Yeah, that was the only drawback of this whole play. The Diva had been making a point of hanging with Brandon and even had the nerve to invite him to eat at the Cool Table a couple of days ago. He’d declined, and she’d flirtatiously mentioned she’d see him at practice.
Could she be trying to make the Caveman jealous?
Paulette set down the tray of cookies in her hands—apparently it was her day to bring snacks—and checked her pass. She then shook her head, a confused expression crawling across her face.
“You better go quick so you don’t miss the bus,” Donabell urged. She raised an eyebrow and cocked one of her shoulders up with mean girl attitude.
I’d been worrying about Brandon missing the bus when it occurred to me my pass wasn’t validated and maybe that’s where Brandon was—in the office.
I scurried after Paulette. Sweat sprinkled across my forehead. I had forged my dad’s signature on the permission form rather than try to get him to sign it. I could be in real hot water if school administrators caught me.
The line in the office was about ten miles long, and I jittered around, one eye looking for the bus and one for Brandon. They both appeared at the same time, and I knew drastic measures were called for or I’d miss my ride. Grabbing Paulette’s arm, I maneuvered us out of line and busted in front of the sixth grader who was next to talk to the secretary, Miss Steer.
“Uh, the activity bus is pulling out and we need our passes validated,” I hurriedly explained, ignoring the secretary’s scowl at my apparent lack of manners.
“That’s no excuse for pushing ahead of people,” Miss Steer barked.
I scooted Paulette between us like a shield. Maybe if she thought I was helping the Princess I could bypass her wrath and get this taken care of ASAP.
It worked like a charm because the secretary smiled at Paulette, then politely explained we didn’t need any validation. “Just get on the bus and show the driver your note. That’s all you need.”
The realization that I’d been duped slammed into me like an eighteen-wheeler. Keeping Paulette in tow, I raced to the bus and barely managed to squeeze through the closing door. Sure enough, the Diva sat with Brandon.
He nodded at me and shrugged while Donabell rattled on, leaning into his shoulder like they were buddies. Directly behind them sat Mitch D’cava, looking like he was about to blow a gasket with his red face and rigid jaw.
Whoa! Had they broken up? I’d have to ask Becca during our nightly calling ritual.
I scrambled for the only available seat–right behind the driver. Paulette plopped down beside me. Her designer jeans were quite a contrast to my thrift store specials. I was trying to think of a horrible act of revenge on the Diva when Paulette’s voice intruded.
“Thanks.”
I looked up, seeing Paulette—really seeing her—for the first time. She looked about ready to cry or bolt, like one of those baby gazelles in the predator-prey films we watched in elementary school. Her eyes were moist and her bottom lip quivered.
“No problem,” I whispered, feeling a teeny bit guilty I had used her.
Guilt and I were getting to be good buddies.
CHAPTER 11
“So how was it?” Becca’s curious voice was laced with anticipation and a dash of jealousy.
I hugged the phone between my ear and shoulder as I bumped the refrigerator shut with my hip. “Most of it was boring because we got lectures about the rules at the high school,” I explained. It was true. “After Mrs. Baker lectured us, the Gorilla gave a special lecture to the ‘middle school contingent.’”
I emphasized the stupid term by rolling my eyes, knowing Becca would hear the inflection in my voice even if she couldn’t see the action.
I plopped down on our worn sofa and consolidated the junk piles of old newspapers, my parent’s mail, and my own stuff so I could deposit my dinner.
“Apparently most of us were cast, not because of our amazing acting ability or dazzling dancing, but because we are shorter than the high schoolers and by contrast will make them look more adult like.” I snorted to display my displeasure.
“Thanks. That makes me feel better.” Becca then added ever so casually, “Nobody was cast for their dazzling dancing?”
She was hinting around about Brandon, but I pretended not to catch on.
“Then we were treated to a third lecture about costumes and props.” I changed my voice to the high-pitched whine of Lydia, the costume mistress and a snotty sophomore. “You are responsible for keeping track of and maintaining any and every item issued to you by the high school theater department.”
