Ready to Fall

by Marcella Pixley

  A couple kids I don’t know are Gertrude and Claudius.

  And then I see it. My name.

  Ghost of Hamlet’s Father—Max Friedman.

  What do you know?

  I was cast. As a ghost. Which I basically am already. So it’s perfect.

  But also kind of insulting.

  The first thing I think is: How did she know?

  The second thing I think is: This is ironic.

  The third thing I think is: Perhaps this is the opposite of irony. Perhaps this is precisely what they mean when they use the word apropos.

  I am pondering the derivation and spelling of the word apropos when The Monk suddenly crashes into me.

  He screams, “Heck Yeah!” and uses me as a pogo stick to vault himself into the air. “You are gonna haunt me, dude. This is good. This is going to be awesome. Are you psyched?”

  “Sure,” I say.

  “Don’t be pathetic, Friedman,” says The Monk.

  “I’m not being pathetic.”

  “You are,” he says. “Change. Now.”

  “Okay,” I say. “I guess I’m excited.”

  The Monk looks down his nose at me, unimpressed. Then he gives me a tremendous dope slap that nearly topples me over. “Careful,” he says. “There’s more where that came from.”

  There’s a whirlwind of activity and suddenly the rest of the kids are all around the door of the Baldwin Theater high-fiving each other and giving each other hugs and kissing each other’s cheeks and rubbing each other’s backs and wiping each other’s tears. Fish was right. Theater people really like touching.

  * * *

  After school we meet in the auditorium for our first rehearsal. The sea of actors parts for Donna Pruitt, who walks through the middle of the crowd. She’s wearing brightly colored silk scarves that flow behind her while she walks and she carries a box of scripts, which she hands over to The Monk ceremoniously. There’s an air of expectancy. You can hear it in people’s voices as we climb onto the stage from the wings. People spread out. They stretch like dancers. They lean on each other, and they put their arms around each other and they listen.

  “Hamlet is a play about grief,” says Donna Pruitt. “It’s also a play about secrets. It’s a play about betrayal and revenge and about madness and about being haunted.”

  The Monk elbows me.

  “Our sets and costumes are going to be gothic, steampunk. Iron bars, alleyways, ripped tights, studded collars, and corsets. Think dry ice and steel pipes and graffiti. In addition to playing Laertes, Ravi has volunteered to be our designer. We are so lucky to have his artistic genius in our production once again. We have a host of talented volunteers who will begin work on sets and costumes as soon as Ravi gives the thumbs-up.”

  “Prepare to be dazzled,” he says.

  Fish squeals with delight and throws her arms around Ravi, who pats her gently.

  “You are so adorable I almost can’t stand it,” he says. He touches her nose and she pretends to bite him.

  Donna Pruitt smiles at them. “Ophelia, in act 4, scene 5, you go mad. You walk around singing nonsense, holding a bouquet of herbs and flowers. That bouquet will be in direct contrast to the starkness onstage. Ophelia and her flowers will be the only delicate things on a stage filled with metal and sharp edges. Can you imagine it?”

  We nod, already transported.

  Fish rises as though pulled by an invisible string. She gazes at the ceiling and begins tiptoeing, tripping, whirling, wandering across the stage, her eyes already wide and glistening, her breath already coming in uneven gasps, the way Mom’s breath came before the end. We watch her, amazed at how completely she is able to enter Ophelia’s character. She begins to sing Ophelia’s songs, snatches and riddles, her voice a whisper, her face drawn and filled with pain. When she sits back down, The Monk puts his arm around her and she buries her head in his shoulder. My stomach curls into a fist.

  “Hamlet,” continues Donna Pruitt, gazing at The Monk, “the big question of this play is whether or not you are mad. In this production, I want you to consider that a human can, in fact, be both mad and sane at the same time. We each experience a range of emotions at once. Love. Sadness. Anger. Can you imagine that?”

  The Monk nods, smiling, then frowning, then scowling, then sneering.

  “Nice,” says Donna Pruitt. “We have a strong cast this year, that’s for certain. I think we are all going to learn a lot from one another. And now we will begin.”

