Skinny

by Donna Cooner

  “Okay, freeze,” Ms. DeWise commands, and Gigi stops midsentence. “Now as you saw, Gigi was looking directly at the audience, but she made believe the audience didn’t exist. That’s what the fourth wall is all about.”

  A fourth wall in life. How great would that be? I’d never have to worry what people thought about me again. The wall would keep it all out.

  “Now, Gigi’s going to show you how to break this fourth wall,” Ms. DeWise says, and then turns back to the frozen Gigi.

  “Action!”

  “Have you heard from your fairy godmother lately?” Gigi continues her fake conversation with Cinderella on the phone, still looking out into the audience as she talks. Suddenly, she focuses in directly on Chance Lehmann in the front row, lowers the imaginary phone from her ear, and says, “Excuse me, you there in the audience with the blue shirt, do you mind not yawning? Have a mocha or something and stay awake, will you?”

  The audience laughs in appreciation and, just like that, the illusion of a real phone conversation is shattered along with the separation between the audience and the actor.

  “Freeze,” Ms. DeWise commands, and instantly Gigi is motionless and quiet on the stage. “Our actor just did a terrific job of demonstrating what breaking the fourth wall looks like, and all of you were able to see the moment when our actor became aware of the audience.”

  Kristen is sitting two rows in front of me. I see her curly head bob up and down in agreement.

  “Today, we’re going to work on not letting that happen. We want to make our audiences believe the story that’s taking place onstage. One way to accomplish this is for an actor to concentrate on something specific while delivering the lines. If you’re able to do that, it’s impossible to concentrate on the audience,” Ms. DeWise says. “Let’s give Gigi a round of applause.”

  Everyone claps politely as Gigi takes her seat.

  “Now it’s your turn.” Ms. DeWise moves back to center stage. “For today’s exercise, I will put each of you into a small group. Your homework for this week, and the animal you selected, will be the thing for you to concentrate on. However, I don’t want you to let the others know what your chosen object of attention is. As you will see, the result of this simple, common exercise can be startling.”

  “People will be laughing at you. Everywhere. Looking at you.

  And you want to make it worse by trying to look more like an elephant?”

  Ms. DeWise calls people to the stage. I’m relieved to not be in the first group, but it just delays the inevitable. A bead of sweat rolls down my back.

  “Today our framework will be the familiar fairy tale Cinderella,” she says in her projecting voice. “But all of you will be applying your homework to your characters. I want you to focus completely on the movements, mannerisms, and look of your chosen animal as you deliver your lines.”

  A dark-haired girl named Shelly delivers her lines as the fairy godmother with a short, chirpy voice and quick steps around center stage. I’m guessing her animal is a bird of some kind. Cinderella, a short boy with unlaced tennis shoes that look like they might fall off at any minute, talks with a bit of a whine to his voice. At one point he jumps onto the couch and stretches his arms out over his head, extending each finger carefully like claws. A cat. I can see it now.

  The scene is over and everyone applauds. I realize I’ve been so busy watching the action on the stage I’ve forgotten to be nervous. It all comes back the minute Ms. DeWise calls my name. She also calls up Kristen, Gigi, and Natalie Vance, a tall girl I know from my English class. We stand awkwardly at the side of the stage, as Ms. DeWise briefs us on the scene. The two stepsisters (Kristen and Natalie) are talking with Cinderella (Gigi) when the stepmother (me) enters the scene to tell everyone about the upcoming ball. The stepsisters are thrilled, but Cinderella is crushed to discover she won’t be able to go.

  Pretty simple. Of course I know the story. I’m living it. It’s just that I usually envision myself as Cinderella, not the stepmother. But it’s acting, right? I move offstage to wait for my big entrance.

  “I don’t want to do this.” Kristen is actually talking to me. I glance over at her. She doesn’t look so good, rubbing her hands together and biting her lip anxiously.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I didn’t even want to take this stupid class. My mom thought it would help me with cheerleading tryouts,” she whispers loudly. “I think I’m going to throw up.”

  “No, you’re not.” I gently push her out from behind the curtain. “You’re on.”

