Eliza Bing Is (Not) a Star

by Carmella Van Vleet

  I was just about to ask Annie if she’d heard anything about where the cast party was going to be when someone nearby popped a chip bag. It startled the whole cafeteria into silence for a second, and then everyone burst out laughing. Well, except for the cafeteria monitor, who was headed over to the noise-maker’s table.

  “Hey,” I said. “This barn is a-bustin’…”

  Annie finished the line: “and this party is a-poppin’!”

  She knew that one super well; it was the cue line Paige said so that Annie knew to come onstage in Act Three.

  My tailbone was aching. It did that sometimes since I’d hurt it over the summer. I got up to give it a break and get more paint.

  Some people were complaining that the cast had to help paint the barn set. But I thought it was fun. And Mrs. Delany reminded everyone that a production is more than just being onstage. “A lot of cooperation and elbow grease go into every show!” she said.

  I arched my back and accidentally dripped paint on JJ’s head in the process. “Hey!” he protested.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “No problemo.” It was another one of his old slang words. “You can drip on me anytime.”

  I know he was only being JJ, but it made my cheeks flush. What was with the blushing? Did I like JJ? Wait. Did he like me?

  I headed over to where all the paint cans were laid out on a giant tarp. Annie came with. “There’s no more brown,” she said.

  Stage manager Cole grabbed a can and starting pouring. “Just start mixing colors,” he said. “It’s a barn. It’s okay if it’s not perfect. In fact, it’ll look better if it’s not.”

  I took over the mixing, adding a little bit of this and a little bit of almost-out-of that. Sometimes, I mixed fingernail polish and created my own colors. But this was more fun because it was gallon-sized.

  Annie grinned as I got carried away. “What color is that?” she asked.

  “I call it Barnyard Mud!” I said.

  Paige, who was off to the other side with the group painting the white picket fence, coughed once. “I call it Baby Poop,” she said under her breath. The other kids laughed.

  I ignored them and kept mixing. I felt like a mad scientist or a wizard. Or even the Dairy Godmother about to cast a spell.

  “Mimzy whimsy wahk-wollow-me flay,” I said, pouring the contents of another can into the mixture. “Forces of the universe, bend my way.”

  Paige stood up, hands on her hips. “You’re not allowed to say that! That’s Monica’s line!”

  I startled. “What are you talking about?”

  “Don’t quote Monica’s line. You’re messing it up.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Yes. You are! It’s mimzy muh-whimsy. You’re going to mess her all up if you keep saying it wrong. So stop it.”

  “It’s okay,” Monica told Paige.

  “No. It’s not,” Paige said. “You’re being too nice.”

  Everyone was watching. I don’t know where Mrs. Delany had run off to. But Cole was putting lids back on the paint cans and pretending he wasn’t listening.

  Usually, I can think of too many things to say. But this time, my brain took a break. I hoped Paige was wrong. I didn’t mean to mess up Monica. The play was important to me, too. It was the best way to be Annie’s BBF. It was also a chance to get my whole family together and happy for one night.

  Annie tugged my elbow. “Come on. Let’s go finish the barn.”

  Once we got back to our painting spot, my mouth started working again. “What did I ever do to her?”

  Annie shrugged. “She’s worried about the play is all.”

  “Don’t you think I care about how the play goes, too?” I asked her.

  “Of course you do,” Annie said. “Paige is just stressed out. She’s the lead. Cut her some slack.”

  Toast on a raft.

  JJ leaned over. “Paige is a diva,” he said. “You know what that stands for, right? Dedicated to Issuing Vicious Attitude.”

  Vivian and I laughed. Annie gave us a weak smile but didn’t say anything. And then we went back to painting.

  I tried to shake it all off. But for the rest of the afternoon, Barnyard Mud looked more like Barnyard Muck.

  Scoot over,” Mom said, plopping down on the couch next to me Sunday night. I made room. She’d brought popcorn, after all.

  “Here,” Mom said, handing me my own bowl. “Extra butter.”

  Mom and I watched a rerun of a chef show and ate without talking. Mom gets like that—quiet, I mean—when she’s had a hard day in the ER. Especially when she’s had to treat little kids.

  “How was school?” Mom asked during a commercial.

  I shrugged.

  “Everything going okay with the play?” I wasn’t sure how to answer that.

  “Dad said that you seemed a little down after rehearsal on Friday,” Mom admitted.

  “Someone was being kind of mean is all,” I said.

  “Is someone bullying you?”

  I shook my head. “No. It’s not like that exactly.” I told her what happened when we painted the barn. How Paige said, in front of everyone, that I shouldn’t say Monica’s line because I’d mess her up. And how Annie defended her.

  Mom raised her eyebrows. “Ah. Got it.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder and was quiet for a minute. “Putting together a play takes a lot of work. Everybody is bound to get stressed out now and then.”

  “So you’re saying I should cut Paige some slack?” I asked her.

  “I don’t know about Paige; I was talking about Annie,” Mom said.

  What did Annie have to be stressed out about? Thanks to Paige, she had the perfect wig for her costume. And she was getting acting tips from someone who’d been in a commercial.

