The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  I pull out a clean sheet of lined paper. I know how I’ll write my story this time. “And the next time I open my journal, Dad, I’ll write how my heart is trying to listen.”

  “My dad died of cancer in the month when spirits walk among the living. He’s still here because I know he doesn’t want to leave. He’s still here because I’m having a hard time letting him go. I need him to help me sort out the feelings inside me, like the funnel clouds that drop from the sky when you least expect them. You may think I’m mad, but when you read my story you’ll see that it’s not about madness. It’s about hating the person you love most. It’s about the guilt that keeps October’s dark chill in my heart and won’t allow spring to come in.”

  I’m almost finished on my rewrite when Mom comes in and hands me the phone. “It’s Lena.”

  Maybe she’s changed her mind about coming to the play. “Hi.”

  “You are not going to believe this,” Lena says.

  “Okaaay?” I know there’s gossip at Channing just by the way she sounds.

  “Sean Wright.”

  I don’t have to hear the rest to know what she’s about to say, but I have to stop her or be dragged into a story I don’t want to hear from her, especially not coming from her. “We’ve been spending a lot of time together. Is that what you’ve heard?”

  “What?” Lena shrieks.

  I yank the phone away from my ear, then as smoothly as I can manage, I say, “We just started seeing each other last month. Nothing steady. He knows I’m going to the dance with Nicolas.”

  “Well, uh, uh, why didn’t you tell me?”

  Good question, Lena. Maybe it has to do with the fact that you never really gave me a chance. “I tried but you always had so much going on that—”

  “You need to know something.” Lena’s gossip is festering and she’s not about to keep it to herself.

  “Oh, I know about Sean. He’s seeing someone in New York, but that’s okay.”

  I think I hear her teeth clamp together.

  “I’m glad you called, Lena. But I’ll have to get back to you later. I’m already late for rehearsal.”

  I press End before she says anything more about Sean, then before I lose my nerve I enter his phone number and wait. Please pick up this time. Please.

  When I hear his voice I stammer, “Uhh. I . . . I—”

  “Carlie? What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t . . . I don’t care. I mean I do care, but I don’t want to lose you. I can’t lose you.” I’m not making sense and I sound desperate.

  “I thought you knew I was gay. I’m open about it, and I think most people know.”

  For a moment his breath is the only sound coming through the phone, then he says, “I wanted to ask you to the dance and I would have, but I had the feeling you didn’t want anyone to see us together.”

  I can’t make my mouth open.

  “You always came here and wouldn’t let me go to your place.”

  “No! That’s wrong. I couldn’t let you come to this apartment.” I gesture around my room as if he can see what I mean. “It’s beyond bad, Sean. I . . . I” What am I? “I’m a total idiot.”

  “Not a total one, just one who’s having a hard time with change. Right?”

  “Yes, very.” When I say this I hear Juan calling me Princess.

  “Hey, I understand.” The warmth of his word, understand, spreads through me like a soothing mist.

  “Please come to see me. I need to see you.”

  “Me too. You won’t forget pictures, right? I mean you in the dress?”

  “You’re getting dozens.”

  “Wonderful.”

  Before I hang up I give Sean my Las Pulgas address.

  “Bye, beautiful,” he says.

  After he’s gone I say, “Bye, beautiful,” back to him, holding the handset to my chest. He wanted to ask me to the dance. He would have asked me if I hadn’t made him feel I was ashamed of him. “I am a total idiot.”

  I double-time past the kitchen. “I’m late to rehearsal. See you later, Mom.” I’m out the door before she looks up from her books.

  The next day when I’m supposed to hand in my story for extra-credit during English, I don’t. It takes me most of the day to work up the courage to give Mr. Smith the rewrite, but after chemistry I return to his classroom.

  “Am I too late to give you this?” I ask.

  “Ah, the very touching story. No, you’re not too late. This will be interesting to read. I’m glad you’re resubmitting it.”

