D Is for Drama (19 page)

“I'll make you a deal,” I said. “Because clearly, we need
help in the makeup department, and you need money.”

Ilana perked up a little. “Yeah?”

I did some quick math in my head.

“If you stop ruining my show,” I said, “
and
do our makeup for dress rehearsal and opening night, I'll pay you five hundred dollars.”

“Eep!” Ilana clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a scream.

“But you have to
really
do a good job,” I said.

Without warning, Ilana threw her arms around me and squeezed.

“Thank you, Sunny! I'm so sorry!” She pulled back, and tears were spilling down her cheeks. “And I'm going to make you guys look like superstars, I promise!”

“Good,” I said with a genuine smile. Finally, I seemed to be making progress.

But over the course of the week, new worries started to creep into my mind.

If it wasn't bad enough that I'd blown my budget on makeup and that my actors might drop trou in their hand-stapled costumes, there were still no special effects for the show.

Unless I could find a human-sized hamster ball, I wouldn't be dropping from the sky in a bubble, and for the
winged monkeys to fly, I'd need million-dollar jetpacks. A bit difficult to come by with a budget of pocket lint.

A week before dress rehearsal, I asked Mom to supervise the cast while I put my artistic talent to work creating special effects.

The only problem? I had no artistic talent.

But I did have a list of the special effects I'd need to make a passable theater academy version of
Wicked
.

1. Flying monkeys!

2. Nessarose's wheelchair moves by itself!

3. The Oz machine!

4. Flying Elphaba!

5. Glinda's bubble!

6. Green skin for Elphaba!

7. Goat horns for Max!

8. Green everything for Emerald City!

9. Caged lion cub!

“This'll be easy!” I told myself as I walked to the art room. “I can do anything!”

I started with the flying monkeys. All I really needed was a dozen cutouts that I could string up and swing from the ceiling. Yes, it would look tacky, but it might distract people from Suresh mouthing his lines while cheap karaoke music played along.

“This'll be easy!” I said again as I printed out a side profile of a monkey from the Internet. “I can do anything!”

I traced the image onto white paper and cut it out, taping a jagged wing to its back. I held it up to survey the completed work.

My flying monkey looked like a flaming squirrel taking a poop.

With a frustrated sigh, I crumpled it and tried again. This time I simply cut out the picture from the printout and taped on a wing.

“Not bad!” I said, punching a hole in the monkey's head.

I laced a piece of string through and held the final product in the air, pulling the string from side to side. Instead of fluttering gracefully, the thin paper flapped and flipped so the monkey seemed to be spiraling out of control.

“Oh, come
on
,” I said in exasperation. “Fly already!”

Thinking it might be more like a kite, I gave a running start so a breeze could carry it into the air. Unfortunately, I was so focused on the monkey, I didn't notice the storage rack of paper in my path until I smashed into it face-first.

And the rack happened to have built-in cutting teeth.

“Ow, ow, ow,” I whimpered, bringing my hand to my cheek. I pulled it away, and saw a
lot
of blood.

The monkey cutout slipped from my fingers, and I dropped to the floor, clutching my slashed face. The door clicked open, and to add more insult to my injury, Ammo stepped through the door.

“This room is off-limits to theater geeks,” he snarled. “What are
you
doing in here?”

There was no fight left in me.

“Bleeding to death on your floor,” I whispered. “I ran into the paper holder.”

“What?” The sneer on his face disappeared, and he walked over. “Let me see.”

I blinked up at him. “Why? So you can rub your thumb in it?”

“Shut up.” He took my hand away from my face.

“Careful, it's shockingly gruesome!” I warned.

Ammo's eyebrows pushed together as he studied my cheek, and after a second he got up.

“The blood makes it look worse than it is,” he said. “You just need alcohol and a Band-Aid.”

I glanced around and picked up the monkey cutout. “How about spit and some paper?”

Ammo actually laughed. “You could do that. Or I have a first aid kit.”

