Lights, Camera, Amalee

by Dar Williams

  Luckily, when I told my dad that I wanted him to drive me back to the art store for poster paper, I told him why I needed it, and he had a better idea.

  “Type your script,” he advised. “And then we’ll take it to a copy store that makes super-big copies.”

  “You can do that?” I asked, full of relief.

  “Yup,” he said. In gratitude, I decided that Lenore could simply hold up the lines for people to read.

  Lenore. It was time to call her. I decided to type the script for a while and then call her. I got bored with typing pretty quickly, slid off my chair, groaned, picked up the receiver, and dialed the number I had memorized many years before.

  Mrs. Nielson answered, and I asked to speak to Lenore.

  “May I ask who’s calling?” she asked politely.

  I wanted to ask why she cared, but I said my whole name, Amalee Everly, as if she’d never heard of me.

  “Amalee?” she asked excitedly. “Hi! It’s me, Mrs. Nielson.”

  She’d never been this nice before. The last time I’d seen her was over a year ago when I’d gone over to apologize for pushing her daughter down the stairs at school. Phyllis had come with me to let Mrs. Nielson know it was really an accident that had happened after Lenore passed on some gossip she’d heard that my father was dying. By the end of the night, she’d been embarrassed, and I’d felt pretty embarrassed, too.

  “Hi, Mrs. Nielson, how are you?” I asked.

  “Oh, good, good. Lenore just got back from swimming laps at the pool.”

  Lenore liked swimming laps, I knew, because she could do it alone. I was probably the last friend she’d had, and now we basically avoided each other. Whenever I saw her, she was alone, clutching her books to her chest the way she had in fifth and sixth grade, even though she wasn’t the only girl in our class who wore a bra anymore.

  “Swimming laps sounds like fun,” I said.

  “She’s here if you’d like to speak to her,” Mrs. Nielson added. “Hey, I heard that you’re making a movie. Is that true? I’m sure Lenore would like to help. I mean, love to help. I’m sure she’d love to help.”

  “That’s actually why I’m calling,” I told her, feeling terrible that I’d tried to come up with the gruntiest grunt job for her lonely daughter, and that the only reason I was calling was that Sarah had already said Lenore could be a part of it. “I wanted to know what she’d be interested in doing.”

  “Lenore!” Mrs. Nielson yelled. “Lenore, it’s the phone for you! She’ll be right there, Amalee.”

  “Hello?” Lenore asked suspiciously. I tried to remember if I’d ever heard that she’d been the victim of group prank calls at sleepover parties.

  “Hi, Lenore, it’s Amalee Ev — it’s Amalee.”

  “Hi.” That was all she said.

  “Hi, I don’t know if you’d be interested in this at all, but I’m making a short film this summer about endangered species, and I was wondering if you’d like to help out on it. It’s not very glamorous, but …” I was in a corner. I didn’t want to lie and say I really wanted to see her. I didn’t want to admit that I felt sorry for her, or that I just wanted her for her manual labor. “But it would be nice to see you, and we’d really like the help, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m interested in endangered species,” she said in her soft whiny voice. “What would you like me to do?”

  “What would you like to do?” I asked.

  “I don’t know what I’m good at,” Lenore answered quietly. “I could carry stuff, if you like.” This was not the Lenore I had known in sixth grade.

  “Well, I was wondering if you could be there when we’re shooting the narrators, five people who will be dressed like frogs. It’s a pretty tough job, because their lines will be on big paper, and you’ll need to know when to go to the next cue card so they know what to say next.”

  “I could glue the paper onto boards,” Lenore suggested. “And write the last few lines of each page on my side of the board so I would know when to go to the next one.”

  “That’s really smart,” I said. “I hadn’t thought of that. That would work.” I bet she hadn’t heard a compliment in a long time. She always gave them to herself by telling me how well she did on tests and how she always chose the most difficult school projects.

  I told her which days we’d be shooting. She paused as if she were going through her schedule, which was probably nonexistent. “That’s fine. I’ll be there,” she said. “Let me know if there’s anything else you’d like me to do.”

