Incredibly Alice

  Once in a while, when one of them raised his voice, we figured they wanted us to hear, and at some point I heard one of the guys say loudly, “Hey, dudes! Did you know there’s a hole in the wall and I can see the girls half naked?”

  We looked at each other and giggled.

  I turned to Liz and said, just as loudly, “Well, if they haven’t seen it by now, it’s time they did.”

  Liz’s eyes opened wide, and the other girls stifled their laughter.

  “Who said that?” we heard one guy ask, both surprise and excitement in his voice. “Could you tell who that was?”

  “Maybe Penny,” said someone else.

  “Didn’t sound like her,” another guy mused. “Sounded like Alice.”

  “Alice said that?”

  We shook our heads, still grinning, and went on doing our faces.

  Strange, the satisfaction I got out of that. Alice, playing the thoughtful, older, dutiful daughter, could be a little risqué now and then. Sometimes I surprise even myself.

  I overslept on Thursday morning too. I was simply too wound up after late rehearsal, and when I got to the breakfast table, Dad was waiting for me with a note he was writing the office to excuse my missing the first two periods again.

  “Dad, this is the second time it’s happened. They won’t let me keep skipping classes!” I protested, frantically trying to get my shoes on.

  “Al, sit down,” he said. “You’re not leaving this house till you’ve had some toast and juice. I’m telling the school that the overload has given you temporary insomnia and that you will make up any work you’ve missed after the play is over.”

  “It makes it sound like I can’t handle stress. The other actors show up.”

  “How do you know you’re the only one coming in late? This will blow over, trust me. But when you get as tired as you’ve been, your resistance is down, and that’s when you can easily pick up a bug that will knock you flat. You’ve worked too hard on this play to get sick for the performances.”

  That was the only part that stuck with me, that I might miss a performance, so I sat down and ate the slice of toast he had buttered.

  “It’s so scary,” I said, reaching for the marmalade. “I’ve never done anything on a stage before. Not like this.”

  “Of course you have. You’ve been practicing on that stage for two months.”

  “Not in front of a zillion people. What if I forget my lines?”

  “That’s what prompters are for.”

  “What if I get so nervous that I throw up?”

  “That’s what custodians are for, Alice. Will you please finish your toast and let me drive you to school?” he said.

  There was no dress rehearsal Thursday night. We were told to go home, have a normal dinner with our families, and get a good night’s sleep. Nobody argued.

  Dad and Sylvia were delighted that we could all have dinner together, and I could tell they were keeping the conversation light. They seemed to move about the kitchen in slow motion and to prolong the meal just to keep me at the table, getting nourished.

  “I won’t need you at the store for the next two weeks, Al,” Dad said. “I want you to take these two Saturdays off and sleep in.”

  “Dad, are you sure?” I asked. “Easter’s coming. All that Easter Sunday music!”

  “Churches bought that ages ago,” Dad said. “Besides, I’ve hired two temps to help out.”

  “Wow! Two temps to replace me? I must be a real workhorse!” I said.

  Dad grinned. “You’ll do.”

  I didn’t want to wait to see if Patrick would call that night, so I called him around nine, but he didn’t answer. I wondered if I should try again and leave a message. What if he didn’t call back? Would I worry and not sleep again? I spent the next hour getting more and more uptight. If his cell phone was ringing and he checked it, he could tell it was from me. Why wasn’t he answering?

  I called him again at ten fifteen, and this time he picked up.

  “Alice? You okay?” he asked.

  “No, but just hearing your voice helps,” I told him. “It’s the night before the play and we’re supposed to be relaxing, but I’ve had insomnia and I’ve got the jitters and two mornings I’ve gone to school late and—”

  “Hey, hey,” he said, to slow me down.

