“Good,” Master Kim told me. “Next time remember to kihap.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, and bowed before heading back to my spot.
Remembering to kihap was hard sometimes. Especially when your brain was busy thinking about what your body was supposed to be doing. Plus, it still felt weird to yell. Inside. With other people around.
Everyone had a different kihap. Mine sounded like huuup but I’d been trying out new ones. Like hiiice and i-oisk. (That’s how Master Kim’s spirit yell sounded.)
The thing was, the way a kihap sounded was something that happened without you thinking. It was automatic, like a sneeze. And the way you say “Gesundheit.”
We’d just finished our vocal warm-up and were standing in an arc on the stage.
“The other day we worked on developing our characters,” Mrs. Delany told the cast. “Today, I’d like to warm up with some physicality exercises.”
“What’s physic-reality?” I whispered to Annie.
“It’s physicality,” Annie said. “It means…”
Mrs. Delany stopped talking and looked straight at Annie. Annie’s face turned pink. Shoot. Getting your friend in trouble was definitely the opposite of being a BBF.
Mrs. Delany went on. “Physicality is a very important thing for an actor to have in their tool kit,” she said. “It refers to the way an actor moves, or uses his or her body to become the character from head to toe.”
Physicality. Tool kits. I swear. Sometimes being in theater was like visiting a foreign country with a different language.
“So,” Mrs. Delany explained, “if my character walked this way”—she strutted across the stage—“what would you know about her?”
We decided it meant she was confident or in charge.
“And if my character moved this way”—Mrs. Delany walked around slowly with her arms swinging back and forth in front of her—“what does that show you?”
Someone suggested that the character was big or maybe old. Someone else said it showed the character was lazy.
“Think about your character,” Mrs. Delany said. “Now. I want you to move like your character.”
A few people began to move, but most everyone stood still.
“Don’t think,” Mrs. Delany said. “Move. Try something. If it doesn’t feel right, try something else.”
Mom and Mrs. Delany would totally get along. Mom liked to say you should try a decision on for size like a coat. That way you can walk around in it for a bit and see how it feels. I did that over the summer, when I was trying to decide if I should quit taekwondo after getting in trouble with Master Kim for horsing around in class.
I glanced over at JJ and Vivian, the other Little Pigs. They were both standing upright and kind of waddling around. I waddled, too. Only I stood on my tippy-toes because pigs have hooves, and I always thought that’s what it looked like they were doing. Then I decided my character wouldn’t waddle. She’d walk around a room like a model. But that didn’t feel quite right, either. So then I had her walk with a slouch, like Sam did sometimes.
Everyone kept moving around and trying out different walks. Annie’s character was an old lady, so she was hunched over and shuffling slowly. Other people started to get a little too into it and act wild. Pretty soon the stage was as chaotic as a chicken coop with a fox inside.
“Whoa! Watch it!” someone said.
“You ran into me!” was the reply.
“Do you mind?”
And it wasn’t just the people playing the barnyard animals.
“Hey. I need more room. Go do that somewhere else!”
“Seriously. No one cares. You’re just part of the background scenery.”
“Freeze!” Mrs. Delany yelled. We all stopped. Mrs. Delany never yelled.
“Gather up. NOW.”
Whatever was coming was not going to be good.
We regrouped into our arc and sat down.
“Friends, there’s been some discord and misinformation,” Mrs. Delany began. “And that needs to end immediately.”
We all looked at each other nervously.
“I overheard some very disrespectful comments just now. Let me be clear: there are no small roles,” Mrs. Delany said. “Every single character has a purpose. If you think your role is more important than someone else’s just because you may be onstage more often or have more lines, I’m here to tell you that you are wrong.
“While working on this production, we are a family and I expect you to act like one. Which means treating each other with respect. Make no mistake, the play is the priority and if I see someone is not being supportive or is getting a big ego, I will ask that person to leave the show. Does everyone understand?”
We nodded our heads.
Mrs. Delany clapped once and smiled. “Great! Moving forward, I think we need to see how much we rely on one another. Everybody up! Come on and make a circle. We’re going to do my favorite bonding activity.”
Once we’d made the circle, Mrs. Delany asked us to take a few steps toward the circle’s center. “Get in nice and tight,” she said. “I’m pretty sure everyone has bathed recently. We don’t smell that bad.”
We laughed.
“Everyone turn so their left shoulder is facing the inside of the circle. Now, take two steps sideways.”
She waited until we were all facing the same direction, nice and tight. “Next. Place your hands—gently!—on the shoulders of the person in front of you.”
More giggles. What were we going to do? Rub each other’s backs or something? That would be weird. Sometimes in taekwondo we had to grab each other’s shoulders, but that’s because we were about to do an escape. Plus, at taekwondo everyone had on doboks, which were long-sleeved and made from a heavy material. JJ was in front of me and had a T-shirt on. He felt sweaty. Ewww.
“On the count of three,” Mrs. Delany said, “I want everyone to slowly sit down, like you’re easing into a chair.”
Wait. What?
