Bad Girls, Bad Girls, Whatcha Gonna Do?

by Cynthia Voigt

  But who did they get to help them with that? Margalo wondered now. She didn’t like to think of all the possible answers to that question. She was just relieved that they seemed to have stopped pulling that particular trick, so she could be pretty sure that if Hadrian’s green knapsack, with his initials stenciled on it in big black letters, wasn’t there by the desk, he hadn’t yet arrived.

  But she wasn’t sure what the tardiness meant. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t lose his nerve, not about acting.

  When the bell rang, and people had fallen silent, Ms. Hendriks looked up from her clipboard and said, “All right, then. Seniors first. Who . . .”

  She stopped speaking. She stared at the doorway. Different expressions crossed over her face so quickly that the people watching could barely identify one expression and figure out how to react to it before another had replaced it. Irritation was replaced by laughter was replaced by pity was replaced by confusion was replaced by decision, and Ms. Hendriks stood up to ask, “What is going on here?”

  By then everybody in the room had turned to look, and seeing, many had shifted themselves around to face the door, and the hallway beyond, so they could really see.

  Margalo looked too, and she didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t even think of anything to say.

  Nobody answered Ms. Hendriks’ question, not anyone in Drama Club, nor any of the three juniors standing in the doorway, looking even larger than usual compared to the short, slight figure that stood in their midst, as if they were the military guard and he was their captive, brought in for questioning. He wore belted khakis and a plaid short-sleeved shirt. His hair stood up in thick, short spikes all over his head, making him look like a plastic hedgehog toy for some baby’s bathtub. A knapsack hung beside his knees and his face was bright red. Hadrian Klenk.

  Why that picture struck them as funny, nobody could have said. Maybe it was because the guards were so big, so tall and broad and thick-limbed, and their prisoner so much littler. It was ridiculous to see all of those great big guards for that one little prisoner, like using three German shepherds to herd a Chihuahua.

  Or maybe it was Hadrian’s hair, which looked like some moth-eaten hairbrush. Or a cartoon bomb. Or one of those designer fruits their mothers sometimes brought home from the store and tried to convince them to eat.

  Or maybe it was how bright red Hadrian’s face was, like some teacher about to explode into anger.

  For whatever reason—and Ms. Hendriks could have told them that comedy works in a variety of different ways—almost everybody in the room started to laugh. Not Margalo and not Ms. Hendriks, but they were about the only ones left out. Of course everybody knew they shouldn’t want to laugh, and shouldn’t be laughing, so everybody tried to muffle it, which of course made it even funnier.

  Equally of course, when the three comedians saw how successful they were being, they went further. Sven took his big hand off of Hadrian’s thin shoulder and beat both fists on his chest, making Tarzan noises.

  But when Ms. Hendriks took a step towards the front of the platform and then stepped down onto the floor, they fled.

  This left Hadrian alone in the doorway. Then he saw Margalo and scuttled over to sit down beside her. Ms. Hendriks stood staring at the empty doorway. Everyone could see that she didn’t know what to do next.

  Margalo didn’t blame her. Even she, sitting beside Hadrian, a person who was known to be on his side and not even smiling at the way he looked, didn’t know which would make it worse for him—to be noticed or to be ignored, to make a big to-do about it or to pretend nothing had happened and there was nothing at all odd about him.

  Ms. Hendriks apparently decided on pretending. She stepped up onto the platform and sat back down. “Which senior wants to go first?” she asked, as if the last two minutes had taken place in a time warp that aliens had erased from her memory.

  It took a few seconds for everybody to turn around again and face her, and by that time Sally King had already stepped up onto the platform to read for the unisex part of Puck, the mischief-making sprite who was the personal servant of Oberon, king of the fairies. Puck was the one single stand-out part in the play, and even that wasn’t a particularly starring role. Puck had a lot of lines and appeared in a lot of scenes, and then—at the very end—he got to speak directly to the audience and claim credit for the whole performance. Puck was the part you remembered, after the play. Well, Puck and Bottom. But Bottom was a jerk, like an old-fashioned redneck hillbilly type, so nobody thought of asking to play Bottom. Nobody except Hadrian, that is.

