Encore Edie (7 page)

Dex and Mom always roll their eyes at each other at this point. Mom likes The Shot too, and sometimes on the way somewhere she runs in for a chai to drink in the car. Sometimes I get a juice called Mystery-C, which has “150% of your daily vitamin C requirements!!!” It comes in a tall, skinny plastic bottle that is “150% biodegradable!!!”
The label shows a lime with a pipe and deerstalker hat, like Sherlock Holmes. I’m not sure what the mystery is. What that extra 50%!!! is all about, maybe.

I’ve never actually sat down inside The Shot before, let alone by myself. Today, when I arrive, the place is practically empty, though I know it will fill up fast now that school’s out. I ran all the way here so I would be sure to get a table for us.

“Hi,” the girl behind the counter says. “What can I start for you?”

“Coffee,” I say. I’m still puffing from my run here.

The counter girl looks at me expectantly.

“Coffee,” I say. “A cup of coffee.”

“What kind?”

I’ve had coffee exactly once before in my life, with Dex and Mom at the mall. Dex gave me a gift certificate for a latte, which was a coffee with a lot of milk in it. To be honest, it didn’t do much for me. Dad drinks coffee, though, and I figured, since I’m here for business, I’m going to order a business drink. Nothing fun and frothy, no cute juice. Something to show Regan I’m serious: let’s get right down to it, don’t be afraid, I’m here to work, I won’t try to be your friend. I’m quite nervous that she’ll think this, and be grossed out.

“Black coffee,” I say. Then I remember something Dad says. “Dark roast.”

“What size?” the counter girl says.

“Biggest size,” I say confidently, because this I’ve thought through. We might be here for an hour, and I need something that will last all that time so I don’t have to get up and down and line up and spend more money. If I get something too little and drink it too fast, they might ask me to leave.

Nervous?
Moi?

I pay and carry my big black brimming coffee over to the table with the lids and sugar sachets and so on. The lid is also part of my plan, so I don’t make some big Edie-gesture and get coffee all over everything. Next is where to sit. There are the seats along the window, the aforementioned armchairs in front of the aforementioned fireplace, the little tables along the skinny hallway where the washrooms are, and right at the back there’s a bigger space that opens out unexpectedly, with some more tables. This is by far the most private and quiet part of the shop, and I’m disappointed to see someone already sitting at one of the tables. Then I realize it’s Regan.

“How did you get here ahead of me?” I say. I’m rattled.

“I skipped Leadership.”

She’s got her army jacket over the back of her chair and her books spread out on the table, and seems to be doing calculus. Today she’s wearing a black T-shirt, the tartan miniskirt again, black leggings, and orange high-tops she’s scribbled on with a green marker. She wears a necklace made of safety pins. She doesn’t have a drink yet, and immediately I feel rude.

“Can I get you something?” I say.

“No, thanks,” she says. She moves her bag off the chair opposite hers and tells me she’ll be right back. “Sit.”

I sit and busy myself pulling stuff from my bag. She’s back in a minute with a cup the size of mine, but trailing a tea-bag string instead of a thick black coffee smell. I go to sip my coffee through the eensy little hole in the plastic lid.

“Relax, Edie,” Regan says when I stop spluttering and my eyes have cleared. I burned my tongue. “You’re so twitchy.”

“Did you really skip Leadership?” I ask.

She shrugs.

“I wish my sister would skip Leadership sometimes,” I say. “She already has too much leadership. I wish she would take a class called Followership.”

I think this is funny, but Regan just looks at me with her spooky pale eyes. “I know your sister,” she says.

I wait for her to say something nice, or not nice, but she picks up the copy of
King Lear
I’ve put on the table and starts flipping through it.

“You worked on last year’s musical, right?” I say, for something to say.

“I did the costumes.” She puts the book down. “What’s the story?”

“Sorry?”

“The story. What’s it about? What happens?”

“You haven’t read it?”

She looks at me.

“There’s this king,” I say quickly. “He has three daughters. Cordelia, Goneril, and—Regan, actually. One of them is named Regan, like you.”

She blinks.

“Weird, right?” I say weakly.

“Are you making this up?” she says.

I turn the book around and point to the name on the page so she can see.

She squints at it then leans back. “Okay,” she says. “Then what?”

“He tells his daughters he’ll leave his kingdom to whichever one of them loves him most. Two of them are evil. They give evil, lying speeches about how he’s the best dad in the world, but the third daughter, the youngest, refuses to try. She’s the only one who really does love him, and she can’t put it into words. So he disowns her. He’s got this court jester, called the Fool, who makes fun of him all the time but gets away with it because, after all, he’s a jester, that’s his job. There’s a bad guy called Edmund, and a guy who goes blind …” She’s still looking at me, expressionless. I’m probably boring her silly. “There’s a big storm, and Lear goes crazy and runs around screaming. You hate it, don’t you?”

“Show me that part,” she says. “Where the king goes crazy.”

I flip through the book. “‘Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks!’” I read. “‘Rage! Blow!’” I read some more.

