One day, I hoped that trait came in handy.

  CHAPTER 8

  “If you are cast, sit on the stage while we do a read through. If you are crew, go backstage with Gail,” instructed Mrs. Baker. “We’re going to pass around a sign up sheet for snacks. Everyone will take a turn bringing something in for practices.”

  “What if you’re a tekkie?” asked one of the boys I didn’t know.

  “A tekkie is a member of the crew,” snapped the Gorilla impatiently. Muttering to her high school buddies but loudly enough for all of us to hear she added, “This is what I have to put up with. Rank amateurs. I should have insisted I be on stage instead of babysitting middle schoolers.”

  Becca and I exchanged grins. We’d both been cast as extras. It wasn’t quite the starring role I’d envisioned, but the role was what I’d expected.

  I was going to shine. Mrs. Baker would see what a talent I was. I spent hours practicing my singing, dancing, and even reciting lines . . . all right in front of my bedroom mirror. That’s where stars were born.

  But, for now, I sat on the stage with Becca, soaking everything in.

  “Glad to be an extra. I’m not sure the crew will survive,” whispered Brandon, sitting between us. “Not with the Gorilla in charge.”

  I stifled a giggle.

  “Upstage means back toward the rear of the stage.” Mrs. Baker held a clipboard in her hands and paced the stage in front of us. “Downstage is toward the audience.”

  “Too bad some people aren’t downwind. I think I can still detect the stench of a certain tennis shoe,” the Diva stated, cutting me a scowl followed by a fake smile. She sat three people down, also an extra.

  I immediately checked my shoes for traces of the vomit. It had been over a week since the incident, and I’d scrubbed my tennies when I had gotte
n home after stepping in the yuck, but now I was paranoid I hadn’t done a good job. I pulled my legs in and sat cross legged just in case.

  As various actors read their lines from the script, Mrs. Baker pointed out places on stage where the lines would be delivered and suggested ways the character should inflect their voice or change the expression on his or her face. Backstage, the Gorilla ordered the tekkies around like a drill sergeant commanding troops.

  By Act Two, the floor was getting uncomfortable. Most of the extras shifted positions and looked bored but not Brandon. He hung on every suggestion Mrs. Baker gave.

  I put my hands behind me and leaned back, trying not to draw attention to myself. I almost envied the crew, moving stuff around. At least they were doing something.

  “Heads up!” A shout from backstage interrupted the read through.

  I looked upstage in time to see several long boards.

  Falling.

  Right toward me.

  CHAPTER 9

  The Diva and Devotees scrambled out of harm’s way, but before I could move, the two by fours crashed on my hands.

  Pain shot through my fingers before settling at a dull, pulsating thud.

  The Diva fanned her face, paced, and dramatically gulped in quick, hyperventilating breaths as if she’d been the target. Of course, Mitch rushed to her side and smoothed her hair back.

  Mrs. Baker ran toward us. “Is anyone hurt? Did anyone get hit?”

  “What’s this?” Principal Black stepped from behind the curtain, his eyebrows drawn together. He was trailed by a man in navy coveralls emblazoned with “Zollin Industries.” “Are you injured?”

  Mrs. Baker put her hands on Donabell’s shoulders, bending to look her in the eyes. “Did anything hit you?”

  “No, but the shock of it . . .” The Diva fanned her face again, her entire body tight and her eyes deceptively wide. She was playing this to the hilt, garnering attention and sympathy like she’d survived an earthquake.

  “Did anyone actually get hit?” Mrs. Baker scanned our faces.

  I eased my hands behind my back, hoping no one would look closely, willing Principal Black to go away before he saw the bruising under my fingernails. I did not want the show shut down on my account. “I’m okay.”

  “Let me see.” Mrs. Baker held out her hands.

  Reluctantly, I pulled mine out from behind me. “A board barely nicked my nail; that’s all.” I shrugged it off even though my fingers stung.

  Principal Black peered over my shoulder. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir, I’m fine.”

  I, Gabby St. Claire, am no baby. Of course, if Brandon wanted to hover over me or kiss my fingers and make them better, who was I to object? Unfortunately, he did no such thing. He helped move a wayward board backstage.

  “Mrs. Baker! This is the second time that falling objects have endangered the students. Better care must be taken, or I’m afraid this show will be a no go.” Principal Black and the electrician disappeared backstage, the administrator still shaking his head.

  The Gorilla’s face was red, like she might explode on the trembling tekkies, but Mrs. Baker placed a finger in front of her lips. “We’ll finish the read through in auditorium seats. Gail, you may dismiss the tekkies once those,” she pointed to the remaining ten foot long two by fours, “have found a place lying flat on the floor out of the way.”

  ***

  I was scrounging up some cold cereal for dinner with my good hand when Becca called. We talked while I rounded up whatever leftovers constituted my dinner. With mom working the evening shift and dad numbing his brain in front of the TV, Becca was my only source of companionship.

  “They are ruining my life,” Becca wailed before I even got a “wassup” out of my mouth.

  “What? Who?” I asked.

  “My parents. They are making me drop out of the play because of one B. One B! Can you believe it?”

