Syd picks up the sheet, and her eyebrows furrow for a second; she’s probably noticing that I’ve changed the spelling of my name. I wonder if she’s going to mention it, but instead she just reads aloud: “Abbi Carrington, sixth grade, Stronger Hall #213.”
“Wait, Carrington?” asks the girl to Syd’s right. She’s got super shiny black hair and a gold dragon pin on the lapel of her blazer. “Are you guys related?”
“Yes,” Sydney says, but she doesn’t elaborate or even look up from the paper. I know I made plans to distance myself from her at this school, but I never thought she’d try to do the same to me. I’ve never been the problem.
She keeps reading. “Maintenance request to replace broken blinds. All in favor?”
The other three girls watch my sister, obviously hesitant to vote until they see what she’s going to do. When Sydney raises her hand and says, “Aye,” all three of them echo her immediately. It’s like there’s a master puppeteer in the ceiling, pulling their marionette strings in unison.
Does the Committee always do exactly what Syd wants, no questions asked? How did she possibly make that happen? Maybe it’s because my request was such an easy one. I’m sure they all would’ve voted yes no matter what; there’s no reason to deny a request for blinds.
Then again, there’s no reason to deny a request for a sneaker-shopping trip either.
“The motion passes,” Syd says. She picks up a rubber stamp, seesaws it over her ink pad, and stamps a big red APPROVED on my form. “Take this to the Building Management Office—it’s on the first floor of Kemmerling Hall—and give it to Ms. Moskowitz. She’ll get you new blinds.”
I take the form. “Thanks. But Syd—”
“Thank you for coming in,” Sydney says without even a hint of warmth. “Please send the next girl in.” And then she looks past me at the door, like she’s trying to let me know I’m dismissed.
I thank the other girls and say goodbye, and then I’m back out in the hall, my thoughts crashing and churning like waves breaking against rocks. This is why that girl Grace on my hall was so excited that I was Sydney’s sister, why she acted like I had an automatic in with the Committee. This is why she thought I was special. But judging from the cold, formal way my sister just treated me, it doesn’t seem like I actually have any power at all.
A couple of days ago, I never would’ve sought my sister out in the dining hall on purpose. But now I scour the room for Sydney at dinner, desperate to ask how this whole Committee president thing happened. Unfortunately she never appears, and she doesn’t respond to any of my texts either. I spend the whole evening thinking about it as I try to concentrate on my social studies and Spanish homework, then as I’m falling asleep to the sound of Christina’s even breathing. But no matter how many theories I come up with, I can’t for the life of me figure out how the Sydney I know—or the Sydney I knew, I guess—has managed to become the most powerful person on the Brookside campus. I barely ever saw her talk to another kid at our old school, much less be in charge of something.
And by the next morning, I have other things on my mind. Auditions for the fall play, Cinderella, are happening this afternoon.
As I get dressed and weave my hair into Abbi’s signature side-braid, old, familiar doubt starts to creep up from the pit of my stomach. I’ve never been able to do something like try out for a play before, so why would I assume I can do it now? Maybe this is the worst idea I’ve ever had. But I remind myself that I’ve been in character since Sunday; I’ve barely broken once, which means that I really am a great actor. Now that I’m Abbi, I’ve already accomplished tons of things that Abby never could’ve managed.
“I’m exhausted,” Christina says as we walk to breakfast. “I’m so nervous about tennis tryouts that I barely slept last night.”
I’ve been way more tired than usual lately too—pretending to be outgoing all the time takes so much more energy than hiding behind my hair and keeping my thoughts to myself. But of course I can’t tell Christina that, so I instead I say, “You’re going to do amazing.” She told me last night as we brushed our teeth that she’s been playing since she was in third grade. “I bet you’re already the best player in the sixth grade. I bet you’re the best in the entire school.”
Christina blushes and looks at the ground. “I mean, I don’t … Well, thanks. Play auditions are today too, right? How do you … Are you scared?”
