Jack & Louisa: Act 1

by Andrew Keenan-Bolger

  Instead of saying “Prove it” to Jack, I would have said “Start from the beginning and tell me everything.” I would have invited him over for pizza, and I would have grilled him, in a nice way, about what it was like to be on a Broadway stage. I would have asked him to confirm every piece of advice given by my camp instructors. And then, because I would have been so welcoming and friendly, he might have showed me the “Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious” dance because he wanted to, not because he felt challenged. And I would have made him teach me every step until his parents came to get him, and I would have practiced until bedtime, determined to perfect them in the morning.

  But there was no way to go back, and instead of making a new friend, I had just alienated the one person in Shaker Heights who might have understood me better than anyone. I passed a neighbor’s garden gnome who sat in the middle of their soggy lawn, smirking at me through the sprinkler spray. You blew it, Lou, he seemed to say. I looked back at his crinkly face and thought, You’re right, gnome. I did.

  • • •

  A heat wave saved me from further embarrassment before school started up again. Temperatures spiked into the mid-nineties, keeping just about everybody glued to their air conditioners instead of their lawn chairs. It was too hot to go outside, which meant I was able to successfully avoid running into Jack. I tucked my Mary Poppins cast recording behind my CDs of Once and Newsies and tried to convince myself that I could spend the next two years of middle school pretending that Jack didn’t exist. How hard could that be, really?

  Determined to bury my shame with a flurry of activity, I spent my time getting ready for school: a trip to Staples, where I was meticulous about picking out my supplies (I mean, seriously—when it comes to pens, there is a noticeable difference between micro and fine point). I cleaned out my closet and let Mom implement her “If you haven’t worn it in the last year, it’s going to Goodwill” rule. Then she took me shopping for new clothes, a somewhat depressing venture, since once again I had to walk past racks of Junior sizes and straight into the Kids’ Wear section. I had really been hoping for a growth spurt during the summer, but sadly—no dice.

  Even though I kept busy, I couldn’t escape the occasional reminder of my brief, though painful, exchange with Jack.

  One evening, my parents, unaware that I’d ever spoken to him, devoted our entire dinner to speculating about our new neighbors.

  “Mrs. Thompson says they’re from New York City,” my mom reported, her eyes flashing at me with expectation.

  “That’s exciting, huh, Lou?”

  “I guess.” I shrugged and casually sipped my lemonade, trying to appear nonchalant. For someone who planned on living her life in the spotlight, I must have been a pretty crummy actress at the dining-room table, because both of my parents looked at me with skepticism.

  “You guess?” my dad asked, his tone thick with sarcasm. He turned to Mom. “Is this the same girl who has a poster of the Manhattan skyline taped to her ceiling?”

  Oh yeah, there was that.

  Mom shook her head in response.

  “Seventh grade hasn’t even started, and she’s already too cool for school.”

  She grinned at me, knowing how much I cringed when she used outdated phrases.

  “Well, I bet they’re feeling some serious culture shock in this neighborhood,” Dad said, refusing to let go of my least favorite subject.

  “I’m going to give them a welcome gift tomorrow,” said Mom, “a potted plant or something. You wanna come with me, Lou?”

  No! Lock me in a dungeon filled with volleyballs and math quizzes for the next fifty years, but don’t make me see Jack again!

  “Uh, I can’t. I’m going over to Jenny’s.”

  Note to self, I thought, call Jenny and invite yourself over tomorrow.

  “Well, you should really introduce yourself at some point. Looks like their son is about your age.”

  “Maybe you guys will be in some of the same classes,” Dad ventured.

  Unaccustomed to keeping secrets, I almost blurted out, “Hopefully not,” but my brain sent a warning signal just in time. “Who knows?” I said, and got up from the table.

  • • •

  The next day, lying on Jenny’s bed as she modeled different outfits for our first day of school, I told her about Jack.

  “He sounds like a show-off,” Jenny said, holding up two skirts at her waist. “What do you think, ladybug print or bold floral?”

