George

by Alex Gino

  Ms. Udell asked the boys who wished to audition to raise their hands. George joined them, lifting her hand just to the height of her head. Ms. Udell counted six blue index cards, shuffled them, and passed them out, along with six fresh copies of the practice part. George was number six. Last. The longest to possibly wait until her audition, with WILBUR staring up at her in bold, thick letters. George slumped in her chair and turned the page over.

  Ms. Udell then distributed nine pink cards to girls who raised outstretched fingers and mouthed numbers to each other.

  “Yes!” exclaimed Kelly, who waved two fingers in the air at George like a victory sign.

  Janelle stood, waving a card with the number one on it. She held the door open for Ms. Udell, who pushed her chair into the hallway, where they both disappeared. George listened closely, but she couldn’t hear a sound from the hallway over the murmurs and rustling papers inside the classroom.

  George tried to bury her mind in her homework. Monday night’s homework always took forever, because the spelling words were also vocabulary words, and Ms. Udell insisted that each student write an official dictionary definition of each word before using it in a sentence. With Mrs. Fields’s permission, George headed to the back of the room.

  As she bent down to get a dictionary, someone in the room sniffled. George’s stomach lurched when there was another sniffle and a snort, followed by the words, “Oh, Charlotte, I miss you so,” and snickers. George bit her lower lip and walked the long way back to her seat, to stay as far from Jeff’s and Rick’s desks as possible.

  By the time George was back in her chair, Janelle popped her head in through the doorway. Kelly bounced up and rushed out the door. Soon, she came beaming back into the classroom and announced, with great flourish, “Number three, you’re up!”

  Kelly gave George a thumbs-up sign and hunched over in her seat. A few minutes later, on her way to pick up a dictionary from the back of the room, she dropped a note on George’s desk. It was folded into a small square. When George opened it, the folds formed a grid across the page. The note read:

  Charlotte,

  You’ll be R-A-D-I-A-N-T!!

  Kelly

  George couldn’t help but grin. Radiant was one of the words Charlotte had woven into her web to save Wilbur, and it had been one of their vocabulary words last week. It meant “beaming and sparkling,” and George couldn’t think of a finer compliment. She took a break from her homework to recite her lines silently. She remembered them all, and she knew just when to pause to give the words their best effect.

  Maddy looked pale when she left the room, and even paler when she came back. Emma clutched her lines tightly. Maybe if the girls were terrible enough, Ms. Udell would be so relieved that George was good that she wouldn’t care that George wasn’t a girl. At least, not a regular girl.

  There was a long wait after the last girl came back into the room, as Ms. Udell listened to the students from Mr. Jackson’s class. Eventually, Ms. Udell came in to announce that it was time for the boys to take their turns. Robert was first and came back bragging, “Beat that, number two!” But George wasn’t worried about the boys. Her competition was already back in their seats, writing definitions for words like gesture and narrator.

  Finally, the fifth boy, Chris, went out into the hallway. He was a chubby white kid with a toothy grin. He returned with a smile wider than ever, and danced victoriously back to his seat. Then it was George’s turn.

  In the hallway, Ms. Udell sat in the blocky wooden chair—the one that matched her blocky wooden desk. The chair looked awkward without its mate.

  “You don’t have your sheet, George,” Ms. Udell said.

  “Don’t need it.”

  “Well, that’s a good sign. It means you must have practiced.” Ms. Udell gave a kind smile. “But do speak up.”

  Before Ms. Udell could say anything else, George closed her eyes and began. The first words rushed out of her mouth, but then she slowed into the cadence she had practiced. She felt herself as Charlotte and gave each word her full attention as it left her tongue. The words felt even more like hers than they had in Kelly’s room. George reached the end of Charlotte’s monologue and was ready for the dialogue with Wilbur that followed. But George didn’t hear her cue. She opened her eyes. Ms. Udell was frowning, and a thick crease had formed across her forehead.

  “George, what was that?” she asked.

