Over the Top

by Alison Hughes

  “’Ro! There are no rules. It’s just made up. It’s not a real sport,” I said irritably.

  “Oh, so you can let the balloon hit the floor? You can hit it under the net? Kick it?” He rolled his eyes at my seemingly incredible stupidity. “Of course there are rules. And that Simon hit it against the wall, which can’t be right, because what sport lets you use a wall…”

  “Too much sugar,” Dad muttered. He saluted Gary the Centaur like he always did as he pulled the van into the garage.

  “We’re leaving all this stuff right here,” Mom said through a huge yawn. “We can unpack tomorrow. After we sleep in. Late.”

  “Well, thanks everybody. Great party. I’m heading off to bed.” I could barely see straight I was so tired. It was exhaustion mixed with a kind of weak-kneed gratitude that I wouldn’t have to deal with anything like that again for at least a year. And if I could figure out how to actually get through to Mom, possibly never again.

  “Love you, Princess! Happy birthday!”

  “Love you.”

  “I’m coming up with you, Deev,” said ’Ro quickly, appearing by my side. He peered up the dark staircase. “Creepy up there.”

  I switched on all the lights in the hall, in the bathroom, and in both our bedrooms. ’Ro did a quick scan of his room, a casual glance under his bed and in his closet.

  “It’s so late and dark that I think we should keep our doors open tonight, Deev, and maybe the hall light on. Might help you sleep.”

  “Yeah, good idea, thanks ’Ro.” Did this little tough guy really think he was fooling me?

  I pushed my door wide open after I’d changed and brushed my teeth.

  “Goodnight, ’Ro!” I called.

  “’Night,” he called back, his voice sounding very little.

  I’d crawled into bed, turned onto my side, and was just drifting off when I saw a little silhouette in my doorway.

  “Mmmff, what’s up, ’Ro?”

  “I was just thinking you might want me to sleep in here tonight. Just tonight. Because you might be feeling weird from the party. You know, lots of noise and people, and it’s so late and creepy and dark. I could just sleep on the floor right here beside your bed or something. If you wanted.”

  “That’s nice of you. Good idea, but you better hop in here.” I threw open the duvet on the far side of my double bed. “It’s chilly, and I don’t have other blankets.”

  He scrambled in over me before I even finished the sentence and snuggled down by the wall.

  “I’ll stay on my side.”

  “Yeah, you better.”

  “You won’t even know I’m here,” he said.

  The bed lurched for a ridiculous amount of time as ’Ro thrashed around, getting comfortable. So much for me not knowing he was there.

  Finally, he settled, and gave a big sigh.

  Silence.

  “Deev?” ’Ro had the loudest whisper of anyone I’d ever known. It was louder than many people’s speaking voices. I sighed.

  “What, ’Ro?”

  “You didn’t like the party, did you?”

  How was I supposed to answer that? With a lie, of course.

  “The party?” I said, stalling. “Of course I liked it. It was pretty amazing.”

  “Dad said you wouldn’t want something so big, but me and Mom thought you would. We thought it would be fun. We two-against-one’d him. But he was right, wasn’t he?”

  I turned onto my back, staring up through the gloom at the shadowy pattern the trees threw onto the ceiling.

  “’Ro, it was a great party, and I totally appreciate the work you and Mom and Dad must have put into it. It’s just that there were a lot of people I didn’t know there, right? So.”

  “Yeah, and some of them were jerks,” said ’Ro loudly. “That one girl kept throwing candy on the floor. And that guy that said the music “sucked”—right out loud instead of just thinking it. And that other boy that cheated at balloon volleyball. And Miranda tore down those balloons to take home without even asking Mom or Dad, and she took two loot bags and I saw her take one of the mustaches!”

  “What will we ever do without that mustache?” I said, trying to keep a straight face.

  “It’s not funny. It’s stealing.”

  “I know. You’re right, Officer Pankowksi. But I guess if you get that many people together, there’s bound to be some jerks, right? But some good people, too. Some nice ones.” And there were nice people at the party, I remembered. Some really nice people.

  “I guess.”

