Lauren and Annabelle were supposed to be offstage when Tye revealed this information because Jordan was about to come through the bedroom window to comfort Mary. Now all of the characters looked at one another as though not sure what to do next. “I guess we’d better go,” Annabelle said, and tugged at Lauren’s arm.
Lauren pulled her arm away from Annabelle and brushed her hair away from her face. “Witch!” she yelled at Mary, and then added, “Your brother deserved to die!”
Uh, nice attempt at an ad-lib save, Lauren.
“I’ll show you who deserves to die!” Mary screamed back. “You’ll die if you ever come near me again.” Panting, she turned back to Tye. “What are you still doing here?”
He was supposed to search behind the furniture, grab the gun, and leave, but he just backed away from Mary with his hands raised until he had backed himself offstage.
Which was going to make it hard for him to shoot Tony in the last scene.
When he walked by me, I took hold of his sleeve. “The gun!” I whispered.
“Crap!” he said, and it wasn’t a whisper.
Tye turned around and ran back onstage. Unfortunately, Jordan had just climbed through the window and now held Mary’s grief-stricken form in his embrace.
Jordan and Tye stared at each other in horrified awkwardness. “I came back to get my gun,” Tye said.
Another moment of silence filled the stage. None of them seemed to know how to handle this new plot twist. Finally Mary stood up and flung her arms outward. “Chino, don’t shoot!” she yelled.
“I can’t shoot. I don’t have the gun,” Tye said. Then he waved a finger at Jordan. “But as soon as I find it, I’m going to kill you, Tony.” He rifled around behind the furniture, probably stalling for time.
Jordan and Mary stared at one another. They still had their last touching love scene and the song “There’s a Place for Us” left to do. He wasn’t supposed to leave yet, but it seemed a bit odd for him to stand there waiting for his killer to find the gun.
Offstage, Andre stood besides me with a handful of Cheetos, shaking his head. The last Cheetos I’d seen had been all over the greenroom floor, and I had the feeling that’s where he’d retrieved this midscene snack from, but I didn’t ask. I turned back to the stage, riveted, as though watching a train wreck.
“This is awful,” I said.
Andre popped a Cheeto into his mouth. “I vote Chino kills Tony now and just puts the rest of us out of our suffering.”
“He can’t do that,” I said.
“I’ll do it. Do you want me to go onstage, grab the gun, and knock off all of them?”
“You can’t shoot Tony. He’s your best friend,” I said. “And besides, you died two scenes ago.”
Andre shrugged. “I’ll get the rest of the gang members then. We’ll hold the last shoot-out in Maria’s bedroom. It will work.”
“Yeah, because gang members frequently rumble in the middle of people’s bedrooms.”
Tye continued to search for the gun amongst the furniture, while Mary followed him around the stage wailing, “No, Chino! Go away! You can’t shoot Tony now. I won’t let you.”
Like what—she expected him to say, “All right, then. I’ll go, but I’ll be back for the gun later. Please leave it out where it will be handy for me to pick up.”
It was clear none of them knew what to do. Chino had to get the gun, and yet he couldn’t get the gun, because if he did, he wouldn’t have a reason not to shoot Tony right then.
If Jordan had more experience with ad-libing, he might have been able to come up with something, but he stood frozen on the stage. He stared at neither Mary nor Tye but out into the audience—out at his father.
Twelve
I took a deep breath, and then before I could think about all of the reasons it’s unwise to insert yourself into a scene that your character doesn’t belong in, I walked across the stage until I came to the others. “Maria, what’s going on in here?” I demanded.
“Chino is trying to find Bernardo’s gun to kill Tony,” she gasped out.
“It will not do him any good,” I said. “Bernardo told me that the gun has no bullets.”
“In that case, I’ve found the gun,” Tye said. He picked up the weapon and waved it around menacingly. “I’ll go get bullets, and when I do, I will find you, Tony.” He ran happily offstage. Unfortunately, he exited through Maria’s closet, which in real life would not have led out of the room, but none of us pointed that out.