  I don’t have any lines in act 1, scene 1, but I’m there as an apparition, the ghost of the dead king, Hamlet’s father. When the Guards see me for the first time, I’m dressed in armor, floating through the hallways of Elsinore Castle as a wraith. I sneak around the stage, tapping on their shoulders. I blow on the backs of their necks. They whirl around, terrified. I whisper in their ears and they shudder and hold each other. They try to swing at me, but their swords cut through me. I am nothing. I am air. I am dread. I am regret.

  When the sun rises in the morning, I am nowhere to be found. I am the ghost of a king. A dead man walking. But I wonder who I am when I am not haunting this castle. Do I exist? Do I lie in my grave? I look at my hands again. I want to reach into my back pocket, find the shard, and put it in my mouth. I want to run my tongue over the edges, the smooth, cool glaze, but I can’t do it in front of these people. I hug myself. I curl my fingers into fists.

  When rehearsal is over, I head to the boys’ bathroom to make sure I am alive. A few guys from the cast come into the bathroom to look at themselves in the mirror and use the urinals. I climb onto the toilet so they can’t see my red Converse All Stars at the bottom of the stall. I wait for them to leave.

  They are laughing together, making plans to go out after rehearsal. I stay standing on the toilet until I’m sure no one is in the building except the janitor, who comes in with his keys jangling, whistling. I hear him empty the garbage and push his broom across the floor. I put the shard in my mouth and run my tongue over its surface.

  “Hey,” says the janitor, when he gets to my stall. “You okay in there?”

  “Yeah,” I say.

  “I’m locking up in a half hour, so you’re gonna have to get moving soon.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “You sure everything is all right?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “Everything’s good.”

  I let the shard click against my teeth. I feel the corners against my gums. I taste something warm and salty and I know my tongue is bleeding, but I don’t stop. There is something about the pain that feels right.

  The janitor lingers in front of the stall. I hear him breathing, getting ready to ask me if I need any help. But then, after the seconds tick by, I guess he thinks better of it and he moves on with his broom.

  He whistles a lonesome tune into the empty bathroom and nothing moves except the broken sound of his song and the broom pushing dust, and finally, once he closes the door to the bathroom and I know I am alone, I spit the shard and a stain of blood into my palm. Then I wipe my palm and push the shard back into my pocket like a secret, safe and sound in the perfect and inscrutable darkness.

  LADY J. AND THE AGE OF AQUARIUS

  At home that night we eat frozen pizza on paper plates. We try to make conversation, but as usual we are too numb to be amusing. The tumor loves frozen pizza. He has enough enthusiasm for all of us. Whenever I take a bite he yodels like a cowboy, kicks his spurs against my eyelids, and shoots bullets into my brain with silver pistols. Yippee ti yi yay, screeches the tumor in a voice so shrill it breaks several windows in my hippocampus. I rub my left eyeball. I can feel him in there flexing his muscles.

  There is a knock on the front door.

  Dad and Grandma and I look at one another.

  “Are you expecting someone?” says Dad.

  “Who would I be expecting?” I say.

  “Why don’t you get the door,” says Dad.

  “Because it’s probably Lydie with another batch of cardboard cook
ies.”

  “Ha,” says Dad. “I don’t think so.”

  Someone knocks again. This time louder.

  “What should I say if it’s for you?” says Dad.

  “Say I’m not home.”

  “Okay,” says Dad. “It’s a plan.”

  Dad walks into the front hallway. He opens the door wide.

  It’s Fish and The Monk and Ravi.

  They’re all wearing strange winter hats. The Monk has a red-and-white-striped top hat. Ravi is wearing a squid, his red fro spilling out the sides. Fish has a furry white hood with ears. She spots me in the kitchen and waves to me.

  “Hi Max,” calls Fish. “Want to come out with us?”

  “He can’t,” says Dad, smiling. “He’s actually not here. That guy at the table over there is an apparition. A hologram. Weird, I know. But true.”

  “I’m here,” I moan. I get up from the table and head into the front hall.

  “I stand corrected,” says Dad. “He is here, it turns out.”

  Dad invites them in and they tumble into the house with their hats and scarves. The Monk shakes Dad’s hand. “I’m David Moniker,” he says. “This pretty polar bear here is Felicia Santacroce.”

