Paper Alice (8 page)

One day when I was about seven, I'd announced that I was going down to the gully to get some bits and pieces to build a cubby house with. Nanna, however, soon put a stop to that.

‘You keep right away from that tip,' she said. ‘It'll be infested with snakes!'

Which at that age, of course, was an invitation to do the opposite. After that I spent quite a lot of time squatting on the slope above the dump, staring, hoping to catch a glimpse of the gleam of coppery scales sliding through the junk and grass. And I started getting nightmares about a head poised to strike, fangs bared, as a sheet of tin was lifted and sunlight flooded in . . .

The thought still made me shudder. I tried to think of something else.

Milly. I'd thought about asking her to come along, but had decided against it. I was hoping to be able to sneak in and sit at the back in the dark, incognito. And incognito was not a word you associated with Milly.

I thought about ringing her and begging her to come at the last minute. I could make a quick detour over to Annandale and pick her up. But with all Milly's dramas I hadn't even got around to telling her about Wilda, so it would involve a whole lot of explanation I really didn't feel like making at the moment. Also, I could picture her taking over, forcibly dragging me through the crowd.
Hey – are you Wilda? There's someone here you should meet!

No, Milly was not a good idea tonight.

Well then, why not just keep going, straight through the
uni and out the other side to the pub, where the farewell would already be getting under way?

Because that would leave me still wondering.

So, even though I could feel myself starting to tense up, I crossed Parramatta Road and drove in through the uni gates, turning left towards the Cave.

There must've been a lot of other stuff on that night, because the parking spot I finally found was quite a way away. It was still pouring and I realised there wasn't an umbrella in the car. Dad isn't as organised as Mum, who always has a folding one stowed behind her seat.

I sat there in the dark, rain drumming on the roof and running down the windows, waiting for it to let up. Fished out my phone and looked at the time: 8.03. I'd envisaged slipping in after most people had sat down, but I didn't want to be too late.

Finally there seemed to be a slight lull, so I made a dash for it. Of course, getting out I managed to miss the kerb and stepped straight into the torrent pouring down the gutter; one boot got soaked. And by the time I'd hurtled all the way down the road to the Cave, I was just about wet all over.

As I rushed down the steps and into the entrance area I was relieved to see the two last stragglers going into the performance space. I slipped in just before the girl on the door closed it.

In the semi-darkness I could see the place was just about full. The audience was sitting on the floor in a wide semicircle around the empty spotlit stage area. I tiptoed around the back row and sat down in the far corner, hunkered down, arms around my knees, shivering a bit with cold and nervousness. I glanced
surreptitiously about to see if I could see anyone who looked like me, but in the shadows the profiles and backs of heads were not exactly revealing.

Most people were chatting to their neighbours. Everyone probably knows one another, I thought. Even worse, perhaps this whole thing was for drama society people only. Any second now someone might turn around, stare at me and ask if I was a member . . .

Then, who should walk into the spotlight but the guy from the Rose and Star – the one I'd collided with! I got a shock like a zap of electricity. I hugged my knees even tighter, peeping over the top of them as the buzz of conversation died.

‘Hey thanks for coming – to support our newest wave of theatrical geniii,' he said with a grin. Buzz of amusement from the audience. His glasses shone in the spot as he glanced at the sheet of paper in his hand. ‘We'll get right down to it.'

I held my breath.

‘Our first reading tonight is from a new two-act play entitled
Heartsick
, by Jenny Katz.'

There were cheers from Jenny supporters; he indicated a girl down the front who half turned, giving a little wave of acknowledgment.

‘Jen, would you like to tell us a bit about it?'

The playwright, a chick with pink hair and a long multicoloured scarf, proceeded to stand up and give a few sentences of introduction, but I was too disappointed to pay much attention. Though it was a bit much to expect Wilda's play to be first up.

If it
was
going to be on.

I stared at the paper in the announcer's hand,
wondering if it was a programme, then glanced along my row. Nobody else seemed to have one.