He grabbed it out of a cupboard and popped it open.

“Why do you have one of those?” I asked.

“In case strange girls run headfirst into the paper holder,” he said, grabbing a swab of rubbing alcohol and a Band-Aid. “A better question is . . . why did you do that?”

In answer, I held up the monkey cutout.

“It won't fly,” I said pitifully.

Ammo just stared. “It's a piece of paper. Of course it won't fly.”

“It's a
monkey
!” I yelled.

Ammo's eyes widened. “Fine, it's a monkey. But those don't fly either. Hold still.” He cupped my chin in one hand and swabbed the alcohol across my cheek.

I jammed my eyes shut and held back a scream as the alcohol seared my skin.

“Almost done,” he said, applying the Band-Aid. “There.”

“Thank you,” I said, cradling my cheek. “And I
know
monkeys don't fly. But I have to make a dozen of them do it anyway.” I thrust my to-do list in his face. “And then I have to paint a town green and a person green and break into the zoo and steal a lion cub!”

My rant was wasted on Ammo. He'd stopped listening and was smoothing out my crumpled cutout. “This is way too small.”

I glowered at him as I wiped the blood off my hands. “The monkey isn't to scale, genius. It's from a picture.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Actually,
genius
, I meant it's too small to see from the audience.” He walked away, holding the wrinkled cutout in the air. “Tell me when it stops looking like a monkey.”

“It
never
looked like a monkey,” I said miserably.

But I knew what he meant. The farther away he got, the more it became just a shapeless blob. He crumpled it up and threw it in the garbage.

“You need to draw it bigger,” he said. “Like . . . ten times bigger. And mount it on cardboard.”

I goggled at him. “That's insane. First, I don't know how to draw a monkey. Second, it'll take way too much paper. Third, once they're on cardboard, they'll be giant safety hazards dangling above people's heads.”

Ammo frowned, and it struck me that the meanest kid in school was trying to help.

“Sorry,” I said. “But—”

“Shadow puppets,” he said. “Make shadow puppets.”

I gave him a strange look but lifted my hands and tried to form them into a flying monkey shape.

Ammo rolled his eyes. “Not with your
hands
. With paper!”

I pointed at the garbage can. “Help yourself to my latest masterpiece.”

“I'm talking about shadow plays.” Ammo sat in front of the computer and did a quick search. “In China people make these elaborate cutout puppets and move them in front of a lamp. People in the audience can see the shadows against a backdrop.”

He scooted sideways so I could see the images.

My eyebrows rose. “Wow. Those are amazing!” I said. Then I looked at Ammo. “How do you know about art from China?”

“I'm an artist,” he said. “Thanks for noticing.”

I frowned. “I've noticed. Remember your fancy place cards with the mean things written on them?”

Ammo turned back to the computer. “You had it coming for being a snob.”

I gasped in indignation. “I had it coming?! I'm not the one who started this. You've been picking on us since I cast your brother . . . oh, my God.” I trailed off. “Please don't tell me that's what this is all about.”

Ammo hammered on the keyboard with his fingers. “We do everything together. I didn't think he'd take this theater crap so seriously.”

“Fine, I get that,” I said. “But you didn't have to call
people names. Or draw mean pictures.” I cleared my throat. “Or make slant eyes at them.”

There was nothing from Ammo but silence. He stared at the computer screen, unmoving. The only thing that blinked was the cursor.

“I didn't mean it as a race thing,” he finally said. “It was just an easy way to make fun of you.” He turned toward me. “I don't have a problem with Asians. Personally, I love fried rice.”

A smile accidentally formed on my lips. “I'm glad. But there's nothing wrong with the other kids either.”

He shrugged. “I don't know . . . that kid with the big eyes creeps me out.”

“Tim's harmless,” I said. “He actually adopted a whole bunch of kittens and . . . ” I gasped and clapped my hands together.

Ammo watched me in alarm. “What? He's going to eat them?”