  “Can we just go back to watching TV?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Mom said. “But I’m here if you ever want to talk.”

  I sighed.

  “Sorry,” Mom said, nudging me. “I have to say things like that. It’s in the Mom Handbook.”

  “What does the handbook say about making more popcorn?” I teased her.

  “It says if you want more, you have to help.”

  I followed her to the kitchen. Mom made popcorn on the stovetop with a covered pot and hot oil. She said she liked the ping ping the kernels made when they popped. She offered to make it that way when I have a sleepover. But the way things were going with Annie, I wondered if that would ever happen.

  We were practicing our danjun breathing at taekwondo. Your danjun is the space right below your belly button. It’s not an actual body part, but it’s where your life energy, or ki, is stored, according to Master Kim and other people. It felt weird to be standing with my eyes closed. Usually the only time we closed our eyes in class was when we sat in meditation. Closing your eyes any other time could get you accidentally wonked on the nose by your training partner.

  “Inhale deeply,” Master Kim told the class. We were supposed to fill our lungs all the way to the bottom.

  “Rest your hand on your midsection,” Master Kim instructed. “If you are doing this correctly, you should feel your stomach push out a little.”

  Master Kim explained that most people only used the top part of their lungs most of the time. He said not to worry if we were having a hard time, we’d get better with practice. I found it easy, though. We did a deep breathing exercise to warm up before rehearsals. Mrs. Delany, like Master Kim, believed controlling your breathing was an important skill to have. Your brain and body worked better when they had more oxygen.

  After a while, Master Kim said we could open our eyes. We were going to add visualization and movement. I liked visualization. It was a good way to practice stuff without really practicing. Sometimes, when I couldn’t fall asleep at night, I visualized doing my form or saying my lines on
stage.

  Master Kim went on. “This time, when you inhale, bring your hands up as if you are holding a small ball in front of your chest,” he said, demonstrating. “Next, slowly push the ball out in front of you as you exhale.”

  It was easy enough to imagine holding a ball. (Maybe because we did that kind of stuff when we improv-ed at rehearsal, too.) But then it got a little strange. Master Kim told us to think of the imaginary ball as a red, glowing ball of fire.

  “Imagine the ball is your power and it is traveling from your danjun and then through your arms and finally out your hands,” he said.

  Another yellow belt raised his hand. “Is it like using the Force in Star Wars?” he asked.

  Master Kim smiled. “If it helps you to think of it that way, yes.”

  We spent a few minutes picking up and extending our “balls of fire” out in front of us in slow motion. Inhaaale. Exhaaale. And then we moved on to punching. We did that in slow motion, too.

  “Imagine all your power concentrated in one, tiny spot as you connect with your target,” Master Kim said.

  I didn’t understand how punching slowly in the air would help me break my board. All I knew was that my gold-belt test was in less than three weeks and I wasn’t sure if I had a fire in my belly or a swarm of butterflies.

  On Tuesday morning Annie told me Mo-mo had to take her car to the mechanic.

  “That means she’ll have to drive the Red Rabbit,” Annie said. The Red Rabbit was what her family called their sports car. It had only two seats.

  “I hope that doesn’t mean you’ll have to miss rehearsal,” she said. “Sorry!”

  I told Dad at dinner. “I need a ride home from rehearsal on Thursday. Can you do it this one time?”

  “I thought you rode with Annie.”

  “She can’t do it Thursday.”

  “I’m sorry, kiddo. I can’t,” Dad said as he set the table for dinner (mac-and-cheese from a box).

  “But I can’t miss. The play is in four weeks and Mrs. Delany says every rehearsal counts.”

  “It’s not like you have a bunch of lines,” Sam said.

  I scowled at my brother at the same time Dad said, “Watch it!”

  “What? I’m only trying to help,” Sam said.

  Dad turned back to me. “Could you ride with someone else? Another cast member?”

  “Yeah,” Sam said. “What about that boy? Your boyfriend JJ?”

  Dad shot him another warning look.

  “If you can’t find another ride, you’ll just have to ride the bus home and miss rehearsal,” Dad told me. “It’s only one day. I’m sure the director will understand.”

  “But…”

  “You’ll figure this out. I have faith in you.”

  Later on, Sam strolled into my room while I was finishing up the homework I didn’t get to while I was at rehearsal.

  “Hey E. I have to stay after marching band on Thursday for a drum-line meeting,” he said. “But I talked to Megan and she said she can give you a ride. If you want.”

  My brain paced back and forth.

  Sam rocked back on his heels. “Well? Usually how it works is when someone says something, you respond.”

  “I…”

  “You like Megan, right?”

  “Yeah,” I lied. “She’s nice.” (When she’s not taking all your attention or showing up for dinner and making me miss taekwondo.)

  “Okay then.” He grinned. “I’ll tell her it’s a go.”

  Swell bells.

  Sam was right. Megan’s car was impossible to miss. It was yellow.

  “Hiya, Eliza!” she said when I climbed in. “I wasn’t sure which door you’d be coming out of. I’m glad I got it right. I was thinking the front door but then I saw all the cars going this way to the side door. Figured I’d take a chance.” She was rambling, like I did when I got nervous.

