Annie had Student Council meetings on Thursday mornings, so she wasn’t in homeroom.
I didn’t see her in the halls all morning, either. By the time lunch came around, my stomach felt like it did that one time when I accidentally made frosting with old shortening.
The two of us usually met up after we’d gotten our trays. I got to our table first and wondered if I’d be sitting there alone. I didn’t think I could deal with the meat loaf. So instead, I started tearing up my napkin.
“Sorry about not texting you back,” Annie said, suddenly plunking her tray down across from me. I was so relieved to see her that I almost tossed the napkin pieces like confetti.
“Mo-mo took away my phone for the night because I forgot to take out the trash. I didn’t get your text till this morning.” Mo-mo was one of Annie’s moms.
“It’s okay,” I told her.
Annie started eating and I found my appetite, too.
“I was worried when you didn’t text me back,” I admitted. “You seemed a little mad yesterday.”
Annie frowned. “Well, I kinda was. But mostly I was just worried”—she leaned in closer—“that everyone could see through my shirt.”
“Oh!” I said. “That makes sense.” And it did. I always made sure to wear white underwear on days I had taekwondo because you could sorta see through my dobok pants.
“If it makes you feel better,” I told Annie, “I don’t think you could.” I didn’t know if that was actually true, but I wanted to help.
She smiled. “Thanks. Sorry I didn’t stick around. All I wanted to do was go home and change as fast as possible.”
Whoa. I’d embarrassed her, and here she was apologizing to me.
“What did you end up doing?” she asked. I told her about the gym clothes and she winced.
Annie pulled out the Rules to Surviving Sixth Grade notebook and opened it on the table. “We should add ‘Keep a change of clothes at school’ to the list,” she said.
I laughed and nodded. She carefully wrote it down. Annie was in charge of writing the rules because, first of all, the list was her idea. And second, her handwriting was neater than mine.
“So, switching channels,” Annie said after she’d closed the notebook. “Play auditions start next Tuesday.” (She got that “switching channels” thing from me.)
I looked at her. She’d been trying to talk me into going with her for the last two weeks. “Come on. Pleeease? It’ll be fun,” she said. “I promise.”
When I didn’t say anything, Annie frowned.
Picnic ants! This was the perfect chance to set Operation BBF into motion and I was already messing it up. Like salt instead of sugar in a recipe. But I’d never been onstage. What if I did something embarrassing in front of an entire audience? A classroom had been bad enough.
Annie and I noticed at the exact same time that people were standing beside our table. It was Collin, the boy who wanted make a viral video yesterday, and a few of his friends.
“Yo. What’s the weather forecast, Nimbus? Chance of rain today?” Collin said. He and his friends cracked up and high-fived. I remembered Master Kim’s lesson about being like water and not the rock, and decided to go with the flow. But Annie grabbed her pencil and opened our notebook to the very back page.
“So. What are your names again?” she asked with the pencil poised over the blank sheet of paper.
“Why?” one of the boys wanted to know.
Annie smiled sweetly. “No reason.”
The boys looked at each other and then decided to just keep moving.
Annie turned her attention back to me. “Don’t listen to them. You are not a rain cloud. In fact, you’re the opposite of a rain cloud,” she said, her voice rising dramatically and her hands gesturing wildly. “You’re one of those giant, fluffy clouds on sunny days. The ones that look like bunnies or ice cream cones.”
“Thanks!” I laughed.
“How can you be so calm about those jerks?” she asked.
I shrugged. Annie didn’t take taekwondo, so it was hard to explain.
“Doesn’t it bother you?”
It did. A lot. Names were like assigned seats—something you wouldn’t have picked but were usually stuck with anyway.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “It bothers me. But it’s better to just ignore them.”
“Well, you’d never know you were upset. You’ve got a great poker face!” Annie said. “I’m serious. You have to come to the auditions with me. Being able to keep your composure is, like, the number one skill for actors.”
She was being so nice. And she’d been so forgiving about the whole getting-her-wet-and-embarrassing-her thing. My plan to be the best best friend ever was off to a disastrous start all because I was too chicken to be onstage.
Annie tried again. “It’ll be an adventure,” she said.
I wasn’t convinced. But then I thought about how Tony had started to do other things without me. Would Annie stop being my friend if we didn’t like the same things? On the other hand, the thought of auditioning…
“I’m too busy,” I told her.
“No, you’re not.”
She had me there. I’d been hoping I could take Sweet Caroline’s fall cake-decorating class, but I didn’t have a way to get there and back. Mom had to work extra shifts. And Dad had added more classes this semester. Luckily Sam had a girlfriend with a driver’s license and a car to give him rides home after band practice. Plus, the cake class cost money and, as Mom and Dad liked to remind us, “Money still doesn’t grow on trees.”
Annie didn’t give up. “But we’ll make so many new friends. For real,” she said. “Plus, you’re a natural, Eliza.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“I’m not!” Annie insisted. She lowered her eyes and got quiet. “And, truth is, I also don’t want to go by myself.”
Something jabbed at my heart.
What would a best friend do?
Okay. I’m in!”
It was past dinnertime. Mom and Dad were arguing in the kitchen.
