What If... All the Rumors Were True

by Liz Ruckdeschel

  Sometimes in life, you don’t end up with what you were originally looking for. Just like sometimes you go out shopping for sweaters and come home with a skirt instead. But who’s Haley’s skirt? Alex or Reese?

  SET DESIGN

  Behind the curtain, there exists a multitude of worlds.

  “The forest has to be magical,” Irene said. “It has to look real, yet better than real, know what I mean?”

  “Totally,” Garrett “the Troll” Noll said as he jumped over three buckets of paint on his skateboard. “Like when you’re a little too high on weed and everything looks kind of shimmery?”

  “Um…sort of,” Irene said. “Good try, Troll.”

  Haley took a couple of large white shirts from the pile of rags Devon had brought from Jack’s, the vintage store where he worked after school, and fashioned them into a smock. She and the others had gathered together to help Irene paint the sets for A Midsummer Night’s Dream, a new production the high school drama department was putting on. Irene had spread out on tarps in the Hillsdale parking lot to give them enough space to work. She brought cardboard, paper, wood, paint and all the tools necessary to create a really rad forest. Garrett and his friend Chopper zipped around on their skateboards, offering comments if not actual assistance. But all in all, they were making good progress.

  “Isn’t Shaun going to help?” Haley asked Irene.

  “He’s coming later,” Irene said. “After he gets done with his postrehearsal rehearsal. Coco kept him late again.”

  “I bet she’s driving him crazy,” Haley said. “She’s trying to make everyone conform to her ‘vision,’ even though she can’t seem to say what that vision is, exactly. Why did anyone think it would be a good idea to make her assistant director?”

  “Um, that would be because good old Maurice De Clerq is paying for the production,” Devon interjected.

  “Coco knows as much about the theater as, oh, I don’t know, Chopper,” Haley said snarkily, just as Chopper skidded to a showy stop on his board.

  “Hey. I resent that,” Chopper said.

  “What’s the last play you saw?” Devon said to him. Devon lifted the camera he almost always wore around his neck and snapped a shot of Chopper’s indignant but utterly confused face.

  “You really want to know?” Chopper said suddenly. “It was The Lion King, school field trip, sixth grade. Remember that, Troll? With the puppets? That show was wicked sweet.”

  “I’d like to see it again in a different state of mind, if you get my drift,” Garrett replied. He dashed across ten parking spots, looking like a black flash in his all-black clothes and black skullcap.

  “That’s not a bad comparison, actually,” Irene said. “The Lion King has a mythical quality that would work well with this play, too.”

  Chopper lifted his board over his head and victory-danced around Devon. “See, McKnight? You thought I was going to say something dumb but I showed you up good, man.”

  Devon shot Chopper’s victory dance, and soon Chopper had forgotten about showing him up and was just posing for the camera. That afternoon, Devon was wearing an apron to protect his brown pullover and blue cords from paint. Haley thought she’d never seen an apron look so good. People seemed to perform for Devon without even realizing it. Haley enjoyed taking photos too, but the trick was to get the subjects to forget the camera was there, and Devon was somehow able to do that.

  Irene pulled out her sketchbook and all her drawings of forests. “This is the basic layout,” she said, pointing her pencil to a particular scene: summer trees in full bloom, a low yellow moon, flowers and toadstools to serve as fairy furniture and tree branches with bowers as cozy as hammocks for the lovers. Haley was amazed at how Irene could evoke a whole world with just a few quick strokes.

  “Use as many different shades of green as you can on the trees,” Irene said. “Lighter tones on the places where the moonlight shines, and darker, richer greens for the deep, spooky underbrush. And plenty of gold and silver, too. The forest should look like a palace.”

  “Those are some wicked fine drawings,” Garrett said, peering over Irene’s shoulder. “That place would make a perfect hideout, if you were ever, say, running from the cops.”

  Everyone looked up at Garrett, wondering if he was having any trouble with the law. “Hey, wait a minute,” the Troll said, realizing all eyes were on him. “I said ‘If.’ If a person, any person, found himself running from the cops. Not me personally.”

