Stagestruck
Page 15
The joyful noises escaped the hall, causing Miss Smithers, now the librarian after resigning from her job as a supply teacher, to rush out shushing everyone.
“Remember where you are, please,” Miss Smithers haughtily whispered. “This is a library, not a theatre.” There was no mistaking her disdain for the latter, but even Miss Smithers at her most sour could not diminish the holiday mood in the hall.
Everyone was talking at once. “George Farrow! You got Geppetto!”; “I get to play the ticket-taker on Runaway Island!”; “How could they cast Leslie Morris as Trooper? It’s written for a boy!”; “Do I have to sing?”; “My mother won’t believe what I’m doing!”; “Do we have to do our own makeup?”
Joy Featherstone and Robert Wick watched in amazement. “What have we done?” wondered Joy aloud. She had not expected such a huge reaction.
“We’ve filled a need, it would seem,” answered Robert proudly. “We’ve unleashed the child in each adult, and allowed the children to play.”
Joy laughed. “Isn’t it great? The whole township is here.”
“Except Abby,” noted Robert. “Wasn’t she interested?”
“I didn’t want to push, so we never talked about it. Maybe I should have encouraged her.”
“Perhaps she didn’t want to be seen as using your influence, so she stepped back.”
Joy nodded. “Maybe so.”
“We’ll find a way to get her involved,” Robert stated. “She has real stage presence. I saw it immediately, the day of the storm.”
“The day you told her about Ambrose Brown?” Joy smiled.
“That very day. What are you doing for dinner tonight, Joy of my life?”
Joy Featherstone blushed with pleasure.
Abby and Hilary had a very productive afternoon. They sat at the round table in the Hogscroft kitchen charting Dancer’s training schedule.
Abby was to start hand-walking Dancer daily, starting at thirty minutes and adding five minutes a day. After the walk, she would cold-hose his scraped legs and wrap them for the night. Christine would remove the bandages each morning. That was week one.
Week two, providing Alan Masters approved after an examination of his head wound, Abby was to start riding. She would walk only, with a loose rein, very relaxed. She would walk him longer each day until he was up to one hour.
Week three, she would hack him on a loose rein the first two days. Walk, trot, no cantering. Thirty minutes on day one, forty minutes on day two. Day three, she would hack out but start collecting his gaits slightly and ask him for a little canter. She would also do that days four and five. By day six of the third week, Abby would be in the ring, moving him along and asking for leads.
Week four was a gradually increasing course of jumps. On day six, Abby would hack him down the road. Week five was heavy jump work on days one and three. Days two, four, and five, Abby and Dancer would hack across country. The plan was that he would be rested and eager to jump on day six.
Day six of week five was June 26, the day of the Grand Invitational.
The plan was completely dependent on Dancer’s health. If he wasn’t happy working, Abby was to immediately call Alan Masters. Alan Masters would also check Dancer once a week. If at any time he thought Dancer wasn’t handling the work well, Abby would call Hilary and they’d discuss whether or not to proceed.
Hilary and Abby walked out to the jumping ring. Hilary showed Abby how to place the jumps. She’d drawn charts of jumping courses with heights, widths, and distances clearly marked. They set up the first course that Dancer would do in week four. Hilary walked her through it, explaining how to pace to get the distances right. To make Abby’s work easier, she gave her instructions on how to ride each jump, and tips peculiar to Dancer.
Abby’s head was full of details as she cycled home. Her knapsack contained multiple instructions and intricate course maps. It was much more demanding than she’d realized. This exacting, technical, and extremely difficult sport looked so easy when it was done well.
Abby remembered when she’d first seen Hilary on Dancer at a horse show seven years earlier. Everyone called her Mousie then. Abby was nine years old, and she’d never forgotten the impression they’d made on her. Dancer, effortlessly sailing over a course that others found treacherous. Mousie, guiding her mount with such light hands and quiet body that it looked like she was doing nothing at all.
