In Between (24 page)

“Ladies, can I help you? The sign up sheet for auditions is out in the hall.”

A petite woman with bright auburn hair floats down the side ramp of the stage, her fuchsia and gold skirt billowing around her.

“Hi, Mrs. Hall. We’re not here to sign up for the play.” Frances puts her hand on my shoulder. “This is Katie Parker. She’s new to In Between High, and she wanted to take a look at your theatre.”

Mrs. Hall’s eyes sparkle, matching her bejeweled ears. “Oh, a theatre lover, are we?”

I realize she’s speaking to me. “Oh, um, well . . . yes, ma’am.” Am I?

“What have you done?” Mrs. Hall’s face is all intense.

I shoot a look at Frances. What have I done? “Well, ma’am, I guess a few weeks ago I got in some trouble and—”

Frances elbows me in the ribs. “She means what plays have you performed.”

Oh. Right.

“None, really. Oh, except I was Mrs. Claus in my third-grade play. Did a little singing, a little dancing. You know, jingled a bell or two. Rocked around the Christmas tree.”

I remember singing my heart out, saying my memorized lines flawlessly, and nobody was even there to see me. My mom had dropped me off with some lame excuse about running an errand and returning in time to see my performance, but she never showed. The school had to call some distant cousin to pick me up after the program. I just remember the entire night I watched for her. Even when I was onstage and saying my lines. I never took my eyes off the audience.

Reason number 498 of why I have yet to write the woman a single letter since I’ve been in In Between.

“We’re having auditions for our yearly musical. Sign up if you’re interested.” Mrs. Hall’s hands move at her every word. Everything about her is flowing, moving, and overly expressive.

“I think I’d like to look around here if that’s okay.” I take a step in the direction of some cast photos hanging on the wall.

Mrs. Hall follows me. “Ah, yes, do check out the pictures. These are all the plays we’ve done since 1989. Taking the cast’s picture on opening night is a tradition I started when I began working here many moons ago.” She waves her hands Vanna-White style over a row of black-and-white photos hung in frames.

The three of us inch our way down the wall, and Mrs. Hall is only too happy to share her play production memories with me. Every single one of them. And there have been a lot of plays since 1989.

I tap Frances’s shoulder and shoot her my S.O.S. look. We aren’t getting anywhere. I’ve been looking at these pictures for ten minutes and have yet to see Amy.

“And then for our spring show in 1992, we decided to try something more cutting edge, so we did a series of mime one acts.”

Frances steps behind Mrs. Hall’s back and points to the opposite wall
. Over there,
she mouths.

“Well why didn’t you say so?” I ask.

Mrs. Hall turns to me. “What?”

Whoa, good acoustics in here. “Um, I said, swell, way to go!”

“Oh, well, thank you. Where was I? Yes, I recall. Now in the fall of 1993—”

“Mrs. Hall, Katie is staying with James and Millie Scott. She was really interested in the cast pictures with their daughter Amy.”

A bittersweet smile spreads across the teacher’s face. “Ah, yes. I remember Amy Scott well. Amazingly talented. So much potential.” Mrs. Hall shakes her head. “She would be over there with the photos from the last decade. I think her last play with us was about seven years ago, her senior year.”

Her ankle bracelets chiming, Mrs. Hall leads us across the auditorium to the far wall. These pictures are also in black and white, but I can tell they are more recent.

“Amy Scott, Amy Scott, Amy Scott . . . Ah, yes, here we are. I believe we have six different photos of plays that starred Amy.”

Pointing out each one, Mrs. Hall lists every production and gives information on each one.

I study each cast shot. Amy was no wallflower. She’s front-and-center in every image. Despite various costumes and varying degrees of stage makeup, Amy looks happy and . . . I don’t know, normal. She looks like a student who’s excited and into what she’s doing—just like the rest of the cast. What did I really expect to learn?

I sigh and run my hand over the knot at the back of my head. It feels like an egg is trying to sprout out of my skull. Stupid pigs.

“You have a great theatre, Mrs. Hall.” I’m ready to call this what it is: a failure. “Thanks for letting me look around.”