  “We’ve met,” says Dad, smiling at Fish.

  The Monk continues on blithely. “Well, you haven’t met this funky guy over here with the squid hat. He is the one and only Ravi Gunderman. We’re all in Hamlet with Max. We’re headed out for some pizza and we wanted to know if he was up for joining us.”

  “Pizza?” says Dad. “What a fabulous idea. It just so happens that Max loves pizza. Ms. Santacroce, it’s so nice to see you again. Mr. Gunderman, nice to meet you. Go get your jacket, Max. These fine people want to feed you.”

  “I’ve already had pizza tonight,” I say.

  “It had freezer burn,” says Dad, “so it doesn’t count.”

  “But it’s a school night,” I say.

  “Live a little,” says Dad. “And bring back a house salad and some spaghetti and meatballs for Grandma.”

  “Ooh,” says Grandma, rubbing her hands, “good idea.”

  Fish peers into the kitchen and waves. “Hi Grandma,” she says.

  Grandma smiles and waves back.

  “Go ahead, Max,” says Dad. “Go have fun with your friends.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Dad hands me a twenty-dollar bill and his red plaid lumberjack jacket. “I’m sure,” he says. “Just call if you’re going to be late.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He walks us toward the door, shakes everyone’s hand, and then ushers us out. The door closes behind me.

  The Monk and Ravi and Fish receive me by jumping on me, messing up my hair, and pounding me on the back. The Monk helps me with my coat and then gets me in a headlock. Ravi tosses me a leather pilot’s hat with flaps that go down over my ears. It’s lined with fake rabbit fur.

  “You can’t be with us unless you have the proper attire,” he says.

  I put on the hat.

  “Very good,” says Ravi. “You look better now.”

  “Your grandma has a nice smile,” says Fish.

  She grabs one of my arms and Ravi grabs the other and they skip me down the sidewalk toward The Monk’s rusty orange-and-white VW Microbus that waits for us like a big, smiley time machine. There is a dent in the passenger door and the front fender is held together by duct tape.

  “What is this?” I ask.

  “This,” says The Monk, gesturing grandly, “is my BUS.” He says the word bus two octaves lower than he says the rest of the sentence so it sounds as though this one word comes from the mouth of a three-hundred-pound man or a movie voice-over artist.

  “Her name is Lady J.,” says Fish. “She is a very wise and venerable old woman. As you can see.” Fish runs over to the bus and throws herself over the bumper for a hug and kiss.

  “She’s a hippie like my parents,” says Ravi. “Lady J., that is. Not this silly young woman who makes love with inanimate objects. You know what a hippie is, Max?”

  “Yes, Ravi,” I say. “I know what a hippie is.”

  “Excellent,” says Ravi. “Then you’ll also understand when I say, power to the people, stick it to The Man, feeling extremely groovy, and so forth.”

  “It turns out Ravi is a bit peculiar,” says Fish.

  “Yes, you are,” says The Monk. He pinches Ravi’s cheek. Ravi pretends to swoon. Then The Monk opens the door to the bus and gestures for us to climb in. Smitty and Griswald are already in there waiting for us. Smitty is wearing a wool army hat and Griswald is wearing orange earmuffs, because let’s face it, there is no way in hell that guy is going to get a hat to fit over his Mohawk.

  Smitty turns around from the seat in front of me. “Greetings, human,” he says. “Welcome to your kidnapping!”

  “I thought we were going out for pizza,” I say.

  “Poor deluded soul,” says Smitty.

  “Today is the first day of the rest of your life,” says Fish.

  Smitty gives Fish a high five.

  “Max,” says Ravi, with an evil grin. “There will be no pizza tonight.”

  “Say goodbye to the universe as you know it,” says Fish.

  Griswald laughs maniacally.

  The Monk shoves the key into the ignition and Lady J. lurches down the street, boogying in her treads like a coked-up disco queen, just in case we forgot she was born in the same decade as most of our parents. The world speeds by outside the tinted windows. Houses and streetlights and mailboxes. The ceiling and the walls of Lady J. are covered in carpeting the color of rice pilaf. There are three rows of seats. Ravi and The Monk sit up front. Then Smitty and Griswald. Then Fish and me. Ravi hands out five pairs of John Lennon glasses, which we don with extreme seriousness. We get on the highway heading north.

