My part was blocked sketchily. It was decided that I'd be given certain parameters—where I had to be, by when—and that over the next few days Maggie and I would work on the gymnastic details. She had also volunteered to help with my stage fright, teaching me relaxation exercises and pacing me through extra rehearsals in which she'd expose me to increments of stage lighting in a gradually darkened theater.
Rehearsal ran late that day and was followed quickly by dinner, then a showing of The Tempest. Each Wednesday evening was Movie Night during which we'd watch and discuss a film of a Shakespearean production.
After the movie I hung out with Shawna and two other new girls in her cozy room beneath the eaves. Everything was fine until ten o'clock, when I returned to my room.
For the first time since early in the day I was alone and had the opportunity to think about the strange visions I'd had the last two nights. I found myself glancing around anxiously and turning on lights, not just the bedside one, but the overhead and the desk lamp as well. I didn't want any blue shadows tonight.
I pulled down the shades, then drew the curtains over them. It made the room stuffy, but I felt less vulnerable with the windows covered, as if I could seal the opening through which thoughts of Liza entered my mind. It was eerie the way the visions occurred when I sat in the window where she would have sat and stood on the stage where she would have stood.
I walked restlessly about my room, then tried to read. At ten-twenty I knocked on Maggie's door.
"Jenny. Hello," Maggie said, quickly checking me over the way my own mother would have, making sure there was no physical emergency. "Is anything wrong?"
"No, but I'm feeling kind of jumpy. May I go out for a walk? I know it's past curfew, but I'll stay close."
"Come in a moment," Maggie said, stepping aside.
I was reluctant. Come on.
I entered the room. It was extremely neat, her bedspread turned down just so, the curtains pulled back the exact same width at each window, all the pencils on her desk sharpened and lined up. But Maggie's pink robe was a bit ratty, the way my mother's always was, making me feel more comfortable with her. She gestured to a desk chair, then seated herself on the bed a few feet away.
"Are you worried about your role in the play?" she asked.
What could I say? No, I'm worried about my dead sister haunting me. "Sort of."
"Wel get you over the stage fright, Jenny, truly we will. tell me, do you remember how it started?"
"How?" I repeated.
"Or maybe when," she suggested.
"I don't know—I just always had it, at least as far back as kindergarten. I was supposed to recite a nursery rhyme for graduation, 'Little Bo Peep.' We have a video of me standing silently on stage, my mortarboard crooked, the tassel hanging in my face, my eyes like those of a deer caught in headlights."
She laughed. "Oh, my!"
"Why do you ask?"
"I was looking for a clue as to why stage fright happens to you. Psychologists say that performance anxiety is often rooted in unhappy childhood experiences, such as rejection by one's parents, or perhaps physical or verbal abuse by those who are close to the child."
"I wasn't rejected or abused," I said quickly. "Nothing terrible has ever happened to me." Til last summer, I added silently.
She smoothed the bedcover with her hand. "Sometimes memories of traumatic events can be repressed, so that the individual doesn't consciously remember those events, and therefore doesn't know why she is reacting to a situation that is similar in some way."
"I don't think that's it," I said politely.
"Let me give you an example," Maggie continued. "A child is wearing a certain kind of suntan lotion. That day she watches someone drown at the beach. Years later she happens to buy the same brand of lotion. She puts it on and finds herself paralyzed with fear. She doesn't know why, but she can't go on with whatever she planned to do at that moment. The smell has triggered the feelings of the traumatic event she has long since repressed. Only by remembering the event, understanding what has triggered such an extreme response, can she overcome it."
I shifted in my chair, uncomfortable with the psychological talk. "Repressed memory isn't my problem," I told her. "But I will try the relaxation exercises you mentioned."
"And the incremental exposure."
"That, too."
She smiled agreeably. "still need a walk?"
"Yeah."
"Stay on this block within the area of the four houses we're occupying. It's perfectly safe, but I'm an old worrywart. Check in with me in twenty minutes, all right?"
