“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m on a chemistry grind. I want to get an A so I can take AP chem next year. And this chapter is hard.”
“All work and no play . . . ,” she singsongs. “You know, you could go for a normal guy. Bryce Richardson is into you, and he sort of looks like Jonah.”
“Bryce Richardson isn’t into me.” Bryce is the hottest guy in our class—and so knows it. I’ve seen him make fun of smaller guys, heavy girls, people with acne. I heard he wouldn’t go out with one girl because her eyebrows were too close to her eyes. The guys with huge egos always like me. The right ones never do. I just want a smart, funny guy, but it’s like guys my age are scared of me.
“I’ve seen Bryce looking at you,” Laurel insists.
“I don’t think so. You should go for him if you like him. I’m a little too sapiosexual for him.”
“Sapiosexual? What’s that? Sounds dirty.”
“It means attracted to smart people. That kind of lets out Bryce Richardson.”
She sighs. “I’m giving up now. Next order of business: Oliver! auditions are after school today.”
I sigh and close the notebook. “Guess I’m done studying.”
“You know you’ll ace it.”
I don’t want to talk about this any more than I want to talk about why I don’t like Bryce Richardson. But Laurel’s totally obsessed with theater. “Why are we trying out for a musical again?”
“Because I need to pay my dues in the chorus—or, hopefully, a small but pivotal role—so I can get a lead next year.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t clear. Why am I trying out? I have stage fright. And no talent.”
“Because you’re my best friend. And because, if I’m in the play and going to rehearsals every day, you can’t hang out at my house to avoid Lady Violet—unless you want my mom to teach you quilting. She’d completely love to do that.”
Laurel knows how important Violet avoidance is to me. At least, she gave me the heads-up on the play. She made me watch the movie version a few weeks ago, and it was pretty good. I guess being in the chorus wouldn’t be horrible, as long as I can be in back where no one sees me.
“Okay,” I say, “so what do I have to do? Hopefully, not dance. Because I’m bad at that.”
“Just a song. The drama teacher said ‘Happy Birthday’ was okay for chorus. They just want to see if you can sing on pitch.”
“I think I remember all the words to ‘Happy Birthday,’” I tell Laurel, “but we can go over them at lunch, just in case.”
Laurel rolls her eyes.
When we get off the bus, Pierre Duval, a senior I don’t know, is rolling by in his BMW convertible. “Nice jeans, Celine,” he yells. “I’d love to get in them.”
I move to the other side of Laurel and try to ignore him.
“I am not trying for the role of Oliver,” the guy onstage tells the drama teacher, Mrs. Connors. “I may be little, but I’m not a kid. And I’m not cute.”
I’ve noticed this guy before, even though he’s a year ahead of me. He was in my bio class last year. His name is Goose Guzman. He has dark, wavy hair, olive skin, a wicked sense of humor . . . and he’s maybe four and a half feet tall. Is it wrong to say I want to meet him because he’s a little person? I figure he knows how it feels to be stared at for something beyond your control. Plus, he’s funny—as he’s demonstrating at the moment.
“You’re definitely not cute, Goose,” Mrs. Connors says.
“Thank you.” He half smiles, lifting only one side of his mouth. “I’m also not a soprano.” He makes his voice real deep when he says that.
“What part did you want to try for?” Connors asks.
Goose shrugs. “Bill Sikes. Maybe Fagin.”
She sighs. “Bill Sikes is supposed to be a big, scary guy, Goose. I don’t think—”
“Oh, I see how it is. You’re being heightist.” Goose stands up very straight. “Someday, when I’m the next Peter Dinklage or Warwick Davis, I’ll tell people my high school drama teacher wouldn’t cast me because I was too short.”
I chuckle. The guy is awesome.
Connors rolls her eyes. “I’m not refusing to cast you, just refusing to cast you as Bill Sikes. I won’t consider you for Widow Corney either, if that’s okay. Maybe you can be—I mean try for—the Artful Dodger.”
