Over the Top

by Alison Hughes

  “Munchkin time,” whispered Shaya, punching me on the shoulder as she passed me, trooping onto the stage with all the others, rallying around Dorothy. They sang a spirited version of “Ding-Dong! The Witch Is Dead.”

  My hands started to get clammy. It was almost time for me to go onstage.

  Focus, Diva.

  I listened closely to what was happening onstage, heart thumping, waiting for my cue.

  “You, Dorothy of Kansas, are a great hero of our revolution! Long live Dorothy! Long live Munchkin Independence!” The Munchkin mob cheered.

  Enter green and evil Wicked Witch of the West hunting for the ruby-red slippers, which appear as if by magic on Dorothy. She is enraged and vanishes with her trademark bloodcurdling cackle and vows of revenge. Glinda, the much-less-interesting good witch, directs Dorothy to seek out the great Wizard of Oz in Emerald City, who can help her find her way home.

  “Follow the Yellow Brick Road, Dorothy. And remember: don’t take off those magical red shoes.” She clomped offstage. Despite Madame Ducharme’s best efforts, our play’s Glinda played this role like a cop.

  “My, people come and go so quickly here,” said a bewildered Dorothy.

  “Come with us, we will take you to the Yellow Brick Road!” the Munchkins cried. And everyone talked excitedly as they walked off the stage. The curtains closed.

  Showtime.

  I ran onto the dark, empty stage as quickly as my enormous costume allowed. A teacher ran on and spread my cape out behind me. I lay down in position as another teacher whisked away the farm backdrop. My heart was pounding as I lay, cheek to the stage floor. I took a deep breath, then flattened my body as much as I could.

  As the curtains opened, I heard the audience gasp and murmur. The stage set for this scene, for the rest of the play, was incredible—tall mirrors lined the back of the stage, set at angles from each other. Plexiglas “crystals” hung from the rafters. With the stage lights dazzling off the mirrors and the glass, the set was sparkling, icy, brilliant.

  Then the cue from offstage. A Munchkin voice.

  “There it is, Dorothy! There! The Yellow Brick Road!”

  The spotlights danced crazily, then all converged on me. Dead silence in the theater.

  You are a presence, I reminded myself. You are the road to Home. You lead to all good things. You are important.

  I rose slowly, my back to the audience. I heard them murmuring excitedly behind me.

  “Thank you! Oh, thank you so much!” Dorothy’s voice came from offstage.

  Now, rehearsal after rehearsal, Madame Ducharme emphasized that Dorothy was just supposed to hurry onto the stage. Not sprint. Just a purposeful fast-walk. Madame Ducharme told her this many, many, many times. “Slow down, Miranda,” she’d say. “Slow. There is no race here.”

  Miranda argued that because Dorothy was so impatient to get home, she would have run toward the Yellow Brick Road. In rehearsals, though, she listened to Madame Ducharme.

  But now, here was Miranda sprinting onto the stage in a blur of gingham and red braids. I heard the heels of the ruby-red shoes clicking, fast, fast, fast toward me. She was running quickly, swept up in the adrenalin of performing, in the exhilaration of being a star in front of an audience.

  Then something happened.

  I don’t actually know what happened. She must have slipped or stumbled or tripped over her own feet. I saw her sprawl and fall in a spinning slide. I heard a muffled shriek from an offstage Munchkin and one of the parents in the front row shouted, “Whoa, look out!” And then Miranda crashed spectacularly into one of the tall mirrors at the back of the stage. Whatever happened, I was probably six feet away from her, so mercifully she couldn’t blame me for any of it. Let’s be honest, she probably still would, but whatever.

  There was a breathless moment when she jumped back to her feet and staggered back from the mirror a few steps. The mirror. Both of us stared in horror at the mirror, at the snaking pattern of cracks that worked its way swiftly from the bottom crash site to the top. I had no idea mirrors would do that. It cracked like glass in a cartoon.

  It only took seconds, but when the glass cracked to the top, there was a dramatic pause, as if the mirror was deciding what to do.

  I lunged in and pulled Miranda away just as the mirror shattered down all over the stage behind us.