  “You guys made my birthday really special, ’Ro. I’ll never forget that party, right?” I was trying to be honest. I really would never, ever forget that party. “But you know, ’Ro, Dad and I are different from you and Mom. We’re quieter. Lower key. Not so great with people. Not so over the top.”

  “More under-the-top,” said ’Ro.

  I laughed. “Exactly. So under-the-top we’re almost burrowing.”

  “That’s okay,” said ’Ro. “Lots of things burrow. Worms. Bugs. Moles…”

  “Wow, feeling way better over here,” I said.

  “I just mean that one way isn’t right and another way isn’t wrong,” said ’Ro. “It’s not wrong for a mole to burrow because that’s what it does. That’s its mole instinct.”

  “Gotcha. You’re right. The old mole instinct. Okay, it’s sooo late.”

  Silence.

  “I’m super-tired,” yawned ’Ro.

  “Finally,” I said. “’Night, ’Ro.”

  “’Night, mole.”

  I smiled up into the darkness.

  CHAPTER 18

  The Yellow Brick Road Reveal

  If I’d had the choice between going to school on Monday and, say, swimming with sharks, I might honestly have picked the sharks. I didn’t know if people were going to gossip about DIVAPALOOZA!, think I was a spoiled brat, or just go back to forgetting all about me. I was hoping for a little invisibility.

  “So that’s the last one,” I said, puffing from loading four bags of sandbox sand into the van. Mom had a Gold Rush kids’ party this week, and the highlight was the panning for gold-foil-covered chocolate coins in a huge tub of sand. It used to be gold beads in kitty litter, until I pointed out how completely gross that was.

  “Thanks so much, kiddo. The gold-panning is always a huge hit with the little ones. I’ve even spray-painted these.” She held out a handful of fake gold nuggets. They looked surprisingly realistic. “They’ll love them. So that’s Tuesday.” She closed her eyes to think. “Then Thursday night is the ‘Old Hollywood Glamour Party’ (I’ve got streamers made of feather boas!), then Saturday afternoon is that ‘Bucket List Bash.’”

  “So, slow week,” I said. “Wait, what’s a ‘Bucket List Bash’?”

  “Oh, it’s for a couple who are revealing their bucket list for their retirement! You know, what they want to do, where they want to go, that sort of thing.”

  “And they’re having a party. For that?”

  “Why not?” Mom laughed. “Can’t ever have too many parties, right? I’ve got a beautiful chalkboard easel that I’m going to stand in two buckets! Get it? Bucket list. And they’ll write out the list with colored chalk after the slide show…”

  She talked as we stacked totes. She was creative, I had to hand it to her. Creative with endlessly exhausting energy. The Pink Palace Party Planners was obviously doing very well. She was excitedly telling me about a new theme party that was getting lots of interest.

  “It’s called ‘Matrimania’! (with an exclamation point!). It’s sort of a huge kickoff party to start the planning of a wedding.”

  Seriously. To start all the engagement parties and showers and bridal weekends and all the other hoopla that was apparently mandatory when people got married. All of which never made any sense to me. Why did I always feel like a total alien when we talked parties?

  “So, how about you?” Mom said. “What’s on this week?” Her voice was bright, but her face look
ed anxious. I think Mom knew that DIVAPALOOZA! hadn’t been the slam-dunk success she’d been hoping for. Or maybe she still hoped that somehow the party would change things for me at school, get all those sixth graders talking about the new girl, have people running up to me, begging to be friends.

  Either way, we hadn’t talked about it. I’d barely set foot outside my room all Saturday.

  “Me? Oh, just school. And rehearsals for the play start up this week…” I was regretting ever auditioning for the play and dreading our first rehearsal after school tomorrow. That’s when the whole Yellow Brick Road role would go from being a small, baffling private embarrassment to a full-blown public humiliation.

  “I’m sure it’ll go better than you think,” Mom said. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Well, I couldn’t imagine it going worse than I think it’s going to go,” I joked.

  But I wasn’t really joking.

  I was so nervous about the rehearsal on Monday, I’d barely eaten all day.

  And now I was a cold-handed, tight-stomached, thumping-hearted mess. I jumped a mile when the dismissal bell rang, even though I’d been watching the clock through all of Science.