  “What are you doing, Patrick? I’ll bet I’ve interrupted a great conversation, or you’re at the Medici with friends, or—”

  “Actually,” said Patrick, and I could tell he was moving around as he talked, “I just saw a movie at Ida Noyes and came back to my dorm to get a jacket. I’m meeting some guys at a club over on Fifty-ninth.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to hold you up. Go on and we’ll talk tomorrow … or … sometime,” I said.

  “The club doesn’t close till one, and the guys won’t miss me for a while. So … talk. About anything at all.”

  “I just wanted to hear your voice. I called before and you didn’t answer.”

  “I had my cell phone turned off during the movie. Okay … now I’m sitting down on the couch in our tiny living room—the couch you slept on when you were here—and I’m looking at an empty Pepsi can on the bookcase and somebody’s sneakers on the floor, and my roommate’s plant is dead, so almost anything you say will be more interesting than this,” Patrick said, and that made me laugh.

  “Tomorrow’s the big night,” I told him, “and I’ve never been onstage before in front of a lot of people—lights and everything—except for our little skit at assembly. I’ve done okay at rehearsals, but what if everything falls apart once it’s for real?”

  “Why would it? You won’t be able to see past the first couple of rows. Pretend they’re all from Pergatoria or something—”

  “From where?”

  “Never heard of Pergatoria? Yep, they’re all from there, and none of them can speak English.”

  I was grinning now. “So it will be completely unimportant—the play?”

  “Completely.”

  “And how we perform is totally irrelevant?”

  “Totally.”

  “So it makes no difference if I show up or not?”

  “Uh … not exactly,” said Patrick.

  “Oh, Patrick, just talking with you makes me feel better. I really wish you were here.”

  “I wish I could be in the front row cheering for you,” he said. “But then, I wished you were here with me last night.”

  “What happened last night?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “That’s why I wished you were here. It was great weather in Chicago. I was at the library till late, and on the way back I walked by Botany Pond. And I thought of you.”

  I felt warm all over. A rush of warmth in my chest, a throbbing warmth between my legs, thinking of Patrick’s hands, his fingers …

  “Patrick … ,” I said, and was almost embarrassed, it sounded so much like the Patrick I had said back then.

  Neither of us said anything for several seconds. Then, Patrick’s voice, husky, “Two more months till the prom… .”

  16

  OPENING NIGHT

  It helped that everyone else in the cast seemed as jumpy and excited and nervous as I was on Friday. Even more so. Angela confessed she really had been sick and lost her breakfast shortly after she got to school that morning. I found myself comforting her.

  “Break a leg,” people kept saying to us in the halls.

  The short guy who played Jackie had a breakout of acne, not quite what you’d expect on the youngest son in the play. But when we got ready for the performance that evening, Mrs. Cary covered his face liberally with makeup and gave him rosy red cheeks. Unless you were in the first three rows of the audience, you wouldn’t have noticed.

  Some of the ushers were stage crew members, selected to give out programs at the door, and Amy was one of them. I passed her briefly in the hall, and she looked rather elegant in black jeans and a black turtleneck with dangling silver earrings.

  Because this w
asn’t a musical, there was no orchestra. But when the houselights dimmed, the chatter and laughter in the auditorium died down, then stopped abruptly as a recording began of “Love’s Old Sweet Song.”

  There were not only butterflies in my stomach, there were horses galloping and gorillas in hiking boots. My heart pounded, even though I didn’t make an appearance until page 12 in the script.

  Ryan saw me hyperventilating back in the wings. He smiled and came over to give me a quick back rub, and that helped. His fingers lingered up around my neck and cheek. Whoa! I thought. Too much coming at me at once. I was both relieved and sorry when he moved away.

  I couldn’t see the stage from where I was standing, but I saw Pamela and Jay move toward the front of the curtain where the spotlight would find them. And finally, when I heard Pamela’s voice, as Ernestine, saying, “Can you hear the music, Frank?” I knew that the performance had begun.