  “It is an incredible drawing,” Haley agreed.

  “You should have seen how she just whipped it off like it was nothing,” Devon said, snapping a shot of the sketch.

  “Big deal,” Irene said. “This and a bucket of paint will get you a gig making sets for a school play. Oh wait—I am making sets for a school play. How friggin’ glamorous.”

  “No, really,” Haley said. “Do your parents understand what a gift you have?”

  “My parents think I make a mean egg roll,” Irene said sarcastically.

  What a shame, Haley thought. Irene was so incredibly talented, and her parents’ dream for her was that she’d take over the family business. Working at the Golden Dynasty was so limiting, and not what Irene was interested in at all. But sometimes Haley got the feeling Irene didn’t have the will to defy her parents—as if she was afraid to disappoint them.

  “Heee-hawww. Heeee-hawww.” Shaun burst out of the building, still wearing his donkey-head costume. “‘What sayst thou, bully Bottom?’”

  Irene sighed. “Oh, Shaunster, off with the head. You can’t paint with that thing on.”

  “‘I will undertake it. What beard were I best to play it in? I will discharge it in either your straw-colour beard, your orange-tawny beard, your purple-in-grain beard, or your French-crown-colour beard, your perfect yellow.’” Shaun recited his lines in an accent that was half English, half Spicoli in Fast Times at Ridgemont High.

  “What was that, man?” Chopper asked. “You talking backwards again?”

  “Krej uoy, ton m’I, on,” Shaun said.

  “Whatever, man,” Chopper said. “I can’t hack that.”

  “Talk normal or shut up,” Garrett added.

  “It’s Shakespeare, you dorks,” Devon said. “Or it was until Shaun got ahold of it.”

  “That’s what I’m talking about,” Chopper said.

  Shaun stuck his papier-mâché donkey’s head right in Irene’s face and hee-hawed at her again. Then he stood on his hands and did a few donkey kicks for good measure.

  “This donkey thing is getting old,” Irene said. “Fast.”

  “So old,” Haley agreed. “Ancient.”

  “Dudes, hee—what about the—haw—Method?” Shaun said. “I’ve got to stay in character until the play’s done. I shouldn’t even be saying this in normal talk. I should be speaking Shakespeare-Donkeytalk twenty-four/seven.”

  “Go ahead and do that,” Devon said. “If you want to spend the next few weeks talking to yourself.”

  “Really, Shaun,” Irene said. “It’s one thing to practice your lines. But I am not going out in public with you wearing that donkey head. It’s bad enough at school.”

  “Rini, you’re an artist,” Shaun said. “You get me. I’m doing this for my art.”

  He tried to nuzzle her, but she shoved him away. “Ew, that thing is starting to smell.”

  Shaun sure has a tendency to go off the deep end with his obsessions. Usually, Irene is pretty understanding, but this donkey act seems to be grating on even her nerves. If he’s going to be wearing that donkey head everywhere and braying all the time, how will Irene be able to concentrate on the elaborate forest paintings she’s creating? Then again, if you’re going to go onstage in front of the whole school, you’ve got to go all out. And no one knows how to let it all hang out better than Shaun.

  To keep Haley in the theater groove, wander deeper into the wacky forest on "OFF-OFF-OFF-BROADWAY". If you think Haley needs a break from the weirdness, send her to check up on
Annie and Dave on "SCATTERBRAINED". To thine own self be true. But which of Haley’s selves deserves to be heard?

  SCATTERBRAINED

  College mania is a disease—and one that’s highly contagious.

  “No, Haley, you don’t get it.” Beads of sweat popped up on Dave Metzger’s forehead, even though the window was wide open and his room was freezing. (“For better brain stimulation,” Annie Armstrong had said when she opened it, and let in the frigid breeze.) Haley put her sweater back on and huddled on the rug beside them.

  “It’s not that simple,” Dave was saying. “You can’t write a one-size-fits-all essay for all the colleges. You have to tailor each one to what the school is looking for. Each institution has its own personality. It wants students who’ll fit in. Look at the chart.” He stabbed his finger on the huge poster laid out in front of them on the floor. It was a flow chart Dave and Annie had made of all the top colleges: their requirements, locations, stats on the student body, pros and cons about each.