  I cross my arms in front of me tight against my body, holding in the rising nerves and trying to pull myself together.

  Don’t think about the audience. Put up that fourth wall.

  “You’re going to act like an elephant in front of everyone? What a surprise. Everyone’s been comparing you to one for years. And the Academy Award goes to . . . the elephant who looks just like an elephant.”

  Gigi is a Cinderella monkey, I think. It’s not a good combination, although her wild jumping and shrieking is getting plenty of laughs from the audience. I think one stepsister is some kind of dog, but I have no clue what Kristen is supposed to be. Maybe a mouse? She’s twitching her nose a lot. That might just be her nerves.

  It’s time for my entrance. Elephant. Powerful. Awe-inspiring. Not afraid of using my size. I imagine my huge ears flapping in anger, and I stomp out onto the stage to deliver my first line.

  The scene is over before I know it and the clapping is loud and appreciative. I was concentrating so hard on being an elephant, I completely lost track of every thing else. Evidently that was the point. We all take a bow at the front of the stage.

  Kristen gives me a big smile. I glance behind me, just to make sure, but it’s true. She’s smiling at me. I give her a thumbs-up.

  “Very good,” Ms. DeWise calls out. She’s smiling widely and clapping along with the audience. I bow once more, feeling positively giddy with the attention.

  “That was great, Ever,” Gigi says as we take our seats back in the auditorium. She sits beside me. Like we’re friends.

  “Thanks,” I say. “You were good, too.”

  “I never knew you had a drama streak. You’re usually so quiet and . . .”

  “Fat?” Skinny asks.

  “And?” I ask.

  “I don’t know.” Gigi pauses, searching for the right word. She finally comes up with one. “Angry.”

  It isn’t what I was expecting.

  “Angry at who?”

  “I’m not sure. School? Drama club?” Her voice gets smaller and more hesitant. Her brow wrinkles into deep lines. “Me?”

  Gigi thought I was angry with her? Why? I don’t even know her. “Of course I’m not angry at you,” I say.

  I don’t have time to talk to her anymore because Ms. DeWise calls out for quiet so the next group of actors can begin their scene. I watch it, but I keep thinking about what Gigi said.

  “She’s never liked you. You know that,” Skinny hisses.

  Do I know that? Thinking back, I can’t remember a time I’ve ever actually had a real conversation with Gigi. Was that my choice or hers?

  THE BALL

  Chapter Sixteen

  On the first Saturday in October, Whitney pushes me out of the way and descends on the mahogany desk at the Headhunters Salon and Day Spa in the Galleria. I can’t believe I let her drive me all the way to Houston for a hair appointment, but I have to admit I’ve been pleasantly surprised by her previous makeover experiments on me. Briella is at her dad’s this weekend, but Whitney says we can’t wait for her to go with us. It’s too hard to get an appointment with Lawrence, her special stylist, and evidently Whitney had to pull a lot of strings for him to even consider taking on a new client.

  “We would like to speak to Lawrence,” she says to the receptionist, with a determined glint in her eye.

  “Do you have an appointment?” The woman at the desk is a gorgeous platinum blonde without a trace
of a smile on her carefully painted bow lips. Her perfectly manicured fuchsia fingernail remains pointed at the appointment book to hold her place.

  “He’s expecting us.” Whitney gives the receptionist a frosty response. “Just tell him Whitney is here.”

  “I’ll see if he’s available.” The blonde sounds doubtful as she stands and glides off silently down a beige-carpeted hall.

  “Come on.” Whitney walks over to the pink swivel chairs underneath a picture of purple irises. She settles in with two of the Godiva chocolates from the etched-glass dish on the coffee table.

  “Looks like Lawrence is doing all right.” Whitney glances around the elegant pink- and beige-drenched room. “This is a long way from the Glory to God Laundry Mat and Beauty Parlor.” Whitney reaches for another treat.

  I wait for a further explanation, but Whitney nibbles quietly on a third piece of candy with only an occasional sigh of satisfaction. My eyebrows go up in surprise. I’ve never seen her eat more than one bite of anything, but now she’s downed three pieces of chocolate in five minutes.

