The Fat Lady Sings (11 page)
"I had no idea that Aggie in the play was so different from me," I say.
"It's funny what you don't see when you write something," says Cameron. "I guess because you're so close to it."
"You're so good at this," I say, squeezing Cameron's arm. "Have you ever thought about becoming a director?"
"Not before now," says Cameron.
"And now?" I ask.
"Remember what you said about playwriting?" he says. "You told us all what a rush it was to discover something you were really good at."
"Yeah."
"Well, it's the same for me with directing. Here all this time I thought I was going to be a film editor, but yesterday I -- " He gets up and goes to the window.
"What?"
"I changed my application to film school from the editing program to the directing program."
"Cameron, that's fantastic," I say, and despite my exhaustion I jump up and give him a hug.
"It's all thanks to you," he says.
"That's not true," I say. "This whole thing was your idea. And besides, it's been a team effort from the start."
"Yeah," says Cameron, "but -- well, thank you."
And we hug again, for a long time, and I've changed my friend's life, and I don't think I could feel any better if I woke up tomorrow morning with the body of a cheerleader.
If there is one thing you don't want
to see at Piedmont Day, it's a piece of blue paper taped to the outside of your locker. We call them "blue notes," not just because of the color of the paper, but because they're always bad news, and almost always directly from Dr. Watkins, our headmaster. So when I spy blue flapping on the front of my locker on Monday morning, I'm not exactly skipping down the hall to find out the good news. Still, blue notes are like band-aids -- it's best just to rip them off and get it over with. I yank it off and unfold the paper and all it says is "Please see me in my office immediately after school -- Dr. Watkins."
Great. Now not only do I have to see the headmaster for some unknown reason, but I have to dread it for the entire day. There's something about that word "immediately" that doesn't sound good. I can't imagine he wants to see me "immediately" so he can tell me how marvelous my grades are or what a great actress I am. But my grades
are
pretty good right now, and I certainly haven't been causing any trouble on campus. I haven't even been actively mean to Cynthia.
Finally I decide it must be the props shed. He probably found out we were using it as a lounge and wants to shut us down. But why summon me? I've hardly been out there since I started my math tutoring. And it was Cameron's idea. I shove the blue note -- which is now causing all my locker neighbors to stare at me -- into my purse and try to put it out of my mind as I head to first period. But I have a sinking feeling that this is going to be a very long day.
Cynthia seems distracted during tutoring, and I get the feeling she wants to tell me something but is afraid to. That suits me fine -- "afraid of me" is the perfect emotional state for Cynthia Pirelli. Of course I'm distracted, too, because all I can think about is the perpetually closed door of Squatty Watty's office and how I am soon to be on the other side.
That's what we call Dr. Watkins -- Squatty Watty -- because he's about four feet tall and almost as wide. I have no idea what he's a doctor of -- probably he bought one of those degrees off late night TV or from some internet pop-up ad. He basically only appears for varsity football games and graduation. In four years I've never seen him at a play. We only have a theatre because the last headmaster was into the arts. Squatty Watty has built nothing but gyms and fields since he got here. That guy loves to knock down trees if he can replace them with something that will smell like sweaty socks. Apparently he hangs out with the NASCAR parents (our student body has several progeny of people who drive around in circles for a living), and that's where all the money for the gyms came from. And this afternoon I get to have alone time with him. Oh joy!
At lunch Suzanne gives us an update on her search for a performance space, and it's not good news. She has looked at schools, community centers, even the VFW club, and everyone is either already booked up or not interested. When I ask if we can't just patch up the sock factory a little bit and rent some chairs, Suzanne explains that aside from that being illegal, the factory doesn't have the right kind of electricity -- I mean, who knew there was more than one kind, right?
Three o'clock finally creeps into view and there I am, sitting in this deep, squishy armchair outside Watkins' office and trying to figure out how I'm gonna hoist my fat ass out of it when the door opens about six inches and a nose appears and a voice says, "Miss Stockdale."