  “Ladybug print,” I answered, envying her five-three frame, which allowed her access to the clothing racks at Forever 21. “Except Jack wasn’t showing off,” I continued. “He was defending himself! Because I was being a jerk!” I buried my face in my hands and groaned. Jenny put the bold floral skirt back in her closet and reemerged with different belt options.

  “I dunno, Lou, if I told you I did ballet—”

  “You do do ballet—”

  “No, I mean if you didn’t know me, and I told you I did ballet, and then you were like, ‘I don’t believe you’? I’d be like, ‘Whatever, what do I care whether you believe me or not?’—I wouldn’t do a pirouette in front of you!”

  “But would you think I was a jerk?”

  Jenny thought for a moment.

  “Yeah, I guess I probably would.”

  “See?” I felt miserable all over again. Jenny laughed.

  “Loulou, it’s not that big a deal. You can’t be friends with everybody. Forget about it.” I sighed as she fastened a white patent-leather belt around her waist and looked in the mirror to confirm that it worked perfectly with the skirt. Almost as an afterthought, she said, “I mean, what—is he cute or something?”

  I must have hesitated a second too long, because Jenny pounced on me like a Jellicle cat.

  “Ohhhh, okay, I see what’s going on now!” she squealed, pinning me to the bed.

  “No, no, no!” I howled, though it was muffled by her comforter and sounded more like, “Mnwh, mnwh, mnwh!”

  Jenny hooted with delight. I reached behind me and pinched her leg, which sent her hopping off the bed into a little jig.

  “You think he’s cu-ute!” she sang, irritatingly pleased with herself.

  “I do not!” I declared. “I mean, he is cute, but that is completely different from me thinking he’s cute.”

  Jenny rolled her eyes and went rummaging through her closet for shoes.

  “Sure it is,” she said dryly.

  I realized she must be in heaven right now, since her two favorite things in life were fashion and teasing people. Ballet, while important to her, was still a distant third.

  What I’d said was true, though. The fact that Jack was cute just made our interaction that much more excruciating to recount; it didn’t mean I had a crush on him.

  • • •

  I came home from Jenny’s that evening to find that the universe had been merciful once again.

  “No one was home,” Mom said, referring to Jack’s house, “so I just left the plant on their stoop with a note.”

  I should have known then that the universe wouldn’t be merciful forever. It always strikes a balance.

  • • •

  I awoke the first day of seventh grade with the familiar knot in my stomach of nerves and excitement. It wasn’t the same as what I would get before going onstage; that always felt more like a twisted mop. Still, I was keyed up enough to only nibble at my multigrain waffles and then reorganize my backpack at least three times.

  “I’m so glad you decided to put your highlighters in the outside pocket,” Dad teased. “Keeping them in the inside pocket would have guaranteed a C-average for the year.”

  “Bite your tongue!” Mom shrieked, grabbing a snack-size bag of baby carrots from the fridge. Despite my intense hatred of math, I had been a straight-A student since grades first appeared on my report cards.
Nevertheless, my mother was always nervous that I would suddenly turn into some kind of delinquent.

  “Don’t worry, Mom. Cs ain’t for me,” I teased, hoping my deliberate use of poor grammar would make her laugh. It did.

  • • •

  Normally I had to take the bus to school, but my parents always treated me to a ride on the first day. They also let me choose the music, so I decided to kick off seventh grade with some Matilda. (The anguished wailing of schoolchildren seemed more than appropriate.)

  Eight minutes in the car and it was time. Good-byes, good lucks, up the walkway and through the double doors, and I was officially in seventh grade. Jenny appeared magically out of nowhere, sporting the ladybug skirt we had both agreed she should wear.

  “I had a feeling you’d match that headband with that shirt,” she said, regarding my outfit.

  “Are you saying I’m predictable?”

  “I don’t think I have to. Plus that’s the combo they used on one of the mannequins at Gap Kids.”

  Busted.

  “So, listen,” she said, grabbing my elbow and pulling me to the left as a large eighth-grader lumbered by, “I heard there’ve been a couple changes to our homeroom list.”

