“Thank you, Jolie,” Mrs. Mulaney finally says. “You’re our very last audition, so I’ll be making decisions tonight and posting them outside my classroom tomorrow.”
I wait for her to say something else, but she starts gathering her papers and putting them in her bag. She and Peter aren’t giving me a standing ovation for my heartwarming take on a classic … but they also aren’t clutching their bleeding ears and calling for an ambulance.
“Okay … bye,” I mumble, then practically run offstage. I find my backpack shoved behind the fake tree, but Derek is nowhere to be found, thank God. I’m definitely glad he didn’t hear that nightmare of an audition.
“Hey, Jolie?” I hear as I’m hoisting my backpack onto my shoulder.
“Every second you spend complaining to me is a second you don’t spend watching Dr. Phil’s bald, bulbous head,” I say without turning around as I head toward the backstage door that leads to the hallway.
“Technically that’s true of every conversation, but I’ve never really thought about it that way.”
I whip my head toward the sound of that distinctly non-Peter voice and see Noah Reed smiling at me, one hand on his hip.
“Sorry, I thought you were Peter,” I say, gripping my backpack strap so hard I’m afraid my fingers might break.
Noah nods. “I get that a lot.”
“Really?”
“No.” He laughs.
I feel my chin drifting toward my chest as I wait for him to say whatever it is he chased me back here to say. Was I that awful onstage? But then, like a particularly well-dressed hallucination, I see Evelyn in my head. Presence.
I lift my chin, put my shoulders back, and ask the most casual question I can think of. “What’s up?”
“I just wanted to say that you were great out there.”
I involuntarily narrow my eyes. “Wait, what?”
He nods enthusiastically and his hair bobs. “Seriously. I don’t know what part Mrs. Mulaney is looking at for you, but I hope it’s a big one.”
I shake my head. I don’t know why Noah’s being so nice to me, but he doesn’t get it. “I’m only trying out for a background part. She’s probably going to cast me as one of the pigs.”
“The pigs are actually one of the most important parts,” Noah says. “But there’s no way you’re going to be in the background.”
Suddenly, I feel too queasy to even answer him. Mrs. Mulaney won’t give me a bigger part, will she? Can she even do that?
“Anyway, there’s no such thing as a small part. Only small actors. And you,” Noah says as he walks backward away from me, pointing at me with his rolled-up script, “are definitely not a small actor.”
He disappears onto the stage, and I’m left staring at the swaying curtain. I’m pretty sure Noah was speaking figuratively, not literally, because I’m only, like, five foot five on a good day. But even then, I don’t know what that means. I’ve never acted before, unless you count that fourth-grade Disney musical Abbi reminded me of, and even in that one I only mumbled through “Be Our Guest” in the chorus while dressed as a mop.
I walk out into the hallway, then push the door open into the parking lot. The April sunshine is brighter than I expected, and I blink a few times as my eyes adjust. The stress of the afternoon eases a little bit, and as I walk to my car, I can’t help but smile.
Chapter Six
That night, I text Evelyn and Derek.
Emergency Applebee’s meeting. SOS SOS SOS.
Evelyn texts back immediately. I’ll be there in ten. I’ll put in an order of spinach and artichoke dip for you.
Derek texts back too, although I can practically feel his hatred for the medium radiating from my phone. Is it possible you and I have different definitions of the word ‘emergency’?
Just be there, I tap.
I’ll be there. Obvi. Just have to finish up this game of Candyland.
I smile at the abbreviation. I’m pretty sure “obvi” would’ve never snuck into Derek’s vocabulary if it weren’t for me and Evie. I wonder for a moment how he talks to his super-genius girlfriend, if Melody’s the type of person who would roll her eyes at a cutesy shortened word. They probably communicate in, like, theorems or equations or some sort of code only the two of them know.
Not that I care how Derek talks to his girlfriend. I just, you know … wonder.
