Counting Thyme (16 page)

“Fair enough. Usually I let her out before you all get home. The noise makes her nervous.” Sylvie squawked again, and I found it hard to believe that we bothered her at all.

Mrs. Ravelli popped back into the room with a tray full of cookies and tea. She set it on the coffee table and said, “Help yourself. I just going to tidy up a bit.” Then she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Mr. Lipinsky grumbled about her touching his stuff, but he also took a cookie. Then he did something new. He asked me a question. “Are you any good at checkers?”

“Maybe.”

He pulled out a worn playing set from beneath the table. “How about a wager? You win, and I'll give you all the mail that ended up in my box.”

“You've been taking our mail?”

“I haven't taken anything! The mailman put it in there.” His mouth twitched. “So what do you say? Shall we?”

“What do you get if you win?”

“Nothing more than the pleasure of your company. And sweet victory, of course.”

“Yeah, right. And I bet you want to sell me a piece of the Brooklyn Bridge, too.”

“Suit yourself. Everybody's got the right to be wrong.”

“Fine,” I said. “I'll play.”

I set up the pieces while Mr. Lipinsky poured two cups of tea. Meanwhile, Sylvie started whistling again. He patted her, and she sang louder, which sounds noisy but was actually nice, like listening to Grandma Kay whistle while she gardened. “It was Ada's idea to get a bird,” he said. “She needed something to love—something other than me, I guess. Can you imagine that?”

I didn't answer, because it seemed like the kind of question you don't answer.

“We tried to have a family for a long time, but it wasn't meant to be. Poor Ada, bless her heart . . . she ran out one day and came back from the pet shop with this tiny white speck of a thing. The shopkeeper said the critter wouldn't last the week, but he didn't count on Ada. That woman made everyone want to live, just to be around her for another day—birds included. Forty-six years later, here we are. We sure showed him, didn't we, Sylvie?”

Sylvie trilled a high note, and the way he smiled at her, I could see that she was his friend. He needed her as much as she needed him. Maybe he'd just had a bad day, getting confused about the bus. Val had good days and bad days, too. We all did, one way or the other.

“Can that guy believe how old she is now?” I asked.

“I have no idea,” Mr. Lipinsky said with a straight face. “He's been dead ten years.”

I covered my mouth in shock, but Mr. Lipinsky just grinned. Then he started laughing for real. His chuckle
turned into big, round belly laughs that made me laugh, too, even though laughing about a dead person was terrible. Then I thought about what he'd said outside, about his friend Jerry and how he wasn't doing so hot. Jerry, who used to live in our apartment, who now lived far away.

“I'm sorry about your friend,” I said.

Mr. Lipinsky nodded. “I appreciate that,” he said. And he sounded like he really meant it.

SECRETS

ON THURSDAY AFTERNOON, CORI CAME HOME LATE FROM SCHOOL.
Mom was still out with Val at a support group playdate, and Dad hadn't gotten home from work yet. With the new job, his hours had been later.

“Don't tell Mom, but I got detention,” Cori said as she ripped her coat off and tossed it on the floor. Her
ART IS LIFE
shirt was on inside out. She'd been wearing the protest shirts to school every day.

“What did you do?”

She thought for a second. Then she flopped into the chair across from me and said, “It's not fair. We were just trying to make them explain why there's no money for drama when they still have basketball and cheerleading and
chess
.”

“I like chess,” I said, and she shot me a look.

“Duh. You like anything boring. But sometimes, you have to stick your neck out, T. All we did was stand up during the assembly for, like, five minutes. That's all. They said we were disruptive, that we made a scene, and now we aren't allowed to wear our shirts anymore.
Augh!
” She buried her head in her arms. Part of me wanted to point out that
disrupting an assembly
was
making a scene, but I couldn't believe she was telling me any of this stuff in the first place.

“Maybe you should just lie low for a while,” I said.

She sat up. “You know what? You're exactly right.”

That night, Cori didn't say a word to Mom and Dad about detention. And in the morning, she acted totally normal. You wouldn't have thought she'd gotten in trouble in the first place, or that she was hiding it from our parents. She wasn't wearing one of her drama shirts, either. But as she zipped up her book bag, I caught a glimpse of painted fabric inside.

“I thought you weren't supposed to wear those shirts?” I whispered. “What if you get detention again?”

“Shh!” Cori leaned closer. “What Mom doesn't know won't kill her.”

I almost said,
But when she finds out, it might kill you.
Then I thought about Dad taking his new job without telling me, and I figured Cori could do what she wanted. She wasn't the only one in our family keeping secrets.

Friday was audition day at MS 221. In sixth-period PE, everyone lined up outside the locker rooms instead of going to class.

“Listen up, sixth graders!” Our teacher, Mrs. Emery, marched past us. “If you're going out for the Spring Fling, line up on this side of the hall.” She pointed with both hands like an air-traffic controller. “Once the other classes line up, Mr. Calhoun will escort you to the auditorium. If you're not trying out, get your be-hinds changed and meet me in the gym in five minutes. Understood?”

“Yes, Mrs. Emery!”

The hall erupted into chatter as nearly half of our class bolted for the other side of the hall. “Go on,” I told Lizzie, but she just stood there, looking scared.

“I don't think I can,” she said.

Everyone else was lining up. It was the moment of truth for anyone who wanted a part. I didn't want a part, but I didn't want Lizzie to miss out.

“What if I go with you?” I said, and she finally smiled.

The auditorium was one place I hadn't been. It was one of those quiet places, like the hospital. I thought of waiting for Val on his first day of chemo, listening to the silence in the waiting room. I told myself to be happy that I wasn't doing that again, but there were still a million butterflies in my stomach as we sat down in the auditorium seats. Which was dumb. I wasn't doing the Spring Fling. Right?