“Sure. You girls come back anytime. And don’t forget auditions next week! Tell your friends!”

As Frances and I make our way to the door, Mrs. Hall calls after us, “You know, I don’t hear from Amy much anymore.”

We stop.

“She used to send me a postcard or an email from time to time, updating me on all of her auditions, but I haven’t heard from her in about two years.”

“Amy’s a professional actress?”
Now
we’re getting somewhere.

Mrs. Hall chuckles to herself. “Well, I don’t know about that. Last I heard she was in Los Angeles trying to get a walk-on part in a horror movie. And the year before she had been in New York auditioning for some off-Broadway plays.” Mrs. Hall shakes her head. “It’s a cruel business, acting. It will take the strongest person and eat them alive. And if you’re not very strong to begin with . . . well, let’s just say it’s hard to keep going on years’ worth of rejections. And it sure doesn’t pay the bills.”

I try not to show my excitement at this wealth of information. “I was wondering what you meant when you said—”

“Mrs. Hall you have a call on line four, Mrs. Hall a call on line four.”

At the overhead speaker’s announcement, my moment is lost.

“That will be the costume store I’ve been trying to reach all week. It’s about time they called me back. Our productions keep those people in business, and I can’t even get a simple phone call returned.”

The teacher flounces off in a mismatched cloud, bemoaning her costume woes.

“Well, we learned something today.” Frances studies me.

“I learned Amy is somewhere trying to be an actress and . . . that’s about it.”

“Mrs. Hall didn’t sound like she thought Amy’s Hollywood pursuits had a happy ending, did she?” Frances checks her watch.

“No, she didn’t. The plot thickens.”

“You could just ask Millie about it, you know.”

“Frances, would Sherlock Holmes take the easy way out?”

“It’s not the easy way out, and you know it. If Millie and James haven’t told you the whole story about Amy, then maybe they don’t ever intend to.”

“Yeah, but I don’t feel comfortable coming right out and asking them why their daughter is such a big secret. I thought I was going to hyperventilate last week when I had to ask Millie to buy me some tampons. And the topic of their daughter is even more personal.” I shove open the theatre doors, and we walk back the way we came.

“Oh, hey, it’s time for my meeting. I gotta run, but I’ll see you later.” Frances throws her apple core into the trash can and readjusts her backpack. “See you at church tonight, right? Wednesday nights are the best.”

“Yeah, I’ll be there. Can’t wait.”

“Better watch out. It grows on you. Like mold.” Frances walks backwards, her grinning face pointed in my direction. “Yep, you’ll be counting the minutes ‘til Wednesday night church. I can see it now.”

“Go to your meeting, Frances. And watch out for that janitor there.”

Frances turns around in time to narrowly miss a collision with an extra-large custodian.

“Oh, and Katie?” Frances calls over her shoulder.

“Yeah?”

“You smell like Bacon Bits.”

“S
o today you’re
going to be re-covering some of the theatre seats. It’s pretty simple. I’ll show you how to do a few, and then you and this mighty staple gun can take it from there.”

Sam Dayberry kneels on the floor of the Valiant with one of Millie’s homemade cookies in one hand and a piece of fabric in the other. I hadn’t anymore than walked through the door, and he was firing off instructions and waving tools.

“Okay, you take this fabric here, which I’ve already cut out for you, and you are going to cover, fold, tuck, and staple. Got it?” Sam demonstrates the process again. “Easy. Cover, fold, tuck, and staple. Once we get these covered, I’ll screw them into the seats. Now you pick up your staple gun and try it.”

I grab a cushion and lay my upholstery over it.

“I don’t hear you.”

I bite my lip to control a smile. “Cover . . . fold . . . tuck . . . and staple.” I hold the finished product up for his inspection.

Sam studies my handiwork and whistles his approval. “Very nice.”

“Thanks,” I mumble, like it’s no big deal.

But it is.

The two of us work in a comfortable silence for a few minutes. The theatre smells like sawdust today. A group of guys are here again working on some of the wood repairs. The scent stings my nose, but I like it.