  “When she hears you read,” Margalo murmured to Hadrian. “When they all hear you.” She was sort of excited for him and impatient to get to the turnaround-surprise ending of this scene. Hadrian didn’t say anything, but she didn’t look at him. If she were Hadrian, she wouldn’t want anyone looking at her right now. Instead she listened to Sally King’s tryout.

  Sally read Puck well, with her usual mischievious I can get away with anything, just watch expression. She would make a good Puck, Margalo thought; it was typecasting, one egocentric and self-satisfied character played by another. She thought Sally should get the part—even though Sally was the kind of person who you wanted not to get what she wanted. She had a slim, boyish build and a bold smile; with her hair in two short ponytails, one on each side of her head, she already looked like Puck.

  Margalo had an unexpected thought: What if Sally King really was talented? Just because you didn’t like someone, that didn’t mean they couldn’t be talented. Just because you didn’t want them to be, that didn’t mean they wouldn’t be. She wished it was Mikey sitting beside her, not Hadrian, because then she could tell Mikey that idea, and at the end she could add, “And vice versa,” to irritate Mikey, who—irritated on schedule—would respond, “No Latin.”

  After Sally came Richard, no surprise. By that time, Margalo dared to sneak a look across at Hadrian, who sat so quiet and lifeless it was almost as if he wasn’t there. It was like sitting next to a pile of mashed potatoes, and no fun at all. And he looked, with his hair like that—it was grotesque, really funny. She wasn’t surprised to hear occasional whispers, followed by muffled snorts of laughter, scattered around the room.

  Richard took the seat Sally had vacated and told Ms. Hendriks, “First I thought me and Sally could be the Duke and his bride, but those aren’t big parts, so then I thought Oberon and his queen. But she wants to be Puck.”

  “You could still play Oberon,” Ms. Hendriks offered.

  Richard scratched at the back of his neck, where his brown hair curled up a little. “Yeah, but, you know? Like Sally says, who wants to be the King of the Fairies?” He grinned at her and at the gathered students.

  Ms. Hendriks didn’t grin back, but many people in the room choked back laughter.

  “Then what part will you be reading for us today?” Ms. Hendriks asked.

  “Demetrius, because the other guy is sort of a noodle, you know?” Richard looked at the teacher’s expression and added, “I’ll play Oberon, though, if you want me to. I mean, all of Shakespeare’s parts are pretty good ones,” he explained to his audience.

  “Hadrian should play Oberon,” someone suggested, to increasingly out-loud laughter.

  Hadrian sat invisible. Margalo’s brain was frozen. It would all get better when they heard him read, she repeated to herself.

  “But he’s gotta keep that hairdo,” someone else said.

  “Hadrian’s a natural for fairy king,” someone added, and the whole room—still with the same two exceptions—burst into uncontrolled laughter. Ms. Hendriks, standing again, said, “Patrick. That’s more than enough. You’re excused from the room.”

  “But I haven’t read.”

  “You heard me,” she said.

  “But everybody was—”

  “You’re excused from Drama, too,” she told him. “I will inform Mr. Robredo of the change in your schedule.”

  The room was now completely silent.

>   “It wasn’t just me,” Patrick protested, but he knew nobody would stand up for him. He rose to his feet and looked resentfully around the room, his gaze finally settling on Hadrian Klenk, the invisible boy, who had caused him to be thrown out of Drama. “It was just a joke,” Patrick said, turning back to the teacher. “Can’t you tell a joke when you hear it?”

  Ms. Hendriks did not bend. “Yes,” she said. “But I didn’t hear one. Go.”

  For a really nice person, and young, and female, and in love, and pretty, too, Ms. Hendriks was being awfully strict. His friends felt they should stick up for Patrick, so they, too, snuck dirty looks at Hadrian, who shrank back into himself to let that wave of blame and anger flow over him.