After today’s intense lesson, Abby knew it was artistry in its highest form. No rhythm was taken for granted, no corner unplanned. Every possible combination and permutation was considered and practised so that when faced with the course, horse and rider were prepared.
In competition, riders walk the course before they ride it. The horses see it for the first time when they come into the ring to be judged. It’s part of the difficulty of the course, because by nature, horses don’t like surprises. They like to be familiar with their environment, and each strange obstacle represents possible danger to them. There might be a mountain lion or a snake lurking on the other side, or the jump itself might wake up and turn into a monster. Therefore, the more confident and well-schooled the horse, the less stressed it will be when faced with a new course.
It was a lot to absorb, Abby thought as she pedalled along. She wondered if she was crazy thinking that she could even get around. Especially in a show as prestigious as the Grand Invitational.
She thought it out. Tomorrow, she’d start Hilary’s program. After a week or so, she’d decide if she felt comfortable competing or not. She’d try her hardest, but it was a lot to ask of herself, and of Dancer.
Abby nodded to herself as she steered her bike up her lane. That was what she’d do. There was always the possibility that Dancer wouldn’t heal quickly enough, and the decision would be out of her hands.
Cody greeted her enthusiastically, wiggling all over. Together they checked on Moonie and Leggy, who were lazing in the shed. Abby freshened their water trough and gave them a quick brushing and foot picking.
Satisfied with the sheen of their coats, Abby rubbed both horses’ ears and patted them, then headed into the house. She found a message on the kitchen table.
Abby,
Your mom and dad called. Please call when you get in. Their number is 714-555-9137, extension 12. No emergency, just phoned to say hello.
Love, Joy
Abby immediately picked up the phone and dialled. Fiona answered on the second ring.
“Hello?”
“Mom! It’s Abby!”
“You’re the only one who calls me ‘Mom,’ Abby! Of course it’s you.”
“How’s the spa, Mom? Are you doing okay? Is Dad there? Is he all right? What do you do all day?”
“Abby! One question at a time! The spa is really beneficial. The courses are terrific. They’re trying to help me understand the root of my problem, then teach me how to overcome it. I’m getting lots of fresh air and exercise, and facials and massages, too. It’s lovely. We’re up at six every morning for yoga in the garden.”
“Sounds good, Mom.”
“It is good, Abby. Dad is here and he’s doing fine. He wants to talk to you. It’s so good to hear your voice. Are you okay? I miss you so much. Tell me what’s happening at home.”
“I miss you, too, Mom, and lots is happening! I’ll fill you in. I’m going out with Sam Morris again, I’m training Dancer to compete at a horse show, and Mrs. Featherstone is the absolute best. She’s dating Mr. Wick! Hilary is going to marry Sandy this summer, and they’re doing Pinocchio at The Stonewick Playhouse.”
“Lots of news! It sounds like things are exciting in Caledon. Your father’ll want to hear all about everything, especially the horse show. How’s Cody? Is he all healed up?”
“He’s perfect. One hundred percent.”
“I’m so glad to hear it. Is he getting along with Joy and Diva?”
“They all ignore each other, so it works out great.” Abby’s tone became serious. “Mom, do you think you can beat this?”
“I’m rooting for you, Mom.”
“I know, honey. I know.”
The next voice was Liam’s. “Abby, my love! I miss you!”
“I miss you too, Dad!”
“Your mother got choked up, so I took the phone. What’s this about a horse show?”
“It’s the Grand Invitational, Dad. On June 26. Dancer was invited to compete, and Hilary will be busy, so I’m riding him. Will you be home by then?”
“June 26? It’s on my calendar. That’s a Sunday, isn’t it? Wouldn’t miss it.”
“I don’t want you to come home early if Mom’s not ready.”
Liam spoke earnestly. “If Mom isn’t ready, honey, she’ll have to stay here until she is. But I’ll be there to watch you compete. Count on it. Nothing can stop me!”
“Dad, you’re great. I’m so happy you’re coming.”
“I’ve got to be back by then anyway. I can’t be away from work any longer. If all goes well, we should both be back home.”