  CHAPTER 21

  Freedom Takes Center Stage

  A few split seconds can hold a lot of thoughts:

  Wow, I did not see that one coming.

  What are we going to do?

  Remember the Lorax, when Mrs. Krantz stepped in and saved the show.

  It’s not my problem. I didn’t wreck this play.

  Miranda looks confused. Scared. Little. Like she’s going to faint. Or run right off this stage. Oh no, you don’t, Miranda.

  Step in, Diva. Step up.

  Do something!

  I took a deep breath and pulled Miranda to the front of the stage. The spotlights followed us.

  We faced each other. She was breathing hard. She looked shaken and uncertain. Over her shoulder in the wings, I saw Madame Ducharme giving frantic directions to her assistants.

  “Your world is broken,” I improvised, spreading the cape of my costume out with my arms to try to shield the two teachers who had crept onto the stage behind us to sweep up the mirror shards. “That is true. So true. It is shattered and confused. But do not lose heart. There is a way forward, a way that leads out of here. Follow me. Follow the Yellow Brick Road.”

  I started to sing “Follow the Yellow Brick Road.” My voice felt strong, steady. I was a presence. It was just me and my voice and the spotlight.

  I wasn’t even annoyed when Miranda lifted up her chin and started singing, too. I was actually glad. Our duet was actually very effective—her clear, high voice balancing my deep, husky one. We did a sweeping tour of the front of the stage and finished the song together while moving offstage.

  The curtain closed to thunderous applause.

  “Stupid, stupid shoes,” Miranda hissed the second the curtain closed, dropping innocent, hopeful Dorothy like dirty clothes on the floor. “I told my mom they were slippery. It’s her fault.”

  She glared at me. Hostile, as always.

  “If you think this makes me your best friend, Road, forget it.”

  I couldn’t help it.

  I laughed.

  Maybe I shouldn’t have, because there’s nothing as enraging as a person who laughs at you when you’re mad, but the whole situation was so stupid and funny: Miranda standing there raging at me in her pretty Dorothy outfit, clutching her little basket with Toto the stuffie peeking out, me with my yellow face and Road costume. Teachers shaking glass out of my cape and sweeping frantically all around us.

  All of it seemed so silly, somehow. So small.

  It was small.

  How had I ever let it get so big?

  “News flash, Miranda,” I said. “I don’t want you to be my friend. I never did.”

  Miranda gave me a surprised look, then turned away.

  And just like that, a weight lifted off me, and I knew I was free.

  Madame Ducharme clattered and jangled onto the stage and swept me up in a tight hug.

  “That was—” she searched for the right word “—professional, Diva. Like a pro!” It was clearly the highest compliment she could think of. “Bravo! The show, she must go on! People, people—ready for scene four!”

  No other mirrors were injured in the rest of the performance. It was strange: instead of being rattled by the accident, everybody seemed to step up. There was an unspoken feeling among the cast that we needed to pull together. And we did! We gave the best performance of the play we’d ever given. Miranda roared back from the accident, regaining her composure and throwing herself into her role. Kallie the Scarecrow actually remembered all her lines, Miko the Tin Man sang well, and Caleb the Lion got lots of laughs from the audience.

  And I felt calm and relaxed. I was a presenc
e. Not just any road—the Yellow Brick Road, the most iconic road in film history.

  “And when you believe, when you truly believe you will get there, you will have arrived.” I said my last line, before I turned and walked into the darkness at the back of the stage and the spotlights zeroed in on Dorothy and the others.

  The Yellow Brick Road was finished, done. Not such a bad role after all.

  “The end of the Road, Diva,” Spencer said as he prepared to go onstage. “High five.” Never has a high five felt so great.

  I watched the last scenes from the wings. The assistants propping up the amazing, colorful backdrop for Emerald City. Dorothy throwing the water on the Wicked Witch of the West. Her cackly “I’m melting, melting” demise. Spencer, the Great and Powerful Oz revealed as just an odd and bumbling little man behind a curtain. I watched it all with a little smile on my face. It was good.

  We were good.