  The inside of her car was spotless. It smelled nice, too. And there was one of those cardboard air fresheners hanging from the mirror. It was shaped like a banana.

  “Buckle up!” she said, even though I always did.

  Ten minutes. That’s all I had to survive and then I’d be home.

  “So, how was rehearsal?” Megan asked.

  “It was good.” And then, because I was nervous, too, my mouth started running like it was in a race.

  “Today was Shoe Day,” I said. “That means we all got to start wearing the shoes we’re going to wear for the show so we can get used to moving around in them. My friend Annie got to wear these kitten slippers we found at Goodwill. I’m one of the Three Little Pigs, so we’re just wearing tennis shoes.”

  Megan kept her eyes on the road and smiled. “Sounds like fun. Did Sam tell you that we might play in the pit for the spring musical?”

  “What’s that?” I asked her.

  “The pit crew? Oh! Well, at the high school, the stage has a lowered part in front. People sit down in it to play the music for a show.”

  I bet Annie knew that. It was probably in the theater book. I could drag my copy out from under the bed, but if I started carrying it around and reading it, Mom might wonder where it’d been all this time.

  “I played in the pit last year as a freshman,” Megan said. “It was a ton of fun.”

  Great. If Sam played for the spring musical, I’d never see him next semester, either.

  “The pit was all I could handle,” Megan said. “I could never actually be onstage like you. That’s so brave.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was being nice or really meant it. But Master Kim said there were three things you should accept graciously: victories, defeats, and compliments.

  “So,” Megan said. (She sure said “so” a lot.) “Any cute guys in the cast or crew? Or girls?” she added quickly.

  I didn’t want to talk to her about that, but my brain forgot to tell my mouth.

  “There’s this guy named JJ. But I’m not sure what the deal is.”

  Instead of teasing me, like Sam would have, or launching into some big life lecture like Mom or Dad would have, Megan nodded thoughtfully. “Yeah. It can be confusing. Do you like him?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure,” I said.

  “Does he like you?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, in my experience, guys usually give you a sign.”

  “What kind of sign?” I wondered.

  She shrugged. “It depends on the guy. You usually just know when you see it, though.”

  I was supposed to wait for some kind of random sign? I wished there was a book like Annie’s theater book about this stuff.

  I leaned back in the seat, suddenly tired from rehearsal. Megan turned up the speakers. “Ooo! This is my favorite song!”

  Megan hit REPLAY and we listened to her favorite song two more times before pulling into my driveway. I was okay with that. It meant I didn’t have to think of more things to say.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said, unbuckling my seat belt.

  “No problem!” Megan said. “And hey, I’m looking forward to going to the opening night of your play in two weeks.”

  Toothpicks! Sam had invited Megan to come to the play. I knew I shouldn’t be surprised. He said he was going to. Did that mean she was coming to dinner with us, too? That was supposed to be a family—

  Wait. What?

  “Three weeks,” I told her.

  She looked confused.

  “The play is three weeks from tomorrow.”

  Megan looked like she just found out she forgot to study for a big test. “Oh no,” she said. “That’s the night of the Fall Semiformal!”

  Mom checked the calendar and sighed. “I guess Sam told me the wrong date before. I’m sorry, Eliza.”

  “But he’s coming to the play, right?” I asked her.

  “Honey…�
� Any sentence that started that way usually wasn’t good.

  “He said he would!” I reminded her.

  “I know,” Mom said. “But you have to understand. The dance is important.”

  “My play is more important.” And I planned for everyone to go to dinner beforehand and be together and have a fun family night like we used to!

  “I know it’s important, but the dance is important to your brother, too. He’s made plans. What do you want me to do?”

  My eyes stung with tears but I blinked them back. “You said you’d make him go, remember? You said you’d drag Dad and Sam there ‘kicking and screaming.’ ”

  Mom reached out to rub my shoulder. “Eliza. Making Sam go to your play and miss the dance would affect other people.”

  “You mean Megan,” I said.

  Mom nodded. “Yes. I mean Megan.”

  I scowled.

  “Dad and I will be there,” Mom said. I gave her the stink eye.

  “Look. You can ask him to go to the play instead,” Mom said. “But I wouldn’t get your hopes up.” Pause. “And I won’t make him.”

  That was it. My plan for getting my family together for opening night was dead, dead, dead.

  One time, when Bear was about a year old, Dad decided it would be a great idea if he took her for a run. So he climbed on his bike, attached a long leash to Bear’s collar, and headed out. The plan was to go to the railroad tracks on the outskirts of our neighborhood and loop back. Only once they got there, Bear sat down and refused to move. Dad ended up having to carry her home in one arm while he pushed his bike with the other.

  We were all Bear at the end of Friday’s rehearsal.

  It wasn’t just because Mrs. Delany had extended rehearsals by an hour. Things had gone haywire from the beginning when someone forgot to bring snacks and Cole ran to the teachers’ lounge to snag some pretzel rods. A couple of kids started using them like swords, which made a mess, and Mrs. Delany gave a lecture about respecting our theater space.