“It’s not that big of a deal,” I say with all the Abbi cool I can manage. “I just have to sing a few lines of any song I want and read a little bit. Easy-peasy.” And amazingly the moment the words are out of my mouth, it does start to feel easier.
“You’re so brave,” Christina says. “When do you find out if you’re in?”
“Right after classes tomorrow, I think.”
“Same here,” Christina says. “Hey, maybe … Would you want to hang out and do something tomorrow night? We could ask … Maybe Amelia would let us use the kitchen and make cookies or something? We could celebrate if we get in or, like, stuff our faces with sugar if we don’t. Or whatever.”
And suddenly it’s not just my attitude about the audition that feels different; everything feels different. I was invited to birthday parties and stuff at my old school, but only the ones where the whole class came. It’s been years since I’ve had a friend who wanted to celebrate with me, specifically.
“Yes,” I say. “Definitely. That sounds awesome.” Christina gives me a shy smile, and I think about those two girls on the first day who spun around so hard they crashed into the wall. I wonder if that’ll be us next year.
The day goes by in a snap, and before I know it, I’m sitting in the auditorium, clutching my audition sheet and a few stapled pages of a script in my hand. A pretty woman with turquoise streaks in her hair and a colorful scarf around her neck gets up onstage and introduces herself as Ms. Gutierrez.
“I’ll be directing this production,” she says. “I know some of you already from drama class, but I’m delighted to see some new faces as well.” I swear she smiles right at me when she says it, and it feels like a sign that my audition is going to go well.
She points out the music director, Ms. Solomon, and the student assistant director, Grace O’Connor. When she waves, I realize she’s the girl who asked me to put in a good word for her with the Committee. I wonder if that’ll help me get into the play even if my audition doesn’t go that well.
“I’ll call you up in the order you signed in today,” Ms. Gutierrez says. “When I call your name, bring me your audition sheet, then come stand right here on this X.” She taps the spot on the stage marked with yellow tape with the toe of her shiny blue shoe. “Tell us your name and what grade you’re in, then go ahead and sing a few lines of your song. If I tell you to stop, it doesn’t mean you’re doing badly, it just means we’ve heard enough to make a decision. Then we’ll have you read—your lines are the highlighted ones, and Grace and Ms. Solomon will read the other parts. Does anyone have any questions?”
Nobody does, so Ms. Gutierrez calls the first name on the list, a girl named Kiara. She plants herself on the X and smiles at the audience with so much cool, serene confidence that looking at her makes me feel calmer. When she starts to sing, the girl next to me leans over and whispers, “Oh my god, she’s so good.” She sounds totally dismayed.
I nod—Kiara is ridiculously good. Her voice is clear and sweet and strong, wrapping around me like a blanket, and she doesn’t even look like she’s trying. Ms. Gutierrez lets her sing two whole verses before she cuts her off.
The girl next to me leans toward me again as Kiara starts reading Cinderella’s lines. I think I recognize her from my algebra class. “Are you nervous?” she asks. “I’m so, so nervous.” She’s twisting the hem of her skirt around her finger so tightly I’m afraid she might rip it.
I give her a little one-shoulder shrug. “It’ll be okay. She’s super talented, but that doesn’t mean we’re not talented, you know?”
“H
mm. Yeah. I guess.” The girl sits back, and when her grip on her kilt loosens, I feel better too. Turns out Abbi has pretty good advice.
I was the eighth person to sign in, so it doesn’t take long before it’s my turn. A shot of nerves zings through me when Ms. Gutierrez calls my name, making my insides hum, but I bury those feelings under Abbi’s confidence like I’m smothering a fire with sand. Abbi knows she’s good at singing, and she’s excited to show everyone what she can do. I scoot past the other girls and out of the row, hand over my audition sheet, and make my way up onto the stage and toward the X, my strides long and purposeful. I plant my feet shoulder-width apart, smooth my braid over my shoulder, and force my mouth into a big smile.