  “I will. Thanks a lot,” I said.

  “You’re welcome. Uh, thank you, too,” she said. “Good-bye.”

  I added her name to the contact list.

  I started typing again, full of surprise at how good it felt to have finally spoken with Lenore. About an hour later, the phone rang. It was about four o’clock.

  A man’s familiar deep voice asked, “Is this Amalee?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “This is Robert Nurstrom.”

  “Oh, hi!” I said, which probably surprised him. I was usually pretty shy when we spoke. He had practically lived at our house for a few months when he was treating my dad. Then suddenly he was going out with Joyce, and before I knew it, he was marrying her. I just didn’t know how to think of him or what to say to him, but if I could talk to Lenore Nielson, I could handle anyone.

  “Hi, Amalee,” he said uncomfortably. “Joyce said I should talk with you about medicines that come from the rain forest and their possible connections to endangered species.”

  “Oh, wow, yeah,” I said. “Could we do an interview on film?”

  “No!” he cried. Then he cleared his throat. “No, that’s, uh … we don’t need to do that. Do we?”

  “No, no,” I assured him. “Anything is fine. We can talk at the restaurant, or right now.”

  “I just know what other doctors know. I’m not an expert, but I told Joyce I could point you in the right direction.”

  “Well, I’ve got paper right here,” I said, running into Dad’s room to get some paper.

  Dr. Nurstrom went on to give me a treasure trove of information. He said the poisonous bark from a tree called the various curare lianas was turned into a preparation that was just called curare, and that there was a drug being made without the bark but that had its properties. It was used to treat Parkinson’s disease, multiple sclerosis, and muscle diseases. Then he told me about something called quinine that comes from cinchona trees and treats malaria. Like curare, there was now a drug that could be made without using the actual plant. But, he pointed out, there were thousands and thousands of species of plants and animals out there, and these plants gave us examples of how valuable rain forest plants could be, and some were in very unique and fragile ecosystems. He said that there was no shortage of the cinchona trees that gave us quinine, but there was a small flower that was very rare and might have faced extinction before we’d found out the amazing things I could do. He told me to look up the rosy periwinkle from Madagascar.

  “You can go online, right?” he asked.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Go online and look it up. I think it’s the kind of thing you’re looking for.”

  And it was. I read all about the little rosy periwinkle, an endangered flower that treated and increased the survival rate for infants with leukemia. This was the reason I was writing the film.

  That night, before I went to bed, I said, “Good night, rosy periwinkle. I’m making this film for you and all the kids you saved.” I thought of a young nurse named Rosy Periwinkle stealing into the children’s hospital and appearing at the side of a few busy-looking doctors as they tried to treat the dying children.

  “I think I could help, if you let me,” she said quietly.

  “Go ahead. We’ve tried everything else,” they said, stepping aside.

  Rosy Periwinkle smiled as she took a child’s hand, knowing that she would make all the difference in the world.

&n
bsp; The next day, thanks to even more constant rain, I finished typing the script.

  In the middle of the day, I also made popcorn and watched a film called Medicine Man that Joyce had rented for me, which I loved, considering that it had to do with a doctor living in the rain forest and learning about the medicinal plants from the people who lived there. It felt great to kick back, space out, watch a movie, and call it “research.”

  I ran out to get the mail in the afternoon, when the weather had cleared. Along with the letters, there was a bundle of old gardening gloves in all sizes. There was no note, which meant it was from Carolyn. I didn’t see anything small enough for Julie, but I thought we’d manage.

  I couldn’t help peeking down the road. There was Kyle, sitting alone on his front porch, eating an apple with one hand and waving to me with the other. I was suddenly gripped with the idea that he looked over at my driveway as much as I looked over at his, but my excitement was replaced by panic. Should I go over?

  “Hi, Amalee, how’s it going?” he yelled.

  I ran over to him, just to spare his vocal cords.

  “Oh, hi. It’s good. Things are good.”

