At least I get to miss a few minutes of math, because she wants me in her office at 10:00. When I get there she’s sitting in her little “lounge” area, which I guess is supposed to put us at ease when we’re talking about college or something. Mr. Hart, my English teacher is there too, and there’s a familiar looking binder on the coffee table in front of them.
“Have a seat, Agatha,” says Miss O’Brien. “One thing I’ll say for Agatha,” she says to Mr. Hart, “is she’s always on time for her appointments.”
I hate that — when people talk about you like you’re not even there. Now I wish I had been late.
“Mr. Hart and I wanted to talk to you about this,” she says, pushing the binder towards me. I open it and see the title page for The Fat Lady Sings. Great. Haven’t I already gotten enough grief from Dr. Watkins? We gave up the show — what more do they want?
“Where did you get this?” I ask.
“Apparently Melissa Parson’s mother confiscated it from her daughter and gave it to Dr. Watkins. He passed it on to Mr. Hart and he brought it to me,” says Miss O’Brien.
“Did you write this, Agatha?” asks Mr. Hart.
“Yes, OK, I wrote it!” I say. “What’s wrong? Is my spelling horrible? Did I use dangling participles? Mixed metaphors? What does this have to do with college anyway?” I guess I get a little worked up, because Mr. Hart shoots me one of those looks he usually reserves for boys talking in the back of class. “What is it?” I ask, a little more meekly.
“I think you misunderstand the purpose of this meeting, Agatha,” says Miss O’Brien.
“Agatha,” says Mr. Hart, “this is a very impressive piece of work. It’s mature and the first act is especially well structured. The character development is excellent, and it’s funny. And it has voice. I have such a hard time getting you children to write with voice.”
Of course, I love that Mr. Hart likes my play. He likes to give creative writing assignments, and I’d actually thought about showing him the script — not for extra credit or anything, but just to see what he thought. So yes, I’m flattered, but I still feel like I’m missing something here.
“I don’t understand what this has to do with Miss O’Brien,” I say.
“Agatha,” says Miss O’Brien, “have you ever heard of the Iowa Writers’ Workshop?”
“No,” I say.
“Well,” says Mr. Hart, “I know it’s a little early to think about graduate school, but the University of Iowa has one of the best MFA programs in the country, and they offer a degree in playwriting.”
“So Mr. Hart and I thought,” says Miss O’Brien, “that given your obvious talent, you might want to consider applying to the undergraduate program at Iowa.”
“It’s really a wonderful place to study creative writing,” says Mr. Hart, and then the two of them stare at me like a couple of puppy dogs waiting to be pet. Like they’ve brought me this great treat and I’m supposed to be grateful or something.
Are they kidding? The University of Iowa? To study writing? Do they not see my Wicked T-shirt? Do they not know that I applied only to theatre programs? Have I not made it abundantly clear in every conversation with Miss O’Brien that I am going to study acting? I am going to be an actress.
And then of course it all makes sense.
“This is because I’m fat, right?” I say. “You don’t think I can be an actress because I’m fat. You don’t think I’ll get into the School of the Arts or Carnegie Mellon or anywhere else because who wants to go to Broadway or the movies and see a big fat pig.”
“This has nothing to do with that,” says Mr. Hart. “You’re a good writer and I think it’s a talent you might want to nourish.”
“Not everything that happens that you don’t like is because you’re overweight, Agatha,” says Miss O’Brien.
God, I hate that. I am not overweight. I am not “over” anything. I’m fat. Deal with it!
“Will you at least look at the brochure?” says Mr. Hart, holding out this glossy booklet.
And as I take it from him I’m thinking, So this is what it looks like when people stab you in the back — there’s no blood, no broken bones, just a shiny color brochure covered with pictures of happy writers.
After that debacle, it’s almost a relief to meet Cynthia in the library at study hall. At least there I know what to expect — or so I thought. I’m working on this one problem, and actually doing pretty well — even thinking that maybe we could start meeting every other day instead of every day — when Cynthia puts her pencil down and starts staring at me. I try to ignore her, but it’s just weird. I mean, she’s never just looked right at me like this before. She always tried to avoid making eye contact.
