by Barbara Dee
I don’t even answer that. I watch her add more raisins to her arm. “Mom, how can you keep doing this to us?”
“Doing this to you?” She spreads more goop. “This has nothing to do with you, baby. This is my work.”
“I know it is! But you promised me—”
“I promised to keep my work separate from the Improv Club. I never said I’d stop doing performances.”
She has a point, doesn’t she? Technically that’s what she said. “But people will see,” I argue lamely.
“They’re supposed to see. That’s the idea: to show people how we’re one with nature. Or should be.” She does three or four jumping jacks. Only a few raisins and some sunflower seeds fall off. “Maybe I should add some butter. Although, wait a sec: Do birds even like butter?”
Okay, just pretend she didn’t ask that. “Mom. You’re not advertising this Birdfeeder thing in the club, are you? Or talking about, I don’t know, Nu-Trisha, or any other performance you’ve ever—”
“Marigold,” Mom says, rinsing off her hands. “Enough already, okay? I’m getting tired of all these questions.”
She didn’t answer you! “So you’re saying you swear you haven’t—”
“Just stop it, all right?” She shakes her hands impatiently, spraying water on Beezer’s head. “I really wish you’d listen to me!”
“I am listening. I’m totally listening. But this girl said—”
“Yes?” Her eyes are glowing now. Challenging me.
“That people are talking about you. They’re reading about you online. And you haven’t even done this stupid Birdfeeder act yet.”
She crosses her still-goopy arms. “And that’s what you’re listening to? Not to your own mother, but to anonymous gossip? Fed to you by an unnamed girl? Wow, you’re really hurting me, Marigold.”
“No, Mom,” I croak, “you’re hurting me. You’re doing exactly what you always do, and it’s hurting our whole family.”
Her face goes scary-pale, like she’s just become a ghost of herself. I see her take a slow, deep yoga breath, then another. She rests her hands on my shoulders; I can feel damp fingerprints ruining my wool sweater, but I don’t say anything else. I can’t.
Finally she speaks in a quiet, choky voice. “I love you, Marigold. I wish you were prouder of my work, I wish you trusted me more, I wish you would forgive me about Emma. I can apologize to you until I’m blue in the face, but I can’t control your feelings, and ultimately those things are your personal choice. All I ask is that when you judge me, you look at me with your own eyes. All right? Will you try to do that for me, please?”
Yes, And
For dinner Mom microwaves some veggie lasagna, but instead of eating with us, she takes Beezer out for an extra-long Evening Walk. The next morning she takes him while I’m still in the shower, so we never have one of those awkward post-fight meals, the kind where you don’t know what to look at, and everyone is super-polite. Luckily, Kennedy is still ecstatic about Dexter, so she chatters away as if everything is normal.
In homeroom I apologize to Ethan for running out on him yesterday. “Girl emergency,” I lie.
He definitely blushes. “What about today?”
“I can’t. Tomorrow,” I promise hurriedly, as Jada walks into the room.
All day long I keep thinking about Mom, how she asked me to look at her with my own eyes. Well, sure, I think. Whose eyes does she expect me to look with? But I have a sick feeling in my stomach that won’t go away. It’s as if, okay, I had it out with her, I needed to do it and good for me. But something went wrong. I’m not sure what, but I think I said something I can’t take back this time. Layla and Quinn keep asking me if I’m okay, and I keep telling them I’m fine, but the truth is, I’m not. Not even close.
Right before dismissal I ask Layla to prop open the auditorium door.
“What for?” she asks suspiciously.
“No reason,” I answer. “Will you?”
“Sure, why not. I do random stupid things all the time.”
When the bell rings, I hang out in the wheelchair stall in the girls’ room. A bunch of girls bang through; I recognize Ashley’s laugh and Layla’s boots, and also Kirsten, Lexie, and Molly from Quilting Quorum. When I’m sure everybody’s gone, I come out of the stall and wash my hands.