Becca giggled appreciatively.
“Damaging, losing or abusing props or costumes can cost you your role in this production. Extras are easily replaced.” I thought my imitation of her voice was dead on. Why such a big deal over the hand me down, second class stuff she was holding?
“So, what about Brandon?” Becca prodded in an excited whisper.
I knew I’d have to dish and was happy to be able to complain about the bogus bus pass validation trick the Diva had pulled in order to sit with him.
“So they sat together on the bus?” Becca sounded both incredulous and annoyed.
“Yeah, and they both rode the same bus home,” I groused. “Did she and Mitch break up? ‘Cuz he was looking like a cumulo-nimbus cloud about to thunder.”
“Dunno. I’m not exactly in the loop. But if they did, they’ll be back together by tomorrow.”
“At least Brandon turned down her invitation to sit with them at lunch.”
I wondered how long that would last but didn’t mention it out loud. Despite everything, Mitch had seemed in surprisingly good spirits at practice. Apparently, he was a health food nut, too because he’d brought drinks, some kind of vitamin fortified punch that half the cast had loved and the other half had hated. Meanwhile, Paulette’s cookies may have been more nourishing than the dinner I’d scrounged up.
As Becca rambled on and on about Brandon and her inability to wiggle out of the Volksmarch this weekend by claiming she needed to stay home and work on math, I wolfed down some breakfast cereal, a slice of ham, and a glass of tea.
I was only half listening as she turned the conversation back to Brandon. There was no way my BFF would want the Diva to have him. Becca would be grateful, happy even, if I kept Brandon out of her clutches. If he just happened to fall for me in the process, it wouldn’t be my fault.
I finished eating and meandered into the kitchen, poking around for something that could pass for a ribosome or a vacuole for my cell model. Nothing looked promising so I decided to worry about it later. I still had a couple of weeks. If I delayed long enough, Hannah might do the whole thing herself.
Gabby!
My conscience evidently disapproved of me shifting all the responsibility onto Hannah. It seemed to be working overtime these days, urging me to come clean to Becca. I knew I shouldn’t keep secrets from my BFF, but how did you share that you were in love with their crush?
CHAPTER 1 2
“Someone deliberately ruined these costumes,” Gail’s nasal voice ratcheted up in volume and venom.
She stood in the dressing room and held up the prairie length, full circle skirt made of green gingham that had been issued to the Diva. Her assistant, Lydia, displayed two more skirts, a pink and a blue. Ink from a ballpoint pen smeared down the fronts of all of them, but my blue one looked like it had sprouted an angry scar.
“This ink won’t come out,” Gail muttered. “I should know. I did an ink blot project in Introduction to Psychology and accidentally got some on my shirt.”
I scanned the female extras for guilty faces. Everyone looked as surprised as I did. We were crammed into the long room lined with racks of costumes on one side and mirrors mounted sideways above simple wooden counter tops for easier application of stage makeup. The three principal female characters had their own dressing room, lucky ducks.
“I really don’t know why I have to put up
with your juvenile antics. I could easily act circles around any of you. And I would be, except Mrs. Baker needed someone with my level of experience to babysit you all.” The Gorilla crossed her arms and glared.
No one spoke, instead choosing to tie a shoe or examine their socks or fingernails. All except the Diva who was rearranging the gel stars around the section of mirror she’d claimed as her own private space.
“Replacing them will cost $80,” snarled Gail.
“Apiece.” Lydia jabbed her finger in the air with each syllable.
Yikes!
“We need to practice in them.” The Diva threw her hair over her shoulder, acting like this wasn’t her problem. “How soon will they be cleaned or replaced?”
“As soon as the three of you bring in your $80,” the Gorilla growled.
I gasped. There was no way I was going to get $8, much less $80, for a new skirt.
“If these were football uniforms, the school would pay,” muttered one of the Devotees.
