Bad Girls, Bad Girls, Whatcha Gonna Do? (25 page)

Margalo spent the first minutes of the Wednesday rehearsal checking on the costumes, making a note of any that needed
buttons or hems sewed by the volunteer mothers. Thursday was dress rehearsal and everything should be ready for that, since Friday was the first performance, when everything
had
to be ready. That done, she went out front to watch what Ms. Hendriks was doing onstage. She made a point of thanking everyone she met for contributing to the envelope of money—except, of course, Richard and Sally.

That day's rehearsal went over, and over, the last act of
Our Town,
the graveyard scene, with most of the cast onstage, many seated in chairs that had been set out over half the stage in rows to look like cemetery tombstones. Two of the cast members not onstage when Margalo went out front were Richard and Sally, Sally being the dead character who was going to be left off after her funeral, and Richard playing her widowed young husband. They were sitting together on a side aisle, waiting for their cues. He had his arm around her. She looked up as Margalo passed in front of them, on her way to the side steps onto the stage. “Hey, Margalo,” Sally called in a voice so quiet it wouldn't disturb the actors or the director.

Margalo stopped, turned back, approached the two of them. Prime suspects. She wanted to hear what they would say, so she just waited in front of them. Let
them
end the silence.

After a while, “So you got your money back,” Sally said.

“Most of it.”

Margalo waited some more to see where Sally wanted this conversation to go.

“Nineteen dollars is nothing,” Sally eventually told her.

Margalo shrugged.

“So why do you think they did it? Took up the collection, I mean,” Sally asked. “I already know why we didn't contribute,” she said, and now she was the one waiting.

Richard was looking intently at the stage, as if he was seeing the play for the first time and couldn't wait to find out how it ended, as if he had no interest in whatever it was those two girls were talking about, probably boring gossip.

“I think I know that too,” Margalo said. “But it doesn't matter,” she added quickly, waiting a couple of beats before she said, “I mean, why people contributed or not doesn't matter.”

Sally gave her a sharp look. “I'll tell you anyway. It's because I always hate group guilt. Don't we, Richard?”

“Yeah,” mumbled Richard. “We're glad you got it back.”

“Speak for yourself,” Sally said, but she smiled to identify it as a joke.

Which Margalo didn't for one minute believe. But she had told the truth. It didn't matter. She didn't care all that much anymore, now that she was pretty sure she knew who had done it—these two—and now that everybody else had cared enough to try to make it up to her, which meant they
had
really agreed it shouldn't happen. And they were right about that, Margalo thought.

She smiled down at Sally, who was still smiling up at her.
“Confession is good for the soul,” she advised, turning away before they could say anything else.

Why should they think they had gotten clean away with it?

At one point in Act III Richard's character, George, was offstage for two long scenes, while Sally's character, Emily, joined the other dead people in the cemetery and then revisited a day in her life until it made her too unhappy, the way people kept not-seeing everything that life held for them, every minute, and she couldn't stand it, the way people wasted the little time they had to be alive in.

As far as Margalo was concerned, this was the best scene in the play, the scene that people would remember and think about after, and when someone sat down in the seat right next to hers, she barely looked over. Her attention was on all the production details—lighting, props, costumes. In fact, she only gave an annoyed glance at this person, to be sure whoever it was wouldn't start talking to her.

When she did that, she saw that it was Richard, for once on his own. And he wasn't watching Sally, he was looking instead at his knees, on which his two hands rested, each one balled up into a fist, as if he was about to start a round of one-potato, two-potato.

The only thing Margalo could think of to say was, “Richard?”

“It wasn't my idea,” he told her, speaking so softly that she had to lean closer to hear him. “I didn't want to, but Sally . . .
Well, you know how it is once Sally gets an idea in her head.”

Margalo, who didn't, didn't respond. She just stared at his profile.

“It wasn't anything personal. It was—The idea was that after graduation Sally and me would go and spend a week at the beach, in a motel, just the two of us. We're old enough, we're over eighteen, and the idea was that if we paid for it ourselves, the parents couldn't stop us. So . . . And since everybody knows you go to the bank on Fridays, we thought . . . We thought, why not start with you? So we did, and we got lucky. But then we couldn't do any more. Because—We didn't think you'd say anything because . . . Things get taken all the time. Everybody knows that, but it's way not cool to whine about it.”

“I guess I'm not cool,” Margalo said.

“We already knew that,” Richard assured her. “But we thought—Anyway, everybody's been super careful ever since. You know? And two hundred nineteen dollars isn't nearly enough for a week at the beach, in June, so we got some other stuff instead, and now I don't think we'll get to go anywhere for graduation. Not by ourselves, anyway.”