“I’m sorry. I forgot,” Dad said. “I was running late this morning. Why didn’t you take out something last night?”
“Why is dinner always my responsibility?” Mom responded.
I turned around and headed to the living room. I didn’t like it when Mom and Dad raised their voices like that. Especially about something as dumb as dinner. I’d totally eat cereal three times a day if they’d let me. The kind that tasted like cookies was my favorite. It’s too bad there isn’t a tiny cupcake-shaped one. I’d eat that three times a day, too.
Since dinner was obviously going to take a while, I decided to watch TV. Sam was stretched out on the couch. “What up, E?”
I scowled in my brother’s direction. Since he turned sixteen, he’d started calling everyone by their first initial all the time. He even called Mom and Dad “M” and “D.” It was super annoying, but Mom said it was a phase.
“Is dinner ready?” Sam asked.
I shoved his feet off the end of the couch and plopped down. “No,” I told him. “Wanna watch Family Feud?”
He shrugged. “Sure.”
I clapped, pretending to be all excited, and said, “Good answer, good answer!” He grinned and grabbed the remote.
“We surveyed one hundred people,” the host read from his card. “The top eight answers are on the board. Name something a dog might do that embarrasses its owner.”
“Sniff things!” Sam yelled at the TV.
“Pee on the floor!” I said at the same time.
“Sniff things” was the number one answer.
“Ha!” Sam said to me. “In your face.” I didn’t mind. He wasn’t really being mean. Sam was actually pretty cool most of the time. He was the one who helped me after I fell down the stairs and bruised my tailbone. And while
I was at the ER, he cleaned up the mess I’d left.
One of the contestants on the show answered, “Coughs up a fur ball.”
The rest of her family clapped and said, “Good answer! Good answer!”
Bear put her tiny poodle paws on the screen and barked. Even she knew that answer was silly.
Sam and I raised our arms into X’s. “Dumb answer! Dumb answer!” we yelled at the television. Sure enough, a giant red X appeared on the screen and the buzzer sounded. I always thought it sounded like it was saying Duuuuh!
Sam was ahead three correct answers to my two when his phone pinged.
The goofy grin on his face told me it was Megan, his girlfriend. We hadn’t officially met her yet, but Mom knew her because Megan was in the marching band, too. Mom was the band nurse on game nights and field trips.
Sam’s thumbs texted a quick reply. He stared at the phone, waiting for a response. A few seconds later, he grinned some more. I nudged Sam’s leg and pointed at the TV, but he ignored me.
It was happening again.
Last year, in fifth grade, we learned about these things called whirlpools. They were kind of like tornados, only in water, and they sucked things in if you got too close. Megan was Sam’s whirlpool.
On Tuesday, my social studies teacher asked me to take something to the office for her a few minutes before the end of the period.
As I passed the library, someone called my name. I made sure I had my hall pass in case it was a teacher, but it wasn’t. It was Madison, from my summer taekwondo class, and one of her friends.
I walked over. “Hey!”
“Hi!” Madison said.
“What happened?” I motioned to the crutches under her arms.
She looked sheepish. “Twisted my knee at cheerleading practice.”
“That stinks,” I told her.
I knew trying out for cheerleading wasn’t Madison’s idea. Madison was great at taekwondo, but her mom complained it wasn’t a good sport for girls. She tested for her green belt the same day I tested for my yellow belt.
“Yeah, it does stink,” Madison agreed. “But at least I get to sneak out of classes early.” She nodded at Olivia, who was standing next to her and carrying a stack of books. “And I have a helper.”
Olivia smiled but I could tell it was an I’m-just-being-polite one. (Rules to Surviving Sixth Grade No. 11: The table in the middle of the cafeteria belongs to the cheerleaders.)
Olivia sighed and shifted her hip, but Madison didn’t budge. “How’s taekwondo going?” Madison asked. “You’re still going, right?”
I told her yep.
“Me too,” she said. “The dojang is really cool. You should check it out.” Because she was in the intermediate class, she went to Master Kim’s actual training hall, instead of the community center like me.
“I go once a week, when I’m at my dad’s. Well, at least I did.” She looked down at her leg. “It may take me longer, but I’ll get my next belt eventually.”
I smiled. Madison wasn’t a quitter, either.
“Anything else new?” she asked.
“I’m trying out for the play this afternoon,” I told her.
“That’s cool. Keep me posted.”
“We better go,” Olivia said. “The bell is going to ring soon.”
She and Madison headed down the hall, but before they got too far, Madison turned around and called back to me. She told me the same thing she did right before my yellow-belt test.
“Remember. Don’t be nervous, be awesome!”
Annie and I looked around the cafeteria. “I can’t believe there are this many people auditioning,” she said.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?” I asked her.
“Oh, it’s good,” she explained. “It means the show will be better because there are more actors to choose from.”
“Yeah, but doesn’t it also make it harder to get roles?”
“Well, for everyone else, sure,” Annie said, and grinned. “But we’re going to be aaawe-some.”
Annie had been reading a book about plays and acting. At lunch, she highlighted entire pages.