And anyway, I have more important things to think about than the abbreviations, or lack thereof, that Derek and his mystery girlfriend use. I’ve called tonight’s emergency meeting because now that I’ve had hours to obsessively mull over my audition, my characteristic self-doubt has started seeping in. Even though Noah was strangely complimentary about my performance, that doesn’t mean anything. It’s possible he was just being nice because he felt sorry for me, sort of like he would if I were a small child who had struck out in a softball game: You did soooo good, and we’re so proud of you, slugger!
Chances are pretty good that I screwed up royally and Mrs. Mulaney is currently eating dinner while wondering how she can avoid giving me even a background part. Probably my mere presence onstage would ruin the entire musical. I wonder how I’d thought this was a good idea; if I don’t even like people looking at me in class, what made me think I wanted people to look at me onstage, when I’m under a spotlight and heavily made up and possibly dressed as a pig?
True to her word, Evelyn greets me in our usual booth with a steaming bowl of spinach and artichoke dip as the Applebee’s speakers play their reliably tired mix of songs from ten years ago. Derek slides into the booth beside her shortly after I sit down.
“So how did the audition go?” Evelyn asks as Derek grabs a chip.
“Not great … I think.” I wrinkle my nose, mentally discounting Noah’s comments.
“Oh no!” Evelyn wails so dramatically that you’d think she was the one who tried out. “But you were so prepared!”
I shrug. “It turns out all the preparation in the world doesn’t make up for a total lack of talent. Who knew?”
Derek shakes his head. “But you’re not untalented. I mean, listen … I’m not saying you’re Beyoncé. Or Taylor Swift. Or even Meghan Trainor. Or—”
I hold up my hands. “I get the picture. I’m not a famous, successful singer.”
“But”—Derek points at me with half a chip—“you’re not terrible.”
I dramatically put my hands over my heart. “Me? Not terrible? Oh, Derek, you shouldn’t have.”
Evelyn looks back and forth between us with irritation shining in her eyes. She always says that the two of us spend too much time doing bits, and we leave her out. Which is sort of true, but still. “Okay, this has been another great episode of the Derek and Jolie Variety Hour, but it’s over now. What happened out there?”
“Mrs. Mulaney made me sing.”
Evelyn widens her eyes.
“I know! And I thought she might give me some sort of feedback, but she was just like, ‘Okay, see you, Jolie. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out.’”
“That’s not really what happened,” Derek says.
“And how would you know? Did you stick around to watch?”
He double-dips his chip, giving the spinach and artichoke dip way more attention than any appetizer merits.
“You watched my performance?” I screech, and a couple at the table next to us looks at me in alarm.
He shrugs. “Maybe I hung around in the back of the auditorium,” he says with his mouth full.
Evelyn turns to him. “And? How was she?”
Derek gives a thumbs-up as he chews.
“Oh, don’t condescend to me.” I scowl. “First Noah, then you.”
“Noah said you did a good job?” Derek asks.
I sigh. This is ridiculous. I did a terrible job today, and that’s the entire reason I called this meeting.
“Listen.” I wave my hands in the air like I’m wiping the slate clean of this entire conversation. “The point is, I sucked. I bombed. I bi
t the big one. And I need to regroup. I need you guys to help me with my list.”
Evelyn nods and grabs her phone. “On it.”
“If I’m not going to be in the musical, that means I’m not going to kiss Noah. Which, sure, is a disappointment. But there are other things I want to do. And we’ve already eaten almost every appetizer here, so we need to dig a little deeper.”
I think about what Dr. Kelley said—that I probably won’t die—but guess what? “Probably” isn’t good enough for me right now. There’s still a chance, however small, that I won’t make it through surgery, and although I won’t say it in front of Derek, my possible impending death is all I’m thinking about.
“So far we have jumping off the Cliff and sneaking into a bar. And reading a book,” Evelyn reads.
“I’m definitely waiting until it’s warmer to jump off the Cliff.” I turn to Derek. “Do you want to go with me?”
He looks at me like I’ve just suggested robbing a bank. “No, Jolie.”
“Why not?” I whine.
“Uh, let me think. Maybe because that’s considered trespassing, and I’m not super psyched to potentially get arrested?”