For a long time then I study my face in the mirror: I’m pale right now, maybe because I didn’t sleep last night, and today I didn’t eat much lunch. But my hair looks pretty good: Dad’s hair, luckily, not the sproingy stuff that Mom has. Although I definitely have her eyes: big, dark, and emotional. Maybe too emotional, sometimes. Exactly like hers.
I have a crazy thought then: If I look at the world through these eyes, am I looking through her eyes? No; of course not, I’m looking through my own. My eyes may look like hers, but they see things differently. Totally differently. I mean, we’re totally different people.
But how do you know you’re seeing things through your own eyes? Maybe you think you are, but really, you’re just collecting other people’s points of view. Maybe you’re seeing the world through their eyes, and you don’t even know it.
I wonder about that.
Because it’s possible, isn’t it, that I’m seeing Mom through Jada’s eyes. And Lisa Sperry’s. And everybody’s since second grade, including Trisha Hartley and Emma. And even Gram and Kennedy and Dad and Mona; maybe I’m looking at her through their eyes too.
And maybe that’s unfair to Mom. Maybe it’s even unfair to me.
I drown my face in freezing water, then crank out some paper towel.
A couple of minutes later, I sneak into the auditorium. Layla had stuck a science textbook in the door, so I slip in easily. I crouch behind the sound-and-light board until I’m sure there’s enough commotion onstage to distract everybody. When Mom tells everyone to start moving chairs around, I slide into a seat in the last row, slumped low enough so that only my eyes are showing over the row ahead of me.
Mom is scurrying around the stage in her bare feet, dressed in a black leotard I recognize from the chocolate cake performance. She’s pointing where chairs ought to go, dragging some herself, chatting and smiling the whole time. “Okay,” she’s saying in her clear, strong theater voice. “We’re working on Showing, not Telling. Remember, don’t just talk at each other. Give and take, listen with your entire body, and be specific. Yes?”
Quinn is asking her a question. Mom puts her hand on Quinn’s shoulder and nods enthusiastically. Quinn beams.
“Are we ready, then?” Mom calls out. “Okay, I’ve already paired you up, so let’s get started with the Who Game. Remember, A knows the relationship, B doesn’t. Curtain.”
Then one after the other, kids get up onstage in twos, doing scenes about job interviews and surprise birthday parties and first dates. In every scene there’s a moment when the A character tells the B character he knows her from somewhere else, and the B character goes, Ohhhh. Some of the kids seem nervous, like they have no idea what to say next, so Mom calls out little pep talks from the audience, like, “Keep it simple,” and “Nothing is a mistake.” A few of the kids (Brody, weirdly enough, and Megan) look perfectly comfortable walking around the stage and making up dialogue. And even though nothing they say is fascinating or hilarious, they almost seem like characters you’d watch in a real play.
Then Quinn gets up with this pudgy eighth-grade boy named Aaron. As soon as Quinn starts talking, Ashley calls out from the front row, “Hello? We can’t hear you.”
“Try to project,” Mom says to Quinn.
Quinn nods. Her next line, though, is almost just as soft.
“Becca, I still can’t hear anything,” Ashley announces.
“Maybe you would if you stopped criticizing,” Layla snaps.
“I’m not criticizing, I’m giving feedback. There’s a difference. And Layla? You should actually mind your own business.”
“Girls, that’s enough.” Mom jumps up onstage and talks privately to Quinn. I c
an tell by the way she’s throwing back her own shoulders that she’s correcting Quinn’s posture. Finally Quinn takes a bunch of yoga breaths, straightens her back, and speaks. You still can’t hear every word she’s saying, but she’s definitely louder.
When they finish the scene, Mom tells them she liked how specific they were, but how they need to “use the silence,” whatever that means. Then she calls out, “Next pair,” and Layla and Ashley take their places.
Uh-oh. Maybe, according to Mom, chemistry is mysterious, but right away you can tell this chemistry is just bad. Layla immediately curls herself up in a chair, while Ashley stands off to the side, her hands on her hips, glaring at her.
“Curtain,” Mom says.
Layla stretches her legs. “God, I’m so bored,” she says. “Just sitting here, all by myself. I wish something would happen for once.”
