The Monday after the loss, the posters put up by the student council hang off the wall in pieces that no one has the heart to clean up. At lunch, Weilin wonders if it would have been easier for everyone if we’d lost a few more games along the way. “Then we’d have practice with this.” Before this year, by her own admission, Weilin attended maybe four sporting events in her entire life. Now she’s acting genuinely depressed. “I honestly thought they would never lose.”
“It’s like we’re all mad at them,” Barry says, shaking his head. “Which isn’t really fair because we don’t actually know them.”
“Speak for yourself,” Richard says. “I’ve touched arm hairs with Wayne Cartwright. And I don’t feel mad at him so much as very disappointed. He missed two plays that could have turned the game around.”
“It wasn’t all his fault,” Weilin says. “His O line wasn’t supporting him the way they should have.” Suddenly everyone’s an armchair quarterback replaying a game they wish they could forget.
By the end of the day, the tough talk turns to pity. Everyone thinks the players won’t get offers from the big schools they hoped for. Full scholarships to Michigan and Notre Dame aren’t realistic expectations anymore. Everyone says they’ll be lucky to get partial rides to state schools. As the rumors mount, a new thought occurs to me. Now that football season is over, Lucas’s old teammates will have free afternoons. Maybe it wouldn’t be such an outlandish idea to ask three or four of them to help us with a play. We wouldn’t need a lot. Just a few nice guys. The point would be getting as many people as possible to go to a staged reading—maybe Charlotte’s Web, maybe something else—and see that Belinda is an amazingly good actress.
The more I think about it, the better the idea seems. The players are already depressed. Maybe doing a feel-good project like this would make them look big again—or bighearted, at least—to the people who come see the show. Of course we wouldn’t get the same crowds as a football game, but football players acting would draw a modest crowd, which is all we’d need to accomplish what I want: for people to see Belinda’s talent; for her to feel okay again about being in school; for one memory to replace another. I picture her onstage, doing her curtain calls, bowing and holding hands with the players that we’ve spent all fall in awe of.
I realize that I might be dreaming here. I haven’t forgotten what Lucas said about these guys, but in my fantasy they’re nice enough to get the job done and make Belinda feel appreciated by her peers. I’m so convinced about this idea, the first time I see Lucas alone, I walk over and say: “Don’t say no right away. Just listen and tell me you’ll think about this.”
After I’ve told him, it occurs to me that I’ve found him in an unusual place: sitting on the floor of the hallway outside the library at lunchtime. He probably doesn’t realize that during lunch, this section of linoleum is reserved for the supergeeks who eat out here quickly before disappearing into their book-lined hiding spots. Though I haven’t been here in a long time, I know it well. This was my daily lunch spot before I found Richard and joined his crowd. I don’t imagine Lucas has ever felt the need to eat a furtive lunch here. I assume he’s here for the only reason jocks ever come to the library—he’s making up work or in danger of failing a class.
He has a library book—an old one with a red leather binding—open on his lap, which suggests the problem is in his English class. Maybe he’s lost whatever paperback copy he was issued and now he’s reading the only copy he can find.
“What’s that?” I point down.
He covers the book with his hand. “Why don’t you tell me your big idea first?”
“Fine. Here it is. I think we should get football players to be in a play with Belinda! And maybe a few cheerleaders while we’re at it. They’re free in the afternoons now, right? It could be great. People will actually come see it because they love you guys so much and in the process they’ll see what a good actress Belinda is.”
“Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“What?”
“Football players can’t act. They’ll look like morons.”
“Don’t they all put on skirts every year to do the powder-puff game?”
“That’s totally different.”
“What about the cabaret? They all sing karaoke for that, too, right?”
He shrugs. “Yeah, it’s true. Some of them do.”
“We wouldn’t need all of them. Just five or six nice ones. And some of the cheerleaders. They’ll do it if you ask them, won’t they?”
He squinches up one eye as if he’s considering this. “I don’t know.”
“I still think Charlotte’s Web is a good idea. Especially if we get one of the littler guys to play Wilbur.”
I can’t tell by his expression what he’s thinking. Finally he says, “Belinda doesn’t want to do Charlotte’s Web.”
I stop talking and look at him. “How do you know that?”
He smiles. “I talked to her. Twice. Yesterday and this morning. It was an accident, sort of. Actually, the first time was. I don’t think the second time was an accident. I think she wanted to talk to me.”
“What did she say?”
“I brought up your play idea and I gotta admit, she seemed pretty into it.”
“She did?” My heart skips a beat—I was right! And if Lucas has gotten this far, it means he wants to do it, too! If he does, it’ll happen!
“Here’s the thing,” he says. “She knows what story she wants to do. She didn’t even hesitate when I asked. Are you ready for this?” There’s a funny expression on his face. And then he holds up the book he’s reading: Pride and Prejudice.
“That’s not a play.”
“Right.”
“It’s a book.”
“Exactly. And a couple of movies, I guess. More than a couple.”
“Does she want to stage one of the movie versions?”
“Yeah. I guess the eight-hour version is her favorite.”
