Leading Ladies #2 (2 page)

“Go directly to jail,” my mother said, pointing a finger at my little brother.

“Is jail open on a Sunday night?” I asked.

“I don't have to go to jail,” Kevin announced triumphantly. “I have a Get Out of Jail Free card!”

“You
always
have a Get Out of Jail Free card,” I said.

Kevin was only ten years old, but he was a master at Monopoly. He had a huge pile of multicolored money in a disorganized stack on the table, while I was down to a few measly twenties and tens. And don't even get me started on the hotels he had on Park Place and Boardwalk,
and
the fact that he owned all the railroads and most of the utility companies. The kid was like a miniature Donald Trump. Frankly, it scared me.

“Your turn, sweetie,” my mother said, handing me the dice.

“What's the point?” I grumbled as I gave them a roll. I always grumbled during Monopoly and Kevin always gloated and my mother was always relentlessly cheerful. But really, I loved our Sunday night board game tradition. Plus, I'd get Kevin back next week when it was Trivial Pursuit night.
Nobody
could beat me at that game.

“Six,” I said, reading the dice. “So let's see, I go one, two, three . . .”

“You're landing on Park Place!” Kevin exclaimed. “That's mine!
And
I have a hotel, so you owe me fifteen hundred dollars. Ha! Pay up, Paulie!”

I picked up my pile of money and started to count the bills. “I've got . . . sixty. How about a loan?”

“No way!” Kevin declared. “Loans are for suckers!”

“Your sister is not a sucker,” my mother said.

“But I
am
bankrupt,” I said. “Mom? Can you float me some cash?”

“I've got six hundred and fifty,” she said, handing it all to me.

“That's not enough!” Kevin proclaimed. Funny how he was terrible at math unless he was counting Monopoly money. Then he had no trouble figuring out that sixty plus six hundred fifty was NOT fifteen hundred.

“Looks like you win, spaz,” I said.

Kevin leaped to his feet and fist-pumped. “I rule the world!” he shouted.

“Always the
gracious
winner, right, Kev?” I said, grinning. “It's fine with me. I need to go check my e-mail, anyway.”

“Don't stay on the computer too long,” my mother said. “It's getting late, and tomorrow is a school day.”

My mother, Psychologist Extraordinaire, had a theory that staring at a computer screen right before sleeping activated some eyeball-to-brain function that gave a person disturbing dreams. It was her own special variation on the wait-a-half-hour-after-eating-before-swimming thing.

“I won't,” I promised. “I'm kind of beat, anyway.”

“Because I
beat
you,” Kevin gloated.

“You'll get yours next week, midget,” I said. “And don't forget—winner cleans up the game. Which means sorting the money and putting it back in order.”

Kevin stared at the mess in front of him. The thrill of victory started to fade as he considered the task. “But I'm the winner,” he complained. “I should get something out of it.”

“Virtue is its own reward,” my mother stated.

“Enjoy your reward,” I said, grinning as I stood up and walked out of the living room.

• • • • • • •

Upstairs, I flopped comfortably on my bed and opened my laptop. There was a massively long e-mail from my friend Evelyn with a link to a bunch of pictures. Evelyn had moved away over the summer and was now bombarding me with pictures and videos documenting every aspect of her new life. I'd save that one for later—Evelyn would want a highly detailed reply and a complete essay on each and every picture she'd sent. I knew she was having a hard time adjusting. That's why she was so eager for my attention. I was more than happy to give it, but tonight I didn't have time.

I scanned the latest entries on the
4 Girls
blog, which had currently become a debate on the pros and cons of turning the latest must-read book into a movie. I'd learned early on it was best to stay far out of those arguments.

I was surprised no one had answered my e-mail about having a quick
4 Girls
mini status meeting at lunch tomorrow. Actually, Tally didn't answer more than half the time, and since Miko was officially on a leave of absence, I guess that didn't require an e-mail. But Ivy was the most organized person I'd ever met. She never let details slip through the cracks.

“Maybe she's as exhausted as I am,” I said. I shut down the computer and put it on my desk.

I crawled under the covers, mentally going over the stuff I wanted to bring up at our meeting. I knew the second issue was going to be great—with its real look behind the scenes of the Drama Club's big fall production.

And if Tally ends up being cast as Annie, all the better
, I thought. We'd have an exclusive with the star of the show. An insider's look!