A guy and a girl appeared on stage, scripts in hand, and did a rehearsed reading of a scene. Once again I was too impatient for the next work to pay it a huge amount of attention, but it appeared to be a version of a standard boy/girl fight, except that every now and again what seemed like a completely absurd, unrelated line would appear in the dialogue. Signifying what, I'm not sure. It probably would've made more sense if, as I've said, I'd been in the mood to listen. Also the girl, who was short and stocky with black hair and piercing eyes, was very good, but the boy's performance was pretty wooden, which didn't help matters. It got a lot of applause at the end, however, and the girl in front of me murmured ‘Brilliant!' to her friend.

And then who should be the next writer brought on, but Andy! Here he was, ambling into the spotlight, hands stuffed into his pockets . . .

I got such a shock, I heard myself gasp. I quickly shrunk down further, in the unlikely event those sharp eyes might stray through the darkness to the back corner.

‘Hey,' he said with a little grin, pulling out a hand to give a tiny wave. There was a mini burst of acclaim.

Andy Mead, ‘renowned', according to the announcer, ‘for his comic talents', (more cheers and whistles) had ‘now turned his hand to something more substantial'. The working title of the play was
Untitled, with Dog
.

Then Andy began a rapid introduction, causing chuckles from the audience. ‘One act, with boy, girl and dog. Musings on the usual questions – love, death, the last Tim Tam, plus theatrical suicide from appearing on
stage with an animal. I'll play the part of the boy, the lovely Lily Lindstrom is the girl, and Jack will play himself.'

I froze, mid-laugh, at the mention of the girl's name. Lily. Lil . . .

More clapping heralded the arrival of the girl and the dog, trotting into the spotlight beside her. The dog was little and terrier-ish looking, a Fox or Jack Russell cross. It immediately, of course, grabbed all the attention, and there were more cheers and applause, especially when Andy cried, ‘Sit, Jack!' and he obliged.

I must have been the only member of the audience not focused on Jack. I was too busy staring at Lily – the gorgeous Lil Andy lived with, obviously. Who was very pretty. Big-eyed and dark and delicate, with cheekbones as sharp as knives.

I found myself half hoping she'd be terrible, but she was very good, as were her two fellow performers. The comic timing was excellent, some of the lines and gags hilarious, and the whole thing zanily off-beat.

Every time things seemed to be getting serious between the other two, Jack, obviously cued from someone offstage, would do something to upstage proceedings – roll over, or bark, or make an entrance or exit. Don't ask me why it was funny, but it was. The audience was roaring with laughter.

That is, until, in the middle of a big and pregnant pause, when everyone was waiting to see what Jack would do next, my phone went off.

I frantically groped for my bag – the red one – which had, of course, quickly filled up with junk again since its clean out. Feeling all those heads turning and eyes glaring (someone even hissed) as I frantically
rummaged, the
William Tell Overture
tinkling tinnily through the darkness.

I finally located the glowing, whirring little bastard and killed it dead. Then looked slowly up, through the turned heads, into Andy's piercing gaze.

He was staring out, one hand shielding his eyes. Not going to let such a wonderful opportunity pass.

‘OK,' he called, grinning. ‘'Fess up. Who was it?'

Lily laughed and peered out too.

I sat very still, willing myself to dissolve.

‘What d'you reckon, Jack?' asked Andy, still looking.

Jack barked joyously.

‘We need a spot, that's what we need!' He snapped his fingers and pointed in my direction. ‘Light, please–'

A spot detached itself, and, as heads turned and necks craned, began moving its slow and searching way towards me.

I sat there like a terrified tortoise, trying to pull my head into my body. Except, of course, I couldn't.

The spot was coming closer, weaving this way and that. People laughed and held their empty hands out, protesting their innocence.

‘Find the perpetrator,' cried Andy. ‘Where's the ringtone saboteur?'

Suddenly the skinny boy sitting next to me could contain himself no longer.

‘Over here!' he screamed, raising his hand and jabbing a finger at me. ‘She's right here!'

Blinding light instantly poured all over me. I sat there blinking and gaping like a fish.

General uproar. People whistled and cheered and stamped their feet.