I remember from the movie that the Artful Dodger was a clever teenage pickpocket. Good call. Goose seems okay with that idea. At least, both sides of his mouth are now up. “Fine. Either that or Fagin.”
Mrs. Connors shrugs. “Try for both. We’ll see what happens. But who am I going to cast as Oliver? Most of the boys here are huge.”
“Cast a girl,” Goose says, “a little, cute girl. Cast her.”
And he points right at me. I shrink down in my seat and try to think of some clever retort about how he doesn’t seem to mind looks-based casting when he’s not the one being stereotyped. But I realize it’s probably not the same. Mrs. Connors looks at me and claps. “Splendid idea. Anyone under five foot three—except Goose—will read for Oliver.” She walks over to me. “Can you sing ‘Where Is Love?’”
I remember that song from the movie too. It perfectly described my life, a lonely child yearning for a lost mother.
But I don’t want to be Oliver. I hate being the center of attention. This reminds me of second grade, when we did Cinderella, and I really wanted to be a mouse. I got Cinderella. Not only did I have to memorize a ton of lines, but all the mouse girls hated me. I glare at Laurel, who’s five eight, then say to Mrs. Connors, “I only wanted chorus. I was going to sing ‘Happy Birthday.’”
She sighs audibly. “Maybe just try?”
And, like the people pleaser I am, I say, “I guess if you have the sheet music.”
Twenty minutes later, I’m standing onstage singing “Where Is Love?” Three other girls—girls who actually wanted to be Oliver—have already tried, and I could barely hear them. I could do that. No one’s heard me sing before. I even avoid karaoke at birthday parties. I could waver off pitch on the high notes or sing so softly that no one could hear me. But when I get onstage, I start thinking about Mom, about how we used to bake cutout cookies at Christmas, and the Hannah Montana costume she made me for Halloween when I was five and thought Hannah Montana was cool. I remember all the crafts we did for Girl Scouts before that fateful day. And I start to sing about poor miserable Oliver, searching for his mother.
Halfway through, I see Mrs. Connors wipe away a tear.
When I finish the song, there’s silence except a few sniffles. Sniffles!
Someone—Goose—starts to applaud and whistle. Thanks, dude. Then, everyone else applauds too.
I go back to my seat, sort of hoping no one else tries out. Maybe I want the part after all. I wonder if this is how Jonah feels onstage. That would be something else we could bond about.
No one else tries out. Mrs. Connors starts with the girls who want to play Nancy. Which is all of them, except me. So after Laurel and a few others go, I head for the ladies’ room.
“She thinks she’s all that,” I hear one of the other girls whisper as I walk by.
So unfair! I want to round on her and ask what, exactly, I did to make her say that. Of course I don’t.
When I come out, angrily, I pass Goose by the water fountain. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I reply.
He doesn’t quite reach my shoulder. He has these chocolate brown puppy-dog eyes. “You really moved me in there. My parents, they take in foster kids, and when you sang that song, it made me think of them, like, think of their struggle. Also, those are cool boots.”
“Thanks. My mother died when I was little. The song reminded me of her.” Why did I say that? I never talk about my mother. To anyone, let alone complete strangers. I hug my notebook to my chest. “Um, I’m Celine.”
&n
bsp; He nods. “I know. We had bio together last year. Goose.”
“Oh, yeah. I didn’t think you remembered me. I was just a freshman.” He was always at the center of a group of theater kids, making people laugh, while I sat off by myself and acted studious because I didn’t know anyone in the class. All my friends took Earth-Space, the normal ninth grade class, but I love science, so I was ahead.
“You were the one who stood up for the sub that day,” he says.
“Oh.” Ugh. I look down, embarrassed. But since he’s shorter than I am, down is right at his face. “You remember that?”
“It was memorable.” He waggles his eyebrows, smiling that half smile again.