  “What are those in your hands? Gardening gloves?”

  I looked down. “Oh, these. These are gardening gloves, yes. See, the movie is going to have people dressed as frogs, and the frogs are going to explain why it’s important to save the endangered species.”

  “That’s really cool,” he said. “I was wondering how you were going to make it funny.”

  “Your girlfriend didn’t think it was possible,” I pointed out. “I can see why it would be confusing.” I added this in case he thought I was openly suggesting that his girlfriend was the problem, not my film.

  “I knew you could pull it off if that’s what you decided to do,” Kyle told me.

  So did this mean they’d broken up?

  “Well, we’ll see.”

  “Let me know when it’s done.” Kyle stood up. “I’d like to see it.”

  So did this mean they’d broken up?

  I walked home telling myself, again, that it didn’t matter if my sixteen-year-old neighbor had a girlfriend or not. He was too old.

  I called Sarah and Marin and asked if they wanted to come over and paint gloves with me.

  Lydia said that Sarah couldn’t come to the phone, because she was “a prisoner of her own boredom.” I heard Sarah calling out in the background, “Save me! Save me!” Then she came to the phone and said she’d paint a house if it would give her something to do. I told Sarah I’d just seen Kyle alone, and she asked if that meant he’d broken up with his girlfriend. I said I couldn’t tell. She asked me why I hadn’t asked!

  Lydia said she’d drive Sarah over in a few minutes. I made more popcorn.

  Marin’s mother dropped her off in a big black SUV with dark windows. Elegant, yet gloomy. Sarah showed up a little later. I was really happy to see both of them. I told them about Lenore and how she was going to hold the lines for everyone. They both felt bad for her, especially to hear that she had become so quiet and shy.

  “She was always so into complaining or boasting. I can’t imagine her sounding like a big deflated balloon,” Sarah said.

  “This is good,” Marin said. “She’s like a misfit, and we have a place for her.”

  “Yeah, it’s a good thing,” I said, smiling at Sarah to let her know I was giving her the credit.

  These were real friends. I felt like Lenore when I was in sixth grade, always slinking around feeling like no one liked me. Marin and Sarah were the kind of the people who would want me to feel better. I felt lucky that I found them, which also made me feel more generous toward Lenore.

  We got out the frog books, and Marin got excited about painting all the round, suction-cupped toes. Sarah and I just painted the gloves green or yellow, depending on the frog.

  When Sarah and I were done with our part, she asked, “So, can I see this script?”

  “Oooh,” I groaned, “I didn’t think it was bad until you just asked.”

  “Stop!” she ordered. “I know it will be great. And I have another idea. Since two of the frogs are right here, why don’t we call up Curt and have a play reading?”

  “A play reading?”

  “Or, you know, a script reading. It gives us a chance to try our lines, and you a chance to hear how they sound. It’s really useful.” She tried to read my mind. “Curt is really a nice person. He won’t make fun of you. And we won’t make fun of you.”

  “Just you and Marin,” I told her.

  Sarah nodded. “But if it’s good,” she bargained, “we’re calling him. We’ve got to fit him for his mask and gloves, anyway.” She had a point.

  The problem with Curt was that I couldn’t tell where he stood. I’d seen him with popular kids, because he liked to play sports, but he was such a monkey that everyone liked him, including the teachers. He had no fear. When you’re a person like that in our school, you stand out. He played soccer and he’d tried out for the school play. And he was pretty good-looking, though not as gorgeous as Kyle.

  “We’ll see,” I bargained back.

  We sat with Marin while she painted the designs on the gloves.

  “Dang, you are good!” Sarah commented.

  “Thank you,” Marin muttered as she drew a curvy dark green ridge across the back of a glove. Then she looked up. “Tell me how the movie is going while I paint these. I shouldn’t talk too much.”

  I launched in about the tai chi people, Gail at the Hall of Biodiversity, Henry at the aquarium, Betsy at the nursery, editing with Phil, and the phone call I had with Dr. Nurstrom. They were both impressed. I had to admit to myself that I had gotten a lot of information. I added that we were going to see Julie’s dance, too.