Regan listens with her chin on her fist, staring at the table between us, her forehead slightly wrinkled. When I’m done, she looks up. “He’s mad at his daughters?” she says slowly.

Around us, the tables are filling up. I see girls from school look at us and whisper to each other. I don’t know if being seen with Regan is a good thing or not.

“You’re going to hate me, okay?” she says. “I think we should write it in plain English. I mean, we can’t just cut this—we have to make it easier to understand. Nobody can say this stuff.” She twists the book around so she can read from it. “‘You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, singe my white head!’ I mean, like, what?”

I don’t say anything.

“What do I know?” she says. “My thing is costumes.” She leans back and looks around, and I realize she’s going to pick up her bag in a minute and go.

I twist the book back so I can see it. “Lightning,” I say slowly. “Lightning is better than his daughters. Thunder is better, rain is better. His daughters are more evil than a storm.”

“Simpler,” Regan says.

“I would rather get hit by lightning than go into my daughter’s house. I would rather stand out here in this storm than ask her nicely for shelter. I would rather die than ask my daughter for anything.”

“Which is the good daughter?” Regan says. “Cordelia, Goneril, or Regan?”

“Cordelia.”

Then she really is putting her coat on, packing up her books, picking up her tea.

“Wait!” I say. “You said you’d help me!”

“You don’t need my help,” she says. “You’ll be fine.”

I watch her sweep off, little eddies of whispers in her wake from all around the store. Forget King Lear; she is the crazy one.

I take another sip of my coffee. It’s still hot and bitter, but bearable, just. I glance at the book again, then take out a clean piece of paper.

I would rather get hit by lightning …

“… and then she just took off.”

“Slow down, Edie,” Sam says. “What time is it?”

“You weren’t asleep, were you?” I say. “I can’t sleep. I’m not sleepy. I’ve got the shakes. Regan is so strange. Were you sleeping? I’m still working on the play. I think it’s going really well. Can I read you some? Were you sleeping?”

On my desk, The Shot’s biggest coffee cup is empty, for the fourth or fifth time.

One week later. I’ve been sitting in Mr. Harris’s office for the last forty minutes or so while he reads through what I’ve written. At the beginning I tried to say something, but he looked up and said, “Don’t talk.”

Now he puts the pages back together, taps them square, and hands them back to me. “It’s a start,” he says. “What about the music?”

I pull out my sister’s iPod (she can kill me later) and give him the earphones. Right away his eyebrows go up.

“We’ll have to change the words,” I say.

“Apparently,” Mr. Harris says.

We talk some more about what I’ve proposed: plain language, each actor adapting his or her own lines so it will sound natural. We’ll use my CD for rehearsals, and Sam thinks the Concert Jazz Band would work for the actual performances. She’s already talked to her band teacher, who can get the scores and is willing to help.

“Very nice,” Mr. Harris says. “Very collaborative. One thing we haven’t discussed is direction. I think the three of you can share that, yes? Regan for theatre experience, Sam for musical experience, and you.”

“I don’t have experience.”

“You’ve read the play,” Mr. Harris says. “Nice to have at least one person involved in the production who’s done that.”

Is he serious? “You’ve read it too, though, right?”

Mr. Harris gives me a look I can’t read. “A long time ago,” he says finally. “I think I remember the important parts.”

“People,” Mr. Harris yells. He holds his hands over his head and claps. “People!”

Sam, Regan, Mr. Harris, and I are sitting in the fifth row of the theatre. The rows in front of us are empty. Behind us, the rows are filled with students, everyone buzzing with anticipation.

“Who’s first?” Mr. Harris asks.

I look at Regan. “Lear,” she says. “We need to get him right. Everyone else has to fit in around him.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Harris says. Then he yells, “LEAR!”

Two boys walk down to the stage and stand there as if they have to pee.

“Two?” I say. “That’s it?”

“That little one is no good,” Regan says. “Isn’t Lear supposed to be old? Like, fifty or something? That one looks like he doesn’t even shave.”

“What’s your name?” Mr. Harris calls, pointing to the little one.

“Quinn?”

“Are you sure?” Mr. Harris calls.

“Yes?” the boy says.

“What about you?” he calls to the taller one with the Canucks jersey.

“Rob.”

“Hockey player, Rob?”

He shrugs.

“Tell me about King Lear, Rob,” Mr. Harris says.

He shrugs.

“How about you, Quinn?”

“I memorized a speech?” Quinn says.

Mr. Harris waves him up onto the stage.

“‘Meantime we shall express our darker purpose,’” Quinn starts. Mr. Harris’s head snaps up to look at him. The theatre goes silent. “‘Give me the map there. Know that we have divided in three our kingdom: and ’tis our fast intent to shake all cares and business from our age; conferring them on younger strengths, while we unburdened crawl toward death …’”

After he finishes the speech, there’s absolute silence.

“Quinn?” Mr. Harris calls.

“Sorry?” Quinn says.

“How old are you?”

“Fourteen?”

I look at Sam, at Regan.

“Hockey player,” Mr. Harris calls. “Do you sing?”