“No, I just had a brilliant idea!” I exclaimed. “I'll borrow one of Tim's kittens for the lion cub!”

I reached for my to-do list and scribbled a note. “One task down!” I cheered. “And if I can get the shadow puppet thing to work, that's another one!”

Ammo glanced at the list. “Make that three. If you
put a green lens over the spotlight, it'll turn everything on stage green, and you'll have your Emerald City.”

I almost snapped my pencil in two, writing like mad. “
You
are a
genius
! Now, that green lens thingy: Can I buy one for free?”

Again, Ammo was ignoring me, staring intently at the list. “You know, you can move the wheelchair by tying heavy-duty fishing line to it and pulling it from offstage.”

“Oh! Good one!” I started to write, but Ammo grabbed the list from me and paced the room, chewing his bottom lip.

“The bubble, though, that's tricky,” he said.

“Especially since I have to float down from the ceiling,” I said.

Ammo shook his head. “Won't work. You're too heavy.”

“Hey!” I frowned at him.

He rolled his eyes. “You're too heavy for what I'm thinking,” he corrected. “A papier-mâché half bubble.”

“Oh,” I said. “Why not a whole bubble?”

Ammo flipped to a clean page in my notebook and started sketching. “Because a half bubble will give the illusion that you're
in
a bubble but people will still be able to see you.” He shaded a few spots and held up his finished work.

The sketch was of a female figure standing in the center of a half dome, her hands clutching the curved sides while her feet poked out of the bottom.

“That looks like something Lady Gaga would wear,” I said.

“You have to use your imagination,” said Ammo. “A little fog on the ground while you glide forward with the bubble around you . . .”

I tilted my head to one side and squinted at the image. “Maybe.”

“Trust me,” said Ammo. “It'll work.”

“Okay. So . . . how do I get started?” I eyed the clock on the wall. “And how long is this going to take? I've got lines to practice.”

“Go,” he said, shooing me away with a hand. “The frame comes first anyway.”

I took a step and hesitated. “Are . . . are you sure? I can take care of this.”

He raised an eyebrow at me. “Do you even know how to
make
papier-mâché?”

“Easy. You get some strips of paper,” I said.

“And?”

I thought. “And . . . a . . . machete.”

“Not even close,” said Ammo. “Look, this is
my
area
of expertise. Why don't you let me handle it?”

“Fine,” I said, crossing my arms.

I wanted him to know I was giving up begrudgingly, but the funny thing was, the moment I did, I actually felt freer. Like Ammo had literally taken a burden off my shoulders.

“You know what?” I said with a smile. “I think I
will
leave this up to you. Thanks, Ammo.”

“Kyle,” he mumbled, head down as he worked on another sketch. “My name's Kyle.”

I nodded at him. “Kyle. Thank you.”

He glanced up. “You're welcome.”

Knowing I was long overdue for a scene, I hurried from the room, almost colliding with Derek as he headed toward me.

“Hey, I was coming to see if you needed help,” he said.

“Actually,
Kyle
could use your help in the art room,” I said.

Derek didn't move. “Kyle who?”

I couldn't help feeling a little smug as I said, “Your brother. I'm going to make him the art director.”

EIGHTEEN

O
NCE I STARTED HOARDING POWER
less and distributing it more, it was amazing how things came together. Over the week, Kyle had the Melodramatics work on special effects when they weren't in a scene. They draped papier-mâche over a wire frame to make my half bubble, and they cut out monkeys that Kyle had drawn to make shadow puppets.

Tim agreed to let me use Fig Mewton in the show as long as I included him in the playbill. Ilana found a recipe to make
safe
green face paint for Anne Marie, and Max's mom even agreed to hem costumes after he accidentally mooned a school bus in his trousers.

With all of us pitching in, we had singing, dancing, scenery, makeup, and costumes under wraps.

The only thing we didn't have was an audience. I decided to tell everyone why, and shared what Cam had told me about separate ticket sales.