by Federle, Tim
And my guardian grabs a coat sleeve and pulls me to the elevator. Off to make a mold of two worried eyebrows playing the role of my face.
Masks
(Four and a half weeks till first preview)
The whole way over to the mask fitting, all I can think about is Asella, singing the Pacific-freaking Overtures out of that song.
“Okay, Nate, we’re here,” the guardian says, slamming the taxi shut and taking me by the hand. Like I’m six.
We make our way up a rickety elevator that smells like shoes and milk, but then the doors open directly into this incredible cavern, with show posters dotting the walls like stars.
“Hi there!” a voice calls from a distant room. It’s like an apartment being played by an apartment in a horror movie, but one that isn’t scary. The shelves may be lined with giant stuffed raccoons, all right, but they’re all wearing wigs.
“Is Nathan Foster here?” the voice shouts.
“Yes, sir!” I shout back.
“You don’t have to shout,” says the guardian, who’s checking texts on her phone.
I have officially decided to pretend like I don’t know her name.
“Be right there,” the guy from the back says. “You’re a little late.”
“There was a little traffic,” the nameless guardian mutters, “so we’re a little sorry.” She’s not saying any of this to me, but to her phone. Maybe she’s on a video call. Rumor has it iPhones do everything, except appear under my Christmas tree.
“Hi, Nathan.” Now the voice has a face—a goateed little head poking out of a tight plaid shirt. He’s one of those urban-type guys who’s ancient but still wears those cool bowling-like sneakers. I want to be this guy when I’m in my forties. “You two can follow me back.”
Now that I’m not stuttering my name, which happened the instant I got cast in E.T., I should just tell him I go by Nate. But then, maybe Nathan ages me up a little. I’m practically fourteen, and maybe this Nate business is best left back home.
“Almost there,” he says. “I’ve lived here forever, so this is one of those million-year-old apartments you can’t get anymore, if you weren’t born into money.” I kind of like how nobody hides anything in New York.
We wind around a corner and push through a beaded curtain and land in a treasure chest of a room.
“Okay, hop up,” he says. I hadn’t even clocked the barber chair in the middle of the floor—too busy noticing a bear’s head, hanging from the wall, looking entirely ferocious if not for its bright red lipstick.
“We hunt bears back home,” I say. “Well, my relatives do. Not me.”
The guardian grunts.
“Yeah, I didn’t hunt this guy,” the nice guy says, admiring the bear. “Just found him at a flea market.”
“What’s his name?”
“Bernie the Second.”
“Oh, cool.”
“I’m Bernie the First. By the by. Bernie the Second is everything I wish I could be if I weren’t designing wigs and masks.”
Whoa. Stuck to a wall? Wearing makeup?
“Ever been fitted for a mask?” Bernie the First says.
“My dad tried to make me play hockey goalie in fourth grade, so I guess then.”
“Oh.” Bernie the First chuckles and swigs away at a mysterious green juice. “Okay.”
“And I went as a Smurf for Halloween, a bunch of times. And, come to think of it, I wore, like, a headpiece thing in a play I did back home.”
For Vegetables: Just Do It, Libby’s mom made me an entire broccoli hat out of old green pom-poms.
“Got it,” Bernie the First says, pulling out a bowl of batter from a refrigerator. “So no, you’ve never worn this kind of mask. But I like those stories. Those are good stories.”
I’m paused on the batter. “Are you making pancakes?”
The guardian grunts again. Adults can eat anything, anytime.
“Pancakes?” Bernie says, smiling to himself. “Nah. I wish. This is the putty for your facial mold. We’re putting together your Alien Number Eight mask today.”
“Alien Number Seven,” I say. “Alien Number Eight requires depth and experience, and talent, so I didn’t get that part,” I almost say, but don’t.
“Ah, good you corrected me,” he says. “I would have made Alien Number Eight mask look like a Smurf if we hadn’t caught it in time.”
I almost ask Bernie if he’s ever known a chorus kid who’s gone on to become famous, but instead I just go, “The lighting’s really cool in here. It feels like we’re on a movie set.”
