Megan smiles again—another real, honest-to-goodness Megan smile. “I could make accessories for them, too,” she offers shyly. The flutter of hope inside me is now waving like a flag. Maybe the real Megan is still in there somewhere, like a chick trapped inside its shell, not sure how to peck its way out.
Maybe there’s a way we could still be friends.
And then my mother ruins everything.
“Say, Megan,” she says, “I heard Mrs. Adams talking at the PTA meeting right before school got out, and she’s needing help with costumes for the play. I know you’re busy learning your part, but maybe you’d be willing to help out in the design department?” She smiles over at Jess. “Our Jess—I mean our Belle—is going to need a spectacular ballgown for the final scene. How about a Wong original?”
At the mention of the play, Megan’s smile disappears. She shoots Jess a swift glance, sharp as a needle, and puts her pencil down.
With a sinking heart I realize that I’m not getting my old friend back for Christmas. No way. The Christmas truce is over.
Jess
“What do girls do who haven’t any mothers to help them through their troubles?”
“So were you this nervous on your first opening night?”
My mother doesn’t answer. She never does. How could she? She’s just an image on the TV screen.
It’s not that we don’t talk on the phone—we do. She’s really good about calling me and my brothers every few days, but still, it’s not the same as having her here with us at home. Watching her on HeartBeats is the best I can do for now. It feels good to see her face and hear her voice, and for a few minutes I can pretend that she’s in the same room with me.
Onscreen, Mom is batting her eyes at the actor who plays her true love, Judd Chance. He looks like he’s been chiseled out of granite. People in real life never look like the people on TV. There’s certainly nobody in Concord who looks like Judd Chance. Not that I’ve seen, anyway. He must be from California.
“I’m so afraid I’m going to panic when the curtain goes up,” I tell her. “Did you ever feel that way?”
My mother is staring rapturously into Judd’s impossibly handsome face.
“Larissa,” he murmurs. “My love.”
“Oh, my darling!” she replies. “Whatever shall we do?”
Sugar, who is sitting on the bed beside me, pricks up her ears and wags her tail when she hears Mom’s voice.
“Sorry, girl,” I tell her, turning the volume down. No need to listen to this drivel.
I bite into an apple. “I don’t know what you and Judd are going to do, but I’m worried I might faint or something,” I continue. “I really wish you could be here tonight.”
My mother was supposed to come home to Concord this weekend to see the play. But then HeartBeats got nominated for some big award—which is hard to believe, because it’s really, truly the most ridiculous show imaginable—and the awards ceremony is this weekend and the whole cast is supposed to attend, so she couldn’t get away.
She and Dad got into a big argument over it on the phone, which I wasn’t supposed to hear but how could I help it? Dad was yelling at her that she was selfish and from what I could gather she was yelling back at him that this was a big opportunity for her and that he was being the selfish one.
On my dresser is a huge bouquet of flowers. Mom sent them after the argument. They arrived while I was at school, along with a note apologizing that she wasn’t able to be here for the play. She said she hoped I’d understand, and she sent me another train ticket, too, for spring break in New York. To make it up to me.
I take another bite of apple. I’m trying not to care that Mom can’t come, but I can’t help it. I do care. I really want her here with me.
By now, Mom and her TV boyfriend are in a passionate clinch. In addition to stupid dialogue, there’s a lot of kissing on soap operas. Even though I know it’s just acting, it’s weird to see Mom kissing somebody besides Dad. I’m glad I don’t have to kiss anybody in Beauty and the Beast. It’s hard enough having to waltz around the stage with Zach Norton with everybody watching.
“So here’s the thing,” I say to my mother. “What if I’m terrible? What if everybody laughs when I open my mouth to sing? I’ll just die if that happens, I know it.”
Mom doesn’t reply, of course. I look longingly at the phone. There’s no point trying to call her. She’s at the salon right now getting ready for the awards ceremony. I know this because she told me so when we talked briefly this morning, before school. She called to wish me luck—to “break a leg,” as they say in show business. I made her promise she’d call me again later, after her awards ceremony, no matter how late it was, so I could tell her all about opening night.