  “Chocolate,” she breathes. “It’s my one fatal flaw. I’d offer you one, but, you know . . .” She pauses for dramatic effect.

  “Dumping syndrome.”

  Since Whitney took me on as her project, she also felt the need to become an Internet expert on gastric bypass surgery.

  “Dumping,” as she now knows, is when food passes too quickly into the small intestine. It typically happens when a gastric bypass patient eats a sugary food. I “dumped” once in July when I tried to eat ice cream. Once was enough. My heart beat rapidly and forcefully while my body tried to adjust. I broke into a cold sweat and had to lie down for about thirty minutes.

  It was a scary feeling and it ought to make me want to stay far away from anything sweet, but I still jealously eye the chocolate in Whitney’s hand. Old habits are so hard to break even when they make you sick.

  “Who do you want to ask you to the Fall Ball?” Whitney’s eyes narrow with the importance of the question, as she waves around the half-eaten piece of chocolate for emphasis.

  “It’s a trick question. She knows no one is going to ask YOU to a dance,” Skinny whispers.

  “I haven’t thought about it,” I say. Jackson, I think.

  “Oh, I know you have,” Whitney says, with a sly smile. She pops the last bite of temptation into her mouth and then talks around the chewing. “I saw the way you looked at Jackson Barnett the other day.”

  “He’s an old friend,” I say. I need to change the subject.

  “What about you?”

  “I’m thinking I’ll go with Matt Leland.” Matt is the tall, redheaded star basketball player who sends Whitney endless text messages.

  “He’s cute,” I say. It’s an understatement and we both know it. He’s gorgeous.

  “We should double-date.” Whitney claps her hands together in delight at this idea.

  “He already asked you? I didn’t know you already had a date.” I’m obviously confused. Of course Whitney Stone would have a date to the dance. Stupid me.

  She laughs. “I don’t yet, silly. It’s still three weeks away.”

  “But you will,” I say, slowly.

  “Of course.” She says it like I’m brainless. “And you will, too. You’ll see.”

  “What about Briella?” I ask. Whitney and Briella are still best friends, right?

  “I imagine she’ll go with Wolf.”

  “No, I meant don’t you want to double-date with her?”

  “She can come with us if she wants. . . .” Whitney’s voice trails off dubiously.

  Am I replacing Briella as Whitney’s new BFF? When Whitney’s friend-spotlight shines on you, it’s a whole lot of work.

  “Lawrence will see you now.” Startled at the sudden interruption, I look up to see the blonde is back, waiting expressionlessly by the opening to a long hallway.

  Suddenly I have no desire to see the mysterious Lawrence McIntire, but I’m committed now. All I can do is self-consciously tug down my comfortable, now oversized, brown sweater, pull up my baggy jeans, and follow Joy, the receptionist, down the long corridor.

  The cream-colored carpet is so thick my tennis shoes sink into it with each step.

  “You don’t belong in a place like this,” Skinny says.

  In the room off to the right, a red-haired manicurist adds the final touches to a white poodle’s toenails as the tiny woman holding him looks on in delight.

  “I think you were right, Monique. Misty Rose is just the right color for both of us,” I hear the woman exclaim as we continue down the hall.

  Farther down the hall on the left, a white lab-coated attendant in pink high-heeled pumps applies cucumber slices to a reclining woman in a giant pink smock. Her face is covered completely with some kind of green mud.

  “The process has begun,” announces Lab Coat. The green goo cracks slightly in what I assume is a smile. “Just wait. You’re going to be simply amazed at the outcome.”

  Lab Coat looks up at us as we pass and frowns.

  “What is someone like you doing here?”

  I’m starting to panic. Idon’twanttodothis. Idon’twanttodothis. It’s all I can do to keep from turning and running back down the hall and out the front doors.

  We stop at the end of the hallway in front of two closed, elaborately carved wooden doors. Joy grasps the gold brass handles and looks back over her left shoulder to see if we are following. Unfortunately, we are. After throwing back the doors with a dramatic flourish, Joy waves us into the room.

