by Barbara Dee
Then Kirsten pats my back. “Nice,” she says. “Even if you got a little warm and fuzzy there at the end.”
“I just didn’t want to be nasty,” I say.
“Why not? She totally deserves it.”
I shrug. There’s no way I can explain how I know about Jada.
“You walking home, Marigold?” Lexie asks. “Or taking the late bus?”
“Walking,” I answer. “But I’m actually waiting for someone.”
She catches Molly’s eye with an I-told-you-so grin. “You mean Ethan? Well, don’t let us stop you.”
And they head out just before Mom shows up with Mr. Shamsky, both of them laughing like they’re old friends.
After my Big Confrontation Scene with Jada, a few major things happen.
One is that Ethan and I decide not to be secret anymore. It’s not like we’re all boyfriend/girlfriend in homeroom or anything, but at dismissal we meet by the flagpole and walk home together, some of the time holding hands. Brody still makes his obnoxious comments, of course, but basically we just laugh it off. Besides, the way Brody is hanging around Layla these days, it’s not like he can get away with too much teasing.
Another development: The eighth-grade girls go spreading the word around school that Marigold Bailey Told Off Jada Sperry. And I don’t know if it’s because of that, exactly, but the permanent crowd around Jada is definitely shrinking a little. Even Ashley and Megan aren’t glued to her side anymore. In fact, sometimes they sit at our table to talk about Improv, and once they even started laughing with Layla about “the time Marigold said ‘squeep.’ “
I guess the other main result of my Jada Scene is that I start working on the Thing in Quilting Quorum. It’s like, one morning I just wake up and realize that I don’t have to worry about Jada’s evil eye anymore. And if Ms. Canetti doesn’t understand why someone would sew a non-quilt with non-patterns, that’s her problem, not mine. So I start bringing my own fabric scraps—Mom’s scraps, the ones Gram sent me—from home, sewing small sections at a time. And then one day, I think, This is stupid. I should just bring in the whole big alien-blob. So I stuff it into my backpack, which means I have to leave a few notebooks home, but okay.
Amazingly, the eighth-grade girls love the crazy, clashing shape. Kirsten and Molly hold up a few of the corners and waft it around the classroom before Ms. Canetti shows up. “Look, it’s a mutant rainbow!” Molly shouts.
“It’s fabulous,” Lexie gushes. “When it’s open house, we should totally hang it in the front lobby.”
I stop sewing. “You mean right near the main office? Are you serious?”
“Yeah. It’ll make the lobby look like a psychedelic circus tent. In a good way.”
“Omigod! What a fantastic idea!” Molly squeals. “I love it!”
“Listen, guys,” I begin.
“You’re overruled. It’s three against one.”
Right then Jada walks into the room and takes the seat nearest Ms. Canetti’s desk. She picks up a square of fabric and immediately starts sewing, not even bothering to talk to any of us.
Which makes me feel a teeny bit guilty, actually.
But I know I can’t waste more time on Jada, because now I have something new to worry about. And the thought of the whole town staring at my crazy Thing, seeing it through their own eyes, judging it, is making my stomach start to hurt.
I mean, Mom is the one who enjoys freaking out an audience. Not me.
Fireworks
“Erg, I’m so nervous,” Layla says. “I think I may barf.”
“Well, don’t,” Mom says. “I can’t afford a new sofa.” She squints at Layla’s face, then slowly applies some eyeliner.
“Ooh, I know, Becca. Can you do Egyptian eyes? You know, thick and black, with the sides coming way, way out?”
“I can. But I won’t.”
“Why not?”
“Performers should never wear anything too specific. It distracts the audience.”
Kennedy gives me a look. “Was that why you wouldn’t let Dad buy you a diamond ring?” she asks.
Mom smiles. “Where did you get that from?”
“Dad. That’s what he told us when he gave a rock to Mona.”
“Kennie,” I say in a warning voice.
“It’s okay, Mari,” Mom says calmly. “The truth is, that’s what I told him at the time. But the real reason I didn’t let him buy an engagement ring is that we couldn’t afford one. Two starving artists,” she explains to Layla.
“Cool,” Layla says, admiring her eyes in the mirror.