And then came the words I was really dreading.

‘Hey . . . I know you!' Andy's voice was full of surprise through the darkness. And then glee. ‘Well, I never – it's the missing shoe girl – Alice! Hey, Alice!'

All I could do was give a sickly smile and a ghastly little wave.

The audience, of course, was going wild.

‘Dim the spot a bit,' said Andy. ‘You're blinding the poor girl!'

The light became a trifle softer, but stayed put.

‘Take it off!' I croaked, flapping my hands.

Fat chance. Now the spotlight was dimmer, I could make out his face again, and his evil grin.

‘You interrupt us,' he said, lapsing into a stage Gestapo-ese, ‘so, you must be a part of our show. You vill share with us,' he added, his smile widening, ‘ze Tale of Ze Missing Shoe!'

‘Yeah!' people cried, laughing and clapping. ‘Let's hear it!'

By now, of course, I'd started to giggle – what else could I do? Other than get up, walk through the crowd and strangle him with my bare hands.

‘Stop lauffink, girl – is serious!'

‘Come on – tell!' someone else shouted.

‘Yeah – tell!'

I couldn't believe the mass hysteria that seemed to have taken hold. ‘Tell! Tell! Tell!' a group up the front started yelling, clapping and stamping their feet.

But Alice McBean just sat there in the spotlight, giggling helplessly, melting into a puddle of embarrassment. Flapping my hands pathetically and croaking, ‘Go
away
!'

Then things got even worse, if that was possible. The
compere was joining Andy on stage and saying something in his ear.

They were both staring at me now. I gawked back, trapped.

‘Ladies and gentleman.' In his surprise Andy had temporarily lost his accent. ‘Either I'm going mad, or . . .' He broke off, scratching his head, and then went on, assuming his stage persona again.

‘The plot thickens. It would appear that our phone saboteur is not who she says she is!'

All eyes swung back to me. A few over-the-top exclamations of ‘Whoo!' and ‘Oh no!' went up. The crowd had definitely moved into old-time music hall mode.

‘Who
is
she then?' shouted someone else.

By now my heart was pounding dangerously hard.

‘She
is
,' cried Andy, ‘
apparently
, none other than . . .' He paused, momentarily consulting the other guy again.

‘None other than one
Wilda . . . Lichtermann
. The UTS student who was to have been our very next featured playwright tonight!
Veelda!
' he finished with a flourish. ‘A goot, Cherman name!'

Then he stretched out his arms and clapped in my direction, inviting me to take a bow. The audience followed suit; a few people even stood up. They were more than getting their entertainment's worth. Everyone except me was having the time of their life.

‘
No!
' I cried into all the noise, wildly shaking my head, and putting up my hands. ‘I'm not–'

But it had about as much effect as tossing feathers at a charging bull.

‘Speech!' came the shouts over the top of me, and, ‘Author, author!'

Finally, when the noise had more or less subsided into an expectant hush, the guy with the glasses spoke again.

‘Wilda,' he cried cheerfully across the darkness, ‘great to see you! You made it after all! Are you going to be able to give your reading?'

I stared back at him, open-mouthed. Vaguely registering that he was wearing glasses; in the low light he probably couldn't see very well. Like that night at the pub . . .

Suddenly I'd had enough. Enough of the spotlight and being Andy's stooge. And more than enough of being mistaken for Wilda.

I scrambled to my feet. The spotlight followed me, seeming to brighten again.

‘Look,' I shouted, into the darkness. ‘
I'm not Wilda,
OK?'

Dead silence. A hundred pairs of eyes bored into me.

‘I – I'm . . .'

I trailed off, not about to say my real name. I'd never hear the end of it. Strangers would forever more be nudging me in the ribs, or yelling across the quad.

Hey, Alice! Seen Wilda lately?

‘I'm not Wilda!' I repeated.

Then I said just about the weirdest thing ever. What got into me, I'll never know.

‘I'm her sister!' I cried. ‘I just came to . . . give her apologies and . . . tell you she'll be here for the next one.'

Silence, followed by thunderous cheers. Were they pumped, or what?