The Princess of Las Pulgas

by C. Lee McKenzie

  “Yo, Des. You’re not getting ready to hurl are you?”

  “Go away, K.T.” If Dolores can tell her what to do, so can I.

  “Be kind to the crew. They can do mean things to you when you’re up on that stage. Know what I mean?”

  I’m having thoughts about strangling her when her hand on my shoulder stops me short.

  “Don’t worry. You gonna do good.” The expression on K.T’s face is hard to read. “Well, as good as a Channing reject can do, anyway.” K.T’s smirky look is back. She tucks her Prompt Script under one arm and stumps on her rubber heel to the light panel, where she starts in on Jamal.

  The sound of applause jolts me to my feet, heart pounding. Mr. Smith’s on stage and he tells the audience, “Thank you for coming to spend a night with Mr. Shakespeare. This is an ambitious undertaking for our junior class, and a brave one. But here at Las Pulgas, we know a lot about bravery.”

  The audience applauds again.

  K.T. and Jamal stop arguing and cluster with everyone else backstage, listening to our teacher.

  Juan comes from the boys’ dressing room and leans against the wall. He’s let his beard grow the last two weeks—a special relaxation of the school rules for his role—which only makes him more annoying as far as I’m concerned. He catches my eye and I look away. I have to concentrate on what's coming in the next hours. Juan Pacheco does not exist anymore. Only Othello counts. I have to think about the Moor, my lines and cues, and the blocking that Mr. Smith planned so I will move in the right direction at the right time. For the next two hours, I have to become Desdemona—poor, doomed, love-struck Des.

  The introduction is almost over.

  “And so why Othello?” Mr. Smith asks the audience. “At the heart of this play is a message for each of us—appreciate yourself for the person you are. Sometimes this is not an easy task. How often have any of us thought, ‘I’m not smart. I’m not rich. I’m not pretty, handsome, strong, athletic’? Now pay attention to what Mr. Shakespeare has to say about a powerful man who has everything, except the ability to appreciate who he is. His tragic flaw allows jealousy to rule his better judgement. This will cost him the one person he loves most in the world and it will cost him his life.”

  The curtain parts in the middle as Mr. Smith returns backstage, leaving the applause to slowly fade behind him.

  Now sweat pops out on my forehead. Stage fright is like jumping into the deep end of a swimming pool and realizing there’s no water. On the way down, you have just enough time to know landing is going to hurt like hell.

  As I rub my damp palms on the red skirt K.T. shakes her head at me. I look away directly into Juan Pacheco’s dark eyes. He winks and gives me that slow sideways smile.

  My mind goes blank, and it’s as if I’ve never memorized a single line of this play, never mind memorized it.

  Chapter 44

  I’m shaking in the wings. My quivering knees have a lot to do about having to enter with Chico for my first scene, and even more about what I have to say in the scene itself. Trapped birds beat their wings inside my chest and my throat threatens to collapse. Focus on Brabantio and your character. This has nothing to do with your real life or your real dad.

  “‘Here comes the lady; let her witness it.’”

  That’s our cue. Chico looks at me and then gives me a push, so my first step onto the stage looks like I’ve tripped into the play by accident.

  “‘My noble fa . . .’” I have to swallow or nothing else is coming out. “‘ . . . father,’” I close my eyes to stop them from stinging. When I open them Pavan Gupta has such a pleading expression on his face that I hurry to say the rest. I have to get my lines out before I can’t. Juan cranes toward me, as if he’s sending telepathic messages of support. Even Chico crosses his fingers.

  In the wings, K.T. mouths the words along with me, and then rolls her eyes to heaven when I make it through the first part. But the hardest part is still ahead of me. I still have to hear my father tell me he’s through with me, and I still have to hear him tell everyone he doesn’t want me in his home again. And I still have to say I don’t want to be with him, either.

  “Carlie love, you will always be my girl no matter what you do.”

  “No matter if I . . . begged for you . . . to die and then hated you for leaving me?”

  As my heart gives up the truth I’d love to bury and forget, tears roll down my face and I stammer through those lines, looking out over the audience. I need to see Mom, but before I can find her, Juan takes my hand and pulls me toward the wings. “‘ . . . we must obey the time.’”