“Aren’t there any other skirts in the costume closet that we could try on?” The Diva had her hand on her hip and sounded annoyed.
“No. At least, not that would fit any of you. Lydia told you straight up, you were responsible for anything issued to you so quit your whining.” Gail the Gorilla jerked her head and her lackey hung the three outfits back up, careful not to let them touch any other clothes. “The drama department has very limited funding and, since this is technically not a school play but an intergenerational experiment, the high school won’t foot the bill. It’s the actor’s responsibility.”
“Where do we buy them?” Paulette asked calmly. She didn’t seem too upset her recently issued pink one cost more than my mom made cleaning some homes.
“You don’t,” Gail snapped. Realizing that she was speaking to the Princess, Gail softened her voice before continuing. “They have to be ordered. Bring in cash or a money order by Friday.” She glared at the rest of us. “We barely have enough time to get an order placed, so it’s Friday or forget it. No money–no costume. No costume–no part.”
Everyone was in a testy mood. With less than three weeks until opening night, frustration over the accidents, missing props, and lackluster performances was spilling over on cast and crew.
“Where is he?” shrieked Madame Cherise. She was filling in today as director because Mrs. Baker had a reading council meeting or something.
“Stomach virus,” braved some soul.
A sudden epidemic of stomach flu was going around and had thinned the ranks at rehearsal all week. Apparently, that vitamin fortified punch hadn’t boosted anyone’s immune system. Even Mitch was out. As I glanced around to see who had made the comment, I was shocked to see Hannah, way back in a corner, reading a book.
Why in the world is she here? She’s not in the play. She’s barely involved in regular school, much less extracurricular activities.
I considered asking her about the cell model. Before I could ponder further, the stage manager herded all of us, except Lana, into the wings. Lana, the freshman picked to play the lead role of Laurey had a good voice, experience as a dancer, and could certainly act. She was, according to Mrs. Baker, the “triple threat” of musical theater.
“How in the world are we going to rehearse the dream ballet without Curly?” Madame Cherise threw up her hands in exasperation and paced. “I should have insisted we stick with South Pacific.” She halted and her voice bordered on hysterics as she declared, “C'est la vie!”
“I know it,” someone said.
Before anyone could figure out who had spoken, Brandon spun onto the stage and began. He launched into the sequence with much more enthusiasm than the senior playing the male lead ever had. Lana watched him, her mouth dropping open, before joining him as if they’d been the ones rehearsing the dance all along.
My mouth dropped open. He was good. No, he was great.
When he finished, everyone applauded. Madame C crowed, “Tres bien! Tres beau!”
Brandon and Lana bowed, laughing, then grabbed hands and bowed again like they were doing a curtain call.
Curtain call happened at the end of the show when cast and crew joined hands and bowed. Apparently, you couldn’t just line up and grab hands with whomever you happened to be standing next to. Places were assigned based on your character’s importance.
“Again, s’il vous plait!” shouted the fill in director.
Everyone got in place. I tried to not feel anything, to not have an opinion, but it was useless. As much as I wanted to not care, I did. I wanted Brandon, the traitor who’d just today eaten at the Cool Table, to shine.
And he did. Brightly. By the end of rehearsal, Madame C handed him a script so he could understudy Curly, the male lead. And, by the end of the rehearsal, it was apparent to everyone, including the Diva who had smoke pouring out of her ears and nose, that Brandon and the freshman playing Laurey, would make a hot couple.
CHAPTER 13
“You can’t just quit!” Becca was adamant.
With my cordless phone locked between my shoulder and ear, I balanced a slice of warmed up cheese pizza and the remainder of a bag of stale chips in one hand while I poured a glass of flat soda with the other. My meals, like my life, left much to be desired.
“I’m not sure how much choice I have.”
“How’d the costumes get messed up anyway?”
“That’s the question of the day,” I told her.
“Did you say ‘Macbeth’ at practice?”