I laugh out loud. When I keep laughing, he asks me what’s so funny. “I’m trying to picture your friends onstage for eight hours.”
“Right. That’s never going to happen.”
“Still—” I say. Suddenly it feels as if disparate pieces are falling together—the football loss, Belinda’s return, Lucas’s injury. Everything is lining up to make my idea work. “This could be great.”
“I’m not promising my teammates will do anything,” Lucas says.
It’s interesting that he calls them teammates, not friends. “Use your powers of persuasion,” I say as he stands up awkwardly, using my shoulder and the wall. A minute later, the bell rings and we both disappear in opposite directions.
That evening, after two hours of typing in Google searches for play versions of Pride and Prejudice, I still haven’t found much. Then my phone rings. It’s Lucas. My heart skips a beat for a second. It’s the first time he’s called unrelated to getting a ride, I think, and then he says, “I’ve found something. It’s called First Impressions. It’s a version of Pride and Prejudice with a smaller cast. There are twelve parts, but some people could play double parts. Basically, it’s Pride and Prejudice set in a modern high school. Only the two main characters are dressed in old-fashioned clothes. Everyone else looks like a cheerleader or whatever, but these two are in long skirts and top hats.”
I mull this over. Clueless—Emma set in a contemporary high school—is one of my favorite movies of all time. If it’s well-written, it could be fabulous, but we don’t have time to put on a full play with costumes and scenery. “We shouldn’t try for anything too ambitious, right?”
“Right, but think about the dresses Belinda wears to school now. It’s almost like she’s already playing the part.”
I’m surprised. He’s right.
“Okay,” I say. “But we’ll need to find someone with experience who’s willing to direct. There are a lot of pieces involved in putting on a show like this—”
There’s a long silence. He’s obvi
ously waiting for me to suggest a name. None of his friends direct plays. But my drama phase was a long time ago and none of my friends do either.
Finally he whistles into the phone. “Looks like it’ll have to be you.”
“Me? I can’t do it. I’ve never directed a play.” I want to point out that I was a suggesting a low-key, staged reading. He’s the one saying we should mount a play with costumes and props.
“You’ll be great, Ms. Charlotte the Spider. It’ll all come back to you.”
“That was sixth grade, Lucas. With puppets. I don’t want this to look like—” I pause. What am I suddenly scared of? Looking like I’m trying too hard? Becoming the girl who marched her flag into a bass drum? “Okay, you’re right. Let’s do it. Let’s throw ourselves into it and do costumes and everything.”
It only takes twenty-four hours for me to get excited. I read the play and love it so much that I finish all my college essays in a single night so I can turn my attention fully to this. My parents are shocked. Four essays in a night? I’ve been putting them off for ages thinking I need some inspiration to do them right. I didn’t, of course. I needed a reason to want them done.
I can’t get over what a good adaptation it is—surprisingly funny and touching. I worry, though, that what works well on the page may be hard to pull off in real life. Especially if Belinda is playing Elizabeth. There are a lot of lines to memorize and a point that isn’t subtle, exactly, but needs to be played subtly. These two characters, Darcy and Elizabeth, aren’t dressed like anyone else onstage, but they are the only ones who don’t see what’s obvious to everyone else: they’re different than the others and perfect for each other.
Though nothing’s been confirmed, Lucas says he’ll think about asking his friends.
“We don’t have a lot of time,” I remind him. In the last four days, I’ve met with the principal and the director of the drama department. I’ve talked them into calling this a “student production” and letting us use our school’s smaller theater five weeks from now. “We need to get our cast set.”
“Right, I know. I’m trying to decide who to ask.”
“What about some girls?” I say. Though he never talks about her, I still see Lucas sitting at lunch every day with his girlfriend, Debbie. I assume he’ll ask her, and maybe some of her cheerleader friends.
“Right,” he says. “I’m warming them up to the idea.”
“And what are they saying?” I know I’m being pushy, but we don’t have any choice; we need these people to help us out. If we don’t get at least four or five of the popular crowd, we’ll never get anyone to come to the show.
“What do you think they’re saying, Em? They’re saying it seems like a weird idea and they don’t really get it, but yeah, maybe they’ll stop by auditions and check it out.”
“That’s the best you can do? Can’t you get them to make a commitment?”
“You don’t know these people,” he snaps. I’m obviously pushing him too hard. “They don’t like committing to things. What about your friends?” he says, which is a valid question.
If I’m forcing him to ask his friends, I should probably ask mine, but that would involve telling them the truth about what happened under the bleachers and I keep putting it off. I decide to wait until our next YAC meeting. I tell Richard ahead of time that I have a proposal without giving him any specifics.
At the meeting, I start with a little preamble: “This idea might require a little more of a time commitment than we’ve asked of you in the past.” I make eye contact with everyone who’s showed up—our four core friends and a freshman who looks wide-eyed and surprised, like he’s accidentally wandered into the wrong meeting and is too embarrassed to leave. “But it’s going to be great and it’s going to be worth it, I promise.”
A few minutes into my pitch, Candace interrupts me. “Wait, are you talking about putting on a whole play?”