“I hope so, Dad, I miss you both.”
“Is everything fine, Abby?”
“Oh, it’s great!” Abby grew serious. “Dad, do you see a change in Mom? Is the spa making a difference?”
“It’s hard to say, Abby, my girl. But your mother’s working hard at it.”
“Are you working, too? At your law firm, I mean?”
“It amazes me how productive I am with fax, email, and telephone. I almost think it’s better that people don’t meet me face to face, but my partners want me back regardless.”
Abby laughed. “Bye, Dad, see you soon.”
12
THE DRESSING ROOM
IT WAS THE MORNING of the first dress rehearsal. Abby felt like a non-person. All her friends were involved in the play. Some were crew, some were wardrobe, some were actors. Everyone was involved but her. Caledon High reverberated with chatter about Pinocchio.
Abby’s English teacher was away visiting her ill father. A perky, toothy young woman named Zelda Iman was taking her place for the next-to-last week of school. Abby had nothing against her, but there was something about Miss Iman’s exuberance that was forced. It was almost scary. She talked loudly, as if the class had trouble hearing. She emphasized words oddly, hoping to engage their interest. She gestured broadly, trying to help them understand. Abby had wondered all week if Miss Iman might burst into tears from overexertion.
Miss Iman had always wanted to be an actress, she’d told them. Abby could believe that. The Stonewick Playhouse’s production of Pinocchio enthralled her, and occupied a great deal of discussion time in class. Today, everyone in the class was to write a one-page essay describing what he or she was doing in or for the play.
“Don’t be shy, class,” Miss Iman enunciated, broadly sweeping her hand down her face to illustrate shyness. “Reach into your heart and dig into your personal reasons for being part of a theatrical experience. I’m there with you, I really am. Let it flow.”
Abby stifled a laugh as the teacher reached and dug and flowed with each word. Miss Iman’s gestures were hilarious, she thought.
Her empty page, though, was another matter.
Abby wrote, “I am not doing anything in or for the play.”
Abby was tempted to hand it in like that. She picked up her pen again.
“I do other things, however, like ride horses.”
That should do it, she thought. Abby crossed her legs and swung a foot while drumming her fingers on her cheek. She began to daydream.
Good thing the school year was almost over. Exams were finished, but the school had made classes mandatory until the very last day. Teachers were busy marking, so the students were given make-work projects, which were greatly resented. They attended, however, because marks would be taken off if they skipped. Next Monday the marked exams would be given back. Wednesday, school was out.
Abby’s parents were coming home soon, and Joy Featherstone would move out when they were back. Abby and her parents wanted her to stay, but she insisted on moving in with Christine and Rory. It seemed a shame, though, because all her things were arranged in the guest room, and she was up to her ears in rehearsals and production. Abby had come to treasure Joy’s warmth and perspective. She would miss her a lot.
Moonie had continued to be moody and lethargic. If Leggy bothered her, she risked a sharp kick from her mother, which surprised the young mare, because until now Moonie had always had an extremely sweet disposition. Abby knew the reason why. Two weeks ago, Alan Masters had confirmed that Moonie was in foal. She would be delivering a foal next May and Abby was thrilled. Another Dancer baby. She smiled.
Dancer was phenomenal. Riding him could not be compared to anything on earth. Their training was proceeding exactly to the schedule that Hilary had drawn out. The horse show was just over a week away, on Sunday, four days after school let out, and Dancer was right on track. Abby shivered with anticipation and nerves every time she thought of the Invitational.
Hilary was lending Abby her riding clothes for the show. It was a nice surprise that they fit. Her simple, elegant black riding jacket was perfect. Her tight-fitting, stretchy, beige breeches were just right. Her tall, slim, black boots only needed an extra pair of socks and some insoles to fit properly. The white blouse, the rat-catcher tie and stock pin, the black gloves, everything looked wonderful. With pleasure, Abby pictured the dashing figure she’d cut.
