Cages (2 page)

In her mind, Kit saw the program: “The Drama Department of Kennedy School presents
The Member of the Wedding
by Carson McCullers, starring Kit Hathaway as Frankie.”

Kit could already see herself on stage, could hear the audience laugh when she spoke Frankie’s lines: “Oh, I am so worried about being tall. I’m twelve and five-sixths years old and already five feet five and three-fourths inches tall. If I keep on growing like this until I’m twenty-one, I figure I will be nearly ten feet tall.”

Kit was five feet five and three-fourths inches tall. Exactly. She thought it was a good omen. Of course, she was already fourteen, but her brown hair was long and when she braided it, she looked younger. For once, she was glad she had a thin, boyish figure. With the right clothes, she could easily pass for “twelve and five-sixths.”

She could almost hear the standing ovation.

If she got the part of Frankie and did a good job with it, she might even get the Ninth Grade Scholarship. It was awarded at the end of the school year on the basis of scholarship and extracurricular activities. Kit’s grades were high enough to qualify but she wasn’t inclined to join clubs. She liked books better than crowds and felt shy with people she didn’t know well. She and Tracy cheered at all the school football and volleyball games but spectators don’t win scholarships. You have to participate.

She knew she had to earn a scholarship if she hoped to attend college. Wayne wouldn’t pay any tuition, that was certain. Her stepfather thought college was a waste of time.

“Why do you need a degree?” he had asked, the first time Kit mentioned college. “What do you want to do?”

Kit admitted that she didn’t know yet what field she wanted to enter.

“Why spend four years paying to go to school,” he said, “when
you could work those four years and have someone pay you?”

One thing at a time, Kit thought. College is three years away. Get the part of Frankie first, then worry about the scholarship.

If she got the part, she planned to surprise Miss Fenton by knowing her lines quickly. She had already memorized the whole first act. For days, she and Tracy had quoted lines to each other, working them into their conversation whenever possible and waiting to see if the other person caught on.

Kit’s favorite line was, “I feel just exactly like somebody has peeled all the skin off me.” So far, she had not been able to fit that one into any conversation.

“Let’s make a deal,” Tracy said, on the day that the cast list was to be posted. “If one of us gets a part and the other doesn’t, the one who doesn’t will help backstage. That way, we both work on the play, no matter what.”

“Agreed,” Kit said. She hoped Tracy would get a part but she knew Tracy would have just as much fun helping with props or costumes. Tracy was like that. She could accept whatever happened and be happy. Kit’s mother often suggested that Kit should be more like Tracy.

As soon as the final bell rang, signaling the end of sixth period, Kit and Tracy hurried to the school’s auditorium. There was already a crowd of people around the list, jostling each other impatiently and craning their necks, trying to see which names were on it.

Kit felt a knot in the pit of her stomach.
Please
, she thought.
Please, please let me be Frankie. I know I can do it. All I need is a chance to prove it
.

At the front of the crowd, someone shrieked, “I got it! I got
Janice!” Congratulations from the shrieker’s friends mingled with groans of disappointment from other would-be actresses who had read for the part of Janice.

At last, Kit was close enough to read the list. The names of the characters were on the left side of the paper. Opposite each, on the right side, was the name of the student who would be playing that role.

Kit’s eyes skimmed quickly down the right-hand list, looking for Kit Hathaway. Almost at the bottom, she spotted Tracy Shelburn.

Tracy saw it at the same time. “I got a part,” Tracy said. She sounded amazed. “Look, Kit. I’m going to be Doris.”

Kit didn’t answer right away. She was reading the list again, hoping she’d made a mistake the first time.

There was no mistake. Her name wasn’t there.

She forced herself to smile at Tracy. “Congratulations,” she said. “You’ll be a great Doris.”

“It isn’t a very big part,” Tracy said. “I’ll have plenty of time to be backstage with you.”

Kit looked one more time at the list. She had to know who got the part she’d wanted.

“Oh, no,” Kit said. She whispered to Tracy, “Marcia Homer’s going to be Frankie.”

Tracy groaned, rolling her eyes. “Miss Fenton must be temporarily insane,” she said.

“I can’t stand it,” Kit said. “Anybody but her.”

