The Right and the Real

by Joëlle Anthony

  “Sucks to be you,” she said, wrapping her arms around me and giving me a squeeze. Her chestnut hair was in its usual sleek ballerina bun, but a wisp had strayed, and it tickled the side of my face.

  “Don’t I know it,” I said.

  Liz propped her foot up on the windowsill to stretch. She reminded me of that ballerina in The Red Shoes. It was like she couldn’t stop dancing for even a second. She is my second-closest BFF, and after Krista had threatened to drive over to Josh’s house to ask him what he meant by “forgive me,” I’d called Liz to get her two cents.

  I’d told her only the minor details of Saturday night, so when she said, “Did Josh really push you?” I knew someone had filled her in with a bit more info. I glared at Krista, who was reapplying liquid eyeliner so thick I thought maybe her eyelids would get glued together. What she needed were her lips sealed. Sometimes I hate that my best friends are into theater. Everything has to be a soap opera with them.

  “He didn’t push me,” I said, even though he had. It sounded really bad like that, like abuse. “God, Krista. Inflate the drama much?”

  “Oh, please,” she said. “Since when do you keep secrets from your best girls?”

  I sighed and headed for the locker I shared with Krista. “It’s not that I’m keeping secrets,” I said when they caught up with me in the hallway. “It just makes him look so bad, and he didn’t mean it. I don’t want the whole school to hear about it.”

  “I’m not just anyone,” Liz reminded me. “Besides, who would I tell?”

  “Yeah, I know…,” I said. I put my arms around the two of them as we walked. “I’m just feeling blue.”

  I looked for Josh on the way to each of my classes, but I didn’t see him in his usual spot by the gym, and when I called him at lunch, I got his voice mail. In spite of the cloud of dread that had followed me around all day because I’d have to talk to my dad after school, a certain amount of excitement pulsed through me too. Today was the first company meeting for West Side Story. The dancing and singing numbers are super complicated, so our drama teacher, Mr. Lazby, decided to try something new this year. He’d held auditions for the spring musical right after winter break and formed a company of actors instead of giving us our parts right away.

  We’d spend February learning the big dance numbers and the songs as a company, and then in mid-March, we’d find out who we got to play. After that, all the usual intensive rehearsals would start, culminating in May with eight evening performances and four school matinees.

  It was going to be tough to win the role of Maria because I’m short, blond, and pale. And Liz, who definitely had her eye on Maria too, was tall, dark, and could easily pass for Puerto Rican. Plus, Maria has a ballet number with Tony, and I knew that was going to be my weak point. But I intended to do everything in my power during these rehearsals to persuade Mr. Lazby to give me the role.

  After the last bell, I rushed to my locker, grabbed my stuff, and headed for the theater. The lights were on in the lobby, and the main doors stood open. From inside, I could hear the hum of voices, and I got that little rush I always get when I enter a theater.

  The cast milled about for a while, talking noisily, until Emily, the stage manager, came in and let out an earsplitting whistle. “Sit in the orchestra pit,” she yelled.

  I found Liz and Krista, and we plopped down on the floor together. Around us, everyone laughed and shoved each other, making a lopsided circle. Just as Mr. Lazby strode across the stage above us, Liz’s little sister, Megan, wedged herself in next to me.

  “Megan, don’t you have your own friends?” Liz asked.

  “I’m the only freshman who made the cast,” she reminded us. Her face glowed with pride. Freshmen almost never got cast in the musical, but like Liz, Megan had danced her whole life, and she’d kicked ass during the auditions.

  “Shhh,” I said. “Mr. Lazby’s waiting.”

  He towered over us from the apron of the stage. Imagine John Travolta with a belly, a beard, and a bad attitude about the acting biz, and you had Mr. Lazby. Still, he was a fantastic director, and even though he was known to throw a tantrum without warning, everyone loved him. His sheer bulk seemed to cast a shadow over all of us, and almost instantly it got so quiet, you could hear the proverbial pin drop.

  “Welcome,” he said, his voice somehow low and still carrying all the way to the back row. “Emily, please call the roll.”

  Things went quickly for a minute or two, but then Emily called out, “Marissa Stephens?” and someone answered, “She had a dentist appointment.”