  “Like what?” I asked, dodging the eighth-grader’s equally large friend who followed after.

  Jenny adjusted her belt, smoothed her hair, and rubbed her lips together, preparing to make her grand Project Runway–style entrance into our homeroom.

  “I don’t know exactly,” she said, “but I know Steph isn’t in our room anymore—she’s in Mr. Ross’s.”

  “That’s too bad,” I said, distracted by a gnawing feeling in my gut. Last-minute changes to our homeroom list could mean a lot more than just the loss of Steph.

  And it did—I knew it as soon as I stood at the entrance of Mrs. Lamon’s homeroom. With my predictably matching Gap Kids shirt and headband, highlighters nestled snugly in the outer pocket of my backpack, and the songs from Matilda still ringing in my ears. I understood why I’d had no trouble avoiding Jack for the past two weeks. That had only been a tease, a Post-it note from the heavens saying, “Enjoy this while it lasts.” I had not set one foot inside my new homeroom and already the year was off to a very uncomfortable start: There was Jack, sitting at a desk in the front row, looking at me like he might throw up.

  –JACK–

  I heard a tiny gasp from the doorway. I looked over to find, frozen, in an embroidered top and white-bowed headband, none other than my dreaded neighbor. Our eyes locked. I clenched my teeth, suddenly wishing for telepathic powers, hoping to broadcast my need for her to not blab to the class about our first encounter. But before she could get a chance to say a word, a middle-aged woman with a short haircut and Asian-looking pantsuit brushed past us.

  “Good morning, class. If everyone could take a seat,” the woman said, making her way to the desk at the front of the room. “Today you can sit with your friends, your old classmates, whomever. Tomorrow I’ll be assigning seats, so enjoy the freedom while it lasts.”

  Louisa, flustered, turned her attention to the girl standing next to her. They ducked into a pair of empty seats in the back of the classroom. I wasn’t sure how much more of this I could take. I exhaled slowly, staring out the window. Rain clouds had begun to roll in, covering the bright Ohio sun. It’s just like opening night or an audition, I told myself. There’s nothing to be afraid of. When had a small classroom become more nerve-racking than a two-thousand-seat theater?

  “I’m Mrs. Lamon, and I’ll be your homeroom teacher for the year.”

  She began unpacking her notebook and stacks of paper from a printed tote bag with a logo reading “Women & Children First Bookstore.”

  “I’m also your humanities teacher. You’ll come to me in the morning and then travel as a group to your other classes. This year we’ll be covering the changes in history, geography, literature, and politics from AD 1600 to the present that have shaped the world we live in today.”

  As Mrs. Lamon continued to explain the curriculum, I peeked over my shoulder to the back of the room. I caught sight of Louisa, our eyes meeting for a second then quickly flitting away.

  “And it looks like we have a few new students to SHMS. Why don’t we go around and introduce ourselves; tell us what school you transferred from and maybe something fun that you did over the summer.”

  I could feel the sweat from my bangs drip down the side of my face. What was I going to say? I spent the summer negotiating an embarrassing voice change in front of an entire cast and creative team?

  “Let’s start with Jack Goodrich. Are you present?”

  I snapped to attention.

  “Erm—yes,” I said, my voice sounding weaker than I’d intended.

  “Oh, right in front of my face,” Mrs. Lamon murmured, peering down her nose through a pair of thin red-framed glasses. “Would you like to tell us a little about yourself?”

  My heart began racing. I hadn’t anticipated having to speak on the first day.

  “Uh, sure,” I said a little louder. “Hi, I’m Jack . . . Good . . . rich.” My name suddenly sounded foreign to me, like a bunch of strange syllables mashed together.

  “And . . . ?” She squinted. “What school did you go to last year? You’re not from Shaker Heights, correct?”

  “No-o,” my voice squeaked. I was trapped. Announcing to the world that I went to a place called the Professional Performing Arts School would seal my deal as bully bait. “It was called PS 87,” I lied, giving the name of my old elementary school.