  “Can I tell Max where we’re going?” begs Fish.

  “No,” says The Monk. “It’s secret.”

  Griswald puts one finger to his lips.

  “If we told the human where we were taking him it would not be a kidnapping, it would be a date,” says Smitty.

  “I like dates,” says Fish.

  “I can vouch for that,” says The Monk.

  The thought of The Monk on a date with Fish makes my heart implode.

  “If this were a date,” says Ravi, “it would be one girl and five dudes. And while you are quite lovely in the round glasses, Miss Fish, you are not nearly enough woman for all five of our appetites. You’re just a very small person. A tiny little female.”

  “A minnow,” says The Monk.

  “A smelt,” says Smitty.

  “Oh yes. I think I’ll call her Smelt from now on,” says Ravi. “Smelt’s a good name. Hello, little Smelt. Swim into my net.”

  “That’s enough, Ravi,” says Fish.

  “I’ll take out your bones and then I’ll dip you in egg and bread crumbs and I’ll fry you in a pan and eat you.”

  “It stopped being funny like a hundred years ago,” says Fish.

  “Okay,” says Ravi. “I apologize.”

  Everyone is quiet for a while. We get off the highway and drive in silence behind our round glasses. It starts to snow lightly. The Monk turns on the windshield wipers. Soon there is a thin white powder of snow across the world. Snow makes everything hush.

  “Where exactly are you taking me?” I ask again.

  “To Nirvana,” says Ravi.

  “Hey,” I say, remembering something. “What happened to A-4, breaking curfew, the demerit, being screwed, and all that?”

  “I like to live on the edge,” says The Monk. “And besides. It’s only seven thirty. We have plenty of time to get back before curfew.”

  Suddenly, The Monk swerves left onto a dirt road and we head into the forest.

  “Welcome to the Age of Aquarius,” intones Ravi.

  Fish throws back her head and laughs, a deep, rollicking belly laugh.

  It’s a glorious sound.

  NIRVANA
r />   In the old Phillips rock quarry, there’s a footpath that goes right down to the water, just wide enough to follow single file if you’re intrepid and don’t mind heights. It goes down in an even slant from the dizzying rim into the quarry and all the way down to the frozen water where it’s a good fifteen feet over your head at the deepest point.

  During the summer, when you are too hot to exist, if you make it the whole way without chickening out, you can reward yourself with a swim, maybe climb one of the jutting rocks, grab on to the ancient rope swing someone’s great-grandfather tied up in a pine tree a hundred years ago, pull yourself onto the knot, and swing forward so your feet splay out over the water. If you time it just right, you can let go into the deepest part of the swimming hole, in the shade of the trees and stones, so all around you is green water singing over your head and the wonderful thrill of being alive.

  I’ve never been here during the winter. Mom and Dad used to take me in the summers when I was little. Dad would walk behind me keeping his hands on my shoulders so he could grab me if I lost my balance, which I did, frequently. When we got to the bottom, Dad would take out his camera and Mom would sit herself down on one of the flat rocks and look out over the water with her lovely feet out in front, her summer feet, white as doves, with dark red toenails. She never wore a bathing suit after her surgery, but in the summer she would wear sleeveless dresses and flowing smocks. I would sit down next to her and touch each of her gleaming toenails as if they were jewels.

  Now we walk single file down the ice-covered footpath, which is barely visible in the dark with the new snow coming down. We are a strange clan of clowns with our hats and glasses, the whole mismatched lot of us. There is something incongruous about our seriousness, how closely we watch our feet, the depth of our silence as we make our way from the rim of the quarry, between the jutting rocks, and down toward the water, which they tell me is thick with ice.

  The Monk goes first. He has a flashlight on his phone, and his tiny LED light shines a halo before him. The snowflakes dance in the glow, and I catch a glimpse of our treacherous path.

  On our right the chiseled rocks jut up like shark’s teeth. On the left is the pit. Every once in a while, one of us slides forward, mutters an obscenity. We steady each other and laugh to keep ourselves from crying. Or maybe that’s just me. We grab on to elbows and shoulders. We keep our hands on each other.