“Oh,” I say. “Right.”
Derek leans across the table, tugs on my shirt, and says, “Sorry, your white privilege is showing.”
“Okay, okay.” I wince, properly chastised. “But maybe you can help me run a mile, since you’re a cross-country champ and all.”
“Run a mile?” Evelyn sounds skeptical, but she types it into her phone. “But you hate exercise.”
“I do,” I admit. “But I’ve always wanted to be a runner. You know, like, tossing on a pair of sneakers and being like, ‘See you guys later, I’m going for a run.’”
“You know running is a lot more involved than that, right?” Derek asks.
“What else?” Evelyn asks.
I pause. What if I really do die on the operating table? What would I be upset about never having done? What would make me turn into an angry ghost haunting this world until I found closure?
“I’ve always wanted to drive a convertible,” I offer.
Evelyn puts down her phone. “Jolie. Have you become a middle-aged man? What’s next, having an affair with your secretary?”
I just shrug. The truth is, it would be too hard to explain to Evelyn and Derek that whenever I see myself post-surgery, I imagine being totally, completely happy. I’m smiling, I’m laughing, and I’m speeding down the highway in a red convertible, not worrying at all about how my jaw looks or where I’m going. There’s a guy sitting in the passenger seat, and he’s ridiculously in love with me—and why wouldn’t he be? I’m beautiful. I’m normal.
But since there’s a chance I won’t be able to do that after surgery, I can’t really afford to wait.
“Well, it’s your list,” Evelyn says diplomatically as she types it into her phone. “But, frankly, I think you could use some more exciting stuff. I mean, you’re literally reading a book.”
“It’s a classic, and I don’t know if there are books in the afterlife,” I say in my defense.
She widens her eyes and nods. “I’m just saying, why don’t you want to, like, skydive? Or travel to Paris?”
“Ev.” I shake my head at her. “Do you think my parents are going to fork over the cash to send me to Paris? I’m pretty sure they spent all their retirement savings on cute wall hangings for the nursery. I’m working with what I have, dammit!”
I slam my fist on the table and the silverware clangs.
“I’ll see if my uncle has a convertible hookup,” Derek says, and I smile in gratitude. His uncle owns a used-car dealership, which is where Derek got his barely drivable pickup truck.
“This is the list of a nerd, Jolie,” Evelyn says delicately. “And I’m saying that because I’m your friend.”
“Well, then”—I fold my hands on my lap—“I guess I’m a nerd.”
Evelyn sighs, surely wishing she had more daring friends, but Derek smiles at me conspiratorially. I smile back with my lips closed (because there’s a ninety-five percent chance I have spinach stuck in my braces). Sure, I may have less than two months left on this earth, but you know what? At least I have a plan.
* * *
That night, I listen to Derek’s podcast, just like I (and countless Danes) do whenever he posts an episode. He usually posts them in the middle of the night so they go up at an ideal time for his primary audience, which is about six hours ahead of us. I try to listen to them as soon as I can, but this is the first chance I’ve had all day. I get into my pajamas (which are covered in adorable tiny dachshunds), crawl into bed, and push play.
Listening to Derek’s voice in the dark feels intimate, even though he’s not here. But it’s calming, and I have to stop myself from falling asleep as his radio-perfect voice floats into my ears.
“The Princess Diaries. She’s All That. Cinderella. Pretty Woman. What do all of these movies have in common?”
“You hate them,” I say out loud, even though Derek’s not here to hear me.
“The women all have makeovers. And on today’s episode of Deep Dive, I’m exploring this trope by watching all of these movies—”
“You watched The Princess Diaries without me?” I almost yell before remembering that everyone else is asleep.
“And I’ve got some questions. Mostly: Why does this trope exist? I mean, yeah, it’s fun, but what’s it really saying? That you only deserve good things if your hair looks perfect? That you can’t find love if you wear glasses? That a guy is only gonna fall in love with a girl if she undergoes some ridiculous transformation, even if she was smart and funny and great before she went through a montage set to a terrible pop song?”