  “Oh, yeah, that reminds me,” Sarah said. “Ms. Farraday wants you to come to the actual stage to see how it’s all going so you know where to stand and all that. She said no pressure, she just thought it would be helpful.”

  It would be helpful. The performance was on Friday, so I would go the day before. Sarah also invited us to a cookout just outside of Woodstock for the Fourth of July on Sunday. She said I could bring my dad and his “little playmates.” We all laughed.

  Marin asked, too casually to be casual, “Hey, I was wondering if you’ve found out anything more about your mother.”

  Sarah raised her eyebrows, opened her mouth, closed it, and looked at me expectantly.

  “I have,” I started. I felt nervous. I’d never said big things about anyone I was related to, or even about Dad’s friends. But these were my friends. Not Dad’s friends who were also my friends. These were real friends. You could tell secrets to your friends. That’s what girls did, right?

  “I found out why everyone always said she was pretty crazy, and like a child, and all that.”

  “They did?” Sarah asked. “I didn’t know that. Actually, though, I asked Lydia about your mom once.” Lydia worked at SUNY New Paltz with Dad, and I knew they ran into each other sometimes. “She said your dad said he was very young when they were together, and that she was a lot of fun, and he wished she had lived longer so she could have finally grown up, so I guess he was saying she was kind of … young, but not in a bad way.”

  “No, not in a bad way,” I said, thinking of teachers we had who acted young and were fun, like our gym teacher and our hippie music teacher. They were young in a good way. Then I thought of Sally and said, “She was young, not in a bad way, but in a sad way.”

  “Well, yeah, she passed away,” Sarah said.

  “But also, the thing was, as it turned out, she was a pretty serious alcoholic,” I said. “She was drunk when she got in the car accident that killed her.”

  Marin stopped painting for a moment. “Huh. My grandfather was an alcoholic. And it is sad. He died pretty soon after I was born. My mom said he was awful when he drank.”

  “I guess when my mother was drunk, she was fun,” I said.

  “But it’
s still sad,” Sarah noted. “I can’t believe they didn’t tell you sooner. That’s such a big deal.”

  “Well, you know how my dad has such close friends? I think they’re like, ‘You don’t have to think about that person called Sally, because we can take care of you, so you don’t have to worry about not having a mother.’” I thought of Phyllis. They also didn’t want me to worry that I’d end up like her, so they showed me I could be like them instead.

  “That’s really sweet of them,” Sarah said. “They are such funny people. I can just see them trying to pretend that they just happen to be four parents instead of one. But actually, that’s like Lydia. She’s like, ‘Don’t worry that your mom is so wound up that she can’t even look you in the eye and her cell phone rings every five seconds. You’ve got me, and I’m totally into hanging out!’”

  Sarah and I disappeared into the kitchen and made cinnamon toast for the three of us.

  “Hey, did you ever go back and listen to that tape of your grandmother?” Sarah asked.

  “Oh, I’ve been meaning to do that! I haven’t even listened to hear if it came out,” I said.

  “Let’s hear it now,” Sarah said. I led her into Dad’s room and got his tape player.

  “I’m sure my voice sounds totally weird,” I warned her. “You know I was really nervous about being there.”

  “Turn it on!” Sarah ordered.

  I rewound a little and pressed PLAY. My grandmother was saying, “And what do you like to do?”

  “I like history, and reading — well, English in general — and riding my bike, and science,” my voice answered. Wow, did I sound nervous! But Sarah wouldn’t let me turn it off.

  “Is that her breathing?” Sarah asked. We couldn’t tell. There was more silence. I apologized to Sarah. “I was tongue-tied. I wasn’t such a great interviewer. I felt like when I asked big questions, she thought I was pointing out that she was about to die, as if I was saying, ‘Is there anything you’d like to say, now that you’re on your deathbed?’”

  “She was on her deathbed. Maybe she was relieved.”

  “Do you think you could have asked those questions to a person you’d never met before?”