  “See, Brown and Berkeley like free thinkers, but Stanford usually takes a more conventional student,” Annie said, running her finger along the lines connecting the schools. “For Harvard, you have to be more rigorous. You have to ‘show your work,’ in a way.”

  Haley nodded, even though she had no idea what they were talking about. Annie and Dave were so stressed over colleges, Haley was beginning to worry they were losing their minds. Dave’s hives had returned, full force. The slightest disagreement brought unsightly rashes to his arms, neck and face. Annie had even whispered to Haley that Dave now had serious backne—a sure sign of overstress and an over-share, to say the least. Meanwhile, Annie herself was so frantic about colleges, the subject had invaded her every conversation. Ask about ice cream, and you ended up talking about MIT. She analyzed her every action in terms of whether or not a particular college would approve. “Would a University of Chicago student eat this apple?” she’d say, holding up a piece of fruit. “Or is that too New England for them? Maybe I should have some deep-dish pizza instead. That would put me in the right frame of mind.”

  Their stress was contagious, and it was getting to be too much for Haley. But, perversely, the more she heard them prattle on about Princeton versus Yale and whether Dartmouth was too frat-boy for them, the more interested Haley became. She’d always been a good student, and she’d always dreamed of going to a prestigious college, too. But now that it was time to apply, Haley realized how much work was involved, and how insanely competitive it was. Dave’s sweaty, zit-covered face was proof enough of that.

  “I keep switching my number one between Yale and MIT,” Dave said, holding up a list of colleges he was applying to, with twenty-five slots and multiple cross-outs and write-overs. “But then I think, shouldn’t it be Harvard? I mean, Harvard’s number one in the eyes of most of the world. Who am I to argue with that?”

  “You put Harvard number three because you went to computer camp instead of studying philosophy with a tutor last summer, remember?” Annie said. “Didn’t you read somewhere that Harvard prefers students with a philosophical turn of mind? Or did I dream that?”

  “True,” Dave said. “And the MIT rep I talked to last year seemed much more impressed with my podcast than any of the Ivies.”

  “I just hope my transcript isn’t too nerdy,” Annie said. “I mean, I love the debate team, but is it too cliché-smart-kid? Haley?”

  “If you love it you should do it,” Haley said. “That’s what I say.”

  “That kind of thinking will get you nowhere,” Dave said. “What are your top five, Haley?”

  “I haven’t ranked them yet, but I’m thinking Brown, Yale, Columbia, maybe Wesleyan—”

  “Don’t count on Wesleyan as a backup,” Annie warned. “Those days are long gone.”

  “Or Oberlin either,” Dave said.

  “I wasn’t counting it as a backup,” Haley said.

  “You should definitely apply to Columbia,” Annie said. “I mean, your dad teaches there, right? That can’t hurt.”

  “Unless the administration doesn’t like him for some reason.” Dave scratched his neck frantically while he spoke.

  “Why wouldn’t the administration like my dad?” Haley said.

  “Never know,” Dave said.

  Hanging with Annie and Dave certainly wasn’t much fun these days, but they’d done so much research on every college that Haley thought it had to be helping her get her thoughts together. She now understood what she needed to do: prepare as much as possible for every debate, study more for all her classes and do an extra SAT prep practice test every night before bed. Among a million other things.

  “Brown has a good media department,” Dave said. “If I want to impress their semiotics profs, I’ve got to take ‘Inside Hillsdale’ live as a videocast. By next week.”

  “You’re taking the podcast to video?” Haley asked. Dave was famous for “Inside Hillsdale,” his weekly podcast on topics of interest to Hillsdale High students, including live interviews. But it was one thing to do an audio-only radio-style program every week. It was a lot more complicated to go video—and, in Dave’s case, maybe not advisable until his little sweating problem and breakouts had cleared up. He had, as they say, a face for radio.