Finally I can’t take it anymore. “What?” I say.
“Can I ask you something?” says Cynthia.
I don’t answer, but just put down my pencil and return her stare.
“We’re friends, sort of, aren’t we?”
Well, knock me over with a chicken feather — Cynthia Pirelli thinks we’re friends. I’m so shocked I can’t laugh or say no or really even breathe, so I just give her the old arched eyebrow that’s supposed to say “are you kidding me?”
“The thing is,” says Cynthia, “I was thinking that since I’ve been tutoring you with math, maybe you might be willing to tutor me, too.”
In what, I want to scream. Everybody knows you get straight As. You’ll probably be the valedictorian or salutatorian or some sort of torian. What could I possibly tutor you in — how to be fat? How to be an outcast? How to be a loser whose life is falling apart? But I don’t say anything; I just keep the eyebrow up and wait for her to keep talking. It’s at least more interesting than calculus.
“You see, I think maybe I need an acting coach, and I was thinking, since you were so good at the audition, maybe you might be willing to — ” She sort of bites her lower lip in this pathetic “please help me” sort of way, and I absolutely don’t know what to say.
It’s twenty minutes until the bell rings, and I don’t think I can outstare her for that long. I don’t want to scream at her in the library — as appealing as that sounds — so there’s only one option.
“I’ve got to go to the bathroom,” I say.
Twenty minutes in a stall is paradise on a day like today.
We must all be psychic, because as soon as seventh period is over we all show up in the props shed — me, Elliot, Cameron and Suzanne. Melissa Parsons is there, too, and she keeps apologizing and saying the whole thing is her fault because she left her script out where her Mom could see it, and I guess it is sort of her fault, but I just can’t get mad at Melissa. I mean, come on, we were in Godspell together — that’s like a lifelong bond. Besides, Melissa is so sweet, and it’s way easier to be mad at Squatty Watty. If he weren’t such a short-sighted, uncultured oaf, everything would be fine.
Cameron and Elliot recount their exciting evening in jail with special attention to their fascinating cellmates. Cameron does a great impression of this drug dealer they were in with and the two of them are falling over themselves laughing, but I get the feeling it was actually pretty scary — especially for Cameron.
“So,” I say, when a gloomy silence has descended on the trailer for a minute or two, “do you want to hear the cherry on top of the icing on top of the cake that is my disaster of a life? Cynthia Pirelli asked me for acting lessons.”
“Seriously?” says Cameron.
“Yep,” I say. “She wants me to coach her on how to perform the part that she stole from me because I was, and I quote, ‘so good at the audition.’”
“You were awfully damn good at the audition,” says Elliot.
“If I was so good, why didn’t I get the part? I mean, really, I’m not asking Cynthia to instruct me on how to get a boob job.”
“She really could use an acting coach,” says Elliot.
“I’ll bet she could,” says Cameron with a snort.
“Why doesn’t Mr. Parkinson coac
h her?” I say. “He’s the one who cast her.”
“I guess he’s too busy with the big picture stuff,” says Elliot. And he says it with this strange pleading tone in his voice, and I look at him and he’s got this look on his face that he only gets when he wants me to do something he knows I don’t want to do.
“Oh, my god!” I say. “You want me to do it. You want me to give acting lessons to Cynthia Pirelli.”
“I didn’t say that,” says Elliot.
“No, but you thought it,” I say.
“It’s just that I’m in the show, and I’d like it to be good.”
It’s funny how easy it was for me to forget that Elliot is in Hello, Dolly!, that he is a part of one of those show families that I love so much. As long as we had our own Fat Lady family, that was all I thought about, but now that that family has been destroyed, I have this sudden realization that Elliot had a second family all along — like those creepy traveling businessmen you hear about on Sixty Minutes. And even though I’m glad Elliot got a part and he’s my friend, I’m suddenly jealous that he’s in a family and I’m not, and I’m angry that they’ve taken some part of him away from me.
