The Fat Lady Sings

by Lovett, Charlie

  I throw the flowers onto the floor and tear out of the theatre as fast as I can. I’ll just have to congratulate Elliot later.

  Act IV

  Scene 1

  Ido my best to put the whole Cynthia and Roger thing out of my mind over the weekend. We run the entire show twice on Saturday, once in the afternoon and once in the evening, so I’ve got plenty to think about. We still have a lot of details to work out, but Saturday night is the first time we’ve run the whole show straight through without stopping, and everybody applauds afterwards — partly because they’re exhausted and want to pat themselves on the back for surviving six hours of rehearsal, but also because, for the first time, we can see the show actually working. It’s funny how you can write stuff that seems brilliant on paper, but until you get it up on stage and actually run it at speed, you’re not sure if it plays or not. We get done about eleven, and I spend Saturday night with Taylor. We’ve pledged to get up early in the morning to work on our respective history papers, but when the alarm goes off at 6:30 neither one of us is ready to face reality so we sleep for another two hours until Taylor has to get ready for church.

  Of course she wants me to come with her, so I tell her that I need the time to catch up on schoolwork since I’ve been spending so many hours at rehearsal, and that’s true, but it’s also true that I don’t want to go. They go on quite a bit about forgiving your enemies there, and I’m in no mood to forgive Cynthia Pirelli.

  Sunday afternoon is cue to cue. If you’ve never been to a cue to cue rehearsal, it’s basically lots of standing around while the tech crew fiddles with lights and fixes sound and other things that only people like Suzanne understand. Then, when you finally get to start a scene, just as you’re starting to get into it, somebody yells, “OK, skip to cue seventeen please,” and you have to stop acting and stand around for another twenty minutes.

  “So,” says Cameron as we’re waiting for Suzanne to perfect the next light, “I guess Cynthia Pirelli had some sort of secret acting lessons to get ready for Dolly.”

  “What makes you say that?” I say, trying without success not to sound defensive.

  “Didn’t you see her bio in the program?” says Cameron. “It was something like, ‘Cynthia would like to thank Mr. Parkinson for giving her this chance, her family for all their support, and her acting coach, who made this performance possible.’”

  “I wonder who it was?” says Taylor.

  “No idea,” I say, and just like Peter, I’ve denied Cynthia for the third time — only this time I don’t feel even a twinge of guilt.

  Once cue to cue is finished we add something new every night, and now we’re all starting to get really excited, because we can tell we have a great show. Monday night the band shows up. We’ve been working with recorded music or a rehearsal pianist, but Elliot recruited some musicians from the Hello, Dolly! pit band and now that their show is over they can play for us. They sound amazing! I had forgotten what a difference it makes to have live music. Of course Elliot is the piano player, so he’s watching the show from behind his sheet music, but I think he’s really impressed with what we’ve accomplished in the past week. He keeps smiling at me and winking at the end of every scene. It’s kind of cute.

  Tuesday night we have a full dress rehearsal so we will have time to work problems on Wednesday and then have one more full dress before we open on Friday. As we’re clicking through the scenes, I can’t believe that just over a week ago I rewrote the whole second act. I almost start crying in the wings at one point, I’m so grateful for all the patience and hard work of the cast, but I have to suck it up and get angry, because the fight scene is about to start.

  At school I’ve managed to completely avoid Cynthia Pirelli. During study hall I’ve been going to the props shed to work on homework instead of to the practice room. In math class I smile coldly at her and sit on the other side of the room. I figure she’ll get the message. At first I also avoid the lunchroom and crowded halls whenever I can, but then I discover that now that Hello, Dolly! is over, all the other theatre kids are getting excited about our show. They keep stopping me in the hall and saying to break a leg or asking how they can get tickets, but mostly they just say how cool they think it is that I wrote a show and that we’re actually producing it. Turns out that kind of comment is a drug to which I am easily addicted — so by Thursday not only am I no longer avoiding crowds, I’m actively seeking them out in hopes of scoring another “We think you’re cool, Aggie” comment. I know, that seems lame, but I’m about to turn eighteen and nobody has ever thought I was cool before.