  In fact, probably the only person who still felt sorry for Hadrian was Ms. Hendriks. Margalo didn’t have to feel sorry for him because as soon as he read for a part in the play, Hadrian’s school life would be on the road to recovery.

  The tryout readings continued, students one after the other going up to sit in the chair facing Ms. Hendriks and read—or occasionally recite from memory—the lines they had prepared. After the last junior had read, Margalo said, without looking at Hadrian, “I don’t have a chance.”

  Out of the corner of her eye she saw his spiky head nodding agreement.

  “But you do,” she told him.

  However, when the last tenth grader had read, Ms. Hendriks stood up. “Thank you all very much,” she told them. “You’ve worked hard for this, and it shows. These were good auditions.”

  “What about me?” Shawn Macavity asked. He raised his hand, then stood up so she could see him better. “What about my part?”

  “And you are?”

  “Shawn Macavity,” he answered, with an unspoken of course and a wide smile on his handsome face.

  “You’re not a member of Drama Club, are you?”

  “Not a member, but I’m going to be an actor. I didn’t want to do all that Shakespeare study,” he reminded her, “but I do want a part.”

  “What speech did you prepare?”

  “I didn’t know I was supposed to,” he explained, and offered, “I can still read.”

  “And what grade are you in, Shawn?” she asked.

  “Ninth.”

  The teacher relaxed. “Oh. Well. In that case, you see, you couldn’t be in the play anyway. I’ve been told that it’s school policy not to give ninth graders roles in the plays, unless there are extenuating circumstances. Which there aren’t,” she added before he could say anything. “So I’ll be casting especially seniors, since this is their last year in Drama.”

  “Good,” said Richard and Sally, John Lawrence and Carl Dane, almost in unison.

  “In any case, I would always want to offer a part first to someone who is a member of Drama Club,” she told Shawn. “Who has shown interest. Who understands our ideas about the play.”

  “But I told you. I want to act, not talk about plays.”

  “And I can sympathize with that,” she told him.

  This left Shawn standing there looking foolish—handsome, but foolish. Margalo decided that rather than standing up right then to object to Hadrian’s not getting a chance, she would wait until the teacher was alone. When teachers weren’t worried about looking and acting like authority figures, sometimes they would change their mind.

  Ms. Hendriks announced then, “Now, I need to have the names of people interested in working behind the scenes.” With a humorous smile she added, “We accept workers from all classes for behind-the-scenes jobs. Mr. Paul and some of his Advanced Art students will be making sets for us, so that’s taken care of, but we need a stage manager and people to work backstage moving flats, changing furniture, making sure the right props are ready.” She turned to the senior who had read for the Duke, but not at all well, although he had clearly made a real effort, even memorizing his lines. “Carl? I’d like you to take that responsibility. You’ll have a couple of assistants, of course—”

  “Do I have to?”

  “No, of course not. But it is the part I’m offering you in this production,” Ms. Hendriks told him firmly.

  She was having an unusually firm day.

  The bell rang then, and people got up to retrieve their belongings, although Ms. Hendriks wasn’t quite finished.

  “Let me know what you’d like to do backstage,” she called over the increasing noise. “I’ll post the cast list Monday, first thing,” she promised them. “Remember, we have only seven weeks until performance. We’ll also need people to go over lines with the actors, people to help with the costumes, the stage manager usually cues lines during the performance, but we’ll need ushers . . .”

  They weren’t listening. They were talking among themselves. “You were really good, you’re sure to get Helena.” “So were you, and Sally didn’t want either Helena or Hermia, so you’re sure to get Hermia, and we’ll be in it together.”

  “If I don’t get any lines, I’m not sure I want to commit the time. I might drop Drama and concentrate on Spanish Club.” “Drama’s my only activity so I can’t drop it. My college applications will look totally lame with no activity. I guess I could help Carl.”

  Ms. Hendriks called out, “We’ll need understudies!”

  “There’s a real waste of time. Maybe in movies, and I guess sometimes in a real play, some understudy gets to go on, but not in a school production. People in school plays really want their chance at the spotlight. Even if they’re sick and throwing up.” “Remember Sally whispering Lady MacBeth last year? I could barely keep from laughing.”

