Jackie turned to Mary Anne, I guess because she’s usually pretty easy on the little kids. She smiled at him. “Stacey’s right, Jackie.”
Jackie sighed. “If only the crocodile weren’t so sneaky.”
Stacey and Mary Anne exchanged worried glances, and I knew why. Just one week until opening night. Sheesh.
Jackie watched Pete slip in and out of both the crocodile costume and the Nana costume after rehearsal a couple of times. Mary Anne thought this would be therapy for him. I watched the other kids hang up their costumes, watched Savannah and Mallory check them, watched Mr. Cheney talk to Karen about something … and waited for Stacey.
When I saw her, already wearing her coat, hurrying toward the hallway, I ran to her, caught her arm, and said, “Hey, Stace. We have to talk.”
“I know.”
“Where can we go?”
“Nowhere now. My mom’s waiting for me.”
“Tomorrow morning? Before rehearsal?”
“Okay.”
“I’ll meet you at Renwick’s at ten. Is that all right? For breakfast or tea or soda or whatever you want.”
“That’s perfect,” Stacey replied.
* * *
In Renwick’s we sat at a booth. We looked at the menu quickly, and placed our orders. Stacey regarded me seriously.
“I was surprised you wanted to meet me in public,” she said.
“That’s mean, Stacey.”
“And I’m surprised you’re calling me Stacey. I thought you’d forgotten my name. What happened to dearest and Mrs. Darling?”
“That’s mean, too.”
“I’m sorry. I know it was mean. But, Sam, really.”
“Look, before you say anything else, let me explain a couple of things. I love going out with you, Stacey —”
“Are you breaking up with me?” she asked, alarmed.
“No! Just let me say this. I love going out with you, but the guys — some of the guys — at school have been giving me a hard time. They call me a cradle-robber, and make jokes because you still go to SMS.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“I didn’t want you to know it. I thought your feelings would be hurt. I also didn’t want to stop going out with you. I like you too much. But I like my friends, too. I don’t want to lose you or them.”
“Do you really think you’ll have to make that choice?” asked Stacey. “Do you think if you and I hung around together more your friends would say, ‘Later, Sam’?”
I shrugged. “I was hoping not to find out. Anyway, Charlie said I should just show everyone what a fantastic time you and I have together.”
“Sam!” exclaimed Stacey. “Is that why you’ve been fooling around so much, calling me those ridiculous names?”
“I guess.”
Stacey closed her eyes briefly. She looked like Mr. Cheney in a moment of near defeat when he needs to regain his composure. “Sam,” she said again, “if those guys are really your friends, they won’t care if we go out. They might tease you a little, but they’ll still be your friends.” The waiter set our food on the table then. “Now eat up, Mr. Darling,” she added. “And when we get to school today, just act like a normal human, and I’ll do the same.”
I think the reason behind Mallory’s problem was something she didn’t want to admit. I’m no psychiatrist, but I sensed she was bored. You see, the really fun part of her job was over. (Also, the embarrassing part.) The costumes were finished. All the components of each costume had been made, found, or ordered, and the actors and actresses were wearing them. Mal was no longer needed to scout around for moccasins for an Indian princess, or to fashion a headpiece for a fairy. All she and Savannah had to do now was keep track of the costumes. They made sure they were washed if they got dirty, or repaired if they tore or broke, and that at the end of each rehearsal no part was missing from any costume. Actually, this was a huge and important job. Unfortunately, it was boring, too. And that, as I said, is what I thought was at the root of Mal’s problem. But I wasn’t sure.
The Monday afternoon rehearsal was especially busy. It was as if everyone had suddenly realized we had four days, and only four days, to perfect things. So Claudia was running around touching up her backdrops; the lighting people were going crazy with their fancy equipment; kids who hadn’t peeked at a script in weeks were suddenly pouring over them, uncertain about their lines; and Jessi and Ms. Halliday were still rehearsing a couple of the dance routines. All this was going on while Mr. Cheney was directing a rehearsal of the play, from beginning to end.