Because their last names both started with
H
, Kit and Marcia were often assigned seats beside each other. Marcia’s father gave her twenty dollars for every
A
she got on her report card and Marcia never failed to tell Kit about it. Once, when Marcia
got five
A
s, her father actually gave her a one-hundred-dollar bill. Still, it wasn’t Marcia’s money that bothered Kit, it was her constant chatter about herself. Yak yak yak. Me, me, me. Endlessly. How could Miss Fenton have chosen Marcia to play the part of Frankie?

Kit turned away in disgust. She no longer wanted to help backstage. She didn’t want anything to do with
The Member of the Wedding
.

“Come on,” Tracy said, as she tugged on Kit’s sleeve. “Let’s go to the meeting.”

Reluctantly, Kit followed Tracy down the hall to Miss Fenton’s classroom, where all cast members and anyone who wanted to work on the production crew were supposed to meet. She wished she had not agreed to Tracy’s deal. All she wanted to do was go home. She needed to be alone for awhile.

When they got to the meeting, Marcia was already there. Kit managed to avoid looking at her but it was impossible not to hear her.

“I am absolutely thrilled to death,” Marcia gushed. “I never dreamed I’d get the lead. I mean, I wanted it, of course—didn’t we all?—but I just never thought I’d really be the one to actually get it. I called my parents right away and they’re absolutely thrilled to death, too.”

I hope she forgets her lines on opening night, Kit thought. I hope she falls on her face and makes a fool of herself.

She handed Tracy a note. “
DRAMA COACH FLINGS ACTRESS OFF CLIFF AFTER FIRST REHEARSAL
.”

Moments later, the note came back. Tracy had added: “
MILLIONS CHEER
.”

When Miss Fenton asked for volunteers for the various production
committees, Kit did not raise her hand. She couldn’t stand to think of working backstage and listening to Marcia say Frankie’s lines every day. On the other hand, she had made a pact with Tracy and she didn’t want to let Tracy down. It wasn’t Tracy’s fault that Miss Fenton cast Marcia in the lead role. Finally, Kit agreed to make posters and put them up. She could do that at home, where she didn’t have to listen to Marcia.

“Do you want me to bring you some studio photos of myself for the posters?” Marcia asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Miss Fenton said. “Any photos we use for advertising will be taken during rehearsals.”

And, Kit thought, the ones I use will not be of you, Motormouth. She would ask the photographer to shoot the scene where Doris appears. Why not give Tracy the glory?

As they left the meeting, Tracy said, “I’ll give you my candy opinion. Marcia will drive us all nuts before this is over.”

“Candy opinion” was a phrase from the play but this time, Kit didn’t respond. The game of quoting lines wasn’t fun anymore. Not now. Losing the role of Frankie, especially to Marcia Homer, hurt too much.

“Do something nice for yourself when you get home,” Tracy said, as they left the school. “It would be a good night for the Triple-B Treatment.”

For the first time since she’d read the list of cast members, Kit smiled. Leave it to Tracy to suggest the one thing in the world that would make her feel better.

“See you tomorrow,” Tracy said.

“I’m glad you got a part,” Kit said.

She
was
glad for Tracy but as she walked home, her own disappointment stuck in her throat. She’d tried so hard and she felt she’d read the lines as well as she was capable of reading them. That’s what hurt the most. She’d given it her best shot and her best wasn’t good enough. There was no standing ovation in her future now; there was only the thankless task of making posters.

Well, there was no point crying about it. Maybe she’d take Tracy’s advice. Treat herself to the Triple-B. She opened her purse and looked to see if she had enough money to buy a bag of chocolate stars.

The Triple-B Treatment consisted of three things: 1. a long, hot bubble bath 2. a good book to read 3. a bag of chocolate stars. Bath, book, and bag of candy: all three at the same time. She would lock herself in the bathroom, fill the tub with bubbles, place the bag of candy on the edge of the tub, and climb in. Then she’d lie in the warm water, read her book, and eat the chocolate. There was even a ritual about how she ate the chocolate stars: slowly, one at a time. She never took a bite; she only sucked, letting each one melt completely before she took another.

Nobody but Tracy knew about the Triple-B Treatment, not even Kit’s mother. Especially not Kit’s mother.

She stopped at the 7-Eleven on her way home and bought the chocolate stars, hiding them in the bottom of her bookbag, underneath her math homework, where her mother wouldn’t see them.

Dorothy Gillette didn’t allow candy in the house. “It only makes people fat,” she declared. In Dorothy’s view, being fat
was an inexcusable crime that should be punishable by law. She ran six miles every afternoon, to ensure that the enemy didn’t creep onto her hips when she wasn’t looking.