I wasn’t supposed to be here until the third scene, and now I’d have to think of some reason to leave and come back, then ad-lib the lines where I was shocked to find out Tony had been here.
It sort of made me wish I’d taken Andre up on his suggestion to shoot everyone.
The spotlight shone white all around me, making me acutely aware of my unscripted presence on stage. I had to leave because . . . um . . . well . . . nothing came to mind. “I must go now,” I finally said. “I’ll be back later to talk to you, Maria, about this boy.” I said the last part disdainfully, so it would be clear to the audience I wasn’t happy to find the guy who’d stabbed my boyfriend in my friend’s bedroom.
Jordan took hold of my arm as I walked by. “You saved us just now. I owe you my gratitude.”
I knew he was talking about the scene, not his life, and it seemed ironic that he should mention this now. This was the guy who’d just criticized my dedication to drama. I took a step away from him. “You may owe me gratitude, but you won’t ever try to pay the debt. It doesn’t really matter to you.” Which is something Anita might have told Tony, so I didn’t feel bad saying it onstage.
From beside Jordan, Mary laughed nervously. She had no idea where I was going with this. I wasn’t sure myself, but I didn’t exit the stage just yet. Putting my hand on my hip, I tilted my head at Jordan. “You talk about people forgiving each other and getting along, but that only applies to others, not to you. You don’t have any forgiveness in your heart, do you?” Which was also something Anita might say.
Real surprise registered on his face. I could see the struggle within him, trying to answer my accusation and trying to stay in part. “It’s not a matter of forgiveness. It’s a matter of priorities,” he said. “Some people care about people. Some people only care about getting what they want from other people. Which are you?”
I took a step toward him. “I care about people. I care about you.” Then in an attempt to stay in character, I added, “Um, Maria.”
“Prove it,” Jordan said.
I looked at Jordan. I couldn’t see the audience, the agent, the cameras, the set, or even Mary nervously clenching her fists in the middle of the stage. Somehow all of that didn’t matter right now. I only saw Jordan waiting for my answer.
I did care about him more than this play or any chance of fame it might offer.
Walking the rest of the way to him, I wrapped my arms around his neck and kissed him. Amazingly, he enveloped me in an embrace and kissed me back.
Okay, technically this was not something Anita would do. This was also not something Tony would do, especially since he was about to sing a love song with Maria. The audience was not going to get all weepy and emotional about their doomed love when he’d just kissed Maria’s best friend in front of her.
I knew as I stood there kissing Jordan that I had ruined the play. Still, I kissed him. When I finally stepped away from him, he flashed a huge grin at me and squeezed my hand.
“Well . . .” he said. “Thank you for that demonstration of forgiveness. That was very charitable of you, you know, considering I just killed your boyfriend and all.”
He glanced over at Maria. With her arms folded tightly against her chest, she glared darts of anger at us.
“I’d better go now.” I smiled at Jordan one last time. I couldn’t help myself. Then I hurried offstage.
From that moment on, well, let’s just say the play reached the point of no return. Mary and Jordan sang their love song, b
ut she sang all of her lines like she was mad, and the audience kept laughing. They also laughed when I came back onstage and sang my duet with Maria about how much she loved Tony. I sounded like some sort of trampy hypocrite, and she just sounded stupid.
It was a relief, really, when we’d plodded through the rest of act two and Chino finally shot Tony. The gang members acted entirely too happy about the event, and even Maria couldn’t muster much despair at his passing.
When the curtain fell, there was a smattering of polite applause throughout the auditorium. Probably people clapping because they finally got to go home.
Traditionally, after every play the cast members went out into the front hallway to thank people for coming, receive flowers from friends, and pose for photo ops.
I didn’t want to go, but Jordan dragged me out. Well, okay, he didn’t actually drag me out, he just held my hand, and I wasn’t about to let go of him.
“You were great,” he told me as we walked.
“I ruined the play,” I answered.