Yeah. One day in class, we had a sub. A new one, probably fresh out of college, and he stuttered. Badly. Since the class didn’t have assigned seating, he had to call roll. Which was painful. It took maybe ten minutes to call thirty names, but it seemed way longer because people were being so rude. He searched for C-C-Columbo and G-G-Guzman with everyone laughing at him. Well, almost everyone. I actually specifically noticed that Goose wasn’t. But he wasn’t telling his friends to shut up either.
When the sub reached the last name, Torres, his stutter made it come out Tit-tit-Torres, and everyone lost it, including the sub, who looked about to cry. It really bugs me when people make fun of someone who can’t help it, and I didn’t have any friends in that class anyway.
So I stood up. I had nothing to lose. I turned, faced the class, and just glared at everyone. And people actually stopped laughing, at least enough to hear me when I said, “What are you, four years old? I’m sure it’s soooo funny.”
Which is the bravest thing I’ve done since trying to kick the monkey off Mom.
And, for whatever reason, that shut everyone up. I knew people thought I was a bitch, but I sort of thought the same thing about them.
“It wasn’t a big deal,” I say. “I just wanted to get started with biology. I’m going to study nursing, so I need good grades in science.”
Goose shakes his head like my dad does when he knows I’m lying. “Don’t downplay how brave you were, standing up to a roomful of people. You weren’t the only person who was annoyed, just the only one who said anything. I didn’t. You were like a warrior.”
I shrug and look away so he can’t see my smile. Warrior. I like that.
“Serious badass. And you were brave just now, onstage.”
Glad to change the subject, I say, “That’s true. I was terrified. I’m probably the one person here who doesn’t want a lead. Hopefully, I won’t get it.” Now that it’s over, I’m backing off the fact that I really sort of want it.
“Oh, you’ll get it.” He points to my notebook. “So who’s J.P.? Your boyfriend?”
He’s looking at the writing on my notebook.
So. Embarrassing. I try to sneak my fingers on top of the writing. “Um, actually, he’s a singer. Jonah Prince.” I realize this does not make me sound like a warrior-type. “It’s dumb. My friend, Laurel, and I are getting tickets for his concert in Orlando this summer, so I was, you know, being a fangirl.” I try not to look like someone who wrote three Tumblr posts about Jonah in the past week.
“Jonah Prince. That’s the guy with the dance moves, right?” Goose executes a Jonah Prince-like spin. “I’ve got some moves of my own.”
I stifle a giggle. He says, “It’s okay to laugh. I wasn’t being serious.”
“I guess we should go back in,” I say. “I think there’s a dance audition.” Which Laurel totally lied about.
“Wouldn’t want to miss that. As you can tell, I’m a brilliant dancer.”
That time, I do laugh. We head for the auditorium. Goose holds the door for me, then takes a seat with one of the better Nancy candidates. Another girl is onstage, singing “As Long as He Needs Me” off-key. I sit by Laurel.
The next day, when the cast list goes up, I’m Oliver. Goose Guzman is listed as the Artful Dodger, and he’s hugging the girl he was sitting with, who got Nancy.
“I’m someone named Charlotte, and chorus,” Laurel says. “We’ll never rehearse together.” But I can tell she’s thrilled she got a speaking part.
“Congratulations. Yes, we will. Oliver’s in almost every scene.” Le sigh. “I’ll be at your rehearsals and a bunch more. At least, it gets me away from Violet. And squee! Charlotte is a great part!”
“The beginning of a brilliant theater career,” Laurel agrees. And we jump up and down.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOF—NOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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4
That night, at dinner, I tell Dad and Violet about the play.
Despite a full-time lawyer job, Violet is an incredible cook. She scours food blogs and cookbooks and makes recipes that look like they should take hours, but still gets dinner on the table by seven. I think she stays up all night, chopping stuff. So, while normal kids are eating frozen breaded chicken breasts or even ramen, my family gets shrimp etouffee with grits or, tonight, beef Wellington.
God, how I wish we could eat frozen chicken breasts sometimes. I love frozen chicken breasts with barbecue sauce on them. It’s such a mom thing to make.
I miss my mom.
But I eat everything in hopes that it will make Violet hate me less. It doesn’t work.