  A clutter of scissors, brushes, sprays, and gels are scattered across a single table on the wall opposite the doors. A large barber’s chair is placed right in the center of the room. On the wall beside the doorway is the only decoration — a six-foot stuffed shark mounted with a mouth wide open and full of teeth, ready to gobble up anything that swims, or walks, by. There are no mirrors. I feel my left eye begin to twitch.

  “Please make yourselves comfortable. I’ll tell Lawrence you’re ready for him.” Joy glides out, leaving us standing in the middle of the room alone.

  But only for a few minutes.

  “Whitney, my dear! How wonderful you look.” Lawrence sweeps into the room with a whirl of a gray smock, gathering Whitney into his arms for a quick hug. As he pulls away, he fingers a strand of her hair. “I think you’re due for highlights.”

  “Not today. I brought you a present.” Whitney nods toward me, and Lawrence turns to focus all of his attention on me. I stay by the door, hoping for a quick escape.

  Lawrence is over six feet tall, with a biker’s build. The sleeves of his gray smock are cut away at the shoulders, revealing bulging arm muscles circled with a tattoo of barbed wire. His thick black hair is well past his shoulders and tied back into a pony-tail with a brown leather strip. Bright blue eyes contrast sharply with at least a day’s growth of stubble.

  “Turn around please. . . .” His voice is strangely soft, almost a whisper. He continues his scrutiny while I comply. “Not so fast. Slow down.”

  Suddenly he stalks across the room and grabs a handful of my hair. He feels the texture and weight with one hand, his face deep in thought. To my astonishment, his eyes suddenly fill with tears.

  “Look up toward the light.” Lawrence’s voice breaks. Is he actually going to cry?

  I obey. I see him out of the corner of my eye staring at my face, blinking away the emotion.

  “You were right to bring her to me, Whitney,” he says, finally, with a sigh. “She is the perfect raw material.”

  “Have I ever let you down?” Whitney asks. She waves to me, then leaves the room and shuts the door behind her.

  “Have a seat.” Lawrence motions toward the beauty-shop chair in the middle of the room, and I sit down carefully. He immediately drops down on one knee in front of me, one hand on either side of the chair. I lean back away from him as far as possible.

  “Those green eyes are so expressive,” he says, af
ter a moment of silent staring. I blink back at him uncomfortably and wish I were anywhere else but here. He continues, “I can tell you are bigger inside than people know.”

  “Now you’re big on the outside and the inside,” Skinny whispers.

  “Being called big isn’t exactly a compliment,” I say.

  He surprises me with a deep laugh that seems to come out of nowhere. “Trust me, honey. It’s so much better than being small on the inside.” He winks at me. “I spent a lot of time with small-minded people when I was growing up. Being a hair stylist isn’t always considered the most manly of jobs in this neck of the woods. But a hairstylist is all I ever wanted to be. People looked right through me. Never saw me.”

  I glance down at the thick muscles of his biceps. “I can’t imagine anyone would ever look past you,” I say.

  “You learn to trust your insides and it gets better,” he says, standing up quickly and twirling my chair around. “Much better.”

  “How do you know,” I ask, “that people have something big on the inside?”

  “It’s a gift.” Lawrence snaps the cape behind my neck and pats me once on the shoulder. “I recognize people hiding inside themselves. I see it and I help others see it, too.”

  I take a deep breath.

  “Then let’s do it,” I say quietly, and I’m rewarded with another huge laugh from Lawrence.

  It’s almost an hour later when Lawrence spins the chair back around to face him. I still haven’t seen a mirror and have no idea what the results are of all the cutting and spraying and clipping and blow-drying. He doesn’t speak. He only stares down at me in silence, his expression narrowed, and I can’t tell if it is bad or good. Finally, he nods solemnly.

  “It’s done,” he says.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to say, so I don’t say anything.

  Suddenly he starts yelling over his shoulder and I almost jump out of the chair. “Come in here!” He stalks over to the wooden doors and throws them open with a flourish, calling out down the hallway. “Whitney!”