We move on to the next scene, one that I’m not in. I take a seat in the auditorium and pretend to watch several farmers sing about crop rotation, but my heart’s not in it. All I’m thinking is: I can’t do this. Of course I can’t do this. I’ve built my whole life around blending in, not standing out, so what made me think I could handle being on a stage and under a spotlight? I already told Mrs. Mulaney I’m in, but so what? I’m sure plenty of other girls would happily take my place. I glance across the auditorium and see Noah studiously watching the scene on stage. Now there’s someone who’s meant to be looked at. And sure, dropping out now will basically kill my chances of kissing him, but no guy is worth this. I’m ready to go into hibernation until my surgery.
And then everyone’s standing up, and I realize that today’s practice is over. I’m walking toward the stage, where I deposited my backpack and jacket earlier, when I’m almost knocked over.
“Whoops,” says Marla as she keeps on walking.
She just shoulder-checked me? Seriously? I rub my shoulder and shake my head in disbelief. She probably already has Prudie’s part memorized, so I might as well tell her it’s hers.
I can feel tears pooling at the corners of my eyes and the last thing I want to do is cry in front of the entire cast right before I quit, so I book it toward the exit. But I’m not fast enough—Mrs. Mulaney steps in front of me.
“Don’t quit,” she says sternly.
“Why not? I’m not exactly a young Meryl Streep,” I attempt to say breezily, but the catch in my voice gives me away.
“Even Meryl Streep isn’t young Meryl Streep anymore. And who cares? There’s already a Meryl Streep and the world doesn’t need another one. What it needs is you.”
I frown. The world probably could use another Meryl Streep, to be honest—at least we’d be able to divide all those awards between more than one person. But I guess that’s not what Mrs. Mulaney is trying to say.
“The world in general might need me,” I admit. “But this musical definitely does not.”
“Well, you can’t quit,” Mrs. Mulaney says. “If you do, I’ll make sure you’re in my speech class next year and I’ll fail you, and it will ruin your perfect transcript.”
My mouth falls open in shock as Mrs. Mulaney smiles.
“But you can’t do that,” I say when I recover. “It’s against the rules.”
“Maybe I’m not supposed to,” she says. “But do you really want to find out?”
And then she walks away and starts talking to Peter.
Okay, so I’m like ninety-five percent sure that Mrs. Mulaney would never actually fail me and she’s just kidding, but still. I’m so in shock as I walk through the auditorium doors and across the cafeteria toward the front doors that I barely notice when Noah falls into step beside me.
He smiles widely and I’m sure he’s about to tell me how he so admires Johnny McElroy and his insights, or assure me that I really should just drop out and give the part to Marla and her impressive shoulder-checking ability. But instead he says something that truly surprises me.
“Johnny McElroy’s kind of a d-bag, right?”
A tiny giggle escapes my lips, but I’m sure Johnny McElroy is hiding behind the vending machines, waiting to hear what we have to say about him, so I don’t want to say anything too mean. So instead I just nod. “Total d-bag.”
“Glad we agree,” Noah says, rolling up his script and sticking it in the back pocket of his black jeans. “Today was fun. See you at practice tomorrow.”
And then he’s off to wherever Noah Reed goes after school—weekly meetings for the Very Handsome Boys’ Club?—and I’m left standing in the middle of the cafeteria, feeling totally worn out and totally exhilarated at the same time.
I guess I’m still the star of this musical.
Chapter Thirteen
A couple of nights later, Mom and Dad take Abbi and me out to dinner to celebrate my role. I think they’re feeling guilty that we spend so much time talking about Abbi and preparing for the baby, and they’re worried that I feel left out. Little do they know that flying under the radar is kind of my jam. Jolie Peterson: the incredible invisible girl!