I've never actually been inside Squatty Watty's cave before -- but that's what it feels like, a cave. The shades are drawn -- permanently, I'd guess -- and it's about ten degrees colder than the rest of the school. There is a lamp on his desk, but it must have about a two-watt bulb in it because it just gives this tiny glow that underlights his face and makes him look evil, which I imagine is not far off.
I figure my one hope to make a good impression is that I'm fat, because, hey, he's fat, too. But how do you break that ice? "So, Dr. Watkins -- sure sucks being fat, huh?" I opt for silence and sit across the landing-field-sized desk from him.
"Miss Stockdale, I suppose you're wondering why I've asked you here?"
I figured you just wanted to get to know my sparkling personality.
"Yes, sir."
"I've had a phone call from Mrs. Estella Parsons. I believe you know her daughter Melissa."
Know her -- I'm playing opposite her in a brilliant and witty musical penned by yours truly.
"Yes, sir."
"Mrs. Parsons informed me that her daughter has been sneaking out of the house to rehearse some sort of -- play in what I gather is a condemned factory building." He says the word "play" like it's some disgusting, slimy, primeval creature he found on his desk. "Mrs. Parsons was very upset. As I understand it, Melissa has been grounded for the rest of the semester."
I can't believe Melissa didn't tell her parents. It's not like we're doing anything wrong -- we're showing initiative. Now we're going to have to find a new Suzy halfway through rehearsals. And another thing, why would Squatty Watty even waste his time talking to the mother of a drama geek like Melissa?
And then I remember. Oh crap. Melissa Parsons's brother plays football. Melissa was bragging on him the other day. Apparently he got a scholarship to be a wide something-or-other at Carolina. Just my luck -- because if Tyler Parsons doesn't play football, then Watkins doesn't take the call from his mother, he doesn't care what Melissa is up to, and I'm not sitting here.
"Yes, sir."
"I'm sure I don't need to tell you, Miss Stockdale, that the school cannot condone this sort of activity -- an unauthorized club trespassing in a dangerous building and drawing resources and attention away from our theatre department."
What is he talking about? We're not a club. And our show has nothing to do with the school. He can't tell me what I can and can't do on my own time and off school property. And what does he mean "drawing resources" from the theatre department? They cast their show first, we're just the rejects. Elliot's the only person on our team who's in
Dolly,
and he hasn't missed a single rehearsal. And Suzanne hasn't actually "borrowed" any lighting equipment -- yet.
"But, sir -- "
"This is not a discussion, Miss Stockdale. I merely asked you here to inform you that your little group will no longer be meeting. In the absence of any other sponsor, the community will assume that Piedmont Day is behind this -- production. I cannot have that -- it would reflect poorly on both the school and on me personally. Your play will not take place. If it does, you and your friends will be expelled from Piedmont Day, your records will be frozen, and your educational future will be reduced to community college."
There are so many things I could say right now: "It's not a play, it's a musical, you uncultured cretin," "How do you know it will reflect poorly! How do you know the whole town won't be saying 'wow, those Piedmont Day kids sure are talented,'" "Is everyone on your home planet evil, or is that why you got exiled to Earth?"
But I just sink into my chair, crushed, and mumble, "Yes, sir."
"That is all," he says, and a moment later I'm out in the harsh light of day, blinking back tears and wondering how in the world I'm going to tell everyone else that "the man" not only exists but has just destroyed us.
I'm late for rehearsal.
I mean, wouldn't you be? I have to walk in and tell everybody it's over. We'll have to give Mrs. Baxter her money back -- at least what Suzanne hasn't spent. We'll have to take this amazing self-motivated activity off our college applications. We'll look like complete failures to everyone who knew what we were doing.
But I don't even care about all that. The fat kid fails again, so what. I've been there plenty of times before. I didn't want this so we could get into college or make friends -- I wanted this because it was the best thing that's ever happened to me.
I mean, sure, we had some rocky spots and a few arguments, but putting on a show with your best friends -- well, I used to think there was nothing better than that. Turns out there is -- putting on a show that
you wrote
with your best friends.