He puts the bowl down and picks a fingernail. “I used to work in movies, actually. Made masks for that crazy Mackey, in fact.”
“Cool. He seems really nice.”
“Does he?”
He doesn’t. He seems rough as an unpaved road back home, but “he seems really nice” is just sort of what you say, right?
“Yeah. He seems nice.”
“I guess he’s changed, then,” Bernie the First says, his goatee turning into the frame for a smirk. “Okay, Nathan, so—how are you with holding your breath?”
“Oh, I’m swell at that, Bernie the First!” I get so excited, the barber chair squeaks. “My older brother tried to drown me a couple times, and I slowly built up a resistance.”
Bernie puts the bowl down. “You’re an original.”
“It’s true!” It is true.
“Anyway, I’m going to slather this junk on your face, and you have to sit totally still and hold your breath and not move a single face muscle. Which is very hard for actors.”
“Thank you for calling me an actor, Bernie the First,” I say.
He laughs. “You’re welcome. Thank you for calling me Bernie the First. I should have that printed on my business card.”
“Oh!” I say. “Can I get a business card on the way out?”
“Good Lord,” I believe the guardian says.
But Libby says I should be sending handwritten notes to anyone who’s nice to me! As an example: The guardian will not get a handwritten note. Bernie the First will get a handwritten note, and so on.
“We’ll see,” Bernie says. “We should get moving, though.” He picks up a note pad. “We’ve got a big headliner coming in after you.”
He shows me a long list of my castmates: Genna the Injured was here just before me (no wonder the room smells like lollipops and foundation), and Jordan will be here right after me. The big headliner.
“Oh,” I say. “Him.”
“Ah, do we not like him?” Bernie the First says, leaning my chair back. It’s very Sweeney Todd, but I’m telling you now: Bernie wouldn’t slit my throat in a million years, because he didn’t even kill Bernie the Second.
“Nah,” I say. “Jordan seems really nice. It’s just—”
“Ya know, we don’t have to get into it,” Bernie the First says. “Let’s get your face cleaned up and then we’ll get you molded.”
He sponges my cheeks down with this witch hazel stuff and my skin gets supercold and then supertight. It’s cool because maybe it’ll shrink my zits down. The toothpaste Libby told me to smear on my pimples at night isn’t really working.
“Okay,” Bernie One says, “now for the hold-your-breath-in-the-pool part. I’m going to put all this weird oatmealy stuff on your face. It’ll be like nothing you’ve ever done.”
“Neat.” I don’t want to correct an adult and tell him that Libby and I do oatmeal masks at least once a week. He seems like he’s having fun, and correcting someone can really bring them down.
“So where are you from?” Bernie says, gooping the goop on.
“A town called Jankburg. In Pennsylvania. Have you heard of Pittsburgh?”
“I have,” he says. “And actually, I set you up. Sorry. You shouldn’t talk. Need to be still.”
“No problem,” I say, and then: “Oh, sorry. I shouldn’t have talked.” And then: “Oh, sorry again.”
He laughs and swats my chin with the brush. “Quie
t, child,” he says— but he proves my point that you can say mean things nicely and not be mean. My dad could learn so much from Bernie the First. As if my dad would ever have a mirror ball hanging from our ceiling, though.
“If you can breathe through the nose slits in the putty, nod your head.” Bernie steps back. “And if you can’t breathe, can I have your iPod when you die?”
I don’t have an iPod but I get his joke. So I nod.
“Good. I’m going to be right back. Don’t move. Or steal Bernie the Second.”
Bernie the First steps out of the room, so my eyes flick around. He’s got a shelf full of awards—are those Tony Awards, I wonder??—but my eyes stop dead on a blender, with red sauce splashed across the glass.
“Ah, you found the place where I grind up children’s hands,” Bernie says. I hop about a foot out of the chair. “Hold still. Didn’t mean to scare you.”
He slowly peels the mold away. “Pretty cool, huh?” he says.
I sit up and take it in: the hollowed-out Nate Foster.
“Why do you need a mask of my face?” I say. My cheeks tingle, and the room smells like burned rubber—like when Anthony rips out of the yard in his pickup.