I shook my head—not that she could see me. “I know better.”
“Well, maybe someone else did. Maybe the ghost did.”
We laughed.
“In all seriousness, what if the Gorilla messed up the costumes?” I hypothesized. “She did say she did an experiment with ink blots for one of her classes. Maybe that gave her some ideas on how to ruin the costumes.”
“Why would she do that?”
“Maybe she secretly wants to be in the play, and she’s hoping one of the costumes will fit her. She could be the unofficial understudy. Or maybe she hates ‘babysitting’ us so she’s trying to get rid of the middle schoolers so it’s just her and her high school buddies.”
“It does sound like she had access to the ink.”
“Becca, what am I going to do? I don’t have $80!” I wailed. “I can’t pull a tooth, leave it under my pillow and count on the tooth fairy to come through.”
“Did you try cleaning the costume?”
“No. The Gorilla said this type of ink won’t come out.”
“Or maybe she doesn’t know how to get it out and thinks no one else can figure out a way to remove the stains either.”
“I bet I can find a way to get that stain out. Where there’s a will, there’s a way.” A glimmer of hope started to glow in a corner of my bruised heart. “I’ll be keeping an eye on her, as well.”
“It couldn’t hurt to try. So, do you think Bran’s got a chance at the lead?”
It took me a second to figure out Becca was back on the topic of Brandon. He was all she talked about, even forgiving him for his defection to the Cool Clique today. My friend had it bad.
“No way,” I answered.
That distraction was enough. The pizza slid off the plate and onto my bedroom floor. In my haste to grab it before the three-second rule came into play, the chips tumbled out of the half closed bag.
“All ‘er nothing,” I sang half to myself.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just a song from the show,” I answered while I cleaned up. The chips were a wash, but I decided the pizza was salvageable.
“Don’t quit. Remember how bad you felt the first time Mrs. Baker gave notes? You thought about quitting then.”
Giving notes was what the director and stage manager did at the end of practice. They told you what went well and what didn’t. Mostly the latter. The first time Mrs. Baker singled me out, I’d been heartbroken because she’d mentioned things I, personally, needed to cha
nge. But after Brandon had talked to me, I had cheered up.
“It’s a good thing, really,” he’d explained. “First of all, it means the director was watching you. With so many people on stage, the fact that she noticed you is positive.”
He emphasized the word “you” by grasping my shoulders and mock shaking me. My heart shook at his touch and at the scent of his leather and sandalwood shampoo.
“Could be because I was so awful she couldn’t help but notice?” I’d joked, hoping he’d disagree and tell me I was star material.
Bran rolled his eyes and laughed.
“Second, if a director asks for changes, it’s because he or she believes you are capable of change, capable of more. That also is a good thing. Look how many things she asked me to do differently just today.”
I couldn’t argue with him. Mrs. Baker and Madame C were always telling Brandon something. His reaction had been consistent. He’d smiled, nodded and done it.
“I remember,” I’d admitted.
I didn’t admit this was different now because Bran the Man hung with the high school kids at practice and ate lunch with the Cool Clique during the school day.
I realized I’d zoned out on Becca and tuned back in.
“So, in English, some of the Devotees were talking. Apparently, Mitch is trying to talk Donabell out of being a part of this production. Something about him thinking the musical was corny, on top of the ghost—whether real or someone imitating a ghost. The Diva doesn’t care, though, because her dad is going to get some talent agent to scope her out.”
Sounds like a stunt the Diva would pull.
I took a bite of the cold pizza, noticing it had something fuzzy on the crust.
Yuck!
Since Becca was fully capable of maintaining a steady stream of one sided conversation, I set the phone down long enough to dust off my dinner, fluffed the pillow behind my back, and settled in for an hour’s chat.
“ . . . maybe we should consider that. What do you think?”
“Ummmm?” I had no idea what continent on Planet Brandon we might be discussing so I went for non-committal. “Maybe?”
The Curtain Call Caper (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries) Page 5