  I could believe it but knew better than to say so. I decided advice laced with an insult for Ms. Lynnet was in order. “Did you explain that getting a B from the Nazi-Queen was a miracle and probably qualifies you for sainthood or something?”

  “I tried, but it’s all A’s or else. I wish I had your laid-back folks.”

  Laid-back wouldn’t have been my choice of words. Comatose and too tired might be. It was barely after six p.m. and dad was snoring on the couch. I sighed and wondered what it would be like to have parents who expected great things like Becca’s did.

  Mine didn’t. Mom was content for me to pass. Some kids would give up half their allowance to have that but not me. I wanted my parents to be proud of me. But when Timmy disappeared, things had changed forever. I tried to prove I was as good as two kids, but it was like they didn’t notice.

  I had mixed feelings about Becca’s predicament. On one hand, I already couldn’t stand Ms. Lynnet because of how she treated me. How dare she do this to my best friend! Plus, having my best friend at rehearsals made it a little less likely either of us would get joked on.

  On the other hand, it meant I would only share Brandon at lunch, not rehearsals.

  “It’s my only B!” Becca sobbed.

  I did my best to cheer her up, but it was useless. Becca would wallow in her grief for the next week and a half no matter what I said. But, at least when I promised to tell her everything that happened every day at practice, she stopped sniffling.

  “How are your fingers?” she asked.

  “Nothing a little nail polish can’t fix.”

  Two of my fingernails were turning a violent shade of blue. I’d cover them up so Principal Black couldn’t use them as an excuse to halt our production. Even though Mrs. Baker had cast high schoolers in all the speaking roles and I was just an extra, I still wanted the show to go on with all my heart.

  It could have been worse. I could have been made a tekkie, suffering a daily dose of the stage manager’s power trip. Sure, Gail the Gorilla was a senior and maybe she knew her stuff, but nobody needed to be told the rules another zillion times or reminded about how she wished she was onstage instead of backstage babysitting.

  Rules. Way too many rules. And some were just superstitions like saying “break a leg” rather than “good luck.” The strangest one was the prohibition against saying the word “Macbeth.” You had to refer to it as “the Scottish play” if you were in a theater. Otherwise disaster would be certain. Or something like that. I wondered if someone had murmured the name at practice and that’s why the spotlight and boards had fallen. Or maybe it was the ghost.

  “No Brandon after school all because of the B!” Becca was as heartbroken about that as she was being dropped from the cast.

  I fished my progress report out of my backpack. Two A’s, two B’s and a C minus in, what else, pre-algebra. I scanned the kitchen, trying to decide the best place to put it so my mom would see and sign it and I could avoid detention.

  I dreaded progress reports, but not because my parents would be pitching a fit at my grades. No, my problem was unique. Getting a parent to sign it so I could return it within the two day window was a major hurdle.

  My dad might glance at it with his red, bleary eyes, and mumble something about it being my mom’s job to sign it. He said that every time including the one when I handed him my English class reading list and asked for his signature just to see if he’d even notice it wasn’t my progress report. He didn’t.

  My mother would get home around 10:30 p.m. But because she picked up extra cash cleaning houses some mornings, she might head straight to bed. I still found it hard to believe she had once been young and pretty enough to win some local and regional beauty pageants and talent shows.

  Despite her looks and success, she’d never pursued a career in show business or music. Instead, she fell in love with a championship surfer dude, got married and had me. Except maybe not in that order.

  I needed to figure out a place she’d see it tonight so I could return it tomorrow. I thought briefly about calling her but,
since it really wasn’t an emergency, I dismissed that idea.

  Once I tried getting her attention by putting my permission slip for after school book club on a chair placed strategically just in front of the side door. Mom had run into it in the dark and the resulting humongous bruise on her shin made me feel awful for the two weeks it took to fade away. She had it hard enough with my dad. I didn’t need to add to her hurt.

  While Becca continued to bemoan her fate, I briefly considered what it would be like to have Brandon all to myself at practice. Even though he was the Princess’s partner for the square dancing, I still had plenty of opportunities to be around him on and off stage.

  “Promise me you’ll tell me everything that goes on. I mean everything,” Becca pleaded.

  “Of course I will.”

  But I was having second thoughts. I hated to break a promise to my BFF. I really did. But I might not tell her everything. Especially about Brandon.

  That night, I opened up my diary and added a new word to my dictionary.

  Crush

  1. (v) to use a compression unit to make sound effects on a signal

  2. (n) a burning desire to be with someone who you find very attractive and extremely special

  CHAPTER 10

  I scanned the crowds pouring out of the school for Brandon’s lithe form. It was awfully chilly for January at the Beach. I hoped my nose wouldn’t run and make me look like a dorkina. I still felt twinges of guilt when I spent time with Brandon. Becca was my BFF and without her help I’d have missed auditions.

  I hoped Brandon knew where the activity bus parked as I waited for it to roll up to whisk us away to the high school for rehearsal. We’d have to practice there for a week while some upgrades and repairs, courtesy of the Zollins, were being done. Thankfully, no more strange incidents of bad luck had plagued the production last week. I scanned the bus ramp again only to see my nemesis sauntering up to the Princess.

  “Paulette, did the secretary validate your bus pass?” Donabell asked the question a bit more loudly than necessary.