I could hear Kevin singing his weird version of the theme from
Star Wars
down the hall. I was allowed to stay up an hour later than he was, but tonight I didn't want to. I was happy just lying there running different versions of the new cover through my head.

4 Girls
had brought a lot of surprises to my life, not the least of which was actually looking forward to a Monday morning at school.

Tally Janeway added a whole new dimension to the word
Drama
.

Take now, for example.

Our mini-meeting at lunch on Monday was supposed to be a quick and easy way for us to check in with each other about our assignments for the magazine. Ivy had suggested we have one every two or three days. But lunch was almost halfway over, and I was the only one who had shown up. Until now. Tally appeared at the other end of the lunchroom, surrounded by her usual explosion of chaos. I heard the sound of a lunch tray hitting the floor, followed by a shriek.

“Oh my goodness, y'all, I am
so
sorry!”

Tally had collided with an eighth-grader and knocked the tray out of his hands. She stood there staring at him, her blue eyes enormous. The tray lay on the floor by her feet, with a scattering of tater tots, a heap of broccoli, and two hot dogs that had both popped out of their buns. One lone tater tot was clinging to the front of Tally's sweater. A ripple of laughter was beginning to spread through the cafeteria. It looked like every student in the entire school was enjoying the scene.

“That was
totally
my fault,” Tally exclaimed. She crouched down and started piling the spilled food back onto the tray. Her collision victim watched for a moment, then turned and pulled a face at a bunch of his friends who were howling with laughter at a nearby table.

“I didn't see you because I am in
a state of shock
,” Tally said loudly as she chased some tater tots across the floor.

The guy shrugged and bolted out the door, leaving his spilled lunch behind. When Tally stood up with his tray, she looked mystified. Then she caught sight of me and headed in my direction. The tater tot still attached to the front of her sweater bobbed up and down as she walked. She did not notice most of the school still watching her and cracking up. Or maybe she just didn't care. I was still amazed by people who could be The Center of Attention (good or bad) and not care.

“Paulina M. Barbosa, you are a sight for soooooore eyes,” Tally sang in her cream-thick southern accent. “You will never believe in a million years what just happened to me.”

Oh, what do you bet I would?

Tally placed the tray on the table and plopped down in the chair next to me. “First, I think my school bus temporarily blinked out of time and space this morning,” she stated matter-of-factly. Like that kind of thing happens to most people occasionally.

“So the reason I say this,” Tally continued, “is because I know for a
fact
that I had my French homework with me when I got on the bus. I was talking to Mary Elizabeth, only she was sitting a few rows up so I had to raise my voice a little because you know how the bus is in the morning—louder than a circus—and I was telling Mary Elizabeth about how toast made in a toaster oven tastes completely different than toast made in a regular toaster, when there was this little
shimmer
.”

Tally paused, like she was waiting for me to react.

“Tal, that's very interesting, but lunch is almost over, and we're supposed to be—”

“Exactly!” Tally responded. Which made no sense whatsoever. “It made me lose my train of thought, and I actually
forgot
which kind of toast I like better. Can you imagine? And then when we got to school, my French homework was
not
in my book bag. But it was absolutely, definitely, one hundred percent there when I got on the bus.”

“Well . . . maybe you—”

“I know!” Tally said. “That's what I realized. If I had the homework, and then it was gone, there must have been some kind of Bermuda Triangle thing, which is what that shimmer was. The light was being distracted because of the warping of space and time. You know, like when planes and ships disappear because all their instruments go crazy and compasses won't work anymore? My bus must have driven through a place like the Bermuda Triangle and dropped into one of those parallel dimensions where there's a double of each of us and every single thing except they're a little different, and somehow when we popped back, I got the wrong version of my book bag. The one that didn't have my homework in it.”

I had to admit, it was an incredibly original and creative explanation for missing homework. The fact that Tally more than possibly believed every word of it was . . . unique.

“Wow,” I said. “That's quite a start to a Monday morning. But, Tal, we need to talk
4 Girls
. I have no idea where Ivy is—I haven't seen her at all today. Anyway, you were going to ask the drama teacher if it was okay for us to cover the auditions for
Annie
? And take pictures? Remember, we want to write the review during a dress rehearsal so that it will be in print before the show officially opens. I sent you that permission form for the principal. Twice. Did you get it?”

Tally blinked at me a few times like I'd just switched languages and was now speaking in Swedish. Then she reached into the back pocket of her jeans and pulled out a piece of paper that had been folded into a tiny rectangle.

“I got it,” she said. “And I got the principal's and Ms. Whelan's signatures.”