“What’s this in the middle?” I ask, picking at my steak, which has been rolled in a crust like a pie and has something gray that looks like pureed mouse in the center.
“It’s really good.” Dad smiles at Violet and rubs her back. “You’re such a great cook. I don’t know how you have time for this.”
“We make time for those we love,” she says.
And then, he kisses her. On the lips. With tongue. Long pause while I throw up in my mouth.
“But what is it?” I start to scrape it off, figuring they won’t notice since they’re so busy sucking face.
“Darling, don’t do that. It’s pâté, okay? It’s delicious. It’s . . .”
Liver! Do you know they force feed the geese through a tube to make their livers more “buttery”? But I don’t say it. I don’t use any unnecessary words with Violet. I try to stuff the liver into my mouth to keep the words from coming out.
“Mmm. You’re a great cook, Violet, um, Mom.” In the beginning, she’d asked me to call her Mom, but it had seemed wrong. But, as years went by and everyone else had a mother, I changed my mind. It wasn’t like Mom was going to know about it. And Violet was nice. Then.
Was nice.
She’d seemed happy about it. Dad said Violet had never had a good relationship with her own mother, a beautiful woman who’d joined us for Thanksgiving exactly once in the years Violet and Dad had been together, and who’d criticized the dry turkey (It was perfect, like everything Violet cooked) and left before dessert. I try to remember that when I get mad at Violet, but it’s not easy.
“So I’m going to be in the school musical,” I say, mostly to Dad. “Oliver!”
“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Violet says. “It’s always so much fun to be in the chorus.”
“Absolutely,” Dad says. “Violet did musicals in high school, and she was on the dance team.” He’s so pleased we have something in common.
“That’s so cool,” I say. “I suck at dance. What were you in?”
Violet is actually momentarily happy, talking about herself. “Senior year, we did My Fair Lady. I played the lead, Eliza. And junior year, I was Irene Molloy in Hello, Dolly!”
“She was breathtaking,” Dad says, and takes a big bite of his liver-y steak. “Just like this meal. I don’t know how one woman can be so good at everything.”
Almost like she’s a witch.
“So breathtaking you never gave me a second look,” Violet says. “You were busy looki
ng elsewhere.”
Dad looks down at his plate. “Mmm.”
I know I have to tell them. “Actually, I’m not in the chorus. It’s kind of a funny story. They were looking for a short girl to play Oliver.”
“So you have the lead?” Dad says. “That’s wonderful.” Because he is just that clueless to how Violet will react.
She’s already frowning. I say, “It’s not really the lead. All the girls wanted Nancy.”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Violet snaps. “The play’s called Oliver! not Nancy!”
“But I’m playing a boy. I’ll have to wear my hair in a cap and look ugly.” She should love that.
“Maybe you should cut it off, immerse yourself in the role of a London street urchin. When I played Eliza, I talked in a British accent 24/7.”
So weird.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” Dad jokes. “Everyone can’t be as dedicated as you, Violet.”
I can tell he’s trying to help me, but it’s still annoying that he always takes her side. I chomp on my beef Wellington. “This is really incredible. You’re a great cook, Violet.” I chew real quick, like a rabbit, then take another bite. Dad and Violet are chewing too, which is better than tonguing each other.
“Anyway,” I say when I’ve eaten enough to leave, “I’ll probably have rehearsal most days. Laurel’s mom can drive me when Laurel’s rehearsing too, but otherwise, maybe you can pick me up on your way home?”
I’m looking at Dad, but Violet says, “Of course.”
“Thanks.” I take one last bite. “Mmm.” Chewing.
“You must have a very beautiful voice,” Violet says.
I can hear the jealousy tinging her own voice. But why would she be jealous? She’s beautiful and talented herself. Why hate me so much?
Because she’s a total wack job.
“I think it was more that no one wanted to be Oliver. They tried to talk this one short boy into it, but he refused. And the few girls who tried couldn’t sing the notes right.” I take another bite even though I don’t want it, then stand.