  As I hand him the paper I tighten my grip on the edge. This is the most I’ve revealed about Dad’s death. I still don’t know if I’m doing the right thing by putting all of that in words, but it’s too late. Mr. Smith stacks my paper on top of others.

  “You seem distracted. Is it because of what you wrote?”

  I nod. “Partly.”

  “A parent’s death is the hardest loss to accept, and it’s never easy to put how you feel about that loss on paper.” He points to my story. “You did an excellent job here.”

  Obviously, my attempts at making the story a piece of fiction didn’t work.

  “Are you worried about the play?” Mr. Smith asks.

  “A little. Nervous, I guess.” Our last rehearsal had more glitches than any of the earlier ones. We’re getting worse, not better. Dolores tripped on the hem of her dress, Jamal missed his first entrance, and I blew the same lines in my opening scene with Brabantio. Everybody, including Juan this time, glared at me, not just Iago. “I’ll go over those scenes I had trouble with.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  I hope he’s right. My stomach knots every time I think about Lena and Eric in the audience watching me.

  After picking up Keith’s algebra assignment, I start down the hall. I pass through the security at the main door and hurry down the steps.

  The track team has gathered out front, like they do every afternoon for practice, and Grits who’s back from his suspension, waves to me. Anthony’s eyes track me on my way by, the others give me their death-ray looks, especially Chico. Why can’t I have just one day when I don’t feel like I’m prey?

  Chapter 42

  The word, jitters, takes on real meaning starting at seven Saturday morning when my eyes snap open. I only have twelve hours before the curtain goes up and I, Carlie Edmund, have to morph into Desdemona of Venice in front of a live audience.

  Between now and then I have the regular, boring routine of homework, dropping and picking up Keith at Cal Works and . . . I run my tongue over my teeth . . . some basic grooming.

  In the bathroom I stare into the mirror over the sink. “I’ve forgotten all of my lines!”

  “There’s a line out here you’ve forgotten too,” Keith yells.

  Sharing a bathroom with my brother is more painful than having my wisdom tooth extracted, and it’s going on a lot longer. “Give me a minute,” I tell him through the door.

  “You’ve got thirty-seconds. I have to pee.”

  “Grrr.” I yank the door open. “I need it back, okay?”

  Keith mimics me like he used to when he was little, repeating. “I need to get back in there.” He closes the door and snaps the lock. “Later!”

  “You’re a creep, you know that?”

  “A creep who now controls the toilet!”

  I drag myself into the kitchen and pour cereal into a bowl. Mom’s books and papers still litter the table, so I decide to eat at the counter.

  “Good morning, honey. I’ll take Keith to Cal Works this morning,” she says. “That’ll give you a break.”

  This is good news. Now I have an extra hour to go through my scenes again. “Another test?” I point at the books and papers.

  Mom sighs. “Of course, but I’m on my last lap now. She picks up her book. Almost immediately, I can see her mind leave the kitchen and she forgets I’m here.

  I’d love to be able to focus like she does. But I just don’t have that kind of mind. I’m a �
��here, there, everywhere” kind of thinker. Thoughts of Sean thread in and out with others about Keith’s return to school next week, then they merge with Othello’s dark face and Juan’s side-ways smile. With all of that turmoil in my head, it’s no wonder I can’t remember Desdemona’s lines or Doc’s chemistry lessons.

  I get some milk from the fridge, then I open the script to that first scene, when Desdemona leaves her father. Since I’ve blown this scene every time in rehearsal, all the actors on stage have memorized my lines and whisper them to me. But I know them. I just can’t say them.

  It’s all about the guilt that I can’t shake—all those times when I wished the dying would end because I couldn’t stand to watch it anymore. It’s about how I feel sometimes when I look around this dump, knowing we wouldn’t be here if Dad were alive.

  I set the glass down with a thunk, and say “I’m going to study, Mom.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Honey,” she says without looking up.

  Keith stumbles past my room, smelling of fresh soap and shampoo. “Shower’s all yours.” I drop my script and catch him in the hall. “How can you be so . . . so . . . calm all the time?”