“Show, don’t tell,” Mom coaches. “Remember?”
Layla yawns.
“Better,” Mom says.
Ashley saunters onstage. She points to an empty chair next to Layla. “Excuse me, is this seat taken?” she asks.
“What seat?” Layla snarls, looking around. “I don’t see any seat.”
Ashley purses her lips. “Oh, I guess you forgot your glasses today.”
“I don’t wear glasses.”
“Oh, then, I guess I thought you were somebody else.”
“Really? Like who?”
“Someone who didn’t act freaky all the time.”
“Excuse me?”
“Or went around snarking just so people would think she was cool.”
Layla jumps out of her chair. “Shut up, Ashley! You have totally no right—”
“Oh, yes, I do. I can say whatever I want, Layla. I’m improvising.”
“OKAY, STOP.” Mom jumps onto the stage in one move, like a pouncing cat. “Can everyone please come onstage and make a circle? Because this is the most important session we’re ever going to have.”
The whole club—it looks like twenty-five kids—climbs onstage and forms a circle around Mom. She paces for a few seconds, frowning. When everyone is completely quiet, she says, “All right. What we were seeing in that scene is the opposite of improvisation. Because the whole basis of improv is Yes, And. And the only thing up on this stage just now was No, No, No.”
“Yeah, well, Ashley and I probably shouldn’t work together,” Layla mutters. “We aren’t friends, you know.”
“Let me tell you something, precious students,” Mom says. “Whatever negative energy is going on between you in the real world, you never bring it with you in front of the curtain. I did that once—I acted out a grudge onstage. And maybe it was dramatic, maybe it was funny, maybe it was the best performance I ever did. But you know what? It was also ugly. I used the stage as a personal weapon, and that’s not something that should ever happen.”
She takes a deep breath.
Not me. I’m not even breathing.
All the kids are watching her, but still she’s just standing there. Completely still. So still she might as well be upside down, because not one single marble would be rolling.
What’s she waiting for?
Ulp.
Is she about to start a performance?
Finally she presses her hands together, and speaks very slowly and carefully. “Listen, guys, there’s something else I wanted to talk to you about. You are all spectacular, and I’ve loved every minute we’ve spent together. But I’ve decided I need to end this club. For personal reasons.”
“Oh no,” Quinn says. Her hands fly up to her mouth.
Megan glances at Ashley, whose cheeks are turning hot pink.
“But how come?” Brody says. “Why now?”
“Personal means shut up,” Layla says. She looks as if she’s about to cry. “Becca, I’m really so sorry about what just happened!”
“Me too,” Ashley says quickly. “This whole thing was totally my fault. And I swear, from now on—”
Mom shakes her head. “It’s not about today; I actually decided this last night and I told Mr. Shamsky this morning. Believe me, I really hate doing this to all of you, and on such short notice, but I have other feelings to consider. That’s all I can say about it. Okay?”
No one answers.
My heart is banging so loudly I’m sure everybody can hear. But no one is looking in my direction. They’re all just frozen, staring at Mom.
She holds out her arms. She’s smiling, but even from back here, I can tell she’s faking. “Hey, before we wrap today, group hug. The whole club.”
“Do we have to?” Brody says.
“YES,” Layla answers, dragging him to his feet.
Then all twenty-five kids in Mom’s Improv Club squish together onstage.
Which causes exactly enough commotion for me to slip out the door.
Changing the Scenes
It takes the club another ten minutes to officially break up. I’m standing in the lobby outside the auditorium watching everyone file out, but nobody stops to talk. Even Layla and Quinn are so wrapped up in their conversation that they walk right past me.
“Nothing you did,” Quinn is telling Layla.
“I know she said that,” Layla answers. “But why—”
“So unfair. This late,” I hear Megan grumble.
“Yeah,” Ashley tells her. “And now we have to go sign up for some stupid—”
When I’m sure every kid is finally gone, I slip back inside the auditorium. Mom is stacking the folding chairs onstage as if absolutely nothing has just happened.