  I shoved everything into my backpack and headed for the theater. There were already a lot of kids in the hall waiting outside the doors.

  “Locked?” Spencer wandered down the hall and stood beside me, craning to see why we were stalled. “She’s usually a little late. Hey, fun birthday party on Friday! I can’t believe I almost ruined the surprise.”

  “Hi, guys. What surprise?” Shaya asked, dumping her backpack on the ground.

  “I almost said to Diva ‘See you at the party’ when we were talking in class on Friday. So stupid. I couldn’t believe I almost ruined the surprise. Me! Who loves surprise parties more than me? I didn’t, did I? Ruin it?” He looked at me anxiously.

  Aahhh, so that was why he had flushed and run away. It was a huge relief that it hadn’t been my special brand of friend-repellent.

  “Haha. No, no, you didn’t ruin it. Not at all. It was a total surprise, believe me.”

  “Which is a total miracle, actually,” said Shaya. “With the whole grade there.” I looked at her quickly, sensing criticism, but the look she gave me back was open and friendly. She was just stating a fact. The whole grade had been there, whether I had wanted them there or not.

  “Yeah, my mom tends to do things in a big way. Really big. Always over the top.”

  “That’s fun, right?” Shaya asked. She saw the expression on my face. “Or possibly, sometimes it could really suck.” I laughed. She nailed it.

  “Your mom’s so nice,” said Spencer. “Gave me an extra-ginormous piece of cake!”

  Thank you, Mom.

  “Your parents did an awesome job,” said Shaya. “It was an incredible party. Like, I’ve never been to a party with so much fun stuff to do!”

  “Thanks. I’ll let them know you said that. It’ll mean a lot to Mom especially.”

  My heart was beating so fast. A conversation, that’s what I was having. A real, normal conversation. With real, normal people who seemed to be becoming friends. I was grateful they didn’t ask where I’d been the whole party. Pretty tricky making that lonely seat behind the speaker sound fun. Or anything other than pathetic.

  “Oh, good. Here’s Madame Ducharme,” said Spencer. The crowd of kids moved aside so she could unlock the door.

  “Okay, okay, so much noise! Quiet yourselves. Find a seat. Sit, sit down!” she called. “You will all be the audience for the moment!”

  “Follow me, Diva!” Shaya yelled, elbowing and pushing her way expertly through the crush of kids streaming into the theater. I followed her bobbing curly head as she weaved through the crowd.

  “Wow, you are good at that,” I said as we snatched two seats together.

  She shrugged and smiled.

  “I have three brothers.”

  Madame Ducharme climbed the steps and walked to center stage. Her heels tapped loudly as she walked. The acoustics in the theater were so good you could even hear the jangle of her necklaces and bracelets.

  “So. This is the first time St. George”—she pronounced it “Sant Jhorzh”—“will present The Wizard of Oz. You have seen the old film? Many of you are, perhaps, familiar with this story, yes?”

  Most of the kids nodded or said yes.

  “Well—” she snapped her fingers “—forget all that you think you know. This production will be nothing like that. Nothing. No little dogs. No silly voices. No slapstick jokes.” She threw out her arm theatrically. “It will be modern. Black and white. Stark. I see mirrors, glass, shadows, light.” She let her arm drift down.

  There was dead silence in the room. I wondered if anybody else was getting a very bad feeling about this.

  Miranda raised her hand.

  “I still get to wear the ruby sequined shoes, right? Because my mom already bought the costume.” I noticed Miranda always phrased questions so that she got the answer she wanted.

  A ripple of annoyance passed over Madame Ducharme’s face.

  “Ah, those ruby-red shoes. We can never be rid of those,” she muttered. “Well, if it is done, of course you can wear them. They are iconic after all. But no other bright color, I forbid it. Scarecrow: beige. Tin Man: silver. Lion: tan. No real color until Emerald City. Then, the production will explode with color!”

  She looked out at the silent audience.

  “No. That is not right. I just lied to you. There will be one more bright color, only one other than the ruby-red shoes—” she closed her eyes as if in pain “—until the riot of color in Emerald City. And that color is… yellow. Yellow. Yellow for hope, for longing, for life.”