  I had an easier entrance than some, because I came on with the rest of the Gilbreth clan when Brad blew the whistle and we all lined up to have our fingernails inspected. By the time I did get some lines, I was eager for my part, more than ready to show how Anne was changing from a dutiful daughter to a more adventurous girl, ready for a boyfriend.

  Mr. Ellis had told us to expect it, but I was still surprised at how the audience reaction helped us along. When “Dad” announces that he has bought two Victrolas—one for the boys’ bathroom and one for the girls’—the subject of dance music comes up. And the father admits that the Victrolas are not for music, but for language lessons, French and German.

  “Just play them, and finally they’ll make an impression,” he pleaded.

  And when I cried, “Not every morning in the bathroom!” the audience broke into laughter. We’d never laughed at that line before.

  One of my favorite parts comes halfway through the first act. The family is having a council meeting, and the father has been outvoted on whether or not the kids can have a dog. Outraged, he says, “I suppose next you want ponies, roadsters, trips to Hawaii—silk stockings!” And at that, I stand up, go to a table at one side, open a drawer, and take out a small package.

  “I’m not hiding a thing,” I say determinedly. “I want the entire family to see.” And I unwrap a short, flimsy piece of underwear, a teddy, like the top of an old-fashioned lacy slip while the bottom part was lacy panties. “I’m going to wear them,” I say, at which point Brad Broderick goes bananas. On top of that, I announce I also bought silk stockings.

  This time I was amazed that the audience clapped after I disappeared. I didn’t know if they were clapping for me as an actress or for the script—that I’d finally told my father off. But either way, it was a heady moment. When I reached the platform behind the curtain where the stairs ended, my heart was racing with excitement, and Ryan, down below in the wings, gave me a thumbs-up. I smiled back and let out my breath to show him I was glad it was over, and he winked.

  I got through Act II without a hitch, and it ends with my character in tears after her father vetoes going to a dance with the boy she really likes, Larry.

  The play was short enough that there was no intermission, but I didn’t have to go on right away in Act III, so I found a box to sit on where I could still hear my cue. I knew that Dad and Sylvia were out in the audience somewhere, but I didn’t try to find them when I was onstage. I wondered how Dad felt about the play—wondered how deeply it hit home. We got along pretty well together, but I remember times it seemed he said “no” for no good reason. About letting me dye my hair green, for example. It was only for a day or so, not forever. It wasn’t like I’d asked for a full-body tattoo. I remember how angry he was that I did it anyway. I knew too that I hurt him when I had arguments with Sylvia, but he was really good about keeping out of it and letting us work things out.

  “Alice,” Pamela whispered, “we’re on—next scene.”

  I jumped up, afraid I’d missed my cue, but then I heard Brad Broderick say, “I … I just don’t much feel like …”

  I entered and stood just inside the door.

  Later in the play, Anne redeems herself in her father’s eyes by passing a test with flying colors; the dad relents about her having a boyfriend; Ryan, as Larry, takes me to the prom; and the dad leaves for a speaking trip overseas while the family has a council meeting in his absence. Carrying on … Curtain.

  The ushers came down the aisles bringing small cellophane-wrapped bouquets of flowers, which were distributed to some of the main players. Mine were from Dad and Sylvia, and I finally spotted them about halfway back in the auditorium, smiling at me and still clapping.

  “One down, three to go,” Tim sang out as we milled about backstage, friends gathering outside the dressing rooms, beaming parents hugging their offspring, all of us talking excitedly about the lines almost missed.

  Penny was hugging everybody, including Ryan, who had just hugged me. But I saw Sylvia waiting in the hallway, and I squeezed through the crowd to get to her and Dad.

  He pulled me over and gave me a bear hug. “So proud of you!” he said. “That was marvelous, honey.”

  “We could hear every word,” Sylvia said, joining our hug. “Mr. Ellis must have really emphasized diction.”

  “Did he ever!”

  “That little speech of yours from the stairs … I even felt myself tearing up. Well done, Alice. I really enjoyed it,” Sylvia said.