“That’s why you were great. I’ll always remember you ruined the play for me.”
I squeezed his hand. “You acted so powerfully. The agent would have really been impressed if, you know, the rest of the play hadn’t stunk.”
He grinned back at me. “I didn’t want to follow in my father’s footsteps anyway.”
Out in the hallway we saw Mrs. Shale sweating in front of a cameraman while a nearby reporter interviewed her.
“That was certainly the most unusual rendition of West Side Story I’ve ever seen,” the reporter said. “I don’t remember Maria wrestling with anyone or Anita throwing herself at Tony. Was that a surprise to you?”
Mrs. Shale twisted her hands together like she was wringing blood from her fingertips. “Live theater is full of surprises. That’s why it’s called performance art.”
Jordan and I walked past her to where his father, mother, and the agent waited.
The agent spoke first. He shook Jordan’s hand while the words shot out of his mouth. “Great performance. You showed a lot of creativity, kid. We’ll have to get together for lunch sometime when you’re visiting your old man in L.A.” He released Jordan’s hand and smacked Mr. Hunter on the back. “Well, I’ve got to run. Got some things to take care of back at the hotel. Thanks for inviting me to the show. It was great.”
We all watched him walk away.
When he was out of earshot, Jordan said, “He hated it, didn’t he?”
“Pretty much, yeah.” Mr. Hunter laid one hand on Jordan’s shoulder. “Don’t take it so hard. Everybody has bad nights. You can’t get down on yourself just because of one bad performance or one bad review—not that I’m saying this play will receive a bad review . . .” He glanced at his ex-wife, then back at Jordan. “Well, okay, actually I am saying that. Anyone who reviews this performance will kick it so hard they’ll leave their footprints on it. And we’ll just have to hope the people on Extra are too busy reporting Paris Hilton’s latest scandal to show any clips of you kissing the wrong character. But the point I’m trying to make is that nothing is unfixable in Hollywood.”
Jordan’s mother leaned toward him. “I thought you did a fine job, dear.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Jordan said.
“I have other contacts in Hollywood,” his dad said.
Jordan’s mother smiled in that dreamy way parents smile when you’re blowing out your birthday candles. “You reminded me so much of your father up there. It was just like watching some of his early stuff.”
Mr. Hunter crossed his arms. “Is that supposed to be a compliment?”
Ms. Hunter dragged her gaze away from Jordan and patted her ex-husband’s arm. “Of course it is.” Now she turned the birthday-candle smile back at Jordan. “You know your father didn’t start out getting top billing. At first he was a little shy and nervous about the whole thing, but once he’d been onstage a few times—well, he created magic. Directors had to give him the main part because otherwise whatever character he played just became the main part. He always stole the show.” She gave Jordan another smile. “So don’t be hard on yourself after your first performance.”
Jordan dropped my hand and slid his arm around my waist. “It’s okay, Mom. I don’t want to be an actor. I just did this for fun. I’m only sorry it turned out so badly because the agent should have seen Jessica. She’s really good.”
Both of his parents looked at me for the first time.
“You did a fine job,” his mother said.
I smiled back at her. “I ruined the play.”
Now Mr. Hunter patted me sympathetically on the shoulder. “Yeah, but it was lousy even before your love scene with Jordan.”
Ms. Hunter elbowed him. “Kit, this is one of those times when it’s really okay to lie.”
Mr. Hunter kept patting me on the shoulder. “You did a fine job.”
“Thanks,” I said.
He stopped patting my shoulder and slipped his hands into his pockets. For the first time I realized how close Jordan’s parents were standing together. “So, do you still want to be an actress, even after tonight?” he asked me.
I hadn’t realized Mr. Hunter had known this about me. Jordan must have told him. What else had he said to his father about me?
I glanced at Jordan, then back at his father. “Yeah, I think so.”
“As tonight illustrated, sometimes it’s a hard road to choose.”
“I know.”