  Then the very last scene unfolded. The very last speech. The speech I’d practiced and practiced. The speech I butchered at first when I auditioned, the speech Madame Ducharme told me to repeat—Dorothy’s “No place like home” speech. Miranda nailed it.

  The curtain closed, and a roar went up from the audience.

  The play was over.

  Of course, this being St. George, it wasn’t entirely over. The principal gave a little speech and Dorothy presented a bouquet of flowers to Madame Ducharme. Our director invited the cast out while the audience cheered and applauded again. It went on and on. Monkeys, then Munchkins, then the bigger roles: kids ran onstage and offstage while the audience clapped and clapped.

  When she called for The Yellow Brick Road, I was surprised to hear the applause get louder as I swept out onto the stage.

  I was even more surprised that I didn’t feel like hiding.

  I stood, with a smile on my face. This play had been so much work, especially considering I wasn’t even sure I wanted to audition in the first place. Trying to figure out my weird part, then coping with Miranda’s antics, then dreading rehearsal after rehearsal.

  But I’d hoped to find a few friends, and I had.

  I’d hoped to be a part of something, and I was.

  I bowed, waved to my family, and stood back for the others to come onto the stage. Spencer got a big roar of applause when he came on. So did Miranda. They both deserved it. Then the whole cast joined hands (Spencer was on my right, someone else I can’t remember on my left), raised them, then took a final bow.

  Spencer turned to me with a big smile and gave my hand a final squeeze.

  “Awesome!” he said.

  That wonderful feeling that the dreams that you dare to dream really do come true.

  “Deeeevaaa!” I heard my mom’s voice before I saw my family weaving through the noisy crowd to congratulate me. Dad reached me first, sweeping me up in a hug, lifting me right off my feet.

  “You did great,” he said in my ear. “But no more plays. Please. My nerves can’t stand it.”

  Then a massive bouquet of flowers launched itself at me. Mom was somewhere behind the flowers as she squashed them between us, throttle-hugged me, wiped away tears, and shrieked out congratulations all at the same time.

  “Diva, you were divine! Magnificent! Awesome! Somebody, quick, take a picture of my famous daughter and me!” She pulled me tight against her side.

  As Dad pulled out his phone, I swept a fold of the Yellow Brick Road costume across Mom’s shoulder like a scarf. She was tearful and my face paint was smeary, but in the picture, we were both relaxed and laughing and hugging.

  “I think that’s the nicest one we have of us,” said Mom. “It’s perfect!”

  “Where’s ’Ro?” I asked.

  “He’s back there somewhere—” Dad turned and gestured “—talking with one of his friends whose older sister was in the play. Oh, here he comes.”

  “Hey, Mom and Dad—” Hero’s face was flushed with excitement “—can I go with Dylan’s family to the Ice Creamery? Everybody’s going there to celebrate.” That was so perfect. It was my play, but Hero got the invite to the after-party.

  I tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Oh, hi, Deev. Hey, you didn’t suck at all as the Yellow Brick Road. Not at all!”

  “Stop. You’re making me blush,” I said sarcastically.

  We were jostled by a crowd of Munchkins heading for the doors.

  “Diva!” Shaya lifted both hands for high fives. “We did it! Great performance. And, more important, it’s finally over! We’re going to the Ice Creamery to celebrate! You coming?”

  “See you there, Diva!” two other friends from my class, Catherine and Lila, called over their shoulders as they swept by with the rest of the crowd.

  That counted as three invitations!

  I turned, smiling, to my parents.

  “Cast party? How glamorous!” my mom said excitedly. “Let’s all go together! Don’t worry. You can both hang out with your friends. We’ll sit with the parents.”

  “And we’re going to get you the biggest sundae on the menu,” Dad said. “Whipped cream, cherries, the whole shebang.”

  We made our way to the door, stopping for the many people, some total strangers, who wanted to give me a high five, pat my back, or say “congratulations” or “great job.” One parent said, “Well, Yellow Brick Road, you saved the whole show!”

  Spencer and Jeremy sprinted past. Jeremy caught a glimpse of me over his shoulder.

  “Diva! Ice Creamery!” he called.

  “You gotta come, we need the Yellow Brick Road,” Spencer yelled.