  “What?” Mr. Lazby roared. “Well, if Ms. Stephens doesn’t want to be in West Side Story enough to come to the first meeting, then just scratch her off the cast list, Emily.”

  Around the room, a few girls who were on backstage committees and didn’t have roles perked up, thinking maybe they’d get Marissa’s spot, but we veterans knew Mr. Lazby was just blowing off steam. If you looked up drama queen on Wikipedia, you’d see his name for the definition.

  For the first time all day, the worry I’d been carrying around in the pit of my stomach dissolved. With all my friends around and people laughing and the excitement of the show, I totally forgot about my dad and the R&R. Emily handed out rehearsal schedules, Mr. Lazby talked a bit about the history of the musical, and then we played a few improvisation games to get us on our feet and release some energy.

  After rehearsal, I dropped off my friends and headed for home. Twice I had to wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans because they slipped on the steering wheel, and I didn’t think my nervousness had much to do with the traffic. That chill from Saturday night crept through me too.

  It took me three tries to get the stupid Beast parked, and in the end, the front tire was wedged tightly against the curb, with the back stuck out into traffic a little. I gave up. There was a big stack of cardboard boxes on the porch, and my pulse flickered with excitement. Maybe Dad had ordered me the new bedroom suite from Ikea like he’d been promising. But then I saw they all had U-HAUL printed on the sides of them and decided they must be more of Mira’s things.

  I was just about to stick my key in the front door when I saw the light blue envelope taped to the top of one of the boxes. It had my full name, Jamie Lexington-Cross, scrawled across it in my father’s handwriting. Puzzled, I yanked it off, slicing my finger on the edge of the envelope as I opened it. A single slip of blue paper fluttered to the ground, and when I picked it up, the words swam in front of my eyes.

  January 24th

  Jamie,

  You made a sinner’s choice, and now God has made mine for me. You are banned from our home. Don’t come back until you’re willing to take the Pledge.

  In Christ’s name, Richard Cross

  chapter 4

  I TORE AT THE PACKING TAPE ON THE FIRST BOX. Inside I found all my shoes. In another, all my summer clothes. Jeans and warm sweaters were stuffed in a third one. Then I saw the labels. Books & CDs. Mementos. Theater Stuff. Contents of Desk. I didn’t believe for a minute he really meant to kick me out. He’s just trying to scare me into signing, I told myself.

  Some people might be able to disown their own children, but not my dad. We were a team. We’d stuck by each other through it all. Even when I was in eighth grade and he let those recovering addicts move in with us and one of them stole my piggybank, I’d forgiven him.

  And it wasn’t like I could go to my only other living relative. Dad knew how to get ahold of Mom, but I didn’t know, and I didn’t want to. She’d moved to Hollywood when I was in sixth grade with some guy whose name I chose to forget as soon as I saw the back of him. Supposedly she had a job as a personal assistant for some two-bit movie producer. More likely, she was the person who scored his drugs.

  Dad would never do this to me. It had to be Mira’s idea. At first, I’d thought she was nice. Her big, doe eyes seemed kind, and her voice was soft. For their first date, she’d insisted on including me and had cooked dinner for us at our house. She’d
set the table with beeswax candles, the real silver we’d inherited from my grandmother, and cloth napkins.

  I had actually been happy for Dad because he’d stopped planting himself in front of the TV every night. Or relying on me for entertainment. For years, I’d read aloud to Dad from plays, which was fun for both of us, and I think helped me to become a better actress. But it was also exhausting after a long day of school and rehearsal. With Mira, he had a distraction, and I’d been grateful.

  Gradually, I’d seen a change in her, though. Slowly, but methodically, she started taking over our lives. First it was ironing my dad’s shirts. Then doing the grocery shopping. Those things weren’t so bad, but then I noticed some of our favorite knickknacks, like the Mickey Mouse clock we’d bought at Disneyland and the Winnie-the-Pooh lamp we’d gotten on a trip to England, had disappeared.

  In their places were religious statues. And one of them had a little plastic figure on the cross, but I swear it had the Teacher’s beaky nose and didn’t look anything like how you might expect Jesus to. I tried to reassure myself it was a coincidence, but honestly, it kind of freaked me out.