  Once I’m safely off stage, I pull away. I have a break until the second act and I need to sit in a quiet place alone.

  I open the girls’ dressing room door.

  “You got through it.” Juan says from behind me.

  I nod, not trusting that I can say anything without losing it again. I don’t want to break down in front Juan Pacheco.

  “My first scene was the hardest for me, too.”

  I don’t tell him that any other first scene wouldn’t be a problem for me—only this one. I’m relieved that I’ll never have to say those words again, and I duck quickly into the dressing room.

  When Act IV is almost over, I catch Nicolas mid-yawn. And then, when I open my mouth to say my lines, nothing comes out. The words have flown into outer space. Dolores goes blank-faced, her eyes switching back and forth as if she’s searching for a script pasted on a wall somewhere on the set.

  It feels like an hour ticks its way around the dial on the auditorium clock dial, and uneasy bottoms shift in the metal seats. I pretend to look for something to hand to Emilia, praying it will cover the silence.

  “‘Beshrew me if I would do such a wrong for the whole world.’” K.T. hisses my line at me from the wings.

  I make up a transition line, then give the one Mr. Shakespeare wrote—one I’ve known for weeks and forgotten when it really counted. I’d begged Mr. Smith to change that word, beshrew. Nobody knows what it means. Now I owe K.T. Merde.

  By the time Act V arrives I’m the Moor’s wife. Carlie Edmund doesn’t exist. The bed chamber glows an ominous crimson. Othello delivers his death sentence to Desdemona and at the “knock knock” joke part of the scene I have no trouble remembering what I have to say.

  As Juan leans over me, his hands clutching a crimson pillow, I plead one more time for my life and Othello says, “It is too late.”

  In rehearsal he always covered my face, leaving me a little space to breathe and my death scene moved along just as Shakespeare wrote it. But tonight, when I take a deep breath just in case Juan is too much into his part, he doesn’t bring down the crimson death. Instead, he says that line again as if I haven’t heard it already, and kisses me. The Carlie Edmund I know seems to have gone on vacation, letting Desdemona responds. The kiss lasts longer and becomes deeper than the small peck in Act II that’s given me fits for weeks, and suddenly I have pulses at points in my body I didn’t know existed. Finally, he pushes the cushion onto my face.

  Off stage Dolores pounds on the prop door and shouts. “My lord, my lord! What, ho! My lord, my lord!”

  The spell of Othello’s last kiss is broken. Dolores always delivers these lines of Emilia’s as if she’s discovered a child doing something bad.

  “Well done, Des,” Juan whispers. “Great kiss.”

  I have no come back. I’m dead. Well, almost. I have two more gaspy lines, which I hate because they clear Othello of murder. But tonight, when I say the words for the last time, I really struggle for breath.

  “Gotta go meet my destiny,” he murmurs, his back to the audience.

  Once Othello does himself in with the fake dagger, the curtain comes down and the audience applauds.

  I’ve done it. When I look around, it’s as if I’m standing in a whole different place; not the set for Othello, just a place behind a curtain with the sound of hands coming together.

  The minor cast members file acro
ss the stage and take their places for the curtain call. The curtain rises and the applause becomes louder. Then Othello, holding my hand, sweeps us onto the stage along with Iago, who doesn’t hold my hand. Together we bow low as the applause swells and most of the audience comes to their feet. Now I get why actors love what they do. Again everyone bows from the waist just like Mr. Smith trained us. The curtain falls, but swoops up again before anyone moves.

  K.T’s in control and I pray she won’t milk the audience and bring up the curtain three times. But then Mr. Smith walks onto the stage and bows to more applause. He leaves and, to my relief, takes the control from K.T. and the curtain falls for the last time.

  It’s over. Weeks of rehearsals, hours of memorizing lines, and now “the end.” I’m relieved, yet as the cast hug each other and go over the things that went wrong, I almost miss being Des.

  K.T. hobbles over to me. “Not bad. ‘Course I could’a done better—like, no way would I blow my first scene, or forget that ‘beshrew’ line. I mean, come on, Des, beshrew ain’t a word you can forget too easy.”