Either way, I’m not about to turn down a dinner out, especially because we’re driving a whole thirty minutes away to Campton, a town slightly bigger than Brentley that has a few more restaurants. I mean, the choices are still pretty slim—a buffet our entire family got food poisoning at on Abbi’s tenth birthday, an Olive Garden that made the news because some waiter was putting breadsticks down his pants and then serving them to customers, and a Burger King that always smells like weed. It’s not exactly a culinary haven, is what I’m saying. But there is this one little Italian place with red-and-white-checked tablecloths where we love to go when we’re celebrating things. It doesn’t smell like weed, it hasn’t made any of us sick, and to the best of my knowledge, none of the bread has ever been in somebody’s pants. What more could you ask for in a restaurant?
Typically, our few-and-far-between dinners out are some of our best family moments. But as the four of us load into the Subaru and Mom backs out of the driveway, I can detect palpable tension radiating off Abbi. She drums her fingers against the door and looks out the window, silent even though Dad’s in charge of the music, and we normally love to make fun of his awful selections (a lot of hair metal).
“Are you okay?” I ask her as Mom drives and Dad fiddles with the radio.
“Can’t we go somewhere else?” Abbi says to the front seat, totally ignoring me. “Why do we always have to go to Gionino’s? How many times do we have to eat the same lasagna, you know?”
“Um, a million times, because it’s the best lasagna in the world?” I shoot her a look of betrayal.
“Well, we’re sure as hell not going to that Olive Garden,” Dad says over the dulcet tones of Poison.
Abbi shakes her head. “Why do we have to go to Campton, anyway? Let’s mix it up! Let’s go to Marty’s!”
“Marty’s Diner?!” I screech. “When we were celebrating you getting into college we didn’t go to Marty’s and make you eat a meat loaf sandwich or burnt onion rings.”
“Jolie’s right,” Mom says over the wailing of me and the guitars. “We’re celebrating her today, so she gets to pick.”
“And I pick Gionino’s.” I cross my arms. “Lasagna, here I come.”
Abbi sighs and looks out the window again.
“What’s your deal?” I whisper. “Are you pissed that we’re spending one day paying attention to me?”
Abbi whips her head toward me. “No,” she hisses. “Not everything is about you, okay?”
“Well, stop being so hormonal.”
“Not everything is about my hormones, either. I just don’t want to drive all the way to Campton.”
“You go there every day for school. What’s the big deal?”
Abbi shakes her head at me. “You could not possibly understand.” She rests her hands on her belly and stares out the window again.
* * *
After an awkward car ride and a few too many Bon Jovi songs, we finally pull into the Gionino’s parking lot. Just the sight of that small, nondescript building with the neon sign fills me with joy, and I practically skip across the parking lot.
Inside, Gionino’s is totally different from its bland exterior. There are black-and-white family photos covering the walls, loud Frank Sinatra is playing, and there’s the wonderfully overpowering scent of garlic and tomatoes. We don’t go to church, so I don’t have much of an idea about what heaven’s like, but I’m pretty sure it’s just Gionino’s.
We sit down, and I open my menu, then swing it shut again. It’s not like I need to figure out what I’m getting.
The waiter brings our drinks and takes our orders. “Cheers to Jolie,” Mom says, raising her glass of wine. Dad does the same, and Abbi and I raise our glasses of iced tea. I’m beaming, but I can’t help but notice that Abbi’s eyes are darting around the restaurant like she’s in a Worst-Case Scenar
io Television reenactment of a woman being stalked by her psychotic ex-husband.
Which, honestly, kind of sucks. Can’t Abbi let me have one day where we celebrate my accomplishments? When I actually have something cool (I mean, relatively speaking) going on, can’t she pretend to be excited for me?
But I’m not going to let these negative feelings influence my night at Gionino’s. It wouldn’t be fair to the lasagna.
Our waiter arrives with a huge tray bearing four steaming-hot plates of pasta. Even though I know there have been happier moments of my life, I’m having a tough time remembering them right now because I’m overwhelmed by the smells wafting my way. When he sits my plate in front of me, I snap a quick pic to send to Evelyn and Derek with the caption “Wish you were here. Haha no I don’t, more for me.”
Mom frowns. “Put your phone away. This is family time.”
I don’t bother to point out that Abbi is barely mentally present right now. “Fine, fine, fine,” I say, tossing my phone back in my tote bag.