I was as busy as anyone else. Maybe I didn’t have a specific role, but I knew that if I stood back and waited, little jobs (usually little emergencies) would find their way to me.
Sure enough, just after Act I was underway onstage, Carolyn Arnold approached me, her eyes puffy.
“Aren’t you supposed to be dancing?” I asked. I glanced at Ms. Halliday, who was putting the rest of the Lost Boys through their paces.
“Yes, but I don’t feel good,” said Carolyn weakly. I could tell she’d been crying.
I blanched. I hoped she wasn’t going to throw up or something.
“What’s wrong?”
“My stomach. It hurts.”
“What did you eat for lunch?”
“The regular lunch. Then for a snack I had three candy bars.”
“Three!” exclaimed Mallory. (I hadn’t even seen her approach us.)
“Well, I needed sugar for energy,” said Carolyn.
“I’ll call your mother,” offered Mal.
“I’ll do that,” I said.
Carolyn shook her head. “My mother will get mad at me for eating all that junk. Besides, I think I just need to rest. Could I lie down for awhile?”
“Of course,” I answered.
“I’ll find one of those mats,” added Mal.
“Thanks,” I replied.
I sat with Carolyn until Mallory dragged a mat and a couple of coats over to us. Carolyn lay down and I covered her with the coats. Then I sat beside her and rubbed her back.
“You stay with Carolyn,” Mal whispered to me, “and I’ll keep an eye on things. Let me know if you want me to call her mother.”
“Okay.” I was barely paying attention. Already I had found that from where I was sitting I could tend to Carolyn and keep an eye on the little kids backstage at the same time.
That was probably why, when I caught sight of the triplets having a contest to see who could burp the loudest, I was able to reach them in record time.
“Be right back!” I said to Carolyn as I sprinted across the stage, and I heard her reply, “Okay, thanks. I feel better already.”
“Jordan!” I said, speaking as loudly as I could without disturbing the speech Kristy was giving on the other side of the curtain. I was proud of myself for having gotten to the boys so quickly.
But as the word was leaving my lips I heard Mallory exclaim, “Adam!”
Mal and I faced each other. Then Mal turned back to her brothers. “I can’t believe you’re doing this,” she said. “It is so disgusting. Mom won’t even let you do it in your own room.”
“I learned how to do a juicy burp,” spoke up Jordan proudly.
Mal clapped her hand over his mouth. “Don’t you dare do one here!”
“Mary Anne?” called Carolyn.
She was sitting up on the mat, and I ran to her. “Do you need to get to the bathroom?” I asked her.
“No. I feel fine. Can I go back to my group now?”
“Are you sure you want to? They’re still dancing.”
“I can dance. Honest.”
“Okay. Go ahead.”
I started to return to the triplets, but Mallory was still talking to them, and anyway Act I ended, and Karen marched offstage, looking cross.
“What’s the matter?” I asked her.
“Tinker Bell is supposed to tinkle,” she replied.
I tried not to smile. “Excuse me?” I said.
“She’s
supposed to tinkle when she’s moving around. Like in the movie. Tinker Bell tells things to Peter Pan, but not in words. When she talks these lights flash and you hear this tinkle, tinkle, tinkle. Why aren’t there lights and tinkling for me?”
“Because in our play people can see you. Remember, you wanted to be a real fairy.”
“But I still can’t talk. I don’t have any lines…. I WANT —”
“SHH!”
From out of nowhere, Mallory had appeared. I looked around for the triplets. They were no longer burping. They were examining the sprinkler system.
“Shh,” hissed Mal again, but more quietly.
“Act Two hasn’t even started,” said Karen.
“It’s going to any minute,” replied Mallory.
“Mary Anne, please tell Mr. Cheney I want tinkling when I move around. I want someone behind the curtain to play a triangle,” said Karen. “See, I will go leaping across the stage and the people will hear ding, ding, ding! And then maybe the spotlight could blink on and off.”
“But, Karen, opening night is —”
“It’s four nights away,” Mal butted in. “The director can’t ask for changes like that now. It’s confusing.”