The phone rings. My heart leaps. My mother read my thoughts!
But it’s just Emma.
“So are you ready for tonight?” she asks me.
“Ready to throw up,” I tell her.
She laughs. “Jess, you’re gonna be great. I’ve been to nearly every rehearsal. Trust me.”
Emma ended up volunteering to be assistant director. That means she’s in charge of props, and making sure everything’s where it should be backstage, and that all the actors get onstage when they’re supposed to.
“My mom says to tell your dad we’re on our way to get the pizzas, and that he should drop you off here at four thirty,” she continues.
“Okay.”
We’re having an opening night party at the Hawthornes’ tonight, before the show. I’ll probably be too nervous to eat, even though we’re going to have an early dinner since Megan and I have to be at school by six to get into our costumes and warm up.
I groan and flop onto my back on the bed. “What have I gotten myself into, mom?” I ask the TV screen.
My mother looks straight at the camera and smiles. I sit up. “It’s not funny! I’m serious! I can’t go through with this!”
But HeartBeats is over, and the screen goes black. I wait to see the credits before I turn off the TV. I always like to see my mother’s name. There it is: Shannon O’Halloran as Larissa LaRue. My mother is using her maiden name as her stage name, just like she did years ago when she and Dad were first married. It’s hard to imagine my parents living in New York City, but they did. Mom was an actress way back then, before Dad inherited the farm. A good actress, too, Dad says. Unlike me, who is going to bomb.
I shove thoughts of tonight’s impending disaster aside and work on homework until it’s time to leave. Ryan and Dylan pile into the back seat of the pickup truck, kicking and chopping at each other. Dad is taking them to karate lessons after dropping me at the Hawthornes’. When we get to Emma’s house, he leans over and gives me a hug.
“I’ll see you at school,” he says. “Your brothers and I will be sitting with the Hawthornes. Phoebe got us all seats in the front row.”
“Okay.”
“You’re going to be a beautiful Belle, honey.”
“Thanks, Dad.” I kiss his cheek, then climb out of the truck. “Don’t forget to pick up Sundance.”
Sundance is my pet goat. She’s a little Nubian I raised for a 4-H project last spring, and she started limping a few days ago so we took her to the vet.
“Don’t worry, I won’t.” He toots three times on the horn as he drives away, our family’s “I love you” code.
The Hawthornes’ house smells wonderfully of pizza, which I normally adore, but tonight, as I suspected, I can hardly eat a thing. Neither can Megan, I notice, and I almost ask her if she’s nervous about opening night too, but I don’t. She’ll just say something mean like she always does. She’s hardly said two words to me since I got picked for the part of Belle. She’s said plenty to everybody else, though. She and Becca have spread the rumor all over school that the only reason I got cast is because my mother left and the drama teacher feels sorry for me. Emma says let them talk, just wait until I open my mouth and sing, that’ll shut them up.
But what if
I open my mouth to sing tonight and nothing at all comes out? Or worse, what if too much comes out? What if I croak like a frog? Or throw up?
While I’m picking at my pizza imagining all the horrible fates that await me onstage, Mr. Hawthorne arrives home from hockey practice with Darcy and Cassidy. The three of them cram in around the dining room table with the rest of us and Darcy and Cassidy proceed to wolf down an entire pizza between the two of them.
“Goodness,” says Mrs. Wong, who is nibbling at some brown rice stir-fry thing she brought in a plastic container. “You two must be hungry.”
“Starved,” says Cassidy. She takes a big swig of root beer and belches.
Her mother looks shocked. “Cassidy Ann!”
Cassidy grins sheepishly. “Excuse me.”
Beside me, I notice Megan pull out her cell phone and start text messaging surreptitiously under the table. She sees me watching and glares. I stare back down at my pizza.
“Louisa May would certainly approve of tonight’s performance,” says Mrs. Hawthorne. “She was quite an actress herself. And a playwright.”
“Didn’t I read someplace that she had a play produced in Boston once?” asks Mr. Hawthorne.