  “I owe you.” I must sound sappy because K.T. gives me her shifty-head move.

  “Damn straight.” She hops away and punches Dolores on the arm. “You did good, girl.” I guess K.T. only holds certain grudges.

  Keith crosses the stage, with Mom and Jeb following behind him.

  She holds a bouquet out. “Not roses, but—” The flowers with a Las Pulgas Market sticker on the cellophane wrapper are a bit wilted, but I love them.

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  “Congratulations on an excellent job,” Jeb says.

  Keith shoves his hands in his pockets. “I thought you were a goner. Where’s Juan? I’m thinking of hiring him to do some real smothering. You know, freeing up some bathroom time for myself in the morning.”

  “I’d laugh, but you’re so not funny.” I fake a punch at his middle just as Mr. Smith joins us.

  “How quickly our star steps out of character.” He turns to Mom. “You must be proud of your daughter. I certainly am.”

  Mom's expression is dazzling. “Very much.” She puts her arm around my shoulders. “Oh, and this is Jeb Christopher, a friend.”

  Mr. Smith shakes Jeb’s hand. “Jeb and I know each other quite well and have for a very long time. You must be good friends because I can never lure him into Las Pulgas.”

  “You don’t come to the orchard anymore either, so we’re even,” Jeb says.

  What other surprises does Mr. Smith have for me?

  Mr. Smith says, “You’re right. I must change that—soon.” He turns to Mom. “As you know, Mr. and Mrs. Pacheco are hosting a cast party. I am already driving one of our cast members, so I will be happy to see that Carlie arrives there and home, if that is agreeable with you, Mrs. Edmund.”

  “Carlie, is that okay?” Mom asks.

  I nod.

  “Then I will meet you at the side exit in half an hour.” To Mom, Mr. Smith says, “It is a pleasure to have you in our community.” He shakes Jeb’s hand. “I’ll come for a visit if you promise me stew like your dad used to make.”

  “Deal,” Jeb says.

  Mr. Smith makes his way to other clusters of families surrounding kids from the cast.

  Mom watches him walk away. “So that’s the Mr. Smith. I understand what you mean. He's amazing.” She hugs me again. “I’m so proud of you.” She squeezes my hand. “See you later at home.”

  After the three of them leave, Lena pokes her head through the curtain and, dragging Eric Peterson behind, pushes her way through the cast, family and friends. Nicolas Benz strolls after them, his blond hair glowing under the bright stage lights. He does look wonderful; I’m glad he’s my date.

  “Hey, Des.” Lena waves.

  Somehow I don’t like the sound of my nickname when she says it.

  “Not bad,” Lena says, eyeing me up and down. “You sure looked like Desdemona from the audience.”

  Implying I don’t look like her now? “Thanks.”

  Her eyes dart around the backstage.

  “Cool,” Eric says.

  “Very cool.” Nicolas touches my arm, and suddenly I’m even more excited that he’s taking me to the dance.

  Juan comes out of the boys’ dressing room, holding a towel. He’s changed into his own clothes and taken off the heavy make-up K.T. insisted added to his sinister look. Lena’s eyes rest on him.

  I’ll be polite. “You know Lena from the Shack, Juan. This is her boyfriend, Eric, and this is Nicolas.”

  Nicolas doesn’t put out his hand, but Eric does and Juan shakes it. “Glad you came to the play.”

  “Carlie, we have to go someplace to celebrate,” Lena says.

  “I can’t. There’s a cast party and I’ve already told people I’d go.”

  “You have to come with us.” Lena twists her face into a Knudson pout. “We made plans, and you asked us to be here, so we came and—”

  “Your friends can come to the party. My parents won’t mind.” Juan wipes the towel across his forehead. “They can follow one of us to the house.”

  The image of the hotel with the barred windows and the front yard of overturned shopping carts might just as well be projected on my face.

  Juan shrugs. “It’s up to you.”

  As he returns to the dressing room, Chico and Anthony come across the stage. They make a point of walking between Eric and Nicolas and bumping against them before they follow Juan inside and bang the dressing room door shut.

  Nicolas backs away and looks quickly around at the clusters of students backstage, as if he’s worried about being attacked by someone else.