As I gaze back at the rows upon rows of eyes staring at me, I feel those old tendrils of terror creeping out of my heart, wrapping around my lungs and my stomach and the animal part of my brain that makes you want to run from predators. This is exactly the view I had the day of that horrible, fateful talent show that sent me scuttling into my shell for more than two years. What if the same thing happens today? What if I break down again? What if everyone at Brookside spends the rest of middle school judging me and laughing at me?
For a moment, I look out into the audience and see thirty Evan Hamiltons making exaggerated crybaby faces and going Boooo-hooooo!
But it only takes a moment before Abbi’s back in control. There’s no chance I’ll break down today. I’m in a totally different place. Most of these girls have no idea who I am, and the rest have only known me a few days. They’re looking at me with curiosity, not malicious glee. And most importantly I’m a different person now than I was at that third-grade talent show. Abbi would never cry onstage. All I have to do is embody her, sing a song I’ve practiced a million times, and read some lines off a paper. Like I told Christina, it’s easy.
I take a deep breath and say, “Hi, I’m Abbi Carrington. I’m in sixth grade.”
“Welcome to Brookside, Abbi,” says Ms. Gutierrez with a warm smile. “You can go ahead whenever you’re ready.”
I close my eyes and take a moment to pull myself together. And then I open my mouth and sing.
I’ve chosen “How Far I’ll Go” from Moana, and since I only get a few lines, I go straight to the chorus. It doesn’t sound exactly like it did when I practiced alone in my room; the remains of my nerves still cling to me, making me start a little too high, sing a little too fast. But my voice carries all the way to the back of the auditorium, and I hit all the notes. Ms. Gutierrez lets me get through four lines before she says, “Thank you, Abbi. Very nice.”
Did she say “very nice” to the other girls? I wasn’t paying attention, but it seems like a good sign regardless, so I smile and say thanks. “Are you ready to read?” she asks me.
The pages I have are from a scene between Cinderella and the stepsisters. When I nod, Grace reads the first line, and we’re off. I can’t even remember the last time I read anything aloud to a room full of people; I’ve always tried my best to avoid it. But today I don’t trip over a single word, and I’m able to concentrate on making myself sound like Cinderella, sweet and sad and overwhelmed with the injustice of being kept from the ball. I expect it to be hard, layering another character over Abbi, being both of them at the same time. But being Abbi quiets the tornado of anxious thoughts that always used to swirl at the back of my brain, leaving room for other things, and it actually makes it easier to slip into someone else’s skin.
“Good job, Abbi,” says Ms. Gutierrez when I reach the end of the second page. “Would you mind reading the scene one more time, only this time you’ll do Portia’s lines?”
“Sure,” I say, and to my surprise, I find that I don’t want this audition to be over. I’m actually excited to stay up here longer. Grace reads the first line again, and when it’s my turn, I put on a dramatic, whiny evil stepsister voice, hamming it up for everything I’m worth. And when a wave of giggles sweeps through the girls in the audience, I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that they’re not laughing at me. They’re laughing because I’m funny.
The scene goes by way too quickly. Ms. Gutierrez is grinning when she thanks me and tells me I can sit back down, and I float to my seat, every nerve in my body singing with adrenaline and pride. It was one thing for my Abbi self to do normal things like talking in class and petitioning for new blinds; everyone here can do things like that. But not everyone can do what I just did. Abbi is legitimately talented. She rocked that audition.
If I can do this, I can do anything.
The moment I slip back into my seat, Skirt-Twisting Girl grabs my arm. Her nails are painted with blue glitter. “Oh my god,” she whispers. “Abbi, right? You were so good. No wonder you weren’t nervous.”
“Thank you,” I say. “I’m sure you’re going to be amazing too.”
“I love ‘How Far I’ll Go,’” the girl says. “I sang it in the shower for like a month straight after I saw Moana. It drove my parents bananas.”
“Me too,” I say, and she smiles.
“I have that movie on my computer—would you maybe want to watch it sometime? I live in Stronger. I’m Lydia, by the way.”
“Definitely,” I say. “I’m in Stronger too. My roommate and I were actually going to make cookies after dinner tomorrow—do you want to come?” I have to work hard to make my mouth form the words; it’s the first time I’ve asked someone at Brookside to hang out with me, and I’m not sure I can handle being rejected.