“I just want to say,” Mom says with a sniffle, tears forming in her eyes, “that we are very, very proud of you. You’ve always been a star to us, but now everyone else will get to see what a star you are, too.”
Oh no. Mom’s officially gone off the red-wine deep end. She’s typically pretty even-keeled—a requirement for being a school counselor—but get half a glass of wine in her and all of a sudden she’s hugging everyone and professing her love for strangers.
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, looking to Dad to make sure he realizes what’s happening.
He puts an arm around my mom, but I notice that his eyes are also wet. Dad, unlike Mom, gets emotional at the drop of a hat. You might think a woodworking, flannel-wearing tough guy wouldn’t cry much, but he subverts stereotypes like that. In fact, just last week I found him crying while watching a Hallmark movie about a woman who moves back to her small town and falls in love again with her childhood sweetheart with the assistance of a helpful angel.
Obviously, we’re a family that likes our television.
“You guys, please don’t cry!” I say. “Not in front of the food!”
Mom laughs a little self-consciously and wipes her eyes. “You’re just growing into such an amazing young woman. So smart and talented…”
This is nice. Really. And it’s not like I don’t appreciate all of this—the dinner, my family, that my parents aren’t afraid to express emotion even if it’s super embarrassing—but I also notice what they’re not saying. They don’t say anything about how I look.
And it shouldn’t be important. I get that. I shouldn’t care if I’m pretty, because my mind is more important, or whatever. But I do care, and the fact that I can’t even remember getting a compliment about how I look? It hurts, especially because I feel like everyone’s constantly admiring Abbi’s beauty.
I glance at Abbi to see if she’s rolling her eyes at this, but she’s absentmindedly moving her fork around her plate, turning to look every time the front door swings open.
“What are you doing?” I ask, poking her with my butter knife. “You’re not even eating.”
“These breadsticks aren’t health hazards, which is more than we can say for some Italian restaurants in the neighborhood,” Dad says, taking a hearty bite of one. “Or at least if they are, it hasn’t made the news.”
Mom gives him a disgusted look and puts her breadstick down before turning to Abbi. “Are you feeling sick, Abs?”
Abbi throws her napkin onto her plate. “Actually, yeah. I’m gonna run to the bathroom.”
She scoots her chair back hard and books it across the restaurant.
“What’s her deal?” I ask through a mouthful of food.
“I was sick all through both of my pregnancies, too,” Mom says with a dismissive wave. “Anything I ate, I’d just throw it back up.”
“Gross,” I say.
“Don’t act all high-and-mighty with me,” Mom says, glancing back and forth between me and Dad. “You guys are the ones talking about the breadsticks.”
We all keep eating, and I wonder when Abbi’s coming back. As I stare at her empty chair, I start to feel a little bad. I mean, she’s my sister, and she’s sick. I think about the time when I was in third grade and I came down with a nasty case of the flu, and Abbi sat in bed with me and read the entirety of Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire. And then when I got so scared of the Death Eaters that I couldn’t sleep, she switched to Junie B. Jones.
She always tries to help me. The least I can do is repay the favor.
I sigh, standing up. “I’m gonna go check on Abbi.”
Mom beams. “Didn’t we raise such a considerate daughter?”
“Considerate and hungry,” I say, pointing at both of them. “If either of you touches my food, there will be hell to pay when I come back.”
I head across the dimly lit restaurant, past tables of old couples and young people on dates and families with kids who are getting spaghetti everywhere. Gionino’s is packed, as always, and I wonder if Abbi is just waiting in line for the bathroom.
When I round the corner to the small hallway that leads to the restrooms, I immediately see her. I’m about to call her name and ask her what she’s doing when I notice she’s not alone. She’s talking to some dude, and she looks pissed. I can only see a little bit of his face, but he looks older than her. He’s wearing glasses and a maroon sweater with a plaid shirt underneath. In other words, he looks like someone who is trying to be cast in the part of “middle-aged nerd.”
