Spark (2 page)

I
n Verona High's room 235, Advanced Drama is the catch-can for the senior nobodies.

They're all around me as I fidget in my fourth-period desk and stare at a “The Play's the Thing” banner hanging above the chalkboard: the kids who are the personifications of those boxes at the bottoms of forms that say Other.

Like in every other school—big, small, urban, country—we all get our brands the first day we walk in as freshmen. And are slammed into our chosen elective, herded off accordingly: the athletes toward the gym, the musicians toward the choir room, the doodlers—who illustrate their every math assignment—to pick out colored pencils from the art supply closet, the smarties toward debate or honors science. We move along for three years down prechosen tracks, like mechanical
rats, until senior year, when we gather in our so-called specialty and undertake a giant collective “senior project”—last year the art kids all did a mural outside the cafeteria involving shiny garden vegetables. It caught a bit of online fire somehow, was retweeted fifteen hundred times. No joke.

At Verona High, drama is not a place for the wildly extroverted. It's not a place for anyone with any kind of burning theatrical desire. At Verona High, drama is for the shy, the foot shufflers, the shruggers who express no desire to stand out, the never-in-troubles, the rebelling-against-nothings. Good students who prefer the shadows. We're the colors in the crayon box that no one ever reaches for. Not the eye-catching colors: Atomic Tangerine and Shocking Pink. We're Burnt Sienna. Plain old Gray. We're never expected to make our mark at Verona High.

So there we are: for the most part, pretty good at most things but not likely to step up and say so. One row over, it also includes my best friend, Cass, who is the most incredible singer no one has ever heard. And just behind her, Dylan Michaels, who can, according to the owners of Ferguson's Music Store, play any instrument with strings but who has never performed for anyone. And me, who refuses to show anyone anything I've ever written. Because sometimes what makes a nobody is the fact that they don't have the burning desire to show off. Or maybe it's that they can't stand the idea of getting peeled back and critiqued on their most
private thoughts. Or maybe it's that the spotlight doesn't fit everybody.

And here we sit. And nobody's breathing.

I squirm in my chair; the Indian summer heat's attacking me as relentlessly as the whack job in a Tarantino movie. My glasses keep slipping down my sweat-slicked nose. Large cursive letters left on the chalkboard promise, “After Lunch—Senior Project Announcement.”

“It'll be bad,” I hear behind me. “It's bound to be. My mom had her.
Horror
stories.”

Cass swivels, tossing me a sympathetic stare. She knows when I need a reassuring wink or an eye roll. Like she's always known—ever since the days of afternoon naps and paste eating.

The classroom clock announces Mom's more than ten minutes late getting back from lunch when she finally stomps through the door.

“Really bad,” another voice grumbles.

Mom's got that drill-sergeant look on her face. She flops a script on her desk, crosses her arms, and offers us one of her dramatic-effect pauses—the kind I've been the recipient of roughly twelve thousand times.

Mom—no, Ms. Drewery. It's Ms. Drewery when I'm in her classroom—came out of retirement to temporarily replace our former drama teacher, who was not a Ms. at all, but a Jenny. That's what we all called her, anyway. Jenny, who was
so fresh out of college, she preferred to eat in the cafeteria with us instead of in the faculty lounge. Jenny, who wore jeans and glittery T-shirts and had short curly hair like Shirley Temple and swung her feet as she sat on top of the teacher's desk at the front of the room. Jenny, who got married last year and is currently on maternity leave. Jenny, who understood that we were not exactly Al Pacinos in training, and whose senior projects in the years leading up to our own senior stint involved asking all her students to memorize soliloquies or recite “Invictus” in unison.

But Jenny was not exactly a staff oddity. The rest of the instructors at Verona High usually rule with a pretty light touch. Small-town friendly atmosphere pervades the corridors—which are as antique as the rest of the buildings in town. Noisy pipes race through the halls beneath the ceiling, and Truman-era spackle fills the holes in most walls. It's a well-known fact that the hearts and initials carved into student desks belong to couples who've already celebrated silver wedding anniversaries.

So faculty makes up for the lack of ambience. Maybe we don't have some fancy modern glass-encrusted school, but we do have a meticulously mowed and fertilized football field, and a cafeteria serving comfort-food lunches prepared by the Verona women who grew up learning to cook in cast-iron skillets (and can make a stew of dirt and beef jerky taste like fine cuisine). And we have instructors who expect a little mischief now and again. Come on—what's a sophomore year
without a good food fight? What's a senior year without a prank involving the school mascot, some Silly String, and the principal's car?

Faculty often refers to our “shenanigans” as minor earthquakes; they relieve the pressure, and as a result, litter rarely hits the hallways, library books are rarely overdue, and detention is a rarely needed punishment.

Now, though, Mom (Ms. Drewery—in room 235, it's always Ms. Drewery) is back after ten years. She's standing in front of the class in a midcalf wrinkled skirt and what look like old-fashioned nurse's shoes, her knee-high stockings rolled down to her ankles. She's staring at us over the top of the only pair of wire-framed glasses she's ever owned.

Not that anyone's staring at her outfit. They're staring instead at the words she's written on the chalkboard. And they're waiting. And nobody's breathing.

“They want to tear it down,” Ms. Drewery proclaims as she begins to walk up and down the aisles studying every face.