But Lydia breaks into a huge smile and says, “Yeah, of course! That sounds super fun.”
It’s only my fourth day of being Abbi, and I’ve already made more friends than I did in the last two years combined.
It’s nearly impossible to concentrate in class the next day, and I can tell there are a bunch of other girls who feel the same—there were a lot of tryouts yesterday. By last-period social studies, there’s so much squirming and nail-biting and whispering that Ms. Patrick gives up on talking about ancient Egypt and lets us go five minutes early.
I sprint across the quad to the auditorium, my backpack thumping against my shoulder blades. Until yesterday, even trying out for a play seemed like too high a mountain to scale. But now that I’ve succeeded and I’m on the other side, I can see a whole series of other beautiful peaks in front of me, inviting me to climb them. Rocking the audition isn’t enough anymore. I want to stand onstage in front of a packed audience with my Abbi face on, totally in control, making everyone laugh and applaud and feel things. I want that bubbly, floaty feeling back, like fancy sparkling water is coursing through my veins.
I make it to the auditorium as the bell rings for the end of eighth period and girls burst out of the buildings all around me. Someone calls my name over the clamor, and I turn to see Lydia barreling toward me. She’s in such a hurry that she hasn’t even put her backpack on properly and it’s swinging wildly from one shoulder, papers poking out of the half-open top like snaggleteeth.
“Oh my god, hi,” she pants when she gets to me. “Is the list up?”
“I don’t know,” I say. “I just got here.”
“Let’s go in.” She grabs my arm like we’ve known each other forever, and we run up the steps and through the door together, our kilts flapping against our legs.
Ms. Gutierrez is walking toward the theater doors, a sheet of paper and a roll of tape in her hand, and Lydia squeals at the sight of her. “Hi, girls,” she calls. I search her face for clues about whether we made it, but she just smiles. Would she smile even if it were bad news? Does she feel sorry for us because we didn’t get in, or is she being mysterious?
“Is that the list?” Lydia breathes.
Ms. Gutierrez laughs. “Give me a second to tape it up.” She shoos us back, and we retreat a tiny bit. I try to read the list over her shoulder, but her hair is big and curly, and it totally blocks my view.
Five more girls push through the auditorium doors as Ms. Gutierrez tapes up the sheet, all of them talking over one another. W
hen they see the paper, they scream and rush forward like it’s a juicy steak and they’re wolves who haven’t eaten in a week. Ms. Gutierrez scrambles out of the way, laughing as she heads back toward her office to avoid the chaos.
Lydia and I get to the door first, fingers skimming down the list of names. Neither of us is cast as Cinderella—that role went to Kiara, the girl who sang first at auditions. She totally deserves it, and it’s not hard to be happy for her. Neither of us is the fairy godmother or the stepmother, and neither of us is a stepsister—that’s kind of disappointing, since I thought I did a great job with Portia. But when we get to the ten names listed under “ensemble,” there we both are, one right after the other. My name is at the very top, and I like to think that means I deserve it the most. At the bottom of the page, it says that the first read-through will be in the auditorium on Monday afternoon.
Even as I stare at my name on the list, part of me still can’t totally believe this is real. I, Abbi Carrington—the girl who cried at the talent show, the girl who refused to join any activity where she might have to speak to other people—was brave enough to audition for a play and talented enough to be cast in it.
Abby squirms beneath my skin, panic racing through her anxious little heart. I squash her down.
“We did it!” Lydia shrieks. “We’re in!” And when she grabs me in a hug, I squeeze her back and jump with her, letting the waterfall of our combined joy shower down on me.
“Oh my god, move over!” shouts one of the girls behind us. “You’re blocking the list!” We step to the side, clinging to each other’s arms and stumbling over each other’s feet, and the river of girls flows in to fill the space. More shrieks go up as they find their names. One girl who isn’t on the list starts to cry and is guided out of the building by her friend.
She's the Liar Page 3