“You sure did,” Mrs. Hawthorne replies. “And she did a lot of acting, too, both as an adult and while she was growing up. She and her sisters made all their own props and costumes, just like the March girls in Little Women. Remember Roderigo’s boots?”
“Hmmm,” muses Mr. Hawthorne. “The ones on display at Orchard House, right?”
Mrs. Hawthorne nods. “Louisa designed and sewed them for one of their plays.”
Across the table from me, a flicker of interest crosses Megan’s face.
Mrs. Sloane looks at the two of us and smiles. “And now we have our two budding actresses right here. You girls are going to be wonderful tonight, I just know it.”
“Especially Jess,” says Emma, beaming at me.
“Don’t forget Megan,” says Mrs. Hawthorne, winking at her. “She’s quite the dish.”
Everybody laughs at her little joke, except Megan, who glares stonily at her pizza.
“But Jess is the main course,” says Cassidy, mumbling the words through a mouthful of pizza. Mrs. Sloane frowns and shakes her head sternly. Cassidy chews vigorously and swallows, then opens her mouth wide to show her mother that it’s empty. Mrs. Sloane throws her hands in the air. “I give up,” she says, and all the parents laugh.
We talk for a while more, and then it’s time to leave. I’m driving with the Sloanes, and as we head for their minivan, my legs feel like lead. I’m very, very glad that I didn’t eat much. When we talked on the phone this morning, Mom said everybody feels this way right before a performance, but that once I get out onstage it’ll be fine. I find that hard to believe. Impossible, in fact.
At school, I follow Mrs. Sloane to a classroom that’s been set up for hair and makeup. She volunteered to be in charge of all that.
“Why don’t you change into your costume for the first scene and then I’ll work my magic,” she tells me, plugging in a curling iron.
I head for the girls’ room, and by the time I return she’s putting the finishing touches on the Fab Four.
“I hate this costume so much,” says Megan, examining herself in the mirror. She’s wearing a black bodysuit, and she’s sandwiched between two huge round pieces of cardboard that have been spray-painted gold. Becca, Ashley, and Jen are dressed the same, except that Becca’s cardboard cutouts are in the shape of a cup, and Ashley’s and Jen’s are a knife and fork.
“Nonsense, you girls look great,” Mrs. Sloane tells her. “Just the way royal dishes should look.”
Megan makes a face at herself in the mirror. Becca, Ashley, and Jen do the same.
“Monkey see, monkey do,” I mutter.
Emma pokes her head in the door. “Warm-up in five!” she calls, then disappears again.
Mrs. Sloane turns to me. As she starts curling my hair, another head pops in through the doorway. It’s Zach Norton.
“Is it safe to come in?”
Mrs. Sloane nods.
He crosses the room and hands me a single red rose. “This is for you,” he says shyly. “Good luck tonight. I mean, break a leg.”
“You, too, Zach,” I reply. “Thanks.” In the mirror’s reflection I can see the Fab Four watching us. Megan looks like she’s wishing the floor would open and swallow me up. Too bad, I think. It’s her own dumb fault that Zach is keeping his distance. She shouldn’t have let Becca read Emma’s poem at the rink.
Zach tugs on one of my long blonde ringlets. “Nice look.”
“Thanks,” I say again.
As he turns to leave, Calliope Chadwick barges into the room. She grabs Becca by the arm and hauls her over to Mrs. Sloane.
“My daughter needs more glitter!” she orders.
Mrs. Sloane puts down the curling iron. “I think Becca has enough glitter on her face,” she replies.
“The audience will hardly be able to see her! I want her to shine!”
“Don’t forget that Becca only has a supporting role, Calliope,” says Mrs. Sloane, smiling sweetly. “Members of the chorus aren’t supposed to outshine the star.”
Becca goes back over to join her friends, and Mrs. Chadwick casts a sour glance at me. Behind her, the door opens and my father comes in. “Star?” she says to Mrs. Sloane. “Ha! From what I’ve heard, the casting of this play was influenced by favoritism, and I plan to speak to the school board about it. Giving lead roles to hoity-toity girls from some ramshackle farm who think they’re something special just because they’re in some ridiculous book club, and just because their mothers happen to be acting in some ridiculous soap opera, is no way to run a drama department.”