  “I …,” started George, but there were no words to finish the sentence. “I …”

  “Was that supposed to be some kind of joke? Because it wasn’t very funny.”

  “It wasn’t a joke. I want to be Charlotte.” George’s voice sounded much smaller now that she was speaking her own words.

  “You know I can’t very well cast you as Charlotte. I have too many girls who want the part. Besides, imagine how confused people would be. Now, if you’re interested in being Wilbur, that’s a possibility. Or maybe Templeton—he’s a funny guy.”

  “No, thanks. I just … I wanted …”

  “Okay, then.” Ms. Udell eyed George oddly. “For now, we need to get into the room to get ready to go. Would you hold the door for me?”

  Ms. Udell pushed her chair back into the classroom, shaking her head. She announced that it was time to pack up, and sent George’s row first to the coat closet.

  George muttered to herself as she loaded her math book into her bag. Stupid stupid stupid. Stupid. Stupid body. Stupid brain. Stupid boys and stupid girls. Stupid everything. She kicked at the leg of her desk, knocking it into Emma’s chair in front of her. Emma turned back to give George a dirty look.

  George stared intently at the speckled tile floor and wished she were home in her bed. When Ms. Udell called her row, George hoisted her bag onto her back and shuffled over to the boys’ line, still staring at the ground.

  In the yard, Kelly bounded up to George, her ponytail flopping behind her. “So? How did it go? What did she think? Was she impressed or what? I bet she’ll let you be Charlotte.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.” George scraped her foot against the pavement.

  “What happened?” Kelly cried, grabbing George by the shoulders. “Did you mess up?”

  “Leave me alone.” George jerked back and tried to head to her bus.

  “Did she not like it?”

  “No, Kelly. She didn’t like it. She hated it.”

  “She said that?!” Kelly’s eyes were wide.

  “She thought it was a joke.”

  “Oh, well. At least you tried.” Kelly shrugged. “That’s what my dad says.”

  “AAAAAAHHHH!” George screamed in Kelly’s face. “I don’t want to hear what your dad says!”

  Kelly’s shoulders shrank. She opened and closed her mouth, then turned toward her bus line.

  George took the steep steps onto her own bus and shuffled along the narrow corridor, her feet sticking to the rubbery floor. She picked an empty seat midway back and hoped that no one would take the spot next to her. Hugging her backpack tightly, she buried her head in the dark space between the backpack and her chest and held back her tears.

  “So how were tryouts?” Mom asked later that evening. She had just gotten home from work a few minutes before and had started on dinner by dumping a brick of frozen peas into a glass bowl.

  “I didn’t audition,” George mumbled. She sat at the kitchen table, tapping her pencil on her pinkie. Early evening light fell through the window onto her fractions homework.

  “Why not? You practiced with Kelly for hours on Sunday.”

  “There was a lot to memorize.”

  “Gee-gee, you know every word to every commercial that comes on TV.” She pulled a bag of frozen fish fillets from the packed freezer and arranged six on a baking sheet.

  George shrugged. “That’s different.”

  “I was just so excited to see my little guy onstage.” Mom tousled George’s hair. George brushed her aside with a shrug and buried her head deep in her homework. Neithe
r of them said another word until Scott slammed the front door, announcing his arrival.

  “Wash up,” Mom told him. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

  “Wash up? What makes you think I’m dirty?”

  “Because I’ve met you. You’re always dirty. Now go wash your hands. With soap!”

  Over dinner, Mom asked Scott about his day at school.

  “It was awesome!” Scott exclaimed.

  “Oh, really?” Mom was skeptical. Scott rarely showed such enthusiasm about his education. “What happened?”

  “So we were in PE, you know, and we had to go to the outside track and run a mile. And I have PE sixth period, right?” Scott waved his fork around as he spoke. “So there was this kid. He’s not even out of shape, really. But I think he has lunch fifth period. And I know he had macaroni, because he ralphed it up, all over the track. Mr. Phillips had to blow the whistle and let us stop early because he was afraid that someone would slip and fall in it.”