Richard unfisted his hands and flexed the fingers. He sat up straighter in his seat. “You know? You were right. I do feel better. Not that I was feeling bad, just . . . It was sort of like I was waiting to get caught. Sally's the one with guts. She says you can't prove anything, so what can happen to us?” He turned in the seat to look right at her. “You won't try to tell
anybody what I said to you, will you? Because what good would that do? Since we already spent the money and you already got it back. And besides, if you do, I'll deny it.”

Margalo nodded. “I get that,” she said.

“Everything's all right then,” Richard said, and he slipped away.

Margalo returned to her job. She would think about all of this later, when she could talk about it to Mikey.

They were bouncing along home on the bus when Margalo acknowledged, “You were absolutely right about Richard and Sally.”

“I know,” Mikey said, without interest.

“What night are you coming to the play? Saturday will probably be the best performance.”

“We can't Saturday, because it's Saturday,” and that was, in fact, enough explanation for Margalo. “But what about your dishwashing on Saturdays?” Mikey realized.

“They finally agreed to shift the schedule and give me a night off. Angie didn't want to do it. I almost had to ask you to fill in for me so I wouldn't get fired.”

“Not on Saturday,” Mikey repeated.

“It's actually going to be good,” Margalo said. “The play,” she added, since Mikey seemed to be unable to keep track of the conversation. What was wrong with Mikey?

She didn't have to wait long to find out. As soon as nobody had said anything for about half a minute, Mikey announced,
“Tan's going out for Track, not Tennis.” She looked out the window at the houses they were rumbling past. “She wouldn't listen to me. She might listen to you.”

“Nobody would listen to my opinion about what sport they should take.”

“I guess not. I guess, some people, you can't tell them anything. Anyway, at least spring starts next week.”

“Spring doesn't start until the twenty-first. That's the week
after
next, Mikey. I thought you were keeping such careful count.”

Reminded, Mikey told her, “This week is number twenty-three.” She worked it out further. “That means only thirteen to go, which is not a lucky number. What if your play bombs?”

“Not with Hadrian in the lead it won't.”

“Yes, but what if it does? I'm definitely going to see it Friday,” Mikey said. Then she told Margalo some really good news. “Monday's the start of the spring tennis season.” Then she realized, “That makes it spring, so I'm right. Again.”

W
hen Mikey arrived on that mid-March Monday, Coach Sandy was posting the tennis ladders on the bulletin board outside her office. They were both a few minutes early for the first practice of the spring season. They were both dressed for tennis, the coach in a short pleated shirt and a Windbreaker, Mikey in shorts and a warm-up jacket. Mikey had her tennis bag, the coach had her clipboard.

Coach Sandy had put all the slips of paper for the girls' ladder into their slots and now she was working on the boys', starting at the top, with Mark Jacobs. Fiona Timmerley was at the top of the girls' ladder, a strong all-court player, a match Mikey was looking forward to. She herself occupied slot six.

Mikey studied the ladder, thinking about when she could schedule her first challenge match. No sooner than Wednesday, that was her guess. Probably there would be some
intensive drilling to bring people back to their fall level of play, since as far as she knew she was the only person who had kept on over the winter. So probably people wouldn't accept a challenge before Wednesday or maybe even Thursday. There was time before the team's first match, plenty of time to play her way into the number one position. But she should challenge Deborah today for Thursday. “Exactly when is the team's first match?” she asked.

“Aren't you the eager beaver,” the coach answered.

Mikey didn't disagree. “But when?”

“April twelfth, it's a Monday.”

Mikey was trying to remember the strengths of Deborah's game; she thought it was at the net, and she didn't remember Deborah being all that effective at net. After Deborah there was Bev, who wore you down with moon balls; but Mikey could run around a court forever—or practically forever—and sooner or later there would be a chance at an overhead. Given a chance at an overhead, Mikey had the point.

“Daydreaming?” the coach asked.

“I'm already on the team.” She pointed to her name in position six.

“My guess,” said the coach as she slotted Hal Weathersing into his number six position, “is that you have your eye on number one.”

Mikey shrugged and bent to pick up her tennis bag.

“That would be a first, a ninth grader and number one girl player,” the coach said.

Mikey straightened her out. “It's nothing to do with what grade I'm in. It's about being the best, because I am.”

Coach Sandy looked at her, measuring. “You have a lot to learn, Elsinger.”

“Except for you, but you're the coach,” Mikey said.

Other people were coming up by then to remind themselves where they were on the ladders. About forty people had signed up for tennis, and the squad Coach Sandy would play in matches would be sixteen of them, twelve on the team itself and four alternates. Those who wanted to see if they had a chance to be on the squad jostled in close to the bulletin board. The others, who had no chance, hung back, continuing their conversations.