“That ramshackle farm, as you call it, has been around since the Revolutionary War,” my father says quietly. Mrs. Chadwick whirls around, surprised to see him there. “In case you’ve forgotten, Calliope, Paul Revere himself took shelter there with one of my ancestors, while your in-laws were busy turning traitor.”
The Revolutionary War is a sore spot with Mrs. Chadwick, whose husband’s family sided with the British.
“And from what I’ve heard,” my father continues in that ultracalm voice he uses when he’s furious, “your daughter got just the role she deserved. I hear she’s pretty good at dishing out unkindness.”
Mrs. Chadwick’s mouth pops open in an angry O. Before she can say anything, Mrs. Sloane slaps something into her hand. “You want glitter?” she says frostily. “Take the glitter. Just remember, though, all that glitters is not gold. And that includes dancing tableware.”
Mrs. Chadwick gives a wounded sniff, draws herself up with as much dignity as she can muster, and waddles off. Her attempt at a grand exit is spoiled, however, by her large bottom, which wags behind her like a reproachful buffalo.
“Don’t pay any attention to that old battleax,” my father tells me once she’s out of earshot. “You earned this role fair and square. And besides that, you look like a princess!”
I give him a sidelong glance. “Princess Jess of Ramshackle Farm?”
Mrs. Sloane laughs. “That’s the spirit.”
“Is Sundance okay?” I ask my father.
He nods. “You bet. She’s in her crate in the back of the truck.”
“Who’s Sundance?” asks Mrs. Sloane, winding another strand of my hair around the curling iron.
“My pet goat,” I explain. “She was at the vet’s.”
Across the room, I hear the Fab Four burst into laughter. I don’t even have to look at them to know they’re talking about me. Goat Girl, they’re saying. I feel my face grow hot.
My dad gives me a kiss and tells me to break a leg, and then it’s time for warm-ups and a pep talk by Mrs. Adams. As we take our places backstage, Emma peeks through the curtains. “It’s filling up!” she reports. I pace back and forth, wiping the palms of my hands on my dress and trying in vain to control the wild thudding of my heart
.
The prelude starts and Emma shoves a book into my hands. I stare at it blankly.
“Your prop for the first scene, remember?” she whispers.
I try and recall the first scene. I can’t. I try and recall my first line—nothing! I grab her arm, panicked.
“You’re gonna be great,” she reassures me, and races off.
The curtain rises and the audience claps enthusiastically when they see our elaborate stage set—the painted wooden houses and storefronts of a small French village. I peer out from the wings and spot my father and my brothers sitting next to Darcy and Emma’s parents in the front row, right where they said they’d be. I look around for my mother, just in case maybe she decided to surprise me, but she’s nowhere in sight.
The first number begins and Mrs. Adams pokes me in the back, my cue for my entrance. I take a deep breath and wander out onstage, pretending to read a book like I’m supposed to. I focus on the music and try to ignore the audience. The stage fright will pass, I tell myself grimly. Mom promised.
Amazingly, astonishingly, she was right. As soon as I open my mouth and begin to sing, suddenly I’m not me anymore, and this isn’t the stage at Walden Middle School in Concord, Massachusetts. I’ve been transported to a village in France, and I am Belle. I have actually become her. Jess—shy, tongue-tied Jess—is someplace far, far away. There’s only the music and me and the audience, who is hanging on my every note.
I’m soaring.
Is this how it is for Mom, a distant part of my mind wonders? Does she feel this way when she’s acting too? This alive? Is this why she had to leave Half Moon Farm? To feel this incredible feeling again? But this isn’t the time or place for such thoughts and I shove them away, forcing myself to concentrate instead on the action onstage.
We’re almost through the first act when it happens. Right at the end of a big, rousing number, the one where the dishes and furniture from the Beasts castle break into song for Belle. I don’t notice that all the dishes aren’t there, that a certain cup has disappeared offstage, and I don’t notice the commotion a short while later in the wings when the cup returns. I hear a ripple of laughter from the audience and assume it’s because of the tableware cancan line. That always gets a laugh.