He reaches out to touch her arm in a way that looks reassuring (if he looked at all menacing, I would have jumped him by now), but she swats his hand away and says loudly enough that I can hear, “You don’t get to touch me, okay? Not anymore.”
I back out of the hallway and into the dining room as quietly as possible. Abbi clearly doesn’t want us to know about this, and if I can just make it out of here without her seeing me—
“Watch out!”
I spin around to see a waiter with a tray full of food falling toward me. I try to jump out of the way, but it’s too late. Plates clatter and crash to the floor as I’m drenched in sweet, warm Gionino’s red sauce, plus a little Alfredo sauce and red wine for good measure.
Abbi comes running out of the back hallway (alone) and stops in her tracks when she sees me. “Jolie?”
“I was coming to find you,” I say. “But I … I…”
I can’t finish my sentence because I realize that everyone in the very crowded restaurant is staring at me. And why wouldn’t they be? There’s a girl covered from head to toe in marinara sauce—I’d stare, too.
“Sorry,” I whisper to the waiter, who just glares at me as he bends over to start cleaning things up.
Abbi shakes her head.
I try to avoid stepping on broken glass as I walk back to the table, feeling ricotta cheese squishing in my shoes. Mom and Dad are staring at me, as is our waiter.
I pull a spaghetti noodle out of my hair. “I guess we can box up my lasagna.”
Abbi’s still looking nervous, and now I have at least sort of an inkling why. “Can we just go, please?” she asks.
The waiter hands me my box of lasagna. “Gladly,” I say. Being stared at for being covered in food is, as it turns out, even less pleasant than being stared at in musical practice.
“We’re gonna have to hose you down in the parking lot.” Dad shakes his head as we walk out.
* * *
Later that night, after Mom makes me shampoo the backseat of the Subaru because she says we’ll never be able to trade it in if it looks like a crime scene, I’m reheating my lasagna in the kitchen when Abbi walks in.
“You’d think you would have lost your appetite for Italian after wearing it,” she says.
“Funny,” I say as the microwave beeps. “But you clearly underestimate my love for Gionino’s.”
I watch her rummaging through the fridge. “Feeling better?”
“What?” she asks
, holding a container of Greek yogurt.
“You were sick? Earlier?”
Abbi gives me a blank look, then widens her eyes “Oh! I am. Feeling better, that is. I was totally sick before. Couldn’t stop barfing.”
“But now you can’t wait to eat some yogurt,” I say, taking a bite of my lasagna. “The preferred food of queasy people everywhere.”
“Exactly,” Abbi says, looking right at me. It’s almost like she’s daring me to bring up what happened. Does she want to talk about it? Is this, like, a sisterly moment for us?
I’ve just opened my mouth when she says, “Can you please just not?”
“What?” I ask.
“I know what you were about to say. You saw us. But I really, really don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
I know I should let it go. I should let her walk out of the room to eat her yogurt in peace. But I don’t want to—I want to know.
“Just tell me—was it him?”
She slams the refrigerator door. “What part of ‘I don’t want to talk about it’ do you not get? This. Isn’t. Your. Business.”
She stalks out of the room, and a few seconds later I hear the TV turn on. I glance at the clock—it’s time for Untold Stories of the ER. I sigh. Okay, so she’s engaging in a little comfort viewing—maybe I can give her a break. What she’s going through is clearly hard, even if she won’t talk about it with me.
I walk into the living room and sit down on the couch beside her. “So, what’s this one about?”
She eyes me warily, like she’s trying to figure out if I have an ulterior motive. “Some guy’s eyeball pops out of his head, and the doctor has to figure out how to push it back in.”
I cringe. “I hope this doesn’t happen to me during surgery.”
“Jolie,” Abbi says, turning to me. “You’re getting your jaw operated on. How is one of your eyeballs going to pop out?”
I shrug, focusing on the lasagna that I brought in with me. “Stranger things have happened.”
“Here.” Abbi hands me the remote. “Pick something else.”
I flip through the channels until I find one that’s showing old reruns of The Office. “Is this okay?” I ask.
Things Jolie Needs to Do Before She Bites It Page 11