I nodded. "Thanks."
For the first few minutes I sat on the front steps of Drama House and gazed at the night sky. Across the road the tall tower on Stoddard cut a dark pattern out of the glittering sky, its clock glowing like a second moon.
I walked up and down the block, then circled Drama House, curious to see my room from the outside. Just as I reached the back of the house, I heard a noise from the fraternity next door, a grunt, then a thud, like a fall that had been muffled by grass. A guy swore softly. I peered around the lumpy trunk of an old cherry tree at the same time that Mike, standing by a window of the frat, turned to look over his shoulder. He grimaced when he saw me.
Maybe he thought I'd mind my own business and walk on, for a moment later he checked to see if I was still there and grimaced again. I wasn't moving; I wanted to know what was going on.
He threw a stone against a second-floor window and someone raised the shade. "I need your help," Mike called quietly.
He waited—I guessed for his helper to come down-stairs—and looked back over his shoulder a third time.
"still here," I said.
The light in the first-floor room went on. The shade rolled up—it was the guys' bathroom. Maybe I shouldn't be looking, I thought, but of course I did. A stubborn window screen was yanked up.
"Ready?" I heard Mike ask the guy inside, then he leaned over, grunting and pull ing. I stepped to the right of the tree to get a better view and saw a heap of a person on the ground, then a head come up above a set of shoulders as Mike heaved him onto the windowsill.
"Got a good hold?" Mike asked. "On the count of three. One, two—"
In the bathroom light I saw Paul's head, then torso go over the window frame.
"Glad he's not any heavier," the guy inside said, tugging on the screen.
"Splash some cold water on his face," Mike instructed, "and let him stay in the bathroom for a while."
The shade was yanked down from the inside, and Mike turned away from the window. He seemed to be debating what to do, then strolled over to me.
"Out for a walk?" he asked.
"Yes."
"I guess you know it's past curfew."
"I have permission," I said. "What about you?"
He grinned. "I don't."
"What happened to Paul?"
"Oh, nothing too bad."
"Nothing too bad like what?" I asked.
Mike gestured toward the tree. "Want to sit down?"
Under a tree, alone with him in the moonlight? I wasn't sure.
"You climb trees, don't you?" he persisted. "You must if you're a gymnast."
The first strong limb was about four feet off the ground. I hoisted myself onto it—Mike was going to help me but thought better of it. Then I climbed up to a limb that grew in the opposite direction, about seven feet high. Mike made himself comfortable on the long lower limb. I wondered if he and Liza used to sit there together.
"Paul hangs around town and gets himself in trouble with the locals," Mike said. "I should have let him get his head split open by the giant he took on tonight. It's the only way he' l get any sense knocked into it."
"You rescued him?"
"Are you kidding? I'm not an idiot. I grabbed him and ran like a good coward."
I smiled.
"Listen," Mike said, "you've got to keep this quiet, okay?"
"Give me a reason why."
r /> "We need Paul for the production. But more important, Paul needs us," he added, his blue eyes intense, persuasive. "Theater is the only thing that has kept Paul in school. It's what has kept him from getting into the really bad stuff. We can't get him bounced out of here."
"He makes me very uncomfortable."
"He aims to," Mike replied. "It's just an act."
"Brian said the same thing about Walker."
Mike smiled. "Don't be fooled by Walker. At heart, he's a good guy."
I must have made a face, for Mike laughed up at me. "Yeah, I can see he's got a fan in you. But really, I don't know what I'd do without him. He found grant money for me so I could attend last year and this. He has taught me more than the books I've read or any of my other teachers. I'm really grateful to him."
"I'm glad he has helped you," I said, "but I still think he's an egotistical tyrant with a nasty streak in him."
"A lot of creative people are that way."
I prickled. I'd heard that justification one too many times. "Creativity is no excuse for obnoxious behavior."