  Mom started rubbing her temples at the mention of macaroni, and by this point had her head fully in her hands. “Scott,” she warned through tight lips.

  Scott ignored her. “I was right behind him when it happened, so I got to see the vomit up close. Some of the macaroni pieces were still whole. I think it was mac ’n’ cheese, because it was all yellow—”

  “Scott!” Mom shouted. “Could you please tell a different story? Perhaps one less intimately related to the inner workings of the digestive system?”

  “Sorry, Mom. I’ll talk about boring things. I know, how about George? He’s always good for being boring.”

  “Your brother is not boring,” said Mom.

  George had been staring directly at her food. She hated thinking about gym class, even someone else’s gym class. Gym class meant boys yelling at her to run faster or throw the ball harder. She would hate to run a mile on a track with a bunch of them.

  “What about that play you’re gonna be in with your girlfriend?” asked Scott.

  “She’s not my girlfriend,” George said into her plate.

  “Your brother didn’t try out,” Mom explained.

  “Why not?!” Scott cried. “You spent all weekend practicing for a play about a dumb spider, and then you didn’t even audition?”

  “Charlotte isn’t dumb!” George threw her fork down. It ricocheted off the edge of her plate and twirled end over end in the air. All eyes were on the utensil, which spun as if in slow motion. It hit the ceiling and bounced on Scott’s head before rattling to the floor.

  “Ow!” Scott yelled. “Did you see what he did, Mom? He tried to kill me!”

  “Scott, he couldn’t have done that if he tried. It was an accident and I’m sure he’s sorry. Aren’t you, Gee-gee?”

  George nodded, in a daze. She could still feel the weight of the fork in her hands.

  “Then tell your brother so,” Mom said before heading to the freezer for some ice.

  “Sorry, Scott,” George mumbled.

  Scott rubbed his head and grinned. “Man, you’ve got some arm on you. If you ever got in a fight, I bet you could be pretty good.”

  Mom returned with a plastic bag filled with several pieces of ice. Scott held the bag on his head with one hand and resumed eating with the other.

  “Well,” Mom said, “at least the injury hasn’t affected your appetite.”

  The flaky fish patties and soft peas required little chewing, and soon George’s plate was empty. She asked to be excused, and dumped her dishes into the stainless steel sink. She ran upstairs and closed the door to her room just as tears began to fall. She flopped onto her bed and cried into her pillow. She cried about Charlotte. She cried about being mad at Kelly. She cried about Ms. Udell thinking she was joking. But mostly, she cried about herself.

  Then she pulled the denim bag from the bottom of her closet and brushed her fingers against the glossy magazines. She rubbed the cool pages against her cheeks, leaving behind tearstains that warped the covers. She told herself she didn’t care whether she ruined them.

  She should throw the magazines away, she thought to herself. She should get rid of them completely. But she couldn’t just put them in the kitchen trash. Mom would see them and want to know where they came from. Even if George put them directly into the recycling can outside, someone might notice them. Besides, she wasn’t sure whether she could dump her magazine friends like that. And even if she could, she couldn’t stop wanting to be like them.

  So she hugged the magazines tightly to her chest, then packed them carefully away for next time.

  Mom flicked on the light in George’s bedroom the next morning. “Time to get moving. My alarm never went off. You already missed the bus. I’m driving you and your brother to school.”

  Mom left the door of George’s room ajar and cursed her way downstairs to the kitchen. George lugged her body out of bed, shrugged on some clothing, and plodded downstairs.

  “Where’s your backpack?” Mom asked, brushing her hair with one hand as she guided her shoes onto her feet with the other.

  “Upstairs,” George answered groggily.

  “Well, go get it.”

  “What about breakfast?”

  “You’ll eat in the car. And don’t forget your shoes!”

  George gathered her things into her backpack, wiggled her feet into her sneakers, and trod back downstairs.

  Mom was already by the front door, rummaging in her purse for her keys.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “I dunno,” said George. “Probably still in bed.”

