Creeps (19 page)

A pause.

“What?”

“In the art room and I went to the window and what do you think I saw?”

Wayne can't speak or look at her.

“I wanted to come right through the window and gouge out Pete's eyes but I couldn't because he was making you say those terrible things and I was frozen and
Jesus
Wayne Pumphrey, when are you going to stand up for yourself!” She swipes some CDs off her dresser and goes over and stuffs them into her bag and says, “So that's why I quit the stupid little play: because you'll still be
you
afterwards and I'll still be
me
.” Marjorie turns away and walks to her desk and pulls out the chair but doesn't sit on it. She
looks back at Wayne. “Just go, all right?”

“Who else are we supposed to
be
?”

“I've got to finish packing.”

“Who?”

“Never mind!” Marjorie goes back over to the bed. “Get up.”

“Why?”

“You're sitting on my jeans.”

Wayne stands and Marjorie grabs the jeans and stuffs them into her bag and zips it up.

“We're all depending on you.”

“Well, don't!”

“Pfft, you say
I'm
afraid.”

“What's that mean?”

“I know it's just a
stupid little play
but how do you know for sure we'll both be the same afterwards? My dad's reading a
stupid little book
and he's not the same. And my neighbour, Miss Flynn, had a
stupid little tummy tuck
and she's not the same either. Well, she also had a nose job and an implant in her chin and her cheeks lifted too, but you know what I mean. Maybe the
stupid little things
change us the most. Why are you laughing?”

“Because you're hilarious, Wayne Pumphrey.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes you are. You're a riot. And you're also the strangest person I ever met.”

“Why am I strange?”

“That would take more time than I got, Wayne Pumphrey.”

“Fine then! Quit! Go hop on a
stupid little train
and sell your
stupid little necklaces
and have a
stupid little life,
see if I care!”

Wayne goes to the door and tries to pull it open, but it won't budge.

“Deadbolt,” Marjorie says.

Wayne slides the deadbolt across and looks once more at his only friend, then walks back down the hall and up the stairs and into the kitchen where Mrs. Pope is sipping tea at the table. She shakes her head and says, “How brazen are you, my son? Barging in like that! Haven't called your mother yet, but I will. And the cops, too!”

Wayne heads to the foyer and throws open the door and runs for home.

Dear Marjorie,

I didn't
meen
mean to say I didn't care about you hopping on a train and selling necklaces and living a stupid little life. I do care. TOO MUCH. But you've let us all down, so why would you do that? You're a great actress but what good if no one SEES you act?

You're so tough, aren't you? Don't need anything or anyone and you can make it on your own with
only fifty or sixty dollars, but you're not so tough and you're not twice your age, so stop saying you are and you're right: I've got to stand up for myself, it's just that sometimes I don't feel like I'm worth very much so it's hard to fight.

You're not the centre of the
univearse
universe you know and sometimes you can hurt people and you've hurt the whole drama club and especially Mr. Rollie. Because of you, Kendrick won't stand beside the ocean and Mr. Rollie won't be able to see his play on the big stage in St. John's and I won't get to see a sky that doesn't have an iron ore cloud in it or understand that there's a world beyond this stupid little town. So right now
I HATE YOU!!!

No, I don't. I don't hate you. Not one little bit.

I'm just angry that you're not following your calling because if everyone did that there would be no Georges St-Pierres or Oprah Winfreys or Sidney Crosbys or Jack Laytons so what would be the point in striving for anything?

I like you so much but sometimes the things you do don't make sense and you're so dark that you make me dark too and why can't you change your way of thinking and be bright instead? When I think of how close we were to a plane ride and to you standing underneath the stage lights and having a standing ovation, I could just cry. I could.

Before my dad quit the bottle my mom would always say her heart was breaking and I couldn't understand how a heart could break, but now I do.

Your friend who understands how a heart could break,

Wayne Pumphrey

FOUR

It's opening night and Wayne's peeking through the slit in the curtains to find the gymnasium half full already: husbands in the process of removing wives' jackets and draping them across the backs of chairs, while they, the wives, smooth dresses and styled hair and dab the corners of shiny lips. Programs— opened and closed and folded in half and stuffed in pant pockets—sound like fluttering leaves, while children, seemingly too young to sit silently, run amok in the centre aisle.

In front of the stage the band warms up its instruments. Jim Butt twirls his drumsticks while pounding the bass; Melvina Gall mistakenly releases the spit valve of her trumpet onto her nice pants; Brendan Hearte seems to have gotten his hand stuck inside his French horn; and Mrs. Cooper, the music
teacher, tries to cover the run in her tights while shouting last-minute instructions.

A hand touches his shoulder. He turns around. Mr. Rollie's there in a three-piece suit and a new earring and smelling like Bounce. “Going to be a good crowd.”

Wayne nods.

“Nervous?”

Wayne nods again. “You?”

“Didn't sleep a wink.” Then after a while he says, “You did all you could, Mr. Pumphrey.”

Suddenly Kendrick appears and he's all in black and his hair's tied in a ponytail and he's wondering if it's time to call places.

Mr. Rollie shakes his head and Kendrick goes to leave, but he stops and says, “Not much chance of getting to St. John's now.”

Wayne and the drama teacher exchange glances.

“Never know,” Mr. Rollie says. “What do you think, Mr. Pumphrey?”

“No,” Wayne says, “you never know.”

Kendrick does a poor job of smiling and then exits into the wings.