  “Alice!” Sam called. “We’re going to the Silver Diner. Want to come?”

  “As soon as I change into jeans,” I called back. And to Dad, “Someone will drive me home.”

  He gave me a final hug. “Go on, honey. It’s all downhill from here.”

  17

  GETTING CLOSER

  Saturday morning, I slept like the dead. I was in the process of waking up about one in the afternoon when my cell phone rang. Sleep was too delicious, so I didn’t pick up at first, but then I realized it might be an unscheduled rehearsal. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and reached for my bag.

  “ ’ello,” I said hoarsely.

  “Omigod, you were still sleeping,” said Lester.

  “I’m awake,” I said, but the frog in my throat gave me away.

  “Sorry, Al. I knew you had today off work but figured you’d be awake by now. How’d the play go?”

  “Fine,” I croaked, and tried to clear my throat. “No big booboos. The audience clapped like they meant it.”

  “Well, I’ll be there tonight,” he said. “Listen. Has … Kay told you anything?”

  Aha! I thought, and now I was really awake. Here it comes! Les and Kay were going out. I mean, really.

  “No,” I said curiously. “What’s happening?”

  “Well, that’s what I’m trying to figure out,” said Les. “We were supposed to go out last night, and she stood me up.”

  My eyes were wide open now. “She … didn’t show or what?”

  “I went to pick her up, and she wasn’t there.”

  “Have you called her?”

  “Yeah. She doesn’t answer. I used Dad’s direct line at the store when I called just now, so that I wouldn’t get Kay on the phone in case she’s teed off about something, but I don’t know what that would be.”

  “Have you tried calling her parents?”

  “Are you insane? No, I asked Dad who was working today, and he said that Kay was there and a couple clerks.”

  “So we know she’s all right,” I said. “Well, there’s probably a good reason she wasn’t home, and my guess is she’ll call you sometime today when she gets a chance.”

  “That’s sort of what I figured. Listen, I’m washing windows for Mr. Watts this afternoon, so I’ll be here … if you find out anything.”

  “Sure.”

  “And … about tonight … have fun. I’ll be out there applauding like mad,” Les said. “If you deserve it, that is.”

  I went back to bed to finish waking up slowly, the way I like, but after three or four minutes I realized I wa
s as awake as I was going to get, so I took my shower.

  Two o’clock already. I had to be at school by six thirty. I had slept through most of the day.

  Ryan called next and said that some of the cast was going bowling after tonight’s performance, did I want to go? Of course, I told him. And I felt that old excitement you feel when a guy is interested in you.

  I decided I was probably having more fun right now than I’d ever had before, and there were already a lot of great things to remember about my senior year. A few things to regret, of course, but being Anne in the play helped cancel out some of those.

  Pamela and I peeked out about fifteen minutes before curtain time, and there seemed to be about as many people as there had been the night before.

  “I see Les and Kay,” I said excitedly, watching them sliding in the seventh row and getting two seats near the center. Both were smiling. Good sign.

  Dad was right that having had one successful performance, I wasn’t as nervous this time. Just as excited, though, maybe even more, because I knew how much the audience had liked certain scenes—Anne on the stairs, for one—and I was eager to do them again.

  Ryan forgot one of his lines, though. It was the scene where we’re having an argument. He suspects I’m seeing other guys and doesn’t realize I’m worried about my father and responsibilities at home.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me,” he says as we’re face-to-face there on the stage.

  “I’m not pretending,” I say earnestly, taking his hands. “I wouldn’t pretend with you. I don’t think people should pretend with people.”

  I don’t know whether Ryan forgot his next line or just forgot to say it. He was supposed to say, “I don’t either,” which is Bill’s cue—one of Anne’s brothers—to say, seeing us holding hands, “So you’re at it again.”

  But Ryan was just looking at me. I gave his hands two quick squeezes. He blinked, looked panicky for a minute, then Bill came in with, “So you’re at it again!” and we quickly dropped hands.