  “Well, go upstairs and get him. Tell him he has one minute to get down here, or it’s no phone for a week.”

  “Can I pull the covers off him?”

  “Sure.”

  George bounded up the stairs once more, this time with proper motivation. Parent-condoned sibling cruelty was a rare gift, and not to be wasted. Mom had left the light on in Scott’s room, but Scott was fully asleep, snoring away. George found the two bottom corners of his thick green comforter and whisked the blanket off in one solid yank.

  “Hey!” Scott grumbled.

  “Mom said I could!” said George. “She also said no phone for a week if you’re not downstairs in a minute.”

  “She just doesn’t trust that I’ve got the situation under control,” said Scott, already standing. He was wearing his favorite pair of jeans and a wrinkled black T-shirt. “I try to maximize my rest so that I can be at my best for my education, and what does she do? Complain, complain, complain.” He ran his fingers through his curly hair a few times and slipped his feet into tall, unlaced boots. Then he slung his backpack over one shoulder and jogged down the stairs. George followed.

  “You look like you slept in that!” Mom declared.

  “I did.” Scott grinned.

  “And you haven’t brushed your teeth, have you?”

  “Nope.” Scott’s grin grew wider.

  “You’re disgusting,” said Mom, resignation in her voice.

  “I’m a teenage boy,” said Scott. “What do you expect?”

  Mom handed each of her children a granola bar, then motioned them toward the garage.

  “I still don’t see why I can’t just take the next bus,” said Scott as he buckled himself into the front passenger’s seat. Scott took the city bus to high school, not a school bus like George did.

  “Because the next bus isn’t for forty-five minutes, and by that time you’ll have missed first period.” Mom backed the car out of the garage and down the driveway.

  “It’s only English. I already speak English real goodly.”

  “You’re a laugh riot, Scotto.” As Mom drove, she rambled on about how she needed a new alarm clock and how really her children were old enough to get up on their own anyway, and hadn’t she bought Scott an alarm clock last year for Christmas for that very reason?

  George stared out the backseat window, counting telephone poles. When she was little, her grandfather had told her that if she counted a hu
ndred telephone poles in a row, an electric fairy would grant her one wish. George didn’t really believe in the electric fairy anymore, and sometimes she didn’t even know what she was wishing for, but counting telephone poles had become a comforting habit.

  Room 205 buzzed as students filed in and hung their jackets and book bags in the coat closet. A group of girls gathered by the pencil sharpener around Maddy and Emma, who showed off the matching temporary pink streaks that Maddy’s older sister had put into their hair the night before.

  Ms. Udell subtly pointed at George and motioned with one finger for her to come up to the teacher’s desk. The desk had probably been in the same room since the school was built; it might have been even older than Ms. Udell. The original shiny coating was worn away completely in some places and deeply scratched in the rest. If you dug your fingernail into the desk hard enough, you could leave a mark in the waxy varnish.

  “You surprised me yesterday, George,” Ms. Udell said, her reading glasses perched on her head. “I can’t cast you as Charlotte, of course. I have too many girls who want the part.”

  “I know.” George hoped that Ms. Udell would let her take her seat.

  “But,” Ms. Udell continued, “you did a good job. You have passion and dedication. Are you sure you don’t want another part? You could be Wilbur.”

  Wilbur, the dirty pig. George shook her head. That would be worse than not being in the play at all.

  “Or one of the other boys’ parts. Templeton? Mr. Zuckerman? The gander?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Perhaps a narrator, then? The narrators have a really important role. They keep the audience informed.”

  George shook her head. She didn’t want to be in the play, watching someone else be Charlotte.

  “Well, okay.” Ms. Udell eyed George warily. “I guess you can be in the crew.”

  The classroom door opened and Kelly bounded in. “Did I get a part? Did I?”

  Ms. Udell’s focus turned to the bubble of ebullience bouncing in front of her. “Kelly, you will find out about your part when everyone else does. At the end of the day.”