“One, two, three!”
Everyone giggled as we sat down on the lap of the person behind us. Which, of course, meant someone was also sitting on your lap! (Although that was only sorta true in my case; JJ was doing his best to squat and not actually sit on my lap.)
The giant lap-sitting thing shouldn’t work but it did. We were holding each other up!
“Hold it!” Mrs. Delany called. “Hooold it! Nice job, friends. We can do it. Let’s go for ten!”
Mrs. Delany and the cast began counting the seconds. And laughing. We got to eight before things started to fall apart. Too much wiggling and laughing meant people were sliding off laps and standing up.
I felt the girl whose lap I was sitting on shift. A few seconds later, I was falling. My brain went Ahhhh! Now what? Then something really weird happened. I heard Master Kim’s voice in my head.
Back fall!
I tucked my chin and sat down in slow-mo. As I rolled back, I slapped my arms and hands on the ground beside me. Sweet baby oranges!
“Are you okay?” JJ asked. I nodded and he held out his hand to help me up. “Your fall was kinda cool.”
“Thanks.”
Huh. I guess that’s why Master Kim always yelled at us mid-fall in class. It made your body remember what to do even if your brain didn’t.
A few days later, Mom got all excited when she told me she’d ordered a copy of the theater book online and it came in the mail.
“I got it used,” she said. “So it was super cheap.”
It was also, I discovered, highlighted to death. And someone had covered practically all the white space with notes.
Mom tried to find a silver lining. “Hey. At least you’ll know what’s important!”
I wanted to say I don’t want a stupid used book. I want a new one. It’s not fair that Dad lost his job and college is so expensive.
Instead I said, “Thanks.” And then I shoved the book under my bed when she wasn’t looking.
It’s never too early to start thinking about props and costumes,” Mrs. Delany said at rehearsal on Thursday.
She produced her neon-pink clipboard. “I’ll be sending out an email to your families soon, but here are a few of the trickier items that we need. So peel open those peepers and start looking.”
Mrs. Delany read off about a dozen things. She was super excited when Cameron said his dad was a mail carrier and would probably let us borrow one of his uniforms. And Andrea’s family lived out in the country and she offered to bring in a butter churn and some other farm stuff for the set to make it look authentic. It was too bad the only interesting thing we had around our house was a giant box of throat swabs that Mom brought home when the hospital changed brands, and an old-fashioned phone that you dialed by putting your finger in a plastic spinner and turning it.
“Now, this is a long shot,” Mrs. Delany said. “I’d really love it if we could find some glass slippers for Paige. I know the ball is in a barn, but I still want to pay homage to the original Cinderella. Real glass or clear plastic shoes may not work because they won’t be visible from the audience, so I’m open to suggestions. What would look like glass?”
“What about covering some shoes with foil?” someone suggested. (Paige wrinkled her nose.)
Annie raised her hand. “I might have something that’ll work.”
“Really? Please share,” Mrs. Delany said.
“My mom has a pair of character shoes with silver sequins on them. She wore them one year for Halloween when she dressed up as Dorothy from The Wizard of Oz.”
“Dorothy’s shoes were red,” someone said.
“Not in the book,” Mrs. Delany explained. “Red ones were used because they’d show up better on film.”
I didn’t know that. But Annie must have, because she beamed. “I’m not sure what size they are, but her feet aren’t that big. And the sequins would sparkle like glass does.”
“Wonderful!” Mrs. Delany exclaimed. Then she asked Paige to get together with Annie to work on the details.
I didn’t understand why Annie was willing to help Paige out after she’d been mean to me. And apparently Paige wondered the same thing.
“The last time we talked, you were making accusations and demanding apologies,” I overheard Paige tell Annie after rehearsal. “I’m kind of surprised you stepped up.”
Annie shrugged. “It’s for the good of the show.”
Paige slowly nodded. “I respect that,” she said. “So. Can you bring them next week?”
Annie promised she would start looking for them right away. I thought right away was a bit overboard. But I guess, like Annie said, it was for the good of the show.
I used the spare key to unlock the door. When I got inside, I hung it back on the hook near the kitchen sink. It was kind of a pain to remember to take it, but Mom said she didn’t trust me to have my own key.
I let Bear out and finished up the last bit of math homework I had. There was a marathon of Family Feud, so I watched that for a while. I wasn’t supposed to do homework with the TV on, but what Mom and Dad didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them, right? (At least that’s what Sam said when I caught him sneaking a soda before dinner.)
Everything was going great until I wanted a snack.
I popped in one of those single-serving popcorn packets and pushed the button. But then Bear started whining to go out again. “You’ve got a bladder the size of a bumblebee bat’s,” I told her. (FYI: They’re one of the smallest mammals in the world. I learned about them in third grade.)
It was sprinkling, so I had to go out with Bear because she doesn’t like having wet feet. I guess I got distracted and lost track of time, because I was standing in the middle of the yard when I heard a faint beep beep beep.
I headed in, thinking the popcorn was ready, but it was the smoke alarm instead!