"Are you worried about performing?" Mike asked quietly.
"That's not my reason for disliking him."
"I didn't think it was. I just wanted to tell you that there is nothing to be afraid of. The audience is rooting for you, Jenny. They see you on stage and want you to do well. Everyone out there wants to love you."
Speaking of ego, I thought to myself, what an assumption!
"Trust me," Mike said, his face animated, "it's a blast."
"For you, maybe."
"There's nothing like it. I've been putting on shows since I was five."
"Are you part of a theater group?"
He grinned. "No, the kid of a minister. I spent a lot of growing-up years hanging around the church next to our house in Trenton. It had a stage—the altar; a balcony—the choir loft; sort of an orchestra—the organ; even costumes—my father often wondered why his vestments were wrinkled on Sundays. I put on a lot of performances for my friends, all of them unauthorized."
I laughed out loud. Mike laughed with me, gazing up at my face. His smile, the brightness in his eyes made my heart feel incredibly light. Then I remembered Liza and looked away. I could imagine her slipping out to meet him here in the moonlight.
"Anyway, my parents aren't thrilled about my dream of being an actor. My oldest brother is doing mission work in Appalachia. The second one is studying at Union Theological. And then there's me. Since I don't seem to have a religious calling, they would like me to pursue something practical, you know, something that guarantees a good salary."
"But you have to follow your heart," I said.
"Yes… Yes, you do."
He waited for me to meet his eyes, but I didn't. I couldn't.
"You know, some of the guys have been talking about you, Jenny."
"They have? Saying what?"
"They're disappointed that you paired off so quickly with Tomas."
"Why should it matter to them that we're friends?"
He looked at me curiously. "You really don't know, do you?" he said."'Her hair gives dawn its fire, her eyes give dusk its soul.'"
He knew how to use his voice to melt a girl's heart, to make a girl want to believe. I steeled myself against the seductive words. "Excuse me?"
"It's a line of poetry describing a beautiful girl, one who doesn't seem to know it."
I dug my fingernails into the bark of the tree. "Well, there's your answer, the reason I like Tomas. He's real. He's not an actor."
"What's wrong with actors?"
"They quote poetry. A girl has to be crazy to believe one," I told him. "It's far too easy for an actor to give you a good line."
"You're quick to judge."
"No," I argued. "I've had experience with theater types. After a while they can't tell real from unreal.
They believe their own creation of themselves and can't understand why everyone else isn't convinced they're wonderful."
He jumped down from the limb, then stared up at me, his eyes sparking with anger. "It's efficient, I guess, judging an individual by a group. You don't waste any time trying to know somebody."
But I don't want to know you! I thought as I watched Mike walk away. I can't risk knowing you.
Experience had taught me not to get close to guys who fell in love with Liza. I had been burned twice and knew I couldn't compete. It didn't matter that I could no longer give a guy access to my sister; if Mike knew who I was, I'd be access to his romantic memories of her. He'd start looking for traits and signs of her in me. And I wasn't setting myself up for that kind of heartache.
Chapter 9
How are you doing, Jenny?" Maggie asked me Thursday morning.
"Good. Ready to go."
"Glad to hear it," she said. "We're going to work at the gym later today to block your movements. Walker thought it would be good if Tomas went with us.
Knowing the set and being as visual as he is, he might see some possibilities we don't."
"Sounds like fun."
"Also, I'm photocopying a set of relaxation exercises and organizing tapes for you to listen to."
"Sorry to be so much trouble," I said.
"Nonsense," Maggie replied, putting an arm around me, giving me a hug. "I love a good challenge."
"Maggie," Walker called. "I need you to get maintenance. Arthur still hasn't replaced those lights."
She winked and moved on. From across the stage, Brian smiled at me.
"I know who the camp pet is," a girl said.
I turned my head to see who had spoken, then wished I hadn't. Ken was standing next to Paul and Mike, hoping for a reaction. I ignored her and called to Shawna, who had just come in.