“Because we want to have a mold of your facial structure, so the E.T. mask fits snugly.”
“So you’re making me a mask for E.T. the character?” This is a good sign!
“Well, this will double,” Bernie says, shaking my fake face. “This will be your Alien Number . . . what was it?”
“Seven. The Blurp alien.”
“Right. Lucky number seven.” I wish. “But you’ll also use the same mask for E.T.,” Bernie says, writing something down on his notepad. “Same bodysuit, too.” He lays the mold across a Styrofoam head.
“Can I touch it?”
“Sure,” he says. “Just be careful.”
“Can I take a photo of it?” Libby would die.
“No, actually. All sorts of producer rules about that. I could get in trouble. You could get in trouble.” He takes another sip of juice. “I’d lose my country house. Blah blah blah.”
I take my own hollow head and sit it in my lap. This sounds so pitiful, but it’s . . . ugly. Lifeless and brown. When you look at a mirror, you’re only seeing a fake reflection, something backward. So sometimes when I’m getting ready before school I can convince myself that maybe my hair isn’t as bad as I think, or my skin is clearer. Sometimes I can pretend that maybe my nose is proportionate to my face, or my eyebrows aren’t so big. It’s just a mirror, I’ll say. Sometimes I’ll say it out loud. But mirrors can lie to you.
“Pretty nifty, huh?” Bernie says, putting the batter away.
But when you’re looking at your own face, at this topographic map of your own bumpy nose, there’s no denying it: Straight on, I look pretty lame.
“I’m early!” I hear.
A bumpless, proportionate nose pops through the beaded curtain of Bernie’s studio. Jordan. With eyebrows that are practically the same color as his flawless snowy skin.
“Sorry to barge in, but I just couldn’t wait to meet you, Mr. Billings-Sapper.”
Bernard Billings-Sapper! Of course! The Tony-winning wig designer of every hit show in the last four seasons. I didn’t even shake his hand. Libby’d have recognized him by the goatee alone and staged a fainting scene.
“Aw, thank you, Jordan,” Bernie Billings-Sapper the First (and only) says. “I’m just finishing up with one of your co-stars.”
Jordan looks at me. “You mean Nate?”
“Oh, do you go by Nate, Nate?” Bernie says.
“Sometimes,” I say, handing my head back to Bernie. “But people have all sorts of nicknames for me.”
“Come on, Nathan,” the guardian says. “We’ve gotta get you back to rehearsal. And I hope you packed your tap shoes today.” I pop out of the chair.
“Great to meet you, Nate,” Bernie says. I grab my bookbag and reach for his hand. “Oh, you don’t want to do that. My hands are all sticky.”
“You kidding?” Jordan says, now striding forth and (honestly) patting Bernie on the back. “Those hands have held a Tony Award.”
“Four, actually,” I say.
“Kids, kids,” Bernie says, chuckling. “Stop looking through my shelves when I’m not here.”
“I didn’t have to look at your shelves,” I say. “I know Tony stats like my dad knows the Steelers’ starting lineup.”
“Oh, Nate, I almost forgot,” Bernie says, handing me a slip of paper. “The last kid left this note for you. But I’m not supposed to say who it’s from.”
Jordan hops up on the high chair, and laughs. “God, this thing is so warm. What did you do in it, Nate? Run a mile?”
“I don’t run miles,” I say, glaring at him with fire-eyes. “I walk.”
I go for a dramatic exit, whapping my big fat nose into the thin beaded curtain. Bernie calls out, “Watch the curtain,” and Jordan goes, “Too late,” just as the guardian and I hit the hallway.
“Was that fun?” she says, still looking at her phone. Typical adult.
“Yeah, sure,” I say, peeling remaining threads of dried mask from my face. I wish I could stay around long enough to steal Jordan’s mask. That’s a kid anyone would want to look like.
We board the elevator and I pull out my phone to text Libby: “u were right. jordan rylance is such a bad word that i can’t even think of a musical flop big enough to call him.”
“Whatcha got there?” the guardian goes.