The kitchen was filled with smoke. First I tried waving my arms about to clear it, but that didn’t do anything. Bear barked and jumped around my feet, adding to the noise. The back door was still open. What if the neighbors could hear the alarm and called the fire department?
I could feel panic rising with each beep of the alarm. The only way to quiet it was to clear the smoke. I opened all the windows. Then I grabbed a dish towel and started fanning the smoke detector to clear the air around it. A minute or two later, it finally shut off.
I guess I handled it well, but there was no hiding the disaster. Mom smelled the burnt popcorn the second she walked in. “What happened? Where were you? Why weren’t you watching it?”
Unfortunately, this wasn’t the last of the interrogation, either. Mom spent the whole night quizzing me between making dinner and clearing the dishes.
“What would you do if there was a fire?”
“What do you do if the electricity goes out?”
“What would you do if you didn’t feel good?”
“What if you got hurt?”
“What would you do if someone tried to break in?”
“What if there was a storm and the tornado sirens went off?”
“What if you got a scary phone call?”
“Trick question,” I said to that last one. “I’m not supposed to answer the phone.”
There were a billion questions. I was surprised she didn’t ask me what I’d do if a meteorite hit the city. And anytime Mom wasn’t satisfied with my response, she’d go over a step-by-step plan of action.
“I got it,” I told her. “Don’t worry.”
“I’m a mom,” she said. “It’s my job.”
I thought about saying “I’m a kid, it’s my job to grow up.” But I decided that probably wasn’t a good idea.
Master Kim waited.
I stepped up to the practice paddle and got into fighting stance. There was a line of white and yellow belts behind me, so I took a quick breath before throwing my hammer fist.
“Huuup!”
My fist landed on the pad. It felt solid, but Master Kim said, “Do you think that would have broken the board?”
Whenever Master Kim asked you if you thought your technique was good or if you would have broken the board, the answer was usually no.
“Keep working,” he said. “Visualize the board breaking.”
I went to the back of the line and waited to try again. But class ended before I got a chance.
On the way home, I closed my eyes and tried what Master Kim had said.
“Are you falling asleep?” Dad teased.
“I’m visualizing my board break,” I explained.
“That’s a great idea. I learned in my psychology class that that’s really helpful. Did you know—”
“Dad. It’s hard to concentrate while you’re talking.”
“Oops. My B.” It was funny when Dad tried to sound like a teenager. I hoped his future students would give him credit for trying.
I closed my eyes again, visualizing the entire board break. I started with standing in front of everyone and the judges. Then I imagined myself getting ready, staring down the board. I thought about how my arm would move and tried imagining how the edge of my hand would feel. The sound of the board cracking. The whiff of pine in the air. The board splinters on the ground. I imagined Master Kim bowing and handing me the pieces of the board. And me saying “Thank you, sir.”
Then I imagined having to ask for an ice pack.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Dad said as we pulled into a parking lot, “but I need to stop at the grocery store to pick up something for dinner. Wanna run in with me or wait in the car?”
I followed Dad in.
On one of the end-of-the-aisle displays there was a sale on cake mixes.
“Oh, I love marble cake,” Dad said. “Will you make one fo
r dessert?” He didn’t even wait for my answer, he just grabbed a box off the shelf and threw it in the basket.
After dinner, I got everyone out of the kitchen. (“An artist needs to focus!”) I hadn’t baked or decorated a cake in a long time. It felt good to measure and crack eggs and mix the batter. I used the fancy wooden spoon that Mom bought me at the farmers market.
Marble cake was new to me. Turns out you had to mix a portion of the cake batter with a packet of chocolate flavoring. And then you dropped dollops of brown batter into the yellow batter and swirled them together using a knife.
Swirling was so much fun that I got a little carried away. In the end, it looked less “marbled” and more like a light brown batter with a few stripes of white. I wasn’t super happy, but oh well. You can’t un-mix a cake.
I popped the pan in the oven and half an hour later, the whole house smelled delicious. Dad came into the kitchen as I got ready to take the cake out and turn it over on a plate to decorate it. I used a sheet-cake pan, so it was a little tricky getting the whole thing out. Well, okay, a little tricky is an understatement. Only half the cake came off. The other half got stuck in the pan. I had to pull it out with my hands.
“Did you flour the pan?” Dad asked.
Nerts. I forgot. I shook my head.
Instead of having one nice, rectangular cake, I had two halves with jagged sides. And they were a weird brown color.
“Now what?” I wondered out loud.
“WWSCD?” Dad responded. “What would Sweet Caroline do?”
I stood, hands on my hips, staring at the two pieces of cake on the counter. Hmmm.
I wasn’t sure what Sweet Caroline would do. She’d probably start over. But I didn’t have time. Besides, the cake tasted fine. It just looked a little broken….
“What’s the smile for?” Dad asked me.
“You’ll see,” I told him.
A little while later, I presented my “broken board” cake. I may not be able to break a board at my test, I thought, but at least I can bake one.
Eliza Bing Is (Not) a Star Page 7