  A snort cut through the classroom, followed by a smattering of giggles from a group of boys sitting nearby.

  “Yeah, weird name, I know.” I shrugged. “In New York they like to number things instead of name them.”

  “Wow, New York,” Mrs. Lamon said, sitting up in her chair. “That must have been exciting. So . . .” She tilted her head. “What made you move to Ohio?”

  As if by stage direction, a clap of thunder rumbled in the distance. I swallowed hard and quickly looked over my shoulder at Louisa. Her eyes widened.

  “Um. Well—” I tugged slightly at my collar. “My dad. My dad got a job here in Cleveland.”

  “Interesting,” Mrs. Lamon said, looking back to her folder. “Does anyone have a question for Mr. Goodrich?”

  Questions?! She neglected to mention that my introduction would include a Q&A portion! The room hung silent for a moment until an older-looking boy in an Abercrombie hoodie raised his hand. I cringed, realizing he was from the group of boys who was snickering.

  “Yes. Mister—”

  “Tanner,” he said, crossing his arms and leaning back in his seat.

  “What sports did you play at . . . PS . . . Whatever?” he laughed like he’d made the best joke in the world.

  I shifted nervously in my seat. Why couldn’t I be back in New York? At PPAS it would have been totally acceptable to jump up on my desk and wail a big, “Whoo-ohh-ohhhh,” condemning my new tormentor like that rocker kid at the end of Matilda. But here all I could do was force out an agreeable laugh, attempting to join in on his stupid “joke.”

  “Tanner,” Mrs. Lamon said, shooting him a look to be quiet. I glanced across the room, mortified to realize that everyone was actually waiting for an answer.

  “Um,” I said, clearing my throat. “You know, just the usual . . . sports,” I muttered to the immediate snorting of Tanner and his friends.

  “Tanner, I didn’t catch your last name?” Mrs. Lamon interrupted.

  “Tanner Falzone.” He grinned.

  “Uh-huh,” she said knowingly, flipping through the pages of her leather notebook. “I think I had your older brother, Taylor, was it?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled slyly.

  “Yes, I remember he just adored my lesson on Little Women,” she replied smartly. Even I couldn’t help but
smile a bit.

  “Any other questions for Jack?” she continued. “Yes. The girl in the back with the white headband, you are . . . ?”

  “Louisa Benning. But everyone calls me Lou.”

  I froze in my seat, feeling sweat drip down the inside of my arms. Well, this is it, I told myself. Here goes my cover. Suddenly the loudspeaker buzzed to life with static. Saved.

  “ATTENTION, SHMS STUDENTS,” a woman’s voice screeched. Even a non-actor could tell she’d benefit from moving a few inches away from the mic. “SIGN-UPS for extracurricular activities have JUST. BEEN. POSTED in the lunchroom.” My classroom began to vibrate with whispers of conversation.

  “KXSUXUSHUXKSSSSKKHKXKSHHH,” the loudspeaker suddenly hissed, its feedback forcing the entire class to clap their hands over their ears in pain.

  “DON’T FORGET TO SIGN UP!” the voice barked.

  Even Mrs. Lamon was cringing, gently covering her ear with a single index finger.

  “ADDITIONALLY, for your enjoyment, COACH WILSON will be screening a special presentation of last year’s soccer championship game during lunch hour. ENJOY YOUR FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL!” The speaker fizzled into silence.

  Mrs. Lamon slowly inhaled. “Where was I?”

  I kept my head down.

  “Oh right,” she continued. “New students.” She looked down at her leather book. “Do we have a . . . Molly Shaw?”

  “Present!” said the perky blond girl sitting next to me, raising her hand.

  I spent the morning avoiding all interactions with my classmates, playing an aboveground version of Marco Polo. When we took to the halls to change rooms, I tried to blend in with the other kids, keeping a safe distance from the hoodie-wearing boys and the girl whose secret held my social downfall. As the bell rang at the end of science class, I looked down at my crumpled schedule. “Lunch.”