“My phone,” I say back, but not in a nice way. They say you always turn into your parents!
“No. The other hand. I know what a phone looks like.”
The slip of paper, from the anonymous kid.
wanna know a secret? i’m scared too, and i think your doing a really good job in rehearsal . . . when your not running into people
“Um,” I say. “It’s . . . it’s just a note I made for myself. About picking up apples for my Aunt Heidi on the way home tonight.” I am never more specific than when lying.
But it’s not a note from myself.
It’s a note from the last kid who was here for a mask. Genna. Who wanted to remain anonymous. Who didn’t know I’d see Bernie’s mask-making schedule on his notepad.
“My aunt loves apples,” I murmur.
Genna, who doesn’t even know how to use the proper form of your, but is the same age as me and starring in a Broadway musical. With a limp.
Genna, who doesn’t even know she just made my day. My week.
“ ‘merrily we roll along’ is the flop ur looking for,” Libby texts back. “jordan rylance is a total ‘merrily.’ ”
(1981; played sixty-eight performances at the Alvin Theater. A big flop with a famous song: “Old Friends,” all about meeting up again with the only person who ever really understood you.)
“Wow,” the guardian says, for the first time sounding like an actual concerned person with actual feelings and maybe even a pet. “Those must be some sad apples you’re picking up. You okay?”
And all of a stupid sudden, the words your doing a really good job are a glop of blue ink, my tears hitting the secret note like darts. I’ve got terrible aim but it’s bull’s-eye today.
“I’m good,” I say, smearing my nose across a jacket sleeve. “I’m having an allergic reaction to the mask stuff. I just need a tissue.”
Or maybe just my old friend.
A Delirious Pinball That’s Made Out of Sugar
(Four and a half weeks till first preview)
I spend most of the cab ride back to rehearsal playing with balled-up mask parts, which is a lot like old rubber cement. The only thing that gets me through school back home is rolling up rubber cement balls between my fingers, which is as much fun as you can have in a school that doesn’t have a drama program.
“I’m sorry I’m getting Nathan back so late,” the guardian whose name I refuse to learn says to a stage manager by the sign-in board—the only person here in a hallway tha
t’s a ghost town. “Traffic was crazy.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the SM says. “Nate, do you have anything in the rehearsal room? Garret and Monica are working over lunch, and they want the room completely cleared.”
“Actually,” I say, “I think I left my scarf in there”—and without thinking about it, I stroll right into the war zone.
“Excuse us,” I hear, stopping dead. “What are you doing in here?”
“My. Scarf.” (No, but seriously.)
Monica laughs. “Sorry. We picked it up and started using it as a prop.”
“That’s so cool!” I say. “Just keep it.” I whir on myself and reach for the handle, but my hands are suddenly sweatier than a pop quiz pencil.
“Stay here,” Garret says. “We need a body.”
A stage manager is pushing a box across the room: “Mr. Charles, I’m sorry. Nate needs to be on lunch. Equity rules.”
“Oh, I don’t mind, Kiana,” I say. Who even knew her name was Kiana? Apparently, I’m able to pull names out of thin air when I’m fighting for stardom. “I already had lunch during my, um, mask fitting.” My stomach, on cue, growls. “See. I’m digesting.” In reality my stomach is screaming for nourishment, but Garret Charles needs a body. A body’s the only thing I’ve got. Too much of one.
“Come ’ere, puppy,” Monica says, patting her knee.
“Whaddya need from me?” I say, running over. “More knee crawls?”
Garret chortles. “Let’s never see those knee crawls again, son. Let’s have those be something special you only do on wide expanses of prairie.”
“So this, here,” Monica says, cutting in and waving my grey fleece scarf, “is standing in as a girl’s coat.”
“In the Act One classroom sequence,” Garret says, spearing at a salad, chewing on a carrot like he’s mad at the thing for being orange, “there’s a tricky piece of business between Elliott and the girl.”
“The girl he kisses?” I say. There’s nothing like that part in the movie E.T. Man, there’s no improving on that. Come to think of it, why are we trying to improve on that?
