Encore Edie (8 page)

He shrugs.

“What about you, Quinn?” Mr. Harris calls.

Quinn clears his throat and sings “O Canada.” His voice tremors all over the place and at the end he cracks on the high note.

“Sorry?” he says when he’s done.

“Dude,” the hockey player says. He looks offended. “Don’t do that to the
anthem
, dude.”

Quinn looks as if he’s going to cry.

“‘O Canada,’” the hockey player sings. He sings the whole thing in a strong baritone, and the high note at the end is solid.

“Nice,” Sam whispers to me when he’s done, as if I couldn’t have figured that out for myself.

His monologue, though, is awful. He stands legs apart and fists clenched, like a gorilla, and emphasizes all the wrong words, so that it’s clear he has no idea what any of the lines actually mean.

“Any more Lears?” Mr. Harris calls. “All right. Cast will be posted outside my office Monday morning. Next is—”

“Cordelia,” I whisper to Regan. The good daughter, the female lead. She nods.

“Cordelia,” Mr. Harris calls.

I count seventeen girls who advance on the stage at once and stand there flipping their hair and looking at the sample speech we photocopied and handed out for them to memorize. These are the popular girls, the girlie-girls, the wannabe singers.

“Blond, blond, blondity-blond,” Regan whispers.

Most of them, predictably, are pretty bad. Sam sits mumbling to herself, wincing, putting on a show of the pained musician, but I’m glad it’s not me up there trying to sing, and I try not to laugh or be mean. Frankly, I’m more interested in the speeches anyway. These girls aren’t like Rob and Quinn, who both ignored the plain-language speech I’d
prepared and photocopied. They’ve got it memorized, like homework, and most of them zip through as fast as they can, as if they need to get the words out of their mouths before the words roll out of their ears and end up on the floor. No one jumps out at me, but there are a couple of good readers and a couple of talented singers, and I’m sure we’ll be able to come up with someone.

At first, when Mr. Harris calls for the Fool, I’m afraid we’re in big trouble, because only one boy comes forward. But Regan murmurs, “Perfect,” and Mr. Harris leans back with what you might almost call a smile on his face. I look at Sam, who always knows what’s going on. She’s smiling too. “Just watch,” she says.

It turns out this kid, Raj, spends his summers at circus camp, and he recites his entire speech—slowly, clearly, without mistakes—while juggling two oranges and a pen. He has a rubbery face, laughs easily, makes people laugh, and sings in a sweet, weak tenor. He’s the grade twelve class clown, and he’s perfect.

Slowly we make our way through all the characters, watching and listening, and sometimes trying not to listen, and taking notes. The only remaining surprise comes when we cast Goneril and Regan, the evil sisters. Mr. Harris suggests that to save time we ask the students to go up in pairs, so we can cast two sisters who look right together. I’m scribbling notes in my lap when Regan says, “Isn’t that your sister?”

Sure enough, Dexter and Mean Megan are just climbing the steps to the stage.

“I can’t believe you won’t tell me,” Dexter says that night at supper.

After the casting call, we went back to Mr. Harris’s office and made our final decisions. Mr. Harris said he would type up the list and post it on his door on Monday, and we should keep things confidential until then.

I hold up my hands as if she’s trying to rob me with a gun. “I’m not allowed!”

“It’s a matter of national security,” Dad says, nodding sagely. Then he pretends to look confused. “No, wait. No, it isn’t.”

“Mom!” I say.

“Mom!” Dex says.

Now Mom holds up her hands as if we’re both turning guns on her. “I think if the teacher asked Edie not to say anything, we all have to respect that.”

“Thank you,” I say.

After supper, while Dex is in the bathroom, Mom grabs me. “Did she get the part?”

“Mom!” I say, shocked.

“I know. But Dex is going through such a rough time right now. First that thing with Robert, and now this play, which she really, really wants, believe it or not, and to get
it she has to get past you. You have to know that is a bit—unusual for her.”

“
Dex
is going through a rough time right now?”

“I’m ready, Mom,” Dex says, suddenly appearing. She’s got her shoes and coat on and her school knapsack packed to bulging.

“I’m getting my coat right now,” Mom says.

“Where are you going?”

“Dex is going to Merry’s for a sleepover,” Mom says.

On Monday, I drop by Mr. Harris’s office at different times throughout the day, but there’s always such a crowd in front of the door that I can’t get anywhere near it. I know what it says, though: Quinn is Lear, Raj is the Fool, a girl named Nathalie, one of the best singers, is Cordelia. Mean Megan is Goneril.

“I don’t think Edie should have any say in this one,” Regan had said in Mr. Harris’s office. “She can’t judge her own sister objectively.”

“That’s fair,” I said, feeling relieved. I would be able to tell Dexter I had nothing to do with it, and she wouldn’t feel as if she had to thank me.

“Megan has the perfect look,” Regan said. “And I liked that red-haired girl for the other sister. She was kind of funny and witchy at the same time.”

“I agree,” Mr. Harris said.

They must have seen something on my face.

“Sorry, Edie,” Regan said. “But Dexter can’t sing to save her life.”

“But—”

“Ah,” Mr. Harris said sharply.