I roll my eyes. Derek’s doing it again—this thing where he tries to convince me that there’s nothing wrong with me and I’m perfect the way I am. Motivational Speech 101, blah blah blah. It all started when I accidentally left my scrapbook out, and Derek and Evelyn came over. Evelyn just raised her eyebrows, and now makes occasional references to my “weird lady notebook,” but Derek wouldn’t let it go for a while. I tried to explain what my scrapbook does for me—that it gives me hope that someday I’ll be okay—but he just kept talking about how he couldn’t believe I didn’t know how great I was. It was all very Sitcom Dad and he was seriously about one step away from telling me I’m beautiful on the inside and that’s what counts as an emotional piano soundtrack played.
The thing is, he doesn’t get it. Derek couldn’t possibly understand the appeal of a makeover, because he doesn’t need a makeover. He doesn’t know what it’s like to look in the mirror every day and hate what you see, to know that everyone else is wondering what’s wrong with you, to be impatiently waiting for the day when you’ll be fixed. And honestly, I don’t really appreciate him hashing this whole thing out on the air when really it’s up to me (not Denmark) how I feel about the way I look.
I listen to the rest of the episode until he signs off with “This has been Derek Jones. Stay deep.”
I text Derek. Stop talking about me on your show.
Derek responds immediately. Who said I was talking about you? Maybe I’m just inspired by Anne Hathaway’s joyful spirit.
I text him again. Stop watching movies without me.
He doesn’t text back right away, so I assume he’s reached his limit of nightly texting. Until another message pops up: You were great today. I’m not kidding.
This is all very nice of him, but it’s not like he has an objective opinion.
I put my phone on my nightstand and sigh. If only my transformation would involve a simple montage and a fun soundtrack instead of surgery and swelling and recovery time. But Princess Mia already looked like Anne Hathaway. All Rachael Leigh Cook needed to do was take off her glasses. Julia Roberts just had to become a fancier prostitute. I can’t take off my glasses and change my hair; I have to get major surgery.
Derek might not get it, but a makeover sounds pretty good to m
e right now.
* * *
I somehow make it through the next school day: Dissecting a sad, gelatinous frog corpse in Bio II. Partnering with Derek in trig. Spending lunchtime listening to Evelyn alternate between complaining about the C+ (still pretty good) she got on her English essay about Our Town and giving me pep talks when I bemoan my terrible performance after school yesterday.
When the last bell rings, Evelyn heads home to study, but instructs me to let her know the moment I find out anything. The cast list is posted in the hallway outside Mrs. Mulaney’s classroom, but because of the crowd I would’ve been able to find it even if I hadn’t known that. The hum of voices and excitement makes me feel like I’m part of a giant swarm of musical-theater-loving bees. I don’t know if musicals are a big deal at other schools, but there’s very little going on at Brentley. We have to make do with what we have.
“Congrats, Jolie.”
I look up from my constant chin-down position to see Donny Jackson, a senior I had a study hall with last semester, giving me a thumbs-up.
“Thanks?” I say.
He doesn’t stop to talk to me. But then a girl from trig tells me congratulations. And a few freshmen I don’t recognize, too.
I pick up my pace, my flats slapping against the tile as I speed walk down the hallway. I careen around a group of kids huddled at their lockers and narrowly miss the volleyball coach pushing a cart of equipment toward the gym.
I see the cluster of people around the sheet and dart toward it. Some kids high-five each other, someone starts crying and gets a hug from someone else. But I can barely focus on the drama in other people’s lives right now—I have to get to that sheet.
I push my way past the crying girl (as gently as I can) and scan the sheet, my eyes racing and my lips parted. I start at the bottom, waiting for my name to jump out at me from the jumble of letters, like a familiar phrase in a word search puzzle.
Farmers. Pigs. Astronauts. Senators. I’m not any of these. Where am I?
And then, there’s my name, the letters arranged the same way they always are but somehow looking completely different in this context. Right under Noah’s name, there’s mine: Jolie Peterson—Prudie.
Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It Page 6