The doorbell rings.
“Door’s open,” Mom calls. “Make your entrance.”
Quinn comes rushing into the living room, looking surprisingly un-babyish in her black leotard. “Sorry I’m late,” she says, panting. “But my parents just got home from work, and there was all this traffic—”
“Relax, sweetheart, and save that energy for the performance.” Mom studies Quinn’s face a minute, then starts lining up foundations, powders, creams, eye shadows, and lipsticks all over the coffee table. She throws a towel over Quinn’s shoulders and starts putting on Quinn’s makeup. “Is your dad parked downstairs?”
“Across the street,” Quinn says. “But he said, ‘Let Mrs. Bailey take her time with your makeup. I want you to look beautiful.’ “
“Theater makeup’s not for beauty,” Mom corrects her. She smears on some rouge. “It’s so the audience can read your expression.” She outlines Quinn’s lips with some liner and then puts on some lipstick, a cherry color that makes Quinn’s whole face come alive.
“There,” she announces. “Perfecta.”
And then Beezer trots over and licks Quinn across the nose.
“Bad dog!” Mom cries. “Now I have to do a touchup.”
Layla smirks at me. “When you finish, Becca, I think it’s Marigold’s turn.”
“No, it’s not,” I say. “I’m not performing!”
“Au contraire,” Layla argues. “Everyone’s going to be looking at your quilt. And as the artist—”
“They’re not going to care what my face looks like. No makeup, Layla.”
“Well, you should at least change that,” she says, pointing accusingly at my Wile E. Coyote tee.
“I like what I’m wearing,” I reply. “No, wrong: I love it.”
“What about nail polish?” Kennedy asks. She goes running into our bedroom and comes out with a handful of bottles.
I groan. “If I put some on, will you guys leave me alone?”
They all promise. So I grab Fun in the Sun and do two quick coats. Then we all—Mom, Kennedy, Quinn, Layla, and me—race out of the apartment and squeeze into Quinn’s car, everybody laughing and talking way too loud.
“You look beautiful,” Quinn’s dad tells us.
“No, we don’t, we look dramatic,” Quinn answers. And then Layla starts doing all these silent-movie gestures that end up whacking me in the head.
“Girls, center and compose yourselves,” Mom says. “Do your breathing and be calm.”
“Yes, swami,” Layla says.
Not me, though. The whole ride to school, my stomach feels like fireworks. The main reason is, I’m terrified what people will say about the Thing. The eighth-grade girls did exactly what they threatened to do, and convinced Ms. Canetti to display it right smack in the main lobby, so everyone has to see it. Everyone. Plus Kennedy told me that Dad called, and he said he’s bringing Mona, which will make this the first time she’s met Mom face-to-face. And even if Jada is wrong, and everyone isn’t gossiping about Mom—whose Birdfeeder performance was on page five of the local newspaper—I’m sure people will talk if there’s a Big Confrontation Scene. At my school. On open house night. Truthfully, the more I think about the potential for disaster, the only thing that’s keeping me from bolting when we stop for a traffic light is that Gram called an hour ago, and said she was on her way. “Cookie, I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” is what she said.
When we arrive in the parking lot, Mom takes Kennedy, Quinn, and Layla to the back auditorium door. Before she goes in behind them, she pulls me to her. “Can’t wait to see the final version of your Thing,” she says. “I’ll come by the lobby after our show, okay?”
“Okay. It’s not that big a deal, Mom. It’s just Gram’s old fabric sewn together. And you’ve already seen sections at home—”
“After my show,” she repeats firmly. “Say break a leg.”
“Break a leg. But you’re not performing, right?”
She gives me a pretend-furious look.
“Just kidding,” I say.
Then I walk into the lobby, feeling as if I’m wearing flannel monkey pajamas. On a sticky, warm June night.
I wipe my eyebrows with my sleeve.
“Marigold!” someone calls. It’s Ms. Canetti. She’s standing under the Thing, which the school custodian somehow tied to the overhead lights so that it looks more like a Chinese dragon than a psychedelic circus tent.
“This is our textile artist,” she explains to a small crowd of parents. “Her name is Marigold Bailey, and the work is entirely her own creation.”