If you've never done theatre before you probably wouldn't understand, but there's a belonging that goes with being in a show that's beyond normal friendship or family. It's why I cried for three days after
Godspell
was over, and it's why I still stop in the hall for hugs from my fellow Shark girls. Part of it is the shared adventure, and part of it is being someone else and not just yourself, and part of it is -- well, I don't know what it is, but we had more of it in this show than I've ever had, because it was
our
show, everything about it. And now I have to walk into a rehearsal full of excited, happy, people and not just ruin their day, but turn their senior year in high school from a celebration of their talents and energy and drive into a total defeat at the hands of an evil dictator. So you can see why I am late.
It turns out I don't have to tell them anything, though. The police take care of that for me.
I pull into the church parking lot from the side (Mom actually let me borrow her car tonight -- wonder of wonders, miracle of miracles) so I'm parked and walking around the end of the fellowship hall when I see the flashing blue lights. There must be a dozen cop cars parked in front of the factory -- like we're some sort of terrorist cell or something. I mean, all we want to inflict on people is a little theatre.
Suzanne meets me coming across the parking lot and grabs me by the elbow, pulling me back towards the church. People are standing on the back steps of the church watching, their arms crossed in this holier-than-thou sort of stance. I can just imagine the
tut-tutt
ing that's going on over there.
"Stay on this side of the road," whispers Suzanne.
"Why?" I say. "What's going on?"
"Factory owner called the cops. They arrested Elliot and Cameron for trespassing and told the rest of us to make ourselves scarce or we would be next."
"Why Elliot and Cameron?" I ask, trying to pull free from Suzanne and turn back towards the factory, but that woman has a seriously strong grip.
"They asked who was in charge, and the two of them stepped forward."
"But didn't they know -- "
"Of course they knew," says Suzanne. "That's why they did it. They were protecting the rest of us. You, too."
I stop trying to pull away from Suzanne and lean against the side of the fellowship hall. "They arrested them?"
"I'm sure they just want to scare them a little bit. They'll be OK."
"Was it Dr. Watkins?" I ask. "I mean, who tipped them off."
"Yeah, I guess he got wind of things and wanted to shut us down."
"He called me into his office this afternoon," I say, "and told me we had to stop. But there was no reason to have people arrested." I'm crying now, though I don't even feel it. I don't feel anything, to be honest -- I'm completely numb. Elliot and Cameron arrested, the show finished, and the whole school talking about how that fat girl got everybody in trouble.
"Look, I have to go," says Suzanne. "They called everyone's parents, so I need to get home." She squeezes my arm and then scurries off to her car.
One by one the police cars pull away, but I can't seem to move. I just slide down the wall and pull my knees to my chest and wonder if I'm going to be one of those homeless people who rock back and forth on the sidewalk moaning. I can't imagine going home. I can't imagine going to school tomorrow. I can't imagine facing Cameron and Elliot, assuming they get out of jail. Basically I can't imagine, and since imagining is what makes the world a better place for me, losing that skill sucks. There is nothing now but cold hard reality, cold hard pavement, and some skinny blonde chick walking towards me with a Styrofoam cup.
"You want some hot cocoa?" she says, holding the cup out to me.
Is she serious? Hot cocoa? What do I look like -- some sort of Girl Scout on a camping trip? Are we gonna make s'mores next? I give her my most sarcastic look, but she just slides down the wall next to me and holds the cup out, smiling, and I shiver and realize how cold I am and suddenly hot cocoa sounds really, really good.
I take the cup from her and take a big swig. It's the perfect temperature -- not so hot that it burns my tongue, but plenty hot enough to warm me as soon as it hits my stomach. I drink the entire cup without saying anything and the girl just sits there next to me, not talking, not even looking at me.
I'd guess she's about my age, and I assume she must be from the church. The people who were watching the commotion have all gone back inside now, but she doesn't seem interested in going anywhere. She just sits next to me. It's a little weird, to be honest. When I finish the cocoa it's even more awkward sitting there in silence doing nothing, so finally I say, "Thanks."