  I scrunched down in my seat.

  “The Yellow Brick Road, of course, played by our little Diva! Where is Diva?” Madame Ducharme shielded her eyes with her hand and searched the crowd. Kids turned around to look as well.

  “Uh, Diva?” Shaya whispered, giving me a nudge with a sharp elbow.

  I put up my hand.

  “Ah, there she is.” Madame Ducharme gestured to me. My ears were pulsing hot, my face burning. I stared down at my hands gripping each other in my lap.

  Madame Ducharme paused. Did she actually want me to say something? What? I still didn’t know what the ridiculous role meant. I didn’t have a clue what I was supposed to do. Panic blotted out anything I might have thought of saying.

  “When I saw that on the cast list, I thought it was a joke,” Miranda said, filling the silence with her loud voice. “I mean, it’s just some kind of prop, right? The Yellow Brick Road can’t be some sort of weird character…”

  “Mmm… more of a presence,” said Madame Ducharme mysteriously. A presence? A presence? How was I supposed to act like a “presence”? What did that even mean? Was that like a ghost?

  “So,” she continued, “imagine: Dorothy has been swept up in the tornado. A force of nature! Wind. Noise. Drama.” She made swirling motions with her hands. “Then: a loud CRASH as the farmhouse plummets to the earth! A blood-curdling SHRIEK as the Wicked Witch of the East is crushed! Dorothy emerges into a dark and desolate place. Then: joy, jubilation! The Munchkin people (who in this production will not be annoying or speak in silly voices) celebrate the death of the tyrant-dictator, and the spirit of their nation’s revolution!”

  Madame Ducharme was clearly taking a few liberties with the script.

  “Revolution?” said Miranda. “What revolution?

  “Yes, yes. Revolution. It is their day of independence from tyranny! The song ‘Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead’ becomes an anthem for their new country, for freedom, for the revolt against oppression. Dorothy marches with them in solidarity. End of scene!”

  I was going to have to study this script, because I felt like I knew nothing about this play.

  Madame Ducharme paused dramatically.

  “Then, the stage, it is completely dark. Still. Then: SPOTLIGHT! What is that? Something moves! It is a l
ong, flowing yellow robe that is a road that gathers itself up, and then—”

  “—then I’ll sing ‘Follow the Yellow Brick Road,’” interrupted Miranda excitedly. “I’ve been practicing that one. It’s one of the show’s best songs!”

  “No. Not you, Dorothy. The Yellow Brick Road itself sings the song,” Madame Ducharme said triumphantly. She pointed at me. “The Road sings the song! Beckoning them to follow. Diva’s unusual, husky, low voice is perfect for the suggestion of mystery, enchantment. Following the Yellow Brick Road will be a symbol of taking a leap into the great unknown!”

  A few kids turned to glance uncertainly at me. Miranda threw me a hostile glance, the smile she kept on her face for Madame Ducharme dropping like a stone.

  “But I think Dorothy should sing that song,” she protested. She was so angry her voice was shaking. “It’s all about her.”

  “Not in this production,” Madame Ducharme said in a brisk voice. Miranda sat back in her seat and crossed her arms, a mottled flush spreading over her face and neck. I felt sick to my stomach. None of this was my fault, but it was a pretty sure bet that Miranda would take this out on me. What would a furious Miranda be like? I didn’t even want to know.

  “There will be plenty of singing for Dorothy,” the director said. “Many, many songs for your beautiful voice to sing, Miranda. Now. I will go into greater detail…”

  I relaxed a bit now that the attention wasn’t centered on me and settled in to listen to the rest of Madame Ducharme’s vision for the play. She made it a bit of a performance—a one-person show. She may be directing this play, but she was an actor at heart.

  This was going to be different than any other play I’d ever been in. And while I was still unsure about it, I found myself more and more interested in my part. And as Madame Ducharme talked and shouted and explained and gestured, I felt it—in me, in the rest of the kids, sizzling through the whole theater.

  That feeling of excitement when you’re part of a group doing something new and thrilling and big.