  “Slow down, you guys,” Haley said. “How is it humanly possible to do all this work? Don’t you think we might be taking on too much at once? Anyone? Dave?”

  “Haley, it’s not as if I or Dave is going to get recruited for sports,” Annie said, and truer words were never spoken. “There are thousands of smart kids out there with perfect GPAs and SAT scores, trying to get the attention of these admissions officers. We’ve got to do everything we can. And we’ve got to start now.”

  “You never know which one detail will make them remember you,” Dave added.

  “I guess,” Haley said. She was beginning to wonder if she maybe didn’t prefer the old post-Spain-Spring-break Annie and Dave, the slackers who had thrown grades, rules and the precious Ivies to the wind.

  Leave it to Dave and Annie to organize and obsess over their college applications as if preparing for World War III. Still, Haley wants to get into the school of her dreams, whatever that turns out to be, so at least in some small way, she can understand Dave and Annie’s anxiety. But does Haley have any idea what college she wants to go to? Or is she waiting to find out how she does on the SATs before she deals with any of that?

  If you think Haley should be there when Dave launches the "VIDEOCAST". If you think Haley should remember to stay well rounded—and sane—go to "PRINCIPAL CRUM’S LITANY".

  The best colleges want the best minds. Losing your mind is not the best strategy for getting in.

  RUMOR MILL

  What goes around comes around…and around, and around…

  “Manor Estates?” Coco sniffed as they rode through the front gates of a brand-new luxury housing development, where not even the guesthouses were smaller than two thousand square feet. “Très nouveau. You know they build these shacks with particle board and wood glue, right?”

  Haley sat in the front seat of the hybrid SUV, her mom driving, Coco in the backseat, which did not exactly make the teen queen happy. They were on their way to hang with Whitney at the new house of the ex–Mrs. Klein, who was now living with Sasha Lewis’s father, Jonathan Lewis. It was a long, complicated and slightly sordid tale, but in the end, the coupling seemed to be working out nicely.

  “I think it’s great that Linda Klein has pulled her life together,” Joan Miller said, frowning at Coco in the rearview mirror. “After what that devil of a husband did to her.”

  The previous year, Whitney’s dad, New Jersey’s breath-spray king, had left his first wife for a much younger waitress at the country club—an unsavory tart named Trish. Devastated and temporarily locked out of all her bank accounts, Linda Klein had taken Whitney to live in a depressing apartment in the Floods. It was around that time when Linda reconnected with Jonathan, a recovering gambler and alco
holic, who was also in the process of hitting rock bottom. They became friends, then fell in love, and now seemed to be in the midst of a sharp lifestyle upgrade—with a little help, of course, from Linda’s ample divorce settlement and her steady income from her newly instated broker’s license. Linda was actually a partner in the Manor Estates subdivision.

  Haley was surprised to hear how much her mom knew about the personal lives of her friends’ parents. Were rumors running so rampant in Hillsdale that even love-thy-neighbor Joan Miller was in the loop? “Since when are you so up on the gossip, Mom?”

  “Oh, you know,” Joan said. “If you spend enough time with Blythe Armstrong, you just start to absorb this stuff through osmosis.” Joan worked at the same environmental law firm as Annie Armstrong’s mother, and though they were die-hard do-gooders, they evidently weren’t above a little friendly chatter.

  Personally, Haley was glad for Whitney. Living in the Floods had been hard for someone as status-conscious as she was.

  “Ew,” shrieked Coco, “who picked out these plants? The colors are so ghetto.” The development was so new half the lawns hadn’t been sodded yet, and the other half had explosions of overly bright mums hastily stuck into the ground.

  Joan pulled into the circular drive in front of Whitney’s new house, a faux-Tudor-style manor that seemed to be as big as or bigger than the original Klein McMansion.

  “Well, it’s certainly not my taste,” Joan admitted. “But I have to say, it’s something, all right.”

  “To put it mildly,” Haley said. Her mother was very much against ostentatious displays of wealth.

  “Your dad will pick you up in a few hours,” Joan said as the girls climbed out of the SUV. “Have fun.”