  He shrugs.

  “Chico’s still out to get even when you go back to school, and I’m getting more than my share of the heat,” I tell him.

  “Just stay clear of him,” he says.

  “Ha! I’d really laugh if you’d start being really funny. So, have you thought what you’re going to do keep them from creaming you?”

  Mom comes out of the kitchen. “What’s this about creaming you?”

  “Nothing.” Keith starts to leave.

  Mom grabs the back of his T-shirt, and says, “Hold it. I want to know what Carlie’s talking about.”

  “The track team is on about beating me up when I get to school Monday.”

  “Beating?”

  “Forget it, Mom.” Keith pulls his shirt from her grasp. “I gotta get dressed for my date with a garbage bag.”

  “I’m calling the principal. This is going to stop right now.”

  “Calling Bins won’t make any difference,” Keith says as he dodges back into his room.

  “What do you know about this?” she asks.

  “Just what he said, Mom.” I can’t tell her Chico wants blood, and that he wants it where everyone in school can see it. I can’t tell her about the creepy run-ins I’ve had with the track team, or the times the hair on my arms stands on end in social studies because Chico sits behind me. Then I realize I don’t have to. She knows things are bad at school. It’s all over her face. She just doesn’t know what to do about it.

  Once Keith and Mom leave for the trip to Cal Works, the apartment settles into a quiet hole again—depressing but a good place to go over lines. When the phone rings I ignore it and sit on my bed, eyes closed, repeating lines and cues. But the constant shrill sound is annoying, so I hurry to the kitchen and answer the call.

  “Carlie, it’s me,” Sean says.

  “It’s about time you called. Where are you?”

  “New York.”

  “Oh.” I can’t keep disappointment out of that monosyllable.

  “I saw my mom and now Michael’s here. We’ve been going around to the sights. You know—all the places New Yorkers never go until someone from California visits.”

  “Michael.”

  “Miss Lily’s son. We’re rooming together at Elmhust, remember?”

  I know who Michael is. His name slipped out more from feeling the sting of rejection than from trying to identify him. A trickle of jealousy hits my stomach as I picture Sean and Michael enjoying the Statue of Liberty or Central Park, while here I am, I’m crouched inside this crappy apartment in Las Pulgas.

  “I just remembered that you open tonight and I wanted to tell you to break a leg.”

  “I’ve got a serious case of stage fright.” It feels good to confide in him. “I wish you were here.” I wish I were in New York.

  “Michael sends his best, too. His mom told him about how knockout beautiful you are in that dress.”

  “You’re good for my ego, Sean. Thanks.”

  “Guess you’re excited. Play almost over. The dance is next weekend.”

  “Come home soon, okay? I miss you.” I think I like having Sean as my friend. Keep telling yourself that, Carlie, and stop feeling sorry for yourself.

  After the call, I can’t settle back into studying my part. I punch up Lena’s number.

  “Hi, Lena. It’s me, Carlie.”

  “I know. Caller ID.”

  “Tonight’s the big deal. Are you and Eric still coming?” Say, no, please.

  “Of course. And Nicolas is, too.”

  I scream inside my head. Part of me wants my friends there and part of me doesn’t. It’s very complicated.

  “I bought a ticket for Nicolas today—from Juan at the Shack.” Lena says Juan’s name with a hint of familiarity, as if she’d done more than buy a ticket from him.

  “Oh. Well, good. That’s great.” I hope I deliver more convincing lines on stage tonight.

  “So did you need something else?” Lena’s question surprises me. It implies I’ve interrupted something important, taken her away from a more interesting conversation.

  “Uh, no. Just checking in.”

  “Then we’ll see you tonight,” Lena says.

  Click.

  “Bye . . . Lena.” I say to dead air. I set the phone on the charger, thinking that my best friend didn’t tell me to break a leg.