Wow.
With Tally slipping in and out of time and space, I was amazed that she'd not only printed out the form but gotten it signed.

“This is great,” I said, taking the form. I unfolded it and tried to smooth out the creases. “So I'm going to write the main article about
Annie
from auditions to opening night. We'll cap it off with a review of the show. You should focus on writing a piece that's from an insider's point of view—like a diary of your experience or an interview with someone. When are the actual auditions again?”

Tally let out an enormous sigh.

“This Friday,” she said. “
Five days
that I have to endure Valerie Teale prancing around, bragging how her voice coach is going to get her a three octave range so she can hit all the notes in ‘Maybe.' That girl really—”

“Is there anything going on before auditions that I can sit in on to get material for the article?” I interrupted. “I'd love to get a feel for what you guys are doing and how the Drama Club operates.”

“We're having audition workshops every day after school,” Tally said. “Starting today. So people can run lines and practice singing with the pianist while certain people brag about their vocal coach repeatedly until I go stark raving mad and am taken away by the guys in white coats to one of those padded rooms all wrapped up in a stray jacket.”

“I think they call them straitjackets,” I said with a small smile. Tally lived for the theater. It was already bringing out a competitive side I'd never seen before—this issue would be so much better than the last! “Audition workshops—that will be perfect! I'll come watch, and that will give me a feel for who's who and how you guys work and what's coming next.”

“What's coming next is my hands around Valerie Teale's smug little neck,” Tally declared.

“Well, that would certainly add an exciting dimension to my article,” I said, taking a bite of my sandwich. “‘Murder in the Theater'—an exposé, by Paulina M. Barbosa.” I smiled, but Tally seemed to be contemplating an actual murder. “Don't worry,” I said. “I'm sure your audition is going to be great. You'll take out Valerie with your acting skills—not your assassin skills.”

Before Tally could respond, there was a burst of laughter from the biggest table in the lunchroom. I didn't even need to look to know it had come from the PQuit table—territory of the Prom-Queens-in Training. I couldn't help glancing over at Miko. She was putting something in her bag, which was hanging from the back of her chair. As usual, she looked perfectly put together, like a team of stylists had swooped in to work on her between classes. She was so pretty, but these days her delicate features were pulled down in a scowl most of the time. Her gaze met mine as another burst of laughter came from her friends. Miko looked away as if she hadn't noticed me at all.

She just feels bad,
I told myself.
A little guilty, maybe.

“So, anyway, Tal, are you clear on what you need to do? Can you decide over the next couple of days what your
Annie
piece will be?”

“Oh, sure,” Tally said. “But how will we deal with the art and design stuff—all the things Miko is good at?”

“We'll figure it out,” I said. “If we sort of stick with the same layout Miko came up with for the first issue and we pick something easy for the cover instead of creating original art like she did, we should be able to handle it.”

“I could never do this if you and Ivy weren't in charge,” Tally said. “You guys are so organized, it's scary.”

I laughed a little. I didn't
feel
organized half the time, but I guess compared to Tally . . . then I thought about Ivy again. Where
was
she, anyway? We usually talked and texted a bunch of times during the weekend even if we weren't getting together.

She must be out sick
, I thought.
I bet she got clobbered by that superflu.

Tally reached for one of the tater tots on the tray. It was halfway to her mouth before I exclaimed, “Tal, don't! That was on the floor!”

She froze, then put the nugget of deep-fried potato back on the tray. “Oh yeah,” she said. “I can't believe I plowed into that guy like that.”

“You actually have another one on your . . .” I pointed to the front of Tally's sweater, where the tater tot was still hanging on for dear life. A nugget-shaped survivor.

“Oopsie,” Tally said, pulling it off and holding it out to examine it. “Wow! It's Abraham Lincoln!”

So much of what came out of Tally's mouth seemed crazy that her remark barely registered. But when she turned the bit of potato toward me I had to admit it really did bear a remarkable resemblance to Honest Abe—beard, hat, and all. I was about to suggest she try selling it online when she popped it into her mouth.

“Delicious,” she said.

I shook my head. “You're nuts,” I told her. “And why were you telling that guy you were in a state of shock, anyway? Did something happen?”

Tally gasped and smacked her head with one hand. She leaped to her feet, almost knocking her chair over, and without another word she dashed out of the cafeteria leaving me alone and bewildered.

Like I said. The girl added a whole new dimension to the word
Drama
.