Dorothy was trim, no doubt about that. If only she didn’t feel so superior to anyone who wasn’t. Kit preferred Miss Fenton’s attitude. Miss Fenton laughed at her own pudgy figure and admitted, “Doughnuts are my downfall. Especially chocolate-frosted ones.”

A bath, a book, and a bag of chocolate. Kit felt better already, anticipating the Triple-B.

As she approached her house, she saw Wayne’s car in the driveway. Why was he home so early? Her stepfather never got home before 6:30 and it wasn’t yet 5:00. Usually he put his car in the garage. Maybe Wayne was sick. Or maybe—Kit’s mouth felt dry. Maybe he was on another binge.

She approached the house cautiously, listening. Wayne got drunk every four or five months. When he did, he was surly, often shouting and throwing things. His binges lasted for several days, during which Kit’s mother tiptoed around the house, cleaning up the messes Wayne made and trying to calm him down.

Once Kit had suggested that Wayne should get help for his drinking problem.

“Wayne doesn’t have a drinking problem,” Dorothy said. “He only drinks two or three times a year.”

Kit didn’t know if Wayne was an alcoholic or not. All she knew was that when he went on one of his binges, life at home was miserable.

She eased the front door open. Silence. She stepped inside.
Maybe he was sick. The flu was going around. Maybe Wayne had the flu.

She hung her coat in the closet and headed for her bedroom. Before she got there, she heard Wayne shout from the kitchen.

“Damn it, Dorothy,” Wayne yelled. “You know I don’t like broiled salmon. Why are you fixing salmon for dinner when you know I don’t like it?”

Kit stopped. She knew that tone of voice all too well. She also knew that Wayne had never mentioned a dislike for salmon. He had, in fact, always eaten salmon with gusto.

Kit listened.

“I’m sorry,” Dorothy said. “I won’t fix salmon again. Now, what would you like instead? I’ll just run out to the grocery store and buy something else.”

Kit clenched her teeth. She hated it when her mother let Wayne doormat her like that. Anything to keep the peace, Dorothy always said, but Kit never felt peace was achieved. It was more like surrender.

Crash! A loud noise exploded from the kitchen. Kit jumped. Then she hurried into the kitchen to see what had happened. Her mother stood beside the stove, blotting her blue sweatsuit with a dish towel. Wayne sat at the kitchen table, barefoot, wearing a suit and tie.

Amber liquid trickled down the front of the refrigerator and dripped into pieces of broken glass on the tile floor. Kit inhaled the strong, sharp smell of liquor.

“My glass slipped,” Wayne said.

“It certainly did,” Dorothy said, as she got a broom and started sweeping up the shards of glass.

“Slipped right out of my hand,” Wayne said.

Kit said nothing.

“Don’t just stand there,” Wayne said. “Your mother needs help with this mess.”

Kit glared at him.

“Never mind,” Dorothy said. “I’ll clean it up.”

Kit turned and started to leave the kitchen.

“Kit!” Wayne shouted. “You stay here and wash off the refrigerator.”

Kit wanted to scream. First she wasn’t cast in the play, then she’d had to listen to Mouthy Marcia, and now Wayne was on another binge.

“Wash it off yourself,” she said. “You’re the one who threw your glass and made a mess. Why should we clean it up for you?”

“She doesn’t mean that, Wayne,” Dorothy said. “We know it was an accident.”

Just once, Kit thought. Just once, why can’t you stick up for me? Why must you always pretend he’s sober?

“It wasn’t an accident,” Kit said. “He’s drunk and he threw his glass on purpose. Why can’t you admit that?”

Dorothy winced. “Please,” she said, “don’t make things worse.”

“You animal,” Wayne said. He stood up and pounded his fist on the table. “That’s what you are. Nothing but a stupid little animal.”

“Now, Wayne,” Dorothy said. “You don’t mean that. He doesn’t mean that, Kit.”

He had called her that before when he was drunk and it
always made her furious. Kit spun around and rushed out of the kitchen. Wayne lurched after her.

She wasn’t afraid of him. Although Wayne bellowed and called her names when he was drunk, he had never hit her nor, to her knowledge, had he ever hit her mother. But Kit refused to listen to any more. She grabbed her coat, picked up her bookbag, and ran outside, slamming the door behind her.