  On Sundays Dad gave Mira a ride to church “because a lady doesn’t drive herself when she has a man in her life.” And she expected him to go to Wednesday Night Fellowship and to chaperone the Friday Mixers too, wearing the new, dark suit she’d bought him. When I complained he spent too much time with her, he said, “You’re growing up, James. It feels good to have someone to take care of again.”

  “I thought your therapist warned you about giving up your life for someone else,” I reminded him.

  He ruffled my hair, a new habit since I’d had it cut short, and added, “Don’t worry. It’s not like when I was with your mom. I’m not trying to fix Mira. She’s perfect the way she is.”

  I wasn’t dumb enough to believe she was really perfect, but it was such a relief to see a smile on his face, I’d ignored my gut feelings, and now I was homeless. As I stood there, sucking my cut finger, I got the uncomfortable feeling I was being watched. The front curtains were drawn, but maybe Mira was peeking through, trying to see how I reacted. I cringed at the thought of her hands touching my stuff. But Dad had clearly written the note himself. Maybe he really had packed it all.

  I grabbed the box on top and lugged it down the driveway. Fueled by anger, I dragged the rest of the boxes to the Beast and loaded them into the back in record time. Once I was behind the wheel again, though, the hurt of Dad’s betrayal rushed through me. I knew how susceptible he was to persuasion, and I knew he’d been brainwashed, but it still just about killed me to think he could kick me out.

  I needed to talk this over with someone, and if there was anyone who could give me some advice about the Right & the Real, it would be Josh. I hit number four on my speed dial, but it went straight to voice mail.

  This is Josh—leave a message.

  “Ummm…hi. It’s me,” I said. “Missed you at school today. Hope you’re not sick or anything. Could you give me a call? Okay…well…bye.”

  There was only one place to go, Krista’s. But halfway there, I fell apart. My whole body trembled in my seat, and for the first time, I understood what it meant to cry so hard you felt like you might throw up. I gulped for air, my hands holding tight to the steering wheel, while I looked desperately for a place to pull over.

  Even though I could barely drive, there was this tiny voice inside telling me, “You can use this experience in your acting.” That happens a lot to me, and sometimes it makes me wonder if I’m actually a really shallow person, but I don’t think so, because tonight, the pain felt very real.

  Once I’d gotten onto the shoulder of the road, I made myself do some deep breathing, and after a few minutes, I looked around and got my bearings. I wasn’t too far from a side street that dead-ended into a little park where the drama kids would sometimes go late at night to mess around and drink, and so I drove there.

  It was only five o’clock, but almost dark already. I sat there, leaning my head against the steering wheel, and the tears came again. They poured down my face, dripping onto my jeans, leaving dark blue splotches. By the time I’d cried out every drop, the streetlights had come on, giving the park an unnatural glow. The merry-go-round sat deserted, calling to me.

  A minute later, I grabbed the icy bar and ran around and around and around, my shoes sending up a spray of sodden dirt and gravel. When my legs felt all rubbery and cold air stung my lungs, I leapt up onto the rough platform and threw myself down on my back. Above me, the night sky alternated with the streetlamp, making a blur, and I held on, gripping the cold metal to keep from being flung off.

  The merry-go-round creaked and groaned, eventually slowing down and then stopping. I lay there, waiting for my insides to catch up with my body and the dizziness to subside. A cloud shifted, and a tiny bit of moon poked out. The cold air had cleared my head; now I knew what to do.

  I’d go to the Right & the Real for Wednesday Night Fellowship, and I’d sign the Pledge. And then my dad would let me back in the house. I knew he was just trying to scare me into thinking he was serious about kicking me out, and I decided I’d make him sweat it out a little. It wouldn’t hurt him to worry about me for a few days.

  At the Coffee Espress-O, I washed my face in the bathroom sink and then I ordered a bagel and a double mocha and sat by the electric fireplace for a while. Before I left, I bought Krista a vanilla latte because it was her favorite and drove over to her house.

  “Do you think your mom and George would mind if I stayed a few more days with you?” I asked when she answered the door. “The lovebirds want to be alone.” I forced a smile.

  “Sure,” she said, taking the drink I offered her. “Mom had to go to Seattle for her job, but George won’t mind. Come on in.”

  I could’ve told Krista what happened, but after all the crying, I didn’t really have the energy to talk about it. Besides, I only needed a place to crash for two nights. By Wednesday, I’d be back at home, so she would never need to know my dad had kicked me out.