  Five invites, but who’s counting?

  When we were finally at the door, I looked back into the almost empty theater. Madame Ducharme was onstage, talking animatedly to a small group of people. She caught my eye, smiled, and gave me two thumbs-up. High praise from her.

  I smiled and waved back. It felt a little like I was waving goodbye to the theater and the play, too. A happy wave. A thanks-for-everything wave.

  I turned to go join my friends and eat some ice cream.

  CHAPTER 22

  No Place Like Home

  So, Mom, it’s your birthday coming up next week,” I said. “What should we do?”

  She stopped what she was doing, which was glue-gunning flip-flops and fake tropical flowers onto vases for her upcoming beach-themed party, and tilted her head.

  “You know what, Princess?” She gave me a strange look, then sighed. “I want you to throw me the kind of party you would have wanted for your birthday. Something simple, something small.”

  It was the closest we’d come to talking about DIVAPALOOZA!

  That feeling of understanding each other without explanations, a long talk, or any words at all.

  “That doesn’t sound much like you, though,” I said. “You always say that the party should fit the person, right? And you are definitely more of a hoopla party girl.”

  “Well, you know, what with all the parties I’ve done lately, and all the work for the play, I’m actually feeling a bit tired. A little partied out.”

  “Wow. You. Partied out. We should mark this on the calendar or something.”

  “I know, right?” She laughed. “Know what? I was going to surprise you with a cast party after the play—” she held up her hand as I flinched “—and then I thought that you probably wouldn’t want that. So I didn’t. See? I’m learning.”

  “Thanks, Mom. Sometimes it’s more fun when a party happens spur-of-the-moment, with a few close friends. Like after the play, when we went for ice cream and then a bunch of friends went back to Spencer’s house afterward.”

  “A pop-up party!” Mom said, nodding, lost in thought. “Totally spontaneous, spur-of-the-moment… I love the sound of that. Tucking that idea away for my business…”

  I laughed. Mom would probably find a way to plan an incredibly detailed, elaborate, fake-spontaneous party.

  “You know, Mom, you had a ‘great feeling’ about me being in the play, rememb
er?” I remembered the sinking feeling I’d had at the time.

  “I do!” She opened her eyes wide and clutched both hands over her heart. “I did! Right here!”

  “Well, you were right. Thanks for giving me the little nudge I needed.”

  “So glad to hear it. Like, you have no idea how glad,” Mom said. “I know Miranda was a real problem, hon. A few of the parents doing sets for the play told me she was a real stinker during rehearsals.”

  Somehow, the phrase “a real stinker” didn’t quite capture the essence of Miranda’s rude, toxic behavior, but I let that go. Her group left me alone, and I’d stopped worrying about them, or even noticing them. They seemed way smaller now.

  “That girl is so—” Mom struggled to find words, then she snapped her fingers, pointed, and said triumphantly: “—insecure. That’s what she is. Insecure.”

  I laughed. Again, a word that didn’t really fit the complicated mess that was Miranda. Or did it?

  I didn’t know. And I wasn’t really interested in finding out.

  I got Dad and Hero involved in planning Mom’s party. We went out and found the perfect gift.

  “Mom is gonna love this,” Hero said, carefully holding the cardboard box on his lap on the way home. “Like, LOVE this.” His face was flushed and excited.

  It was a warm June evening. We strung multicolor lights inside the little gazebo in our backyard and spread a blanket on the floor. That evening, when Mom got back from the beach party, Hero had the job of bringing her outside.

  “Did you see the balloons we tied around Gary the Centaur’s head?” Hero’s voice floated through the backyard as they came down the stairs.

  “I did! He looked amazing! I wish I could figure out how to bring him to some of my parties. Maybe a mythical creatures theme…”

  “Okay, now cover your eyes. Don’t look!” I heard Hero tell her, and I saw Mom put her hand over her eyes.

  Laughing and staggering, they lurched all the way through the enormous backyard. Dad lit the fire we’d built in the fire pit and flicked on some music from his phone. I set out the picnic dinner that Hero and I had made. We’d also bought a small cake and put a single candle on top.