I also like watching the play practice on stage. The director, Bev, a slender woman about Millie’s age, sits in the front row, watching her cast of
Romeo and Juliet
rehearse. Every few minutes, she calls out corrections and suggestions, and the cast stops and begins again. Like Romeo, Juliet is a senior at In Between High, and she’s playing her part like she’s Sorority Girl Juliet. If you ask me, she’s not miserable enough and is way too enthusiastic about her every line. I mean, when she gets to the part where she says, “Deny thy father, refuse thy name,” the girl is smiling. Like she’s waiting for her photo op. Now that’s just not right. From what I remember of the story, and from what I’ve picked up from watching rehearsals, Juliet is pretty miserable over not being able to be with Romeo. So a little less grin would be in order.

Sam leans over to survey my work. “Doing good, doing good. So anything new at In Between High?”

“Um, no.” Tuck and staple. “Oh, wait, yeah. Dissected a pig today. Passed out. Bumped my head. Have a major knot.”

“Maybe it will get you out of school tomorrow.”

“I can only hope. I don’t want this head injury to be in vain.” I send Sam a slanted grin. “So . . .” I lay out my material on the next cushion. “I saw Maxine yesterday. Tuesdays are my day to read to her, you know.”

Sam keeps his head low. “Oh, did you?” He continues to work, his movements becoming more pronounced.

“She asked about you.”

Sam stops. He looks at me for a moment. Then returns to his task, muttering, “These things don’t affect me. I’m a grown man. Seasoned.” Staple. “Mature.” Staple. “Completely unaffected.” Staple, staple.

“Sam?”

He sighs. “Yes?”

“You just attached your shirt to the seat.”

“Blast it!”

My senior-citizen friend reaches for a screwdriver to pry his shirttail from the seat. His flustered hands fumble.

“Look, you two like each other, so what is the deal?” I watch his progress with the errant staple. Or lack of it.

“Did she say that? Did she say she liked me?”

“Well, no.”

“Then forget it.” He pulls the staple, and a piece of his shirt comes with it.

“Hey, I’m no expert on romance or anything, especially of the retirement home variety, but you just need to make a move. Tell her how you feel.”

Sam lays his screwdriver down and gives me his full attention.

“Say, ‘Maxine, I like you. And I want more than secret runs through the Burger Barn drive-thru. I deserve the real deal.’”

“I deserve the real deal.” Sam tries it out, his eyes focusing on something beyond me, like he can visualize his heart-to-heart with Maxine. “I deserve the real deal.”

“There you go.” I pat him on the back.

Sam nods. “Yeah, there I go.
Go
?” He jumps up, his tool belt catching on a protruding staple. “I forgot . . . I gotta . . . uh, I gotta go. What time is it?”

Where did our bonding moment go? “It’s four thirty.”

“Oh, no. I’m late. I need to leave.” He dusts off his knees, readjusts his hat, and scrambles away from me.

“Wait! Where are you going?”

Sam yanks open the exit doors. “I’m, uh . . . uh, I’ll see you later. Carry on. You’re doing great. Keep it up. Bye.” And he shoots out the door.

Pretty impressive speed for an old guy. Why wouldn’t someone of Maxine’s biking skills be attracted to him? Clearly he can keep up with her.

I pick up the seat bottom and continue the re-covering process, my attention drawn again to the actors.

“Deny thy father! Refuse thy name!”

Bev bolts out of her seat and approaches the stage. “Okay, stop, stop. Stephanie, maybe a little less enthusiasm this time? Remember, you wish Romeo would stand up to his family and fight for you. You wish nothing else would matter but the two of you. All right? You shouldn’t be happy. This is not a happy time.”

Has the girl even read beyond her kissing scene? Hey, Steph, you take a dagger to the heart in the end. Nothing Juliet can smile her way out of.

“Hello, there. How is it going?” Millie comes up behind me, dropping her phone in her purse and taking in my progress.

“Oh, hey, Millie. Not so great. Bev’s yelling at Stephanie to quit grinning. Stephanie keeps doing her Juliet-as-played-by-Cheerleader-Barbie routine. It’s not going well.”