  “What are all those boxes for?” Krista asked me, when we climbed into the Beast the next morning.

  I kept my voice light. “Just stuff Mira wants me to give to the Salvation Army.”

  “I can barely see.” She adjusted the rearview mirror. “Maybe we should dump them off on the way to school.”

  “I doubt they’re open,” I said. “I’ll do it later.”

  She shrugged. “Okay.”

  In the locker room after PE, I mentally counted my money while I tried to make my hair look like Ms. Fitzpatrick hadn’t run us ragged in ballet. It was beginning ballet, and I only took it because it was better than volleyball or field hockey, plus it kept me in shape for my real dance classes, which I took on Saturdays at the Bright Lights Studio.

  PE ballet was pretty easy, but I always worked up a sweat anyway. Short hair was tough for me. When it was long, I’d worn it in a bun like Liz, and it always looked pretty okay afterward, but now it was a damp bird’s nest. I gave up on it, applied fresh lip gloss, and touched up my eye shadow.

  I had plenty of cash for lunch and gas because Grandpa had always given me money for birthdays and Christmas, which I’d tucked away. And I’d saved almost all the money I’d earned last summer for acting in Peter Pan too. I’d be fine, even if it took Dad a little while to cool off after I signed the Pledge. Krista had to go to her father’s for the weekend, but I could stay with her until Friday if I needed to.

  I stuffed my dance clothes into my bag and fluffed my hair one last time. I still looked pale under my makeup, and dark circles ringed my eyes, but boys don’t notice that stuff. At least, I hoped Josh wouldn’t. I still hadn’t seen him today, but he never missed lunch.

  In the cafeteria, I found Krista and Liz poking at their hot lunches—a gray lump floating in brown gravy. I decided to opt for the salad bar. “Why are you guys eating that?” I asked when I got back to the table.

  “She dared me,” Liz
said. “I don’t know why she bought it.”

  “Death wish.” Krista stabbed the meat loaf with her fork. “Calculus test next period.”

  I speared a limp lettuce leaf. “So did you guess right?” I asked Liz.

  Krista had outdone herself this morning when we were getting dressed, and we’d made a bet Liz wouldn’t be able to figure out her inspiration. Today she wore slinky tights, a short skirt, and about four layers of torn-up T-shirts in neon colors. She also had a ton of metal and rubber bracelets weighing down her arms, and she’d pulled all her hair back on one side and teased out the other.

  “At first I thought a young Madonna,” Liz said. “Because of the neon. But then I remembered that chick with the shaved head on one side.”

  “Cyndi Lauper,” Krista reminded her. “It was kind of both of them anyway.”

  Liz rumpled Krista’s hair. “Our friend is whacked,” she told me. “Totally.”

  “Hey! Don’t touch the ’do!”

  “At least she doesn’t listen to the music,” I said.

  Krista wrinkled her nose like she’d smelled something even worse than the food. “As if. Give me some credit.”

  I scanned the cafeteria, looking for the football players. “Have you guys seen Josh?” I asked.

  They exchanged frowns.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Rumor is you two broke up,” Krista said. “But we know that’s not true because you would’ve told us.”

  I swallowed back my surprise. “News to me.”

  “We figured,” Liz said. She pulled the chopstick out of her bun, shook her hair loose, and retwisted it up into a knot, which she does about fifty times a day. “Megan told me she heard it from Ashleigh Robertson, who heard it from her brother. Never trust little sisters.”

  I forced myself to smile and tried not to think about how Josh hadn’t returned any of my calls or texts. “We didn’t break up,” I said firmly. “I’ll go find him.”

  I hadn’t even stood up yet when Josh and Derrick strolled into the cafeteria. Josh looked great in jeans and an old University of Oregon football jersey. My heart literally raced at the sight of him. He was so gorgeous. Sometimes I could hardly stand it. I know every girl’s supposed to fall for his type—friendly, tall, blond, straight teeth, and all that—but usually I was attracted to his total opposite. The skinny, dark-haired, moody, and dramatic types. Or loud, funny, and kind of awkward. And yet, every time I laid eyes on Josh, I turned to jelly, just like stereotypical girls in books.