  Chapter 43

  Mom drops me at the auditorium a little after six and leaves to pick up Keith and Jeb at the orchard. She helped me with make-up and braided my hair, so all I have to do is twist the braid into a knot at the back of my head. But the extra preparation has made me a little late.

  When I check in, the rest of the cast already has tic marks by their names—I’m the last to show up. Dolores and the girl playing Bianca, the only other female character, are putting on make-up when I enter the girls’ dressing room.

  “K.T. was getting ready to take back her Desdemona part if you didn’t show,” Dolores says in her soft voice.

  “I’m not that that late.” I hurry to undress, slipping into a creamy-colored under dress, then getting into the dark red costume and hooking it together at the side. The bodice lacing is the slowest part of getting into Desdemona’s costume. When I finish, I turn to see myself in the only full-length mirror I get to look into these days. The square neckline of the costume is trimmed with lace, and the long sleeves are soft and flowing. I add a silver chain-belt at my waist and adjust the skirt so it doesn’t trip me.

  A loud bam, bam, bam on the dressing room door freezes the three of us, then K.T’s stage manager voice comes from outside. “Cast back stage in five.”

  Dolores shakes her head. “She never should have any power. It just makes life miserable for everybody.”

  I appreciate Dolores’ quiet humor more every day. “What would I do if you weren’t in this play with me?” I say to her.

  She smiles. “You’d have to get cozier with K.T. I guess.”

  “Come on.” I sling my arm around her shoulder. “I don’t want to cross her and her Prompt Script tonight.”

  K.T. has carried that script around, with all the scene changes, all the props and lighting cues since we began rehearsing, until now it looks like a permanent piece of her. When someone blows a line, or Jamal doesn’t have the lights exactly where her book says it should be, she yells out the line or thumps her way to the light panel and takes control. I think about Mr. Smith’s word, “assertive,” and grudgingly admit he was right. She does her job as if the pay is good, even if she makes the cast and crew miserable a lot of the time.

  The three of us line up in front of K.T. for a costume check, something she instigated after reading an Internet article about putting on a school play. At dress rehearsal K.T. gave me two minuses for hair braiding and bodice lacing. Tonight I’ve done both right. She's about to mo
ve on to inspect Dolores when she spies my Sweet Sixteen bracelet.

  “I thought I told you that ain't period.”

  “It brings me luck, K.T.”

  “Not tonight. Take it off.”

  I'm ready to scream something when Dolores reaches out and grabs one end of K.T's script. “It brings her luck.” Dolores says this in the same quiet, even tone she says everything else, but this time, underneath that soft tone, is a touch of steel.

  For a minute I'm sure K.T. is going to turn physical. She fixes Dolores with those hard eyes; then as quick as a barracuda she snatches her script back and marches away.

  I do not believe she buckled under to Dolores. “That was interesting.”

  Dolores shrugs. Sometimes she just can't have her way.”

  “Not with you in charge.” I hold up my wrist. “Thanks. I . . . I really needed this tonight.”

  She and Bianca go inside the dressing and the murmur of the gathering audience becomes gradually louder from the other side of the stage curtain. I picture Lena, her arm linked with Eric Peterson’s. Next to Eric, Nicholas Benz will be examining the dented metal seat back in front of him or glancing overhead at the peeling paint, a repair that’s supposed to happen with the proceeds from tonight’s performance.

  Why did I invite my friends from Channing? I’m twisting my bracelet around my wrist, then wiping the trickles of sweat from my neck, pacing.

  Mr. Smith steps from the wings and blocks my path. “A bit of stage fright? Good. That makes for a splendid performance.” In a dark suit with a white shirt and silver and blue-stripped tie he looks more like a successful banker than a Las Pulgas English teacher. “It is almost time for me to speak to our esteemed audience.” He takes both my hands in his. “You will be wonderful, as will all the rest of your castmates.” As he leaves I consider ducking out the back door and running away.

  I’m panicked. I make a sound like someone gargling, and collapse in the nearest chair. If I get through this, I will never act in a play again. I lean forward and bury my face in my arms.