She and Sam were seeing as much of each other as they could. On top of school and work, rehearsals were taking a lot of his time. Because of his tall, slim stature, Sam was playing the part of Sly Fox, who encourages Pinocchio to be truant. Abby enjoyed Sam’s company tremendously. Imagining his delicious chocolatey eyes and slow smile had Abby slouching in her chair with a silly grin on her face.
“Perhaps we could get a sense of how we’re doing on our essays. This person here looks like she’s finished.” Miss Iman stopped at Abby’s chair and put a hand on her shoulder.
Abby froze.
“Stand up and read your work. You look very pleased with yourself. We’re all anxious to hear it.”
Just like grade seven, Abby thought. Her face was growing crimson. She stood up with her head bowed, hoping to hide the blush with her hair. To make things worse, she was a head taller than the teacher. She felt like an oversized goof.
“Actually,” Abby croaked, “I was thinking about what to write. I was reaching into my heart and digging into my personal reasons. You said to let it flow, but I was completely stopped up.”
Miss Iman was dumbfounded. The small, surprised chuckles from Abby’s classmates became noisy laughter. It was Miss Iman’s turn to blush.
“Read your essay,” she commanded. Gone was any sign of perkiness.
Abby felt badly. “No, really,” she said, looking down into the angry teacher’s face. “I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything to do with the play and I don’t know what to write. But I’ll try again.” She sat down, dreading the punishment that surely was to follow.
Concentrating hard, and not looking up for fear of enraging the teacher further, Abby wrote two rough copies before finalizing her essay on a clean sheet. She proofread it once again, satisfied that it wouldn’t embarrass her if Miss Iman made her read it aloud. In fact, thought Abby, it was pretty darned good.
Nothing happened until the end of the class. Just before the bell, Miss Iman asked Abby to come to her desk before she left. Several people in the class snickered knowingly. Others gave her sympathetic smiles.
Abby gathered her books and made her way up the aisle. She stopped at Miss Iman’s desk. “I’m very sorry, Miss Iman. I didn’t mean to be rude. It just came out that way. Here’s my work.” Abby placed the paper on the desk.
Miss Iman read the essay as the other kids streamed out the door. Abby tried not to notice their giggles and funny looks as each one passed by to drop their essays on the teacher�
��s desk.
“Well written, Abby,” said Miss Iman. “Very good. And very imaginative, too, creating a ghost for the theatre. It almost seems like you believe you saw him, which is very good writing, allowing us to suspend our disbelief. I steal that term, of course, from the theatre.”
Abby waited. “What’s my punishment?” she finally blurted.
“Punishment? Why, there’s no punishment. You did your work, and did it well. You were just a little slow starting.”
Abby smiled gratefully. “Thank you, Miss Iman. Thank you very much.”
As she walked to her history class, Abby reflected on the whole incident. It turned out to be not at all like grade seven. For one thing, back in those days she would’ve been sent to the principal’s office, then banished home with detentions, suspensions, the whole shebang.
Secondly, her opinion of Miss Iman had changed. Yes, she had her idiosyncrasies. Yes, she tried too hard. But all in all, she was a really nice woman who wanted to be a good teacher.
Thirdly, Abby hadn’t realized how sorry she was about not being in Pinocchio.
“Oh well,” she muttered aloud. “It was my choice.”
“What was your choice?” asked a very familiar voice behind her.
“Mrs. Featherstone! What are you doing here?”
Joy walked along with Abby. “I just delivered one hundred posters for Pinocchio. Your drama club promised to plaster the area. Each member is taking five. I wonder if they could handle more?”
“Probably. I could bring more posters to school tomorrow if you’d like.”
“Thanks. Maybe I will. Advertising is key.”
“Absolutely,” agreed Abby. “If you don’t know about it, you’re not going to buy tickets.”
“So true,” nodded Joy. Suddenly, she stopped walking. “Abby, you may be the answer to my problem. Can I ask a large favour?”
“Shoot,” said Abby. “Your wish is my command.”
“Just now, at the office, I heard that Margaret Small has come down with some sort of bug.”