  Anyway, on Thursday afternoon I’m hanging out in the hall outside the theatre, pretending to read the college brochures on the bulletin board, and suddenly Cynthia is at my elbow.

  “Hi Aggie,” she says, like we’re still best friends or something.

  “Cynthia,” I say, trying to channel Bette Davis at her most disdainful in All About Eve.

  “How are rehearsals going?” she says.

  I could walk away, but I desperately want to be the better person here, which shouldn’t be too hard since Cynthia is the one who’s a backstabbing man-stealer.

  “Rehearsals are going well,” I say. I’m impressed by how much venom I can pack into such a simple declarative sentence. I must be an actress.

  “We can still do some vocal work if you like?” she says, hopefully.

  “I don’t think that will be necessary,” I say, and suddenly I miss it terribly — the secret friendship, the hours practicing, the look on her face when I finally breathe right and get a decent sound to come out of my mouth — and I’m furious that she had to go and take all that away.

  “If you change your mind,” says Cynthia. “You can always call me.”

  I turn to look at her and she has this face like a scolded toddler. What an act. And then I realize, I taught her how to do that. She’s probably been working the mirror all morning to perfect that look — just like I taught her. And she thinks she can use that on me?

  I look her straight in the eye and say, without showing even a flicker of the emotions that are boiling inside me, “I won’t.” And I turn and walk away.

  That night is final dress rehearsal. Now I know there’s this tradition or whatever that if final dress is a disaster then opening night will be great, but I think that’s a crock. I mean, if final dress goes great, you never hear anybody complain that it should have been a mess, right? Anyway, our final dress should be perfect. It went fairly well on Tuesday when we had a full dress, and last night we worked on the rocky spots, which was mostly coordinating the singers with the band. So we are ready to rock final dress. Or at least we should be.

  The problem is, I can’t get Cynthia Pirelli and her fake boobs and her fake toddler face and her fake friendship out of my head. Every time I make an entrance I see her face. Every time I open my mouth I hear her voice. When Suzy goes out with Jean Paul in Act II, all I can think about is that nauseating scene with Cynthia and Roger backstage. And suddenly I’m coming in late on entrances and missing cues and flubbing lines and forgetting blocking and once I almost call Suzy “Cynthia,” and after that I’m even more distracted.

  Afterwards, we sit on the front of the stage while Cameron gives us notes. People are hugging and holding hands and even crying because they are so excited. We’ve been getting reactions from Cameron for almost two months now, but this is the last time — tomorrow there will be a live audience out there and everybody looks like they can’t wait. Except me. I’m sitting to one side of the stage, away from everyone else. I’m not trying to act all diva or anything, I’m just not ready to celebrate anything yet because I know what’s coming.

  “OK,” says Cameron, “that wasn’t bad.”

  There’s a sudden intake of breath around the room, because obviously everyone but me was expecting him to say it was awesome. For the past several rehearsals Cameron has been giving us about a half hour of notes after the run through, but tonight he takes only a
couple of minutes to clear up some blocking issues before he turns to me. “Now, Aggie,” he says.

  Here it comes. Everyone turns to look at me.

  “I’m not sure what’s going on, but you need to get your head in the game. This was final dress — there are no more chances to get it right.”

  Now no one is breathing and everyone leans slightly away from me, like I’m a volcano about to blow. Cameron has this set look on his face, like he’s bracing himself for the explosion.

  “I’m sorry,” I say quietly. “There was no excuse for that. I was distracted and I shouldn’t have let that happen, and it won’t happen again.”

  And there it is — a true miracle for all the pagans who are rehearsing in this church — Agatha Stockdale keeps her cool under fire. Because of course Cameron is right. In fact, I would have been a lot harder on me, but then I guess that’s why he’s the director and I’m not. He’s smart enough to know that I need to be scolded in front of everybody, but now he’s also smart enough to drop it and move on.