“Emily tries out next period,” Lizzie said.

“Don't worry about her,” I said with a smile.

Lizzie's brow creased as she worried about it anyway.

Rebeccah was in the row behind us. She had her red hair in a big, puffy ponytail that bounced every time she turned her head. She saw me looking and leaned over the chairs. “What are you going out for, Thyme?” Her eyes flicked over my sweater, a soft cable-knit that Cori had loaned me.

“I'm just here to watch Lizzie.”

“Too bad. I bet you'd make a great Munchkin. You're the
right height, you know.” She held her hand above my head. “They give Munchkin parts to the people who don't get anything else. Just wait. Maybe you and Lizzie will end up being Munchkins together!”

Rebeccah laughed and flopped back into her chair, while Lizzie blushed bright pink.

“Maybe if we throw some water on her, she'll melt,” I joked, but Lizzie didn't laugh.

“Okay, people. Listen up!” Mr. Calhoun stood in front of the stage, next to a long row of folding tables, and called for attention. He looked the way I imagined college professors must look—smart, in a blazer and bow tie, with bushy eyebrows that wiggled as he waited for everyone to quiet down. “All right. As you all know, this year we're staging a production of
The Wizard of Oz
.”

Applause broke out, and he raised his hand for silence. “There are many, many parts in the production. You'll find the audition sheets right up here, in case you've forgotten yours.” He pointed at the papers lining the tables. “You may only audition for two stage parts. Crew positions may sign up on the sheets provided. Orchestra auditions are tomorrow. Final cast and crew selections will be posted Monday morning. Any questions?”

It got quiet, like we were all holding our breath. I know I was. Which didn't make sense, because I wasn't there to sign up for anything.

“Good,” he said. “Take the next few minutes to sign up,
and remember, you may only audition for two parts today. If you're signing up for a crew position, please do so and return to the gym for the remainder of the period.”

He stepped back, and kids rushed the tables. I gave Lizzie a little push and she went, too. A minute later, she came back with a neatly stapled packet in her hands.

“You okay?” I asked.

She nodded, her face pale. “Now it's your turn.”

“What?”

“I can't do this by myself! Do it with me, please.”

“I am
not
trying out for anything.”

“Just go look,” she said. Her eyes were so big behind her glasses, I thought she might cry if I didn't say yes, so I said okay and walked to the tables, head swimming. What was I doing? I knew nothing about plays. I'd only ever been in a real theater once, to see
Peter Pan
with Shani. I remembered watching Peter soar into the air, like magic, and wishing I could fly, too. At the time, I hadn't realized that there was some kind of trick holding him up—something the stage crew had put together to fool the audience. But once I knew, it made perfect sense. Could I do something like that?

There were four options on the sign-up sheets for the crew positions: set design, lighting crew, prop masters, sound production. And under sound production, a familiar name:
Jake Reese
. My hand hovered over the sheet. There were only two other names with Jake's. Plenty of room for more sound producers. Whatever that meant.

Mr. Calhoun stepped onto the stage. “All right, people.
First up, Dorothy. Can I get all of my Dorothys over here?” he asked, pointing to the first row of chairs. “Mrs. Smith will show you where to sit. And next, my Lions, Tin Men, and over here, the Witches . . .”

I scrawled my name beneath Jake's and jetted over to the first row, heart pounding as I slid into the seat next to Lizzie. I was planning to wish her good luck and get out of there before I died of mortification—I mean, who signs up to work with a boy who says nice things about her dress and plays guitar for her unless she likes him, too?—but then I noticed Lizzie's face was even paler than before, so I stayed in my seat and hoped Mr. Calhoun wouldn't notice.

“Jemma Halstead,” he called, and the willowy girl next to Lizzie climbed the steps to the stage. Everyone got quiet as Jemma read off a few lines, her voice barely audible. Then Mr. Calhoun asked her to sing a portion of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” which didn't go much better, with mumbled words and mouse-like squeaks on the high notes.

“One down, one to go,” I said to Lizzie, but her eyes were slammed shut. “Lizzie?”

She bent forward, pressing her hands over her ears. “I can't,” she said. “I can't.” Her breath was whistling in and out of her mouth way too fast.

“What's wrong?” I whispered, but she didn't say anything, so I rubbed her back like I did for Val, only it didn't seem to help.

Mr. Calhoun called the next girl up to the stage. Lizzie was the last girl left in the Dorothy group, but with the way
she was breathing and the way her foot was
tap-tap-tapping
against the floor, it didn't look like she would make it onstage.

Then someone slid into the seat on Lizzie's other side. I looked up, right into Emily's oval face.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

“Hall pass,” she said, her attention fixed on Lizzie. She pulled a brown paper bag out of her pocket, unfolded it, and held it over Lizzie's nose and mouth.

“Breathe into this,” she said, brushing Lizzie's blond hair away from her face. “You're okay,” she said. “You're okay.” She said it the way Mom told Val he was okay, even when he wasn't. That's when I finally saw the truth about them. Emily and Lizzie may have been on the outs, but they were just like me and Shani. They were best friends. They needed each other.

After a few more breaths, Lizzie sat up and looked at Emily. And smiled.

“You're okay,” Emily said one last time. Then she shook her head. “I've been waiting back there for fifteen minutes. I told you not to do this to yourself.”

“I know it's stupid,” Lizzie said, “but I'm tired of practicing all the time in class and never being in the show. I want to sing.”

“If she wants to sing, she should sing,” I said, and Emily's eyes flashed.

“She has stage fright, duh. You can't sing if you can't breathe!”

We both looked at Lizzie, who was breathing into the
brown paper bag again, more slowly now. Mr. Calhoun called her name, and she pulled the bag away. “I can do it,” she said. Then she counted to ten with her eyes shut. Calming herself down.