“Oh.” Karen hung her head.
“But you had a good idea, Karen,” I said.
“A great one,” added Mal. “Hey, let me show you something. Do you want to look like a true fairy? Then do this.”
I started to say, “Mal, I don’t think this is the job of the apprentice costume designer,” but my attention was drawn to a little scuffle over near the wings. I looked in the direction of the triplets and saw them standing under a shower of water. I raced to them. “What are you doing?” I cried.
“Well …” Byron looked more sheepish than either of his brothers. “We made up this raindance, but it didn’t look very real, so Adam turned on the sprinklers or something and … well …” he said again.
Moments later, the water had stopped sprinkling (thanks to Logan) and the rehearsal was continuing, since Mr. Cheney never knew what had happened. Also, Mallory had abandoned Karen and run to the scene of the latest mishap. She stood over her brothers, hands on hips.
“You guys,” she said.
“Mal, I think I can handle this,” I spoke up.
“But they’re my brothers,” she replied.
“But you left Karen over there. You just left her.”
“You left her, too.”
“There wasn’t anything for me to do. You keep taking over.”
“I what?”
“Every time I turn around, there you are. It’s as if you’re multiplying, like in The Sorcerer’s Apprentice.”
“I can’t help it. I’m a baby-sitter.”
“You are the apprentice costume designer. I am the backstage baby-sitter.”
“But Mary Anne —”
“Mallory, just let me do my job!” I exploded. Then I handed the triplets a mop, and returned to Karen Brewer.
Whoa.
When I reread what I’d written — several days after the closing night of Peter Pan — I giggled. I must have been in a pretty bad mood when I wrote that. Or else maybe I was just scared. I guess that was it. Mostly, the rehearsals had been fun. They really had been. Sure, we had hit snags, and Cokie had been a prima donna, and Jackie had nearly killed himself trying to fly, but all along we’d been having fun, too. And watching the play come together — watching it grow from a mess of people and scripts and ideas into a fairly smooth performance with costumes and scenery and dancing and singing — was thrilling. It really was.
But by Monday of the week the play would open, everyone certainly was edgy. (And I believe I’m being polite when I use that word.) Mary Anne, for one, was beyond edgy. She went crazy. What did she mean by yelling at me? Well, maybe she didn’t exactly yell. Mary Anne rarely does. But when she said, “Just let me do my job!” she was not quiet about it. And anyway, she hadn’t been doing her job.
Funny. Cokie had accused me of the same thing earlier in the rehearsal. At the time, I didn’t know why. Her costume was finished. What was left for me to do? Savannah was helping kids into and out of their costumes.
So I stood around and watched.
For awhile I watched Jessi, which made me sad. She didn’t have a lot to do anymore, either. She would run through the dances with the little kids every now and then, but Mr. Cheney and Ms. Halliday were afraid of over-rehearsing them, so Jessi spent a lot of time watching the action onstage from the wings. She didn’t smile, just watched.
I wish she had agreed to be a pirate. I know she wanted to be Peter Pan. And she would have done a great job, but Mr. Cheney is right. Jessi is always getting leads in the productions at her ballet school, and not many kids at SMS have ever been in any play. Jessi could still have been in Peter Pan, though. She would have added to it. More important, she would have had fun. I tried to tell some of this to her, but to be perfectly honest, she has not been easy to talk to lately. Or very pleasant. Maybe later. Maybe I could tell her after the play. I hoped she would cool off by then.
“Hey, Jessi,” I said during Act II of the Monday rehearsal.
“Hey,” she replied. She was in the wings as usual, positioned so she could see the actors, but not Mr. Cheney. She didn’t turn to look at me.
“I think Friday is going to go well, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I think so.”
“Kristy even knows her lines now,” I commented, although Kristy was not speaking at that moment.
“Yup.”
“And I think Dawn is going to behave. No more trying to turn the Lost Boys into feminists.” I smiled.
“Yeah.”