"Jenny didn't hear you," Paul said.
"Oh, I think she did," Keri replied. "Hey, Shawna. Don't you think Jenny is the camp pet?"
"She's the camp redhead, that's for sure," Shawna answered.
"Obviously, I'm not Walker's pet," I pointed out.
Keri flicked her long, dark-lined eyelids. Perhaps conflict kept her from being totally bored. "Walker gave you a hard time at first," she said, "something he does with all his favorites. Usually, he doesn't share favorites with Maggie. She likes girls who aren't sure of themselves, girls she can mother. But then, there is that little problem of yours."
"Ease up, Keri," Shawna said.
"So she's adopted you," Keri continued, "made you her project for camp. And Brian is close to sending kisses from across the stage."
I glanced at Mike, who stood silently, his face providing no hint of what he was thinking. I knew my cheeks were red.
Paul laughed. Standing close behind Keri, as if he would hug her from behind, he leaned his head over her shoulder and pressed his face against hers.
I saw Keri's shoulders relax, her body rest back against him.
But the glimmer in Paul's green eyes told me he didn't feel any real affection for her; he was just yanking her chain.
"I don't like Jenny," he said, his mouth against Keri's cheek. "She's not my pet."
Keri turned her face toward his, letting her mouth brush his mouth.
Paul's hands cupped her shoulders and he pushed her away. "You try too hard."
Keri spun around to look at him.
"The girls who are worth it don't try," Paul told her. "They are helpless to stop a guy from wanting them."
Keri's eyes flashed. "Liza was never helpless," she spat. "Only you were."
They walked off in opposite directions. Shawna, Mike, and I stood silently for a moment.
"Walker sure is good at casting people," Shawna observed. "It won't be hard for anyone to believe they're a quarreling couple."
"I don't know why he can't let go of Liza," Mike said.
As much as I didn't like Paul, I knew how Liza could haunt a person's thoughts. "It's not easy when you love someone," I said. "A year is not enough time to get over anything."
Mike's eyes met mine.
&n
bsp; "Unless you're acting, of course."
"Of course," he replied stiffly.
"Did I just miss something?" Shawna asked as Mike strode away.
"Like what?"
"Well, you can begin by explaining to me why you just defended Paul, who's being ignorant and creepy. You know, he has pictures of Liza hanging in his room, hanging all around it, that's what Andrew told me."
I wriggled my shoulders at the thought of it—a museum for the dead.
"Paul needs to get on with his life. It's not like he and Liza were the love story of the century. The guy Liza was hot for was Mike."
"So I heard."
"Not that she was alone in that," Shawna added. "How 'bout you, girlfriend?"
"How 'bout me what?"
"What do you think of Mike?"
I shrugged. "He's okay."
Shawna grinned. "This place is just full of actors."
The acting began in earnest shortly after that. Walker required that we all be attentive to the blocking that was going on whether we were in the scene or not. It was slow work as we highlighted our lines and noted Walker's directions in our books—the cues on which we were to enter, or rise, or cross over, that kind of thing.
We dragged through Act 2 with the fairies. Having doubled them in number, Walker had created more parts and a lot of confusion. But the pace picked up when Oberon and Titania—Paul and Ken—began to quarrel. I watched them from the wings, waiting for my cue. Walker folded his arms over his chest, looking very satisfied when Titania finally exited with her fairies.
I waited in the wings.
"'Wel go thy way,'" the angry Oberon said to Titania's back. "'Thou shalt not from this grove til I torment thee for this injury.'"
I began to move.
"Wait! What are you doing, Puck?" Walker barked.
I stood still. "Entering?"
"Has Oberon summoned you yet?" Walker asked. "Has he? He's king. You don't emerge til he tell s you to."
I backed up.
"I want you in at the end of 'My gentle Puck,'" Walker added in a milder voice, "and I want you to move close to him. You're conspirators. That line again," Walker said to Paul.