“It’s breathtaking,” one woman says, grabbing my hand. “Where did you get your inspiration?”
“My what?”
“Your idea for the design.”
“It doesn’t really . . . have an idea. I just like how it looks.”
“But didn’t you mean to convey—”
“Monster? Is that you?” someone calls.
I spin around. Dad is walking toward me with Mona, who’s carrying two enormous bouquets of red roses, all wrapped up with pink ribbons and baby’s breath and shiny silver foil.
He nearly crushes me in a hug. Then he points up at the ceiling. “This is the quilt your grandma was telling us about?”
“It’s a Thing, Dad.”
“So it is. A really fantastic Thing.”
“She has your eye for color, Jeff,” Mona tells him.
“No, honey, she has her own eye.” He waves his hand at a tentacle-bit. “The contrasts are so electric in that section. And the shape looks almost organic, like a mysterious creature from the Great Barrier Reef.”
“Thanks,” I say, grinning. I suddenly remember my first day at this school, how I thought if I kept repeating the word “thanks,” people would leave me alone. The funny thing is, now I’m not sure that’s what I want.
“Oh, I forgot!” Mona cries. “These are for you.” And she thrusts one of the giant bouquets into my arms. “I thought about getting you marigolds instead, but I don’t know, they’re just so puny this time of year.” All of a sudden a panicky look takes over her face, like she’s afraid she might have insulted me or something.
“Thanks, Mona,” I say. “They’re really, really beautiful.” But then I start giggling. Because what else can you do when you’re holding a zillion roses underneath an electric sea-dragon?
Then way down the hall, I see a familiar figure.
Two familiar figures.
“Dad?”
He nods. So I hand him the roses.
“Thanks,” I manage to say, one last time.
And I race down the hall so fast it feels like I’m wearing poofy bedroom slippers.
Performance
“Mari!”
“Emma, I can’t believe it’s you!” I’m hugging her, she’s hugging me, and we’re both sort of swaying and jumping and screaming. Right in the hallway, in front of all the kids rushing to their open houses, and all their parents, and a few frantic teachers.
“But what are you doing here?” I ask, gasping.
Emma grins. “Your grandma arranged it,” she says.
I look blindly at Gram, who gives me a big kiss full of magenta lipstick.
“It was really Becca’s idea,” Gram explains.
“Wait,” I say. “Mom’s?”
Gram nods. “Remember when I came for the weekend? Mom asked me to work on Trisha for her. She wanted to fix things, but she was afraid she’d mess up. So these past few months I’ve been writing letters, making phone calls, and then finally last week I paid Trisha a little visit—”
“You did?” I screech. “She let you in?”
Emma laughs. “She’s not some dragon at the gate, Mari.”
“Oh, I know! I just mean, she was so mad at Mom. About the IMs, remember? And she was so upset with you.”
“Well, nobody can be upset at a little old lady,” Gram says, winking. “Besides, I brought her some homemade cookies. Where’s Kennie?”
“Backstage with Mom.”
“Shouldn’t we get seats for the coffeehouse?”
“Mochahouse. Kennie’s saving some for us. And for Dad and Mona.” I blink at Emma. “I’m just in total . . . shock.”
“So snap out of it,” Gram says, squeezing my hand. “And let’s take a stroll over to look at the Thing.”
A half hour later, we’re in the third row of the auditorium: Dad, Mona, Kennedy, Gram, Emma, and me. Two rows ahead of us—the first row, dead center, are Jada and her mother. And Ethan is sitting with his parents three rows back; we wave at each other, but I guess neither one of us feels ready to be un-secret in front of our families. Plus about two hundred of our friends and classmates.
But Emma sees the wave. “Who’s that?” she whispers.
“Boyfriend,” I whisper back.
“Really?”
“Yeah.”
She cranes her neck and stares at him. “Ooh la la,” she says, and then we both start giggling so hard Gram leans over and slaps my knee.
The lights dim, and Mom comes out onstage in her chocolate cake leotard.