“Do you wish you were in the play now?” I couldn’t help asking.
“Why? Do you?”
“Me? No way. I was happy working on the costumes.”
Jessi nodded. “They look good, Mal.”
“Thanks…. Well, do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Never mind.” I left Jessi in the wings. Where had my best friend gone? The Jessi who was standing behind me was not the friend I used to know. My old friend would talk to me. When we had problems we discussed them. Together. On the other hand, we had had some fights. But in the end, things always work out. Because we are best friends. Forever friends. Still, I do not like to see my friend hurting.
Mr. Cheney called for a short break and the kids who were onstage ran off. Most of them ran backstage, then headed for the drinking fountains. Cokie ran straight to me.
“Mallory,” she exclaimed, looking exasperated, “this costume just is not right. I have decided I hate it.”
“What’s wrong with it? You loved it before.”
“I did not love it. I liked it. But — I don’t know — it isn’t glamorous.”
“Is that all anyone cares about around here?”
Cokie looked taken aback. “What?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry.”
“Mallory, it is your job to make me look good.”
I glanced around wildly for Savannah or Miss Stanworth, but I couldn’t see either one of them. “I’ve already done my job, Cokie,” I said.
Luckily, Mr. Cheney called everyone onstage again. Cokie pouted at me, then left. I heaved a sigh of relief.
There was an awful lot of concern about jobs and whether we were doing them.
I sat down on a desk. Where was Ben? Maybe I could talk to him. Ben Hobart is a friend of mine and, yes, he’s a boy, but I am not sure he’s my boyfriend. We’ve gone to a few movies and dances, but for heaven’s sake, we’re eleven years old. I am not ready for commitment. Neither is he. Anyway, Ben was working on the lighting for Peter Pan, so he was at every rehearsal, although I didn’t see much of him.
Guess what. Maybe Ben and I have ESP or something. Just when I was thinking about him, and wondering where he was, he walked by me.
“Ben!” I called (but not loudly enough for Mr. Cheney to hear).
“Hey, Mal!” he
replied. He didn’t slow down.
“Ben, can I talk to you?”
“Right now?”
“Well, yeah.”
“What’s wrong?”
“It’s Jessi. She’s so sad.”
“Let’s talk after rehearsal. I’m busy now.”
Ben hurried off. Well, really.
Act II ended. Act III began. For awhile, I just sat on the desk. I completely ignored everything that was going on around me. I especially ignored Mary Anne, my brothers and sister, and any of the little kids. I had not realized Mary Anne was so touchy about her job, and I was certainly not going to butt in again.
So I sat on the desk and watched David Michael Thomas and Bill Korman tie fourteen pairs of tennis shoes together. When it was time to go home, I’d just let Mary Anne sort out those shoes by herself.
“We could glue them to the floor,” I heard Bill say.
“Do you have any glue?” asked David Michael.
“No. I wonder where the art room is in this school.”
“It’s on the second floor,” replied Mary Anne, who I guess had been listening to the conversation, too.
David Michael and Bill craned their necks back and looked up at Mary Anne. “Oops,” said Bill.
Mary Anne didn’t answer him. She just stood over the boys. And they began to untie the shoes. When the laces were unknotted, she said one word. “Pairs.” And the boys paired up the shoes and left them in a neat row.
Mary Anne is not the backstage baby-sitter for nothing.
I continued to sit on the desk. I sat there until Cokie came barrelling off the stage and said, “Mallory Pike, you aren’t doing your job.”
Well, at that moment, I wasn’t doing a single thing.
I sighed. “What do you mean?”
“I knew my costume looked different. I’m wearing half of Stacey’s stuff. Her jewelry. Or something. Plus, I’m missing … I don’t know …”
A horrible, sick feeling washed over me. “Cokie,” I said, “stand back for a minute. In the light. Let me look at you.”
Cokie did so. “I can’t figure out how I put on the wrong things,” she said. “You keep all the parts of our costumes together, and this afternoon I put on everything I found.”
“Where’s Stacey?” I asked.