“Elliot,” I say, as calmly as I can, “you do realize that I hate your co-star from the innermost depths of my being, that I hate her so much it drove me to write a play. And now you want me to coach her in the part she stole from me?”
I’m afraid Elliot is going to point out what a huge favor Cynthia is doing me by tutoring me in math and how I really owe her one, and I’m really not in the mood for logic right now, but he just says, “No,” and puts his hand on my arm. I can feel serenity just radiating out of him, and it soothes me in spite of my anger. “I don’t want you to do that. I would never ask you to do anything like that. Yes, it would be a better show if she got some outside help, and yes, you would be a great acting coach. But it’s too much to ask, and she should have known that.”
Once again, Elliot makes it impossible to be mad at him, so I stick with being mad at Cynthia. “Do you know that she thinks we’re friends?” I say.
“Imagine that,” says Elliot.
Act III
Scene 1
OK, so it’s Tuesday night, and in the past thirty-six hours my life has completely fallen apart. To recap: our show has been cancelled, my college counselor and my English teacher are intent on destroying my dreams, my arch-enemy thinks we’re friends and wants me to help her perform the role she stole from me, and, oh yeah, I’m still at Mom’s house — which has now become super creepy since she’s sober. Everything is clean and perfect and she’s always asking me about my life and cooking dinner and it’s even worse than Carol Brady — it’s like living with one of those 1950s TV moms. Like Donna Reed or something. Or maybe a Stepford Wife. So I’m sitting there at the kitchen table having dinner with Mom — grilled salmon and steamed broccoli — because, like I said, Mom has discovered that the stove actually works. We only ever used the microwave for the previous eighteen years. Anyhow, Mom is asking all these questions about school and I’m answering her with one-syllable grunts and nods and hoping she’ll chalk it up to typical sullen teenage behavior, when my cell phone rings.
Answering the phone during supper has never been a problem before, because supper was usually a frozen dinner eaten in my room while Mom drank in front of the TV. Now I know she doesn’t want me to answer because this is supposed to be our “quality time,” but sorry, Mom, you can’t change my habits in your last six months of parenting.
“Hey Aggie, it’s Taylor,” says the voice on the phone, and it takes me a second to remember who Taylor is — the girl from the church parking lot.
Just to freak out Mom, I say, “I gotta take this — it’s a girl from church.” I leave her at the table with a look on her face like I just told her I was a criminal or had cancer or something and close myself in my room.
“What’s up,” I say.
“Well,” says Taylor, ” I was thinking about what you said about how you and your friends didn’t have any place to perform your play and how your headmaster was all angry and everything.”
“You could say that,” I say.
“So, I was thinking, we have this stage in our fellowship hall where they do the Christmas pageant every year. It’s a pretty nice room for theatre, and I was thinking, maybe you guys could put on your show there.”
There’s this pause on the line and Taylor sounds so hopeful — I can just imagine her face like a little kid who’s just brought you some awful finger painting for the refrigerator and is waiting to be told it’s a masterpiece.
“That’s really nice of you, Taylor,” I say, wanting to let her down easy, “but the thing is, Dr. Watkins said we can’t do the play because it will look like it’s sponsored by the school. So having a stage won’t really help us.”
“I thought about that, too,” says Taylor, “and I talked to some folks in our youth group and we decided that we could sponsor the show.”
“Seriously?” I say, and now she has my attention. If there is a way around Squatty Watty’s edict, even if it involves hanging out at a church with a bunch of frighteningly wholesome teenagers, I’m willing to give it a try.
“Yeah,” says Taylor. “We thought we could help out with publicity and sell tickets and be ushers — that sort of stuff. That way we’d be involved, and we could call ourselves sponsors, but you guys would actually put on the show.”