“You have to make lots of sacrifices.” Here Mr. Hunter stopped looking at me and glanced at his ex-wife instead. “Some sacrifices you make, and then wish you hadn’t later.”
I didn’t know how to answer him, since he wasn’t talking to me anymore; so I didn’t say anything.
“And your family has to make sacrifices,” he went on. “Maybe you never really appreciate how much they sacrifice so you can reach your dream. Maybe you forget to tell them thank you along the way. Maybe you forget to tell them I’m sorry.”
Ms. Hunter reached over and squeezed his arm. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not okay,” he said. “And I’m sorry.”
She leaned over and gave him a quick hug. For a moment they stood embracing in the hallway, and then they let go of each other and stared awkwardly at us.
“You want to go out and get something to eat?” Mr. Hunter asked.
“Sure,” Jordan said. “As soon as we change out of our costumes.”
I leaned against Jordan, liking the feel of his arm around me. “And we have to listen to Mrs. Shale’s postperformance comments. Those might take a while tonight.”
I was right about that prediction. She lectured us about everything. Even things that weren’t our fault. I mean, we couldn’t do anything about the fact that a near-fall into the orchestra pit threw off the percussion section.
Mrs. Shale dished out a fair share of the blame in my direction, but I didn’t let it get to me. I couldn’t get too worked up about our play when Jordan sat beside me holding my hand.
After calling my family to let them know I’d be in late, I went to IHOP with Jordan and his parents. It felt weirdly like a double date because Jordan’s parents kept doing flirty things, like glancing over at one another, laughing, and in general ignoring us and talking to each other.
Jordan sent me a lot of I-told-you-so looks—which was ironic, since the last thing he’d told me about his parents was that they were doomed to live lonely, miserable lives.
On my doorstep later on that night, Jordan recounted the entire thing to me even though I’d been there while it happened.
“Did you hear how many times she called him Kit?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“At least ten times.”
“Yeah.”
He took a step closer to me and put one hand against the door frame. “But I’m not getting my hopes up again. I mean, it’s their lives. They have to decide how to live it.”
“Right,” I said.
“But did you
see how he kept leaning over to talk to her?”
“He was the leaning tower of Hunter.”
Then Jordan did some leaning himself. He bent down to kiss me, and I forgot all about his parents. In fact, I forgot about everything until the living room curtain momentarily swished open, spilling light out onto the doorstep.
Through the windowpane I heard Nicki’s muffled voice talking on the telephone. “Well, it looks like Jordan is off the scam-market again.” A pause and then, “Total make-out session happening on my front porch.”
I banged on the window, and Nicki retreated to somewhere else in the house. Hopefully the darkness concealed my blushing. “Are you sure you want your parents to get back together? There’s always the possibility you’ll be saddled with a little sister, you know.”
“I’ll chance it.” Jordan kissed me again on the top of the forehead. “See you tomorrow, Jessica.”
And you know, right then I decided that I liked the name Jessica after all.
The next day Kate wasn’t at school. At lunchtime I called her house, and her mom answered. Kate, it turned out, hadn’t had the flu but appendicitis. She’d been rushed to the hospital last night but was now doing fine and resting after her surgery. I let Mrs. Shale and the rest of drama class know. I figured Lauren’s name needed to be cleared, since Mary had publicly accused her of poisoning the gingerbread cookies.
Mary said a sullen, “Oh,” as though disappointed Lauren hadn’t been responsible, and then nothing else.
Everyone else murmured out sympathies.
After I sat down, Andre leaned over toward my desk, his usual smile gone. “I had my appendix out when I was ten. It hurt to breathe.”
“She kept telling me she didn’t feel well,” I said, “but I didn’t listen.”
“And I gave her a bad time about all that political correctness stuff.”
I tapped my pencil against my desk. “Maybe the cast should send her flowers.”
He nodded. “I’ll hit up the kids in class.” Andre then went from desk to desk using his Riff-gangster accent to shake down everyone who had any money until Mrs. Shale finished marking the roll and told him to sit down. When he did, he had a fist full of cash.