The band kicks in. Wayne peeks again. Jim Butt's going
tappity tap tap
on the hi-hat while the trumpets scream; Dean Dunn with the blind left eye is doing a fancy lick on the lead guitar as the saxophones slip in all cool and confident. Clarinets
in there somewhere, and flutes, but Wayne can't hear either.

Mr. Rollie says, “Perhaps you ought to check on everyone.”

“Just thinking that,” Wayne says, letting go of the curtain.

Wayne walks into the wings and stops in front of Sharon. She's sitting on a prop stool holding a Snickers. A chocolate moustache that could rival Pete's almost-a-one.

“Your lip,” Wayne says.

“Hmm? Oh.” She wipes it off using her own spit, then says, “My stomach's rolling.”

“Just your nerves.”

“And this wig's ridiculous. My own hair so bad they gotta put me in the likes of this?”

“It makes you look older.”

“It's loose. What if I go out there and it falls off?”

“Try not to move your head.”

“It's pointless without Marjorie anyway.”

“Don't say that.”

“The drama festival's in a week and you know how good the Catholic school'll be, so we're doomed.”

Wayne doesn't say anything.

“Did you know you could buy Snickers in bulk in St. John's? For cheap, too. But
I'll
never know, will I?”

“Just do your best, Sharon.”

“Right.”

“The band's started and Kendrick will be giving places soon, so good luck.”

“We'll need more than that.”

Wayne continues towards the backstage area. It's dark and he nearly steps on a prostrate Paul Stool.

“Watch out why dontcha!” Paul says. “Sorry—”

“Nearly stepped on my head.”

“Didn't mean to.”

“That would have been nice, wouldn't it: me going out there with a head wound.”

“Just wanted to let you know that places will be called soon, so break a leg.”

“What?”

“Break a leg.”

“Nice thing to say, Pumphrey.”

“That's what everyone says.”

“Really? The first I heard of it.”

Wayne steps over Paul and Paul says that that's bad luck and Wayne says he'd never heard of that being bad luck to which Paul replies, “Well I got a brother who's a minister, so he should know, right?”

Wayne moves on. Up ahead he runs into some of the younger cast members. “Just wanted to let you all know that we're starting soon,” he says.

Shouts and giggles erupt and one girl holds hands with another girl and they jump on the spot.

Around the corner and there are Shane and Jason, huddled around the blinding light of an iPhone. Jason looks up and sees Wayne and says, “Get a load of this, Pumphrey,” followed by Shane saying, “They're real, too.”

Wayne doesn't go over. “Perhaps you ought to turn that off now since the band has started.”

Jason nods.

“They're real, too,” Shane says again.

Wayne finds Julie and Les near stage right. Les is holding Julie's script. “No, no, no!” he tells her. “You're not giving the words enough emphasis. Try it like this: Oh,
Clancy,
I
never
thought
you'd
come
home
! Hit every second word. And try crying. No, no, no, not like that. Put your hands over your face. Right, that's it. And bend over like you've just been punched. No, that's
too
far over.” Les notices Wayne then, and says, “Well if it isn't
Mr. Assistant Director
.”

Julie gets to full height and takes her hands away from her face. “Here to give us some pointers,
Mr. Assistant Director
?”

“No. Just checking in.”

“Well that's nice of
Mr. Assistant Director,
isn't it, Julie?”

“Sure is,” Julie says. “By the way, how do Marjorie's pants look on me, Wayne? Pretty good, eh?”

“They look better on you than they did on her,”
Les says, licking his fingers and then smoothing his hair.

“The band's well underway,” Wayne says, “and places will be called soon and I just wanted to wish you both the best.”

“Isn't that sweet of
Mr. Assistant Director
?” says Julie.

“Very,” says Les.

Wayne goes to leave, but Julie says, “You'll see how good we are without her.”

Les nods. “Don't need Marjorie Pope to get to St. John's.”

Wayne lingers a moment and then walks on. Pushes open the door that leads into the corridor. Bright lights and the smell of Lysol and ancient Mr. Ricketts there wringing a mop. The janitor looks up, tries to straighten to full height, but can only make it halfway. He looks like a broken pool stick. Staring over the rim of his bifocals, he says, “They make me mop, but no one'll come this way. Tomorrow you youngsters will traipse through tracking mud everywhere and it'll look like I never did it in the first place and they'll be wanting me to retire, which is fine only how would I spend my days?”

Faintly, Wayne hears the band start in on their second number. No drums or guitar or saxophones, just flutes and French horns and violins and it's the sad song that also closes the show.

“Isn't your play about to start?” Mr. Ricketts says.

“Soon.”

Mr. Ricketts nods. Then he holds out his mop. “Want to take over here?”

Wayne smiles. Shakes his head.

“Didn't think so.”

The janitor starts mopping again.

“Mr. Ricketts?”

“Hmm?”

“If someone you knew wanted you to go somewhere, would you?”

“Depends.”

“On what?”

Mr. Ricketts leans on his mop. “Where we were going.
Who
I was going with. Why do you ask?”

Wayne pauses. “No reason.”

Just then the door at the end of the corridor opens and Wayne takes in the too-short jacket and the sneakers with the different-coloured laces and the jeans that don't go past the ankles and the messy hair and the way she's now standing with her hands in her back pockets and her feet crossed.

The janitor looks at her. “Who's that?”

Then Wayne's running and Mr. Ricketts is shouting for him to stop because the floor is wet and who do you think they're going to blame if Wayne falls and breaks his neck.

Marjorie's running too and she and Wayne meet halfway and for a moment it looks like they might hug, but they don't.

“Marjorie!”