“Okay,” she said, pulling me aside. “Let’s prepare.”
Annie had planned out a pre-performance ritual for us. (Her book said every serious artist had one.) I felt silly doing it but it was what a BBF would do.
Annie stood in front of me and we whispered the rhyme she’d come up with.
Smile on,
shoulders back.
Hands on thighs,
tap, tap, tap.
Deep breath in,
spine straight.
Blink, blink, blink.
You’ll do great!
“Let’s break some legs!” Annie said when we were done.
The day before, she told me it was bad luck to wish actors good luck. “In the theater, we say ‘Break a leg,’ ” she said. I wondered how saying that would go over at a taekwondo test. Maybe “Break a board” would be more appropriate there.
Annie waved her hand to get my attention. “Hey? Ready? They’re starting.” I looked her in the eye so she knew I’d heard her. My medicine was starting to wear off. Sometimes I took a quick-release dose at home, but I wouldn’t be able to do that here. The nurse had to be the one to give me a pill, and she left right after the last bell.
Annie and I walked over to the stage area. Mrs. Delany, the theater director, was standing there with a neon-pink plastic clipboard. She passed out name tags and we shared markers to fill them out.
“Here you go, Nimbus,” some girl said, holding a marker in my direction. My stomach clenched but I didn’t say anything. Annie made it super obvious she was examining the girl’s name tag.
“Um. Why are you staring at my shirt?” the girl asked.
Annie shrugged. “Just memorizing your name for future reference,” she said. The girl hurried off and I cracked up.
“Thanks,” I told Annie. She said not to worry about it.
I recognized only a few of the kids who were auditioning. There were way more girls than boys, and everyone looked about as nervous as I felt. Which was a solid eight on a scale of one to ten. Okay, maybe a nine. I reminded myself that I was doing this for Annie. She needed me. And that’s what best friends did—helped each other.
“Good afternoon, friends,” Mrs. Delany called out. Annie and I shared a look. “Friends” is what our teachers back in elementary school called us. Most of the middle-school teachers said “folks” or “ladies and gentlemen” when they wanted our attention.
“Thank you all so much for coming today. Auditions are my favorite thing and we’re going to have an absolute blast! I just know the fall show will be the best school production ever! The play we’re doing is a humorous take on a classic. We’re calling it Cinder Ellen. If you haven’t heard of it before, that’s because it was written by yours truly.” Here, Mrs. Delany placed her hand on her chest and beamed. “This afternoon, what I’d like to do is get to know you all as performers. And to let you get to know each other as well. We’ll begin with some improv.”
Improv” was short for “improvisation.” It meant making things up on the spot. (And it was also Mrs. Delany’s favorite thing.) It had four rules, so of course I liked it immediately because four was my favorite number. The rules were:
1. Don’t overthink things.
2. Always say “Yes…and,” which, as it turns out, doesn’t mean to actually say the words. It means play along with whatever another person says and then add something to the scene.
3. Make statements. That means don’t be wishy-washy when you’re deciding how to respond.
4. Don’t worry about making mistakes, because there is no such thing in improv. (“There are only opportunities.”)
The first game we played was called Tags.
Mrs. Delany split us into groups of five and designated one person to be the director. We got tags on strings with a character name and description. I got Larry, ice cream truck driver.
I looked across the room at Annie, who was in another group. She was smiling and holding up her tag, but I couldn’t read it. I hadn’t planned on being in separate groups and it made me more nervous.
The director of my group gave us a scene. We were supposed to be in a park on a summer Saturday afternoon. I yelled, “Ice cream! Get your ice cream before it melts!” in a deep voice and pretended to sell cones to the other characters. Then the director stopped us mid-scene and switched everyone’s tags. I became Daisy, playful puppy.
That was more fun. All I did was pretend I was Bear. I even got down on my hands and knees and wagged my backside. Everyone laughed, which felt like the time everyone clapped for me at my yellow-belt test.
This kid named JJ got stuck with a tag that said Frank, garbage man. I thought that one would be hard, but JJ spent the whole time driving a pretend truck and asking, “Pardonnez-moi, have you any litter you’d like to lighten yourself of this fine afternoon?” When he came to me, he patted me on the head and said, “Good doggie.”
After a while, Mrs. Delany called everyone over. “Now that we’re all warmed up,” she announced, “we’re going to try my favorite improv staple, which will test your ability to stay in character. It’s called ‘I love you, baby.’ ”
When everyone stopped giggling, we broke up into two groups of twenty and made giant circles. I made sure Annie and I were together.
The game was simple, Mrs. Delany explained. One person stood in the middle of the circle and walked up to each person in the group. They had to say “I love you, baby. Won’t you please give me a smile?” And the other person was supposed to say “I’m sorry, baby. But I just can’t smile” without cracking up or breaking into any kind of smile. If they did, they had to sit down.
The tricky part was that the person could say the “I love you, baby” line any way they wanted. They could whisper or sing. They could be super serious or use a funny voice. They could do anything they wanted to. Stand on their head, act like a monkey, whatever. They just couldn’t touch the person they were trying to get to smile.
Eliza Bing Is (Not) a Star Page 3