“Well, yes,” I say. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Have you ever worked on a play at the high school?”
I have to admit, “No, I haven’t.”
“So maybe you don’t realize how many people you need. A backstage crew, people to run the light and sound boards. You also need a stage manager and producers to work the front of house. You’re probably talking about thirty people, minimum. And that’s not even counting the cast. What kind of cast would you need for this—fifteen? Twenty?”
I see our new freshman member glance longingly at the door. Clearly, I’ve lost him. If I’m lucky, my best friends won’t desert me and I’ll have a crew of four.
“Look, it doesn’t have to be elaborate. The point is, Belinda has gone to our school forever, she loves acting and she’s good at it but she’s never had a chance to be in a show. Let’s give her that. Let’s give her a chance to show the world something beyond her disability. Let’s let everyone see her ability.”
I like the sound of this so much I can’t believe I made it up on the spot. I smile at Richard, who is usually our slogan genius. He doesn’t smile back. “The thing is, Em—none of us are theater people,” he says.
“So what?” I say, exasperated. “Aren’t we all sick of getting subdivided by labels? Only theater people can put on plays. Only cool people can go to parties. Isn’t that the whole problem? Isn’t that what we’re fighting?”
“Yes, but there’s also the matter of theater people know what they’re doing. Candace has a point. None of us can hang lights or . . . you know, act.”
Weilin raises her hand. “I hate to say it, Em, but Barry and I have State Youth Orchestra tryouts coming up. We’d like to help but we don’t really have the time when we’re practicing after school three days a week.”
Barry nods. “These tryouts are pretty important for us.”
I haven’t made it to the end of my pitch and I’ve lost all of them, I can see. Even Richard has an excuse—suddenly he’s mumbling something about taking on a tutoring job. Driving home in the car, he tries to make me feel better. “It’s not a bad idea, Em, but you can’t take wallflowers and force them to be show people. Some people just hate being onstage.”
It’s sad to consider the corollary truth: some people—like Belinda—love it.
“Plus, it’s not really in line with our mission, if you think about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re about raising awareness of issues like homelessness or whatever. We’re not going out and finding one homeless person and making sure they have a bed for the night. We’re making sure everyone looks around and notices—yes, there are homeless people in our town, and gay people, and people with disabilities. . . .”
“But don’t you sometimes wonder—what’s the point of that? Wouldn’t it be better to help one person a lot than to stand around and point out all the people who have problems?”
Richard doesn’t say anything.
“I mean—come on. Where do all these stupid ribbon campaigns get anyone? Does it help your life to see people wearing gay pride ribbons?”
I realize, too late, what a horrible question this is. We’ve spent three years working at this and now I sound like I was doing it all as a favor to him and believed in none of it, which isn’t true. I’m just mad no one wants to help me with the play.
For a long time, Richard doesn’t say anything. Finally, after I pull up to his house and stop the car, he says, “Sometimes I wonder if working on behalf of all of humanity has made it hard for us to get to know individual people. Maybe that’s your point. Maybe it’s time for us to do that.”
I suspect he’s trying to say something in here about Hugh—that they’re two people getting to know each other, not representatives of a gay pride agenda—but I don’t want to ask because I don’t want to give him the chance to hurt my feelings any more than he already has.
“I should get home,” I say. “I have a lot of work.”
“Yeah,” he says, getting out of the car the minute I pull up to his h
ouse. “Me, too.”
After the car door is shut, he bends down and knocks on the window for me to open it. “Maybe some of us are wondering what’s going on with Lucas and why you’re suddenly bending over backward to help this jerk. If he feels guilty about Belinda and wants to put on a play with her, fine. But why does that involve you? You keep telling me I need to have clarity in my relationship, but maybe you should think about that, too.”
Before I can answer, he turns around and walks away.
BELINDA
THE FIRST FEW YEARS that I was in high school, I had a hard time figuring out who my friends were. I thought I was friends with anyone I recognized from elementary school or old plays. Even if they didn’t say hi, I thought if I hugged them they’d remember me and be my friend. Then I learned from Emily that wasn’t true.
That’s why I’m teaching Anthony not to hug everyone all the time. Because you have to be careful with hugging. You can make terrible mistakes and hug people who aren’t nice.
I never hugged Ron Moody except for once, quickly, after our dance. For a while, I wanted to hug him every time I saw him, but I was careful and I didn’t. I thought about how quiet and shy girls have to be in Pride and Prejudice. Anytime boys are around, they fold their hands in their laps and look at their knees. That’s what I did whenever I saw Ron in school.
Sometimes he said hi, but a lot of times, he didn’t, which I thought was because we both felt shy with each other. I thought Ron loved me as much as I loved him. I thought when he talked to other girls, he was only being polite. I never saw him dance with them the way he danced with me. I thought that meant our friendship was different.
After he walked away from me with that girl Janelle, I started to think about him more. I guess maybe I talked about him too much at home because Nan made a rule that I was only allowed to say his name once a day which made me get mad at Nan. That night Mom came into my room and said maybe instead of talking about Ron all the time and getting into fights with each other, we should do some old arts and crafts projects like we used to do.