  “Good,” he says, smiling at me. “That’s all I wanted to hear. Now, let’s go over the call times for tomorrow night.”

  And fifteen minutes later Elliot is driving me home and I give him a goodnight kiss on the cheek and he tells me to sleep well and I actually do.

  And then it’s the day of the show.

  Scene 2

  Piedmont Day has this deal that when you’re a senior you can take two personal days during the year and skip school. The idea is supposed to be that you’ll use the time to go on college tours, but hardly anybody does. On Friday Elliot, Cameron, Suzanne and I decide to take a personal day and hang out in Elliot’s studio. It just seems like a day when the four of us need to be together. We alternate doing homework and talking — more talking and less homework as the day goes on. It feels good to be back where we started, just the four of us with a crazy idea about putting on a show. “Did you know that if you count all the ushers and box office help and stage hands and the publicity committee and the band and everything that there are seventy-one people putting on this show?” says Elliot. He’s been proofreading the program.

  Cameron gives a low whistle. “And it all started with Aggie,” he says.

  “It started with the four of us,” I say, and suddenly we’re in this spontaneous group hug, and I swear I think Suzanne is crying, which almost never happens.

  “Hey Cameron,” she says, “why don’t you and I go get some lunch?”

  “That would be great,” says Elliot, and we spend the next ten minutes arguing over what kind of fast food is least likely to disagree with nervous teenage theatre geek stomachs, and then Cameron and Suzanne are gone and it’s suddenly quiet and Elliot and I go back to homework.

  “You know something,” says Elliot a few minutes later, “I’m really in awe of you.”

  “Of me?” I say. “You’re the producer. You’re the unsung hero in all this.”

  “Yeah, but without you, there wouldn’t be any this,” says Elliot. “I mean, you made something out of nothing.”

  “We all did,” I say, because if there’s anything I’ve learned in the past two months it’s that a playwright doesn’t create a play any more than an architect builds a building.

  “Say,” says Elliot, “what did you decide to do about that whole creative writing program thing that Miss O’Brien wanted you to apply to? Where was it, Kansas or someplace?”

  “Iowa,” I say.

  “Right,” says Elliot. “That’s a long way away.”

  “I don’t know,” I say, because honestly I haven’t given it a thought in a couple of weeks. But the fact is, I do like writing. Oh, be honest, I love writing. “Maybe I’ll apply,” I say. “Just to see what happens.”

  “You should,” says Elliot, but he doesn’t sound like he really means it. “You’re a great writer, Aggie, and — well, I just think you’re — you’re — “

  I can tell he’s looking for some compliment that will be really awkward and embarrassing coming from one of my best friends, so I cut him off by changing the subject.

  “You know I never really had a chance to tell you how great you were as Barnaby.”

  “Really?” says Elliot.

  “Yeah,” I say. “Hilarious stuff. Although we could have used your singing voice in Fat Lady.”

  “Thanks, Aggie,” says Elliot, “that means a lot to me,” and for some reason he’s still all sincere, which is just a little creepy.

  I mean, we’re friends — we laugh, we joke, we cry, sure, but sincerity? I don’t think so.

  “You know,” he says, “your singing has really improved. You’re gonna blow people away tonight. I guess you didn’t need voice lessons after all.”

  I am not about to confess here, hours before opening night, that yes, I did need voice lessons, and that I got them from Cynthia Pirelli, and that she’s the only reason I can sing at all and am not going to totally embarrass myself tonight.

  “Hey, you know what I haven’t thought of in almost two weeks?” I say.

  “What?” says Elliot.

  “Being fat.”

  “You’re not fat,” he says.

  “You’re not blind,” I say, laughing, “so you know I’m fat. It’s just that lately I’m not constantly thinking about it.”

  “I don’t see you as fat,” says Elliot. “I just see you as Aggie.”

  “That’s very sweet, Elliot, but you have to say that — you’re my friend.”

  “Well, I’d like — “

  “But you know that tonight people — total strangers I don’t even know — are going to be watching me on stage and thinking ‘she’s not bad for a fat chick.’ At least I hope that’s what they’re thinking.”