My heart is racing now. Is this really happening? Is the phoenix rising out of the ashes of my life? I want to call Cameron and Elliot and Suzanne and everybody and shout from the rooftops and sing at the top of my lungs and give Squatty Watty a free ticket for the front row so I can spit on him when I sing words that start with ‘P’ and rub it in his face that he cannot rule our entire lives and that I’m a star and he’s a schmuck.
“So what do you think?” says Taylor, and I realize I’ve been silent on the phone while I’ve been rejoicing in my head.
“I think it’s fantastic,” I say. “I mean, seriously, Taylor, I don’t even know how to thank you. You’ve, like, saved my life. I can’t believe you would do something like this for someone you just met.”
“It’ll be fun,” says Taylor. “All the other kids think so, too.”
“I hope they like the show,” I say. “It’s not exactly Christian entertainment.”
“That’s OK,” says Taylor. “You know we don’t just sit around singing ‘Kum Ba Yah’ all the time. We are real people.”
“This will be so amazing,” I say, “We can — ” and then it suddenly hits me and I almost throw the phone against the wall. So close. I was so close to getting it all back. So close that I forgot. Melissa Parsons’ mother won’t let her be in the show. And honestly, there’s nobody else at school who can play that part.
“Damn,” I say, without thinking. “Oh, sorry, Taylor, I didn’t mean — “
“What’s the matter?” she says.
“My co-star, Melissa — I think I told you about her. Her mom won’t let her do the show.”
“Yeah, you mentioned that last night,” says Taylor. “So I was thinking — it’s a soprano role, right?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“With lots of singing?”
“Yeah, especially if our music director succeeds in taking songs away from me,” I say.
“The thing is,” says Taylor, “I sing soprano solos all the time in the choir, and, I mean, I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m not bad. I’ve been taking voice lessons since I was, like, twelve. And I’ve done some acting, too. I went to that summer camp for teens at the community theatre last summer and we did these one act plays and — well, the director said I was pretty good, so I thought maybe — “
“Oh my god!” I say. “That would be perfect. If you’re in the cast, then there’s no way Squatty Watty can claim it’s an all-Piedmont-Day production. It would take a lot of work, though. I mean it’s a leading part and we’ve already been rehearsing for three
weeks.”
“If you guys give me a chance, I’ll work my ass off,” says Taylor, and I burst out laughing. “What’s so funny?” she says.
“You said ‘ass,’” I say, still laughing.
“So what?”
“A good little Christian girl like you — really Taylor, I’m shocked.”
And she laughs, too, and in that moment I know that we’re not just a couple of people who shared a weird night in a parking lot — we’re going to be friends, good friends, like Cameron, Elliot, and Suzanne kind of friends.
“So can I audition for you?” says Taylor.
“Of course you can,” I say. “When can we see the space?”
“I have a key,” she says. “When do you want to see the space?”
“Do you have a car?” I ask.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Pick me up in half an hour,” I say. “I have to make some phone calls.”
I want to scream with joy after I hang up, but I figure that would really freak out Mom, so instead I jump up and down on my bed for about five minutes, until I’m afraid I’m going to break the frame. “Fat Girl Injured in Bed Jumping Accident” is not a headline I want to see in tomorrow’s paper. So I plop down on the floor and call Elliot.
An hour later we’re all standing in the fellowship hall of St. Timothy’s Church. There is a basketball net at one end that looks like it hasn’t been used in years, and there is a row of glass doors on one side looking out into the woods behind the building, but other than that, it looks just like a theatre. OK, maybe not a theatre, but at least a cafetorium. There are stacks of folding chairs along the wall (“We won’t have to rent those,” says Suzanne) and opposite the basketball goal is the stage. It has a real curtain, and wings, and even a little bit of fly space above, where we can hoist scenery out of sight. There is even a control booth at the other end of the room with an ancient light board (“I can get this to work,” says Suzanne) and a new sound system.
“This is fantastic,” says Cameron, striding across the stage like he owns it.
The Fat Lady Sings Page 10