“Oh, Mari,” she says in a cheery voice. Fake-cheery. “Sorry I’m running so late today. The kids were a bit tight warming up—”
“I heard you,” I blurt. “About ending the club. I was sitting in the back.”
She stares. “You were?”
“Is it because of me? Is that why? Because of our fight last night?”
“Oh, baby.” She smiles sadly. “That, and everything else. I’ve been thinking about what you’ve been saying, how I just keep doing the same things over and over. And you’re right, I’ve been so selfish. It’s time for me to put your feelings first. Yours and Kennie’s both.”
I swallow hard.
It’s the line I’ve been waiting for her to say, I guess.
But what’s funny is, now that she’s actually said it, whammo, I completely change the scene on her.
“Thanks,” I say. “Except my feeling is, you should do the club.”
“What?”
“I saw the whole thing,” I tell her. “Not just what you said at the end. You’re a really good teacher.”
“Well, thank you, Mari. But—”
“And I don’t want you to quit.”
“You’re serious?”
I nod. “Promise you won’t, okay?”
She rakes her sproingy hair out of her eyes. “Well, Marigold, I mean, I’m just shocked,” she says. “Because last night you were convinced I came to Improv dripping peanut butter.”
“Yeah, but then I remembered Layla’s allergic. She’d challenge you to a joust if you showed up like that.”
Mom stares at me.
“That’s a joke,” I explain. I smile at her, but she’s still not smiling back.
Then I reach to touch her arm. “Listen,” I say, “everyone is really psyched about this club. You should hear them in the lunchroom talking gibberish all the time. Plus there’s the Mochahouse. All the parents are coming, right? You can’t just not show.”
“Right,” Mom says slowly. “The Mochahouse.” She presses her hands on my shoulders and gives me her deep-in-the-retinas look. “But Mari, you’re sure it’s okay that I’m at your school every day? Completely okay? Because I’m serious, baby, if it’s not—”
“You’ll know,” I promise.
* * *
While Mom is off telling Mr. Shamsky that she’s not quitting Improv after all, I race down the hall. Quilting Quorum is about to end for the day, and I want to be th
ere when the end-of-after-school bell rings.
Because suddenly I realize that there’s something else I need to do. Something I should have done yesterday, but maybe it’s too late.
As soon as Ms. Canetti’s door opens, Jada Sperry walks out, followed by Kirsten, Lexie, and Molly.
“Hey,” I call out. “Jada, can I please talk to you a minute?”
She stops and narrows her eyes at me. “Sure,” she says.
The eighth-grade girls stop too. Maybe they’re waiting to see what happens. Okay, fine, I tell myself. So I have an audience.
“Well?” Jada says impatiently.
Go. “I was just watching my mom,” I say. “And she was great. So before you say anything else about her, get your facts straight, okay?”
Jada laughs like I’m this crazy person. “What are you talking about, Marigold?”
“The Improv club. Have you seen it with your own eyes? Because maybe you just want it to be bad.”
“Okay, you know what? This is extremely fascinating, but I really have to—”
“No, you don’t,” Kirsten says.
“Excuse me?” Jada flashes her eyes at the eighth-grade girls, but all three of them stare right back at her.
“Marigold’s talking to you,” Kirsten tells her. “Don’t walk away; it’s rude.”
“Incredibly rude,” Lexie agrees, and Molly nods.
Jada’s face goes pale. She opens her mouth to protest, but nothing comes out.
I mean, seriously, she just looks kind of stunned. Also trapped.
And maybe it’s stupid, but right now I do feel sorry for her.
And I know just what she feels like. But I blurt out: “Jada, listen. You’re the last one who should be saying things about my mom. Because I heard about your parents fighting, and how everyone was talking. And that was awful for you, right? And really, really unfair. But it wasn’t Quinn’s fault. She couldn’t help it if—”
“Shut up, SHUT UP!” Jada explodes. “You’re not even from here, Marigold, so don’t you dare talk about my family! Or anything!”
She pushes past Molly. We watch her run down the hall, almost crashing into a group of sixth-grade soccer players.