  “Did you know that we’ve sold over three hundred tickets?” says Elliot.

  “So we made your grandmother’s money back,” I say. “That’s amazing.”

  “Yeah,” he says, and we go on like that until Cameron and Suzanne come back — changing the subject every three sentences because all we can really think of is the one thing we don’t want to talk about — what will happen tonight? Will the audience love it and go crazy with applause and cheering or have we been living in a bubble of self-delusion for the past two months? So it’s nice to be distracted by Chick-Fil-A.

  It’s intermission and if you’re not me, or maybe Cameron, you probably think it’s going great — and on the surface it is going great. There’s this electricity in the audience, everyone’s excited and we could feel their energy radiating towards the stage the second we stepped out there. It’s also a small enough space that we could pretty much see them all — smiling faces, bodies leaned slightly forward in anticipation, and there, smack in the middle of the third row, Roger Morton and Cynthia Pirelli. Crap, crap, crappity crap, crap!

  Stanislavski, who I finally read since Elliot is quoting him all the time, talks about the difference between internal and external performances. If it’s internal, you’re totally connected to the character, your emotions are the same as hers, you basically are that person for the time that you are on stage — and of course all that is reflected in what the audience sees. In a performance that is only external your face and body and voice might be just the same, but your mind is somewhere else, your mind is thinking “I am an actor on stage,” or, “I can’t wait until the cast party,” or “Crap, Roger and Cynthia are sitting together on the third row.”

  Now granted, most people who come to a church fellowship hall to see a bunch of high school kids perform a show one of them wrote probably couldn’t tell the difference between internal and external acting, but I can. I really wanted to be present emotionally tonight, especially after what happened at final dress, but instead I’m just going through the motions. Don’t get me wrong, this is nothing like last night — I’m doing a really good job of going through the motions, but instead of following the roller coaster path of Aggie through the show, my emotions are completely focused on the third row a
nd can basically be summed up as Arrrrgh! (Because this is a church I probably shouldn’t use the actual Anglo-Saxon words.)

  I do a little bit better job of tuning them out in the second act, until I hear Roger laugh. True, he’s laughing at a joke — I mean, I should be glad he’s laughing, right? Wouldn’t it be worse if he didn’t laugh? But for some reason, I guess because I could hear his laugh over everyone else’s, I suddenly think, He’s not laughing at the play, he’s laughing at me, and he’s laughing because I’m fat.

  I really didn’t expect the ugly monster of fat chick low self esteem to raise itself on a night when almost two hundred people paid ten bucks apiece to see me on stage, but this all happens right when Aggie in the play breaks off her friendship with Suzy because Suzy is going out with Jean Paul, and suddenly my emotions in real life are the same as my character’s emotions and either I’m giving a brilliant performance or it’s a disaster. Either way I’m ready to get off that stage, but I still have the reconciliation scene and then — oh crap — then the fat lady has to sing. Why did I give it that title? This play was supposed to make me feel better about myself, not worse.

  I step into the spotlight for my song, and thankfully I’m blinded enough that I can’t make out individual faces in the audience — they’re just one organism now, and I can’t tell if it loves me or wants to kill me. Cameron’s version of “Defying Gravity” is an anthem of defiance, just like the original, but it’s also a celebration of victory — victory over being a social outcast, victory over personal weaknesses, but above all victory over that voice that keeps telling the fictional Aggie, “You’re no good because you’re fat.” In the end it doesn’t matter that Aggie is fat, because she’s defying gravity. Cameron wants me to tap into that joyous sense of victory as I sing. But tonight it’s all about defiance — defying people who said I couldn’t sing or couldn’t put on a play, defying everyone who’s ever called me fat, and most of all defying Cynthia and Roger. I channel every bit of my anger into that song, and I sing it like I’ve never sung it before. The bad news is, I really don’t hit the right emotional note for the ending of the show. The good news is, I bring the freaking house down.