  “What was that about?” Eric asks.

  “They’re creeps. Don’t take it personally.” That sounds lame and much braver than I feel. We need to get out of here. Channing and Las Pulgas do not blend. “I have to change. It won’t take me long. Lena, help me out of this.” I point to my bodice.

  Lena’s at my heels as I enter the dressing room. “Okay, Carlie, tell me.”

  “Tell you what?”

  “Evvverything.” Lena clutches her chest.

  “There’s nothing to tell.”

  “Nothing about Juan? Come on. How come you’re the keeper of secrets all of a sudden? First Sean, now Othello.”

  “Sean’s in New York. I told you he was going with someone.”

  The dressing room’s empty. The other two have changed and left. Lena sits on a stool with her legs crossed, jiggling one foot. “So who’s he dating?”

  She’s good at setting traps. I’m good at spotting them.

  “Got me. I never asked.” I point to my bodice. “Can you undo this for me?”

  Lena tugs at the laces. “So are you, like, seeing Othello?”

  “Everyday.” I slip out of the costume layers and hang them up, then I take off the muslin gown and sponge the stage make up from my face.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I pull on a light sweater and brush out my hair. “We’re not dating. We’re not even friendly off stage.”

  “You sure looked friendly on stage. Did he really kiss you?”

  “Come on. I don’t want to talk about Othello anymore.”

  For weeks I’ve pictured how I’d feel after the performance with no more rehearsals, no more pretending to love Juan or being close to Chico. But instead of being able to enjoy the night and the party, now I have to deal with more stress. My friends are about to enter the real Las Pulgas, the one I live in every single day. How am I going to explain Juan’s home to this bunch?

  By the time we come out, backstage is empty except for K.T., Jamal, and Mr. Smith, who are all on the other side by the light panel. We start toward the auditorium’s side exit when Chico and Anthony step into the doorway. At their backs are the two scumbags who threatened me at the apartments last week.

  Lena grasps Eric’s arm and Nicolas dodges behind us.

  Chico stands feet wide apart, arms crossed, blocking our way out.
/>   “What do you want now?” I don’t add “Jerk,” but I might as well have. He knows that’s what I intend from the way I ask the question.

  Like a dog on attack, he’s right in my face and fuming. It doesn’t take much to bring Chico to a boil—something I should be getting used to.

  He grabs my wrist, pulls me inches from his face and hisses. “Get them outta here.” A speck of his spit lands on my arm.

  I’m shaking, but it’s more from humiliation and anger than fear. “If you don’t want to be around them, you can leave. They’re my friends.”

  “This is my territory. You got that?” Chico says with a snarl.

  Then from behind us, I hear Juan say. “Get away from her.” Then he pushes between Chico and me, and backs Chico down the steps. I’m expecting another Las Pulgas fight, but Chico strides off with his pack as if he’s won some battle. Anthony, being the class act that he is, flips us off as he follows them.

  “Are you okay?” Juan asks.

  No, I’m not. Lena’s on the top step behind Eric, imitating a marble statue. Nicolas stares at me as if I’ve sprouted snakes from my head.

  “Welcome to Las Pulgas,” I tell them.

  “Chico isn’t all of us, Carlie.” Juan says as he starts to leave, but then stops. “Sometimes a good face off clears the air. You get that, don’t you, Nic?” Then he walks toward the parking lot, his stride slow and confident.

  “Well, who’s brave enough to party in Las Pulgas?” I say, expecting Lena and Eric to run to their car.

  “You still want to go, Lena?” Eric asks.

  She’s staring after Juan and nods.

  Eric glances toward the parking lot, then shrugs his agreement.

  Nicolas, his eyes still not meeting mine, waits as if he'd deciding his entire future. “I, uh, have an early game tomorrow. My dad, we’re . . . golfing now, so I’ll have to pass on the party tonight.” He finally looks at me, but it’s not an in-the-eye-look. I think he’s spotted something next to my right ear.

  I choke back what could come out as a feeble plea. “We’ll miss you, Nicolas. Another time.” I’m trying for that tone called cavalier, but lead oozes into all my body cavities. I’ll be lucky if I can pick up my feet enough to walk to the car. I’m so humiliated.