  “And we need general dogsbodies!” called Ms. Hendriks.

  The room had emptied out, and Ms. Hendriks noticed that Hadrian and Margalo were still standing there, still paying attention, apparently waiting to say something.

  “Yes?” she asked, stepping off the platform to join them. “What is it, Hadrian?” Like many of the teachers, Ms. Hendriks was especially nice to Hadrian Klenk. “And you are . . . Margalo,” she remembered. “Margalo Epps.”

  “Hadrian is ready to read for Bottom,” Margalo said as if she was deciding it. She was as tall as the teacher and could look directly into her hazel eyes, as an equal.

  “But I explained—”

  Hadrian interrupted. “Actually, I wouldn’t mind being an understudy. Because I memorize really well so I could do more than one part. I could do a lot, easily. I mean, what if someone can’t perform, I mean, like, in a rehearsal?”

  Ms. Hendriks wanted to say yes. She was nodding, thinking about the suggestion, smiling sympathetically. “You could help with lines, too, couldn’t you? I’ll see who else signs up, Hadrian, but I don’t think there’ll be a big rush. Most people don’t want to be an underling.”

  They agreed with her. It was only natural, like not wanting to be a ninth grader.

  “Or a groundling,” said Hadrian.

  Ms. Hendriks looked carefully at him. “Like in the Elizabethan theater? Are you some kind of a theater nut?”

  He nodded, almost as if he was embarrassed at her question. Or flattered.

  She ran her left hand through her hair, with a glinting of diamond. “I’d have guessed you for a gamer.”

  “I never got into games. They’re not . . .”

  “Real,” the teacher supplied.

  Margalo had had enough of being an underling or groundling or just plain peanut-butter-and-jelly nobody in the conversation. With a little edge of sarcasm in her voice she asked, “Real like the stage?” to let them know that she had ideas too and was worth not-ignoring.

  Ms. Hendriks turned to her with a happy expression. “You don’t think the stage is real? Then what art is? Because it’s not television or most films.” The teacher seemed to be enjoying the talk, which was pretty unusual, a teacher enjoying just talking ideas with students. But this was her first year teaching.

  “I didn’t say the stage wasn’t real,” Margalo pointed out. “I just raised the question, because . . . theater isn’t com
mon reality, not what most people mean. It’s the kind of reality . . . like fairy tales have, psychological reality, sociological.”

  Ms. Hendriks nodded, but instead of continuing with that interesting topic, she said, “I want to ask you something. Because I gather you were the assistant director last year for—”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I read your folder.”

  What did that mean? Did every teacher read every student’s folder? Did they have to read them? What was in Margalo’s school folder for Ms. Hendriks, or any teacher, to read?

  Ms. Hendriks seemed to be backtracking, apologizing. “I looked at all of them, to help me understand the people I’m teaching and working with. I probably won’t do it again, if I’m asked back for next year.”

  Margalo set aside the folder question, temporarily, and said, “Is that the same thing as what you called a dogsbody? I read a book called—”

  “A dogsbody does everything. Whatever anybody tells him to do, or her, whatever needs doing.”

  Margalo continued stubbornly. “—called Dogsbody, and he’s one of the stars, I mean the celestial stars, Sirius.”

  Ms. Hendriks had been re-distracted and interrupted again. “I know it. I always thought that book would make an interesting script, for animation—for the old Disney studios, you know?”

  “I never read it,” Hadrian said, now inserting himself into their conversation.

  “It’s good,” Margalo told him. “If you don’t mind fantasy.”

  “I don’t mind anything good,” he told her.

  “I’ll probably be able to use both of you,” Ms. Hendriks told them then, and seemed pleased at the prospect. “After all, it’s the underclassmen who are the bedrock of a Drama department, the building blocks, getting trained. But Hadrian? Can I say something about your hair? Because . . . well, you saw how people . . .”

  Hadrian seemed to fold back into himself. It was as if, for a few minutes, talking, he had forgotten what he looked like.