I don’t see Dexter in the halls anywhere today, which is one good thing. But when I get home, Mom is waiting, tight-lipped, whispering. Dexter came home early, she says, with a headache, and is lying down now, hopefully sleeping. That’s Dex-code for still crying.

I tell her about Regan and Mr. Harris not letting me have a say in the decision.

“Okay,” Mom says.

“I wouldn’t do that to her!” I say.

“Okay,” Mom says.

Mom must have a word with Dex, because she comes out of her room just before supper and comes straight to me and says she understands it wasn’t my decision.

“Dex, it wasn’t,” I say.

“Like I care, anyway,” she says. “It would have taken way too much of my time, actually, and eaten into a bunch of my other activities.” I can hear Mom’s voice in back of this one.

“Speaking of that,” Mom says, “when’s the last time you saw Merry, Edie?”

“I dunno,” I say, taking a bite of lasagne. Cheese, cheese, cheesity-cheese. My favourite.

“Merry was asking for you,” Dex says. “When I slept over. She said she wants to spend more time with you. She misses you walking her home from school.”

Aunt Ellie picks her up in the car every day now. I make a what-are-you-gonna-do shrug. “I’ve got the play now.”

Mom and Dad exchange a look.

“Merry was asking about the musical too,” Dex continues, taking salad. She’s being all casual and conversational, pretending to have a tough time deciding which dressing before she chooses the same one as always: raspberry poppy seed. “She loves musicals. We watched
South Pacific
the night I stayed over, and she knew all the words and could sing all the songs. It was pretty amazing, actually.”

“That
is
amazing,” Mom says, and looks at Dad, and Dad nods enthusiastically. They all look brightly at me.

“Hello?” I say.

Mom narrows her eyes. Dad and Dex both push their chairs back ever so slightly. Uh-oh.

“You’re using this play as an excuse to avoid your cousin,” Mom says. “I want you to find a way to include her.”

“You’re joking,” I say.

Dad and Dex both push their chairs back a little more. Dex might be sort of smiling at her salad.

“I can’t find a way to include my own sister,” I say, to wipe the smile off her face. “You think I’m going to find a role for someone who’s retarded?”

Mom looks as if I’ve slapped her. Dex looks as if I’ve slapped her.

“I think you’re going to try,” Dad says.

He isn’t smiling.

Bewitched, Bothered
,

and Bewildered

Robert’s house is not even a house. It’s an apartment. It’s in a part of town that makes Mom nervous, not because it’s dangerous or dirty or poor, but because it’s the opposite: beautiful, narrow, tree-lined streets of old houses and funky apartment buildings. You can smell the ocean from the street and there’s no parking anywhere. She starts worrying, the Saturday morning in January she’s supposed to drive us there, before we even get in the car.

“You’ll be fine,” Dad says.

“I don’t know, Jamie,” she says. “Do you think this map is right?”

They’re leaning together over a map on the computer, squinting at the itty-bitty streets. Dexter and I are finishing breakfast. Mom called Robert’s mom a couple of weeks ago to wish her a Merry Christmas and they came up with the idea that we should all get together, to get us all past the
embarrassment around Robert’s phone call back in September. She didn’t quite put it like that, but I’m not stupid.

“You can always park at the planetarium and walk to his house from there,” Dad says.

“All these little one-way streets confuse me,” Mom says.

“Nice part of town,” Dad says.

“Ssh,” Mom says, meaning she doesn’t want Dex and me to hear them wondering how much money Robert and his mom have. “Are you girls ready?”

“Sure,” I say. Dex smirks. “What?”

“That’s what you’re wearing?”

Jeans with a hole in the knee, a black T-shirt that says
I
♥
Ghouls
, my favourite old green hoodie, flip-flops. What I always wear.

“Socks,” Mom says after a half-second glance of assessment. “It’s January.”

“Always with the socks,” I grumble.

When I come back down, Dexter is waiting in a black and white silk skirt, black sweater, black ballet flats, and her good wool coat. She’s put her yellow hair back with a black velvet band and is wearing pink lipstick.

“What’s that supposed to be?” I say, to be mean. She sniffs. I go back to the kitchen to finish my coffee. “Coffee,” I say to Dad in my zombie voice. “Must have coffee.”

“Cheers,” he says, and we clink mugs. Mine is mostly hot milk with just a bit of coffee to colour it, but I pretend to be addicted, like Dad.

“Edie, let’s go!” Mom calls.

“Coffee!” I wail, to make Dad laugh. He gets out the big green travel mug he usually takes to work and pours my tancoloured hot milk into it. I slouch over to the front door. Mom is giving Dexter money to pay for everyone.

“Merry too,” Dexter reminds her, but Mom says Merry likes to pay for herself from her own wallet, and Auntie Ellie has been Teaching Her About Money as a way to Encourage Her Independence. Mom says Dexter should just watch over her shoulder while she pays but otherwise let her Do It Herself.

“Shotgun,” I say.

“No, really?” Dexter says.

Mom has her blue travel mug with two tea-bag strings still hanging out the side. Dad says she makes tea stronger than most people make coffee.

“Thanks for driving us,” I say, getting in the front seat next to her. She opens her mouth to say something, then changes her mind and taps her travel mug against mine, a quieter echo of Dad’s cheers. I know she was going to tell me to try to be nice to everybody today.