“Welcome to our Mochahouse,” she says in her perfect stage voice. “What you’re about to see is a program we call Actors at Play. All of the students chose their own performances. Some are improvs, some are not, but all of them use theater techniques we explored this spring in our club. We’d like to thank Lisa Sperry and the Crampton PTA for all their support, and we hope to see many of you again next spring. And now, enjoy.”
The program starts. You can tell that some of it kind of confuses the audience—like when Ashley and Megan sit onstage facing each other, playing Emotional Mirror, or when Brody burps to the tune of Star Wars. But Layla’s performance as a trash-talking knight challenging audience members to joust is a big hit. And when Quinn stands at the microphone and sings “Defying Gravity,” it brings down the house.
“Whoa,” Emma whispers. “That girl can sing.”
“She’s one of my best friends,” I whisper back. “But really, I had no idea.”
When the applause dies down, Mom steps to the mic. “Wasn’t Quinn great?” she asks, and then there’s a second round of clapping. When that finally stops, Mom smiles. “Okay,” she says. “I guess this wouldn’t be an improv show without some audience participation. Does anyone here tonight have a scene they’d like us to perform?”
People titter. Or mumble. No one shouts anything.
In the first row a hand goes up. Jada’s.
Mom points at her eagerly. “Yes?”
“Mrs. Bailey,” Jada says in a supersweet voice, “would you do a performance for us?”
No. NO.
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Mom says, smiling. “This isn’t my evening.”
“Oh, but please?”
Someone starts to clap. Then three people. Then, like, ten.
My insides dry up. My head starts to buzz. In all the disasters I’d imagined for tonight, I never imagined this. NO, I tell myself. I CAN’T LET HER DO THIS. NOT HERE. NOT TONIGHT. NOT IN FRONT OF EMMA AND JADA AND JADA’S MOM. AND ALSO ETHAN AND MONA AND, LIKE, THE ENTIRE TOWN.
NONONONONO.
I stand up.
“What are you doing?” Emma hisses. She grabs my arm.
“Marigold?” Kennedy asks in a scared voice.
I don’t answer. I stare at the stage. At the lights. At Mom.
Then I call out in a voice that isn’t mine,
“Mom? Can I do a scene with you?”
“Mari?” she breathes into the mic.
I never saw Mom look frozen on a stage before, but for one split second she’s entirely still. White-faced. In shock. Then her face breaks out in a grin. “Oh, yes! Let’s all have a round of applause for my brave daughter, Marigold!”
“Oh, Lord,” I hear Gram say.
The audience starts clapping, and as I’m climbing up to the stage, I’m thinking, THIS IS A DREAM. I’M PROBABLY JUST SLEEPWALKING. I dig my thumbnails into my palms and try to wake up.
But I don’t.
Now somehow I’ve arrived onstage, the lights in my eyes, my legs soft like overcooked spaghetti. No, Twizzlers. Twizzlers left overnight on the radiator. And not stiff from Joy.
I look straight out: The audience is smeary blobs of color, not really faces I can read. That’s probably a good thing.
I look left and right: The whole club is gathered in the theater wings looking shocked. Horrified. Not a good thing.
Okay, so what do I do now?
“Go, Marigold!” somebody hollers. It sounds like Kirsten.
Somebody else whistles.
“Whoo-hoo!” Lexie shouts.
I stare frantically at Mom.
She puts her hands on my shoulders as if to keep me from floating away. Then she looks deep into my eyes. “Let’s chat about the Thing,” she murmurs. “Okay, baby?”
I nod. This will be fine, I tell myself. Just fine. As long as I don’t have to talk. Or breathe.
Mom drags two chairs to the center of the stage. She gently pushes me into one, and takes the other. Then she sits very straight and cocks her head to one side, like a perky TV anchorwoman. “Greetings,” she says in a loud, cheerful voice. “We’re here today chatting with the famous Thing-artist Marigold Bailey. Marigold—if I may be so bold as to call you that—you’ve worked on this project for a very long time, haven’t you?”
I swallow.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
I’m nothing but a giant sweaty eyebrow.
“According to my research, you began this”—she flips imaginary cards—“several months ago, isn’t that right?”
I can see the come-on-Marigold-you-can-do-it look in her eye. I feel her energy radiating in my direction, like waves of heat.