The entire class turns into giant question marks.

“The Avery!” she shouts. “This is Advanced Drama, ladies and gentlemen. We must be aware when the city council threatens to destroy our town's theatrical history. They've never talked this way before. It was always just—a whisper, here and there. Discussions that were tabled at meetings. Now, though—it's serious.”

I hear backsides sliding down into seats, heavy sighs.

“They're going to kill our last chance at revisiting the magic!”

I tense up, getting the decided urge to crawl into my backpack.

Nobody in this room has grown up listening to the story, not like I have. So when Mom uses the word “magic,” it doesn't hit them in a literal way. And when someone insists the Avery's “dead,” they only hear that the time for the Avery has come and gone. The days of going to a Sunday matinee dressed in gloves and a hat are completely over and done.

They do not believe the Avery Theater was once alive. They do not believe it had a heart that stopped beating in 1947. They do not believe it turned black right there on the square, under an aurora borealis light show, or that the sky promised the Avery would come back to life with the return of star-crossed lovers. That's the stuff of mostly forgotten urban legends. To them, the Avery is a building that became dilapidated over time. The end.

“You've never been inside that theater,” Ms. Drewery goes on. To my left, Dylan ducks down behind his long bangs and starts squirming too. “But I have. I grew up there. And on that tragic night in 1947—the night the Avery—”

I hold my breath.
Don't say it, Mom. Don't say “died.” Don't tell them the way you've told me. They'll all look at you like people used to look at Bertie.

“—closed for good . . . ,” she goes on, allowing me to
exhale. “You all know that story! Come on—it's part of our local folklore. Think about it. Imagine it. This happened in your town. That horrible story involves two people who were your own age. Emma probably sat in this very classroom at some point. She walked to one of those lockers in the hallway right outside this classroom door. Ate in the cafeteria just downstairs. After she and her boyfriend, Nick, died, there was never another production at the Avery. But there was always the hope that there would be. And now, instead of reinvigorating that beautiful theater, the city council wants to tear it down.”

Maybe Ms. Drewery expects this to get everyone riled up, but nobody here is upset about the fact that the Avery's going to be torn down. Because Verona, Missouri, is not exactly filled with hipsters who would like to redo the old place, open it back up to play vintage cult classics. It's filled instead with people who work at the local hospital, check groceries at the Walmart Supercenter, or fix cars at the Ford dealership off the highway. They don't care that there used to be nearly thirty businesses on the square (counting the lawyers and dentists and accountants in second-story offices), and today only four doors remain with Open signs. No one—except me, Cass, and Dylan—ever semiregularly sets foot on the square. They all know the rest of Verona has moved on, farther south—kind of like the whole town is trying to get out of the city limits, move itself down the highway. No one has any interest in the
Avery—or the fact that the city council wants it demolished.

Me? I'm torn. I know what the Avery means. I know that Ms. Drewery has always dreamed of the Avery opening its doors again. I know she views it as the only real shot the town has of seeing business come back to the square. But at that moment, I'm more terrified of what she's got in store for us. If it's even a centimeter more involved than anything Jenny might've had us do, I'll pay for it. Why wouldn't I? She's my mother.

“We have the power to change their minds!” Ms. Drewery shouts. “We can save the Avery.”

She picks up the script she carried into the room.
Oh, no, oh, no, oh, no.
The front is emblazoned with a giant bold “ANYTHING GOES.”

I know exactly what she's thinking, even before her words come out. Because I remember what Mom said was on the marquee, every time she told me that bedtime story.

“We're going to do a production of
Anything Goes
!” she shouts. “The last community production to ever be shown at the Avery. Sell tickets. Raise money and interest. Convince the city council not to destroy such an important building.”

Gasps dance through the room. Backsides slide up. Chests lean forward, over desks. The silence drips with fear.

“It's our senior project!” Ms. Drewery shouts. “Imagine! Saving the Avery—no other class will ever have such an impact on this town!”

But that's not what we do. We're Verona's drama class.
We memorize soliloquies. We walk by murals someone else painted that are admired on the internet. We step aside as the football team races down the hall, toward the field. That's us. Tramplees, not tramplers.
We don't make marks here, Mom. . . .

“We have a great theatrical history here in Verona,” Ms. Drewery insists. “Red carpets. First nights! It's time to bring it back. I'll post your cast assignments and supporting positions later today. We have a set to make, music to learn, costumes to design. We've got to get started.”

A hand flies up. “Don't you have to get our senior projects approved by the principal?” It's a worthy attempt to buy time, to find an ally who might sympathize with us. To wage a battle against Ms. Drewery and her crazy plan. And of course only Kiki Ferguson would think of this angle. Kiki was once our playground tattletale, the kind of girl who would eye your skirt in the seventh grade and report you for having a hem an inch too short for the dress code, paragraph four of the student handbook. Examine the dioramas in fourth-grade science class so that she could report the inconsistencies to the instructor. The sort of girl who only got ahead by knocking the competition.

“He's already agreed. That's why I was late. As you know, the drama department has always been the first to reveal its senior project—usually in the fall semester, before the art department's winter exhibition.”

Yes, Mom. Because we usually recite soliloquies.

“Which is perfect. We'll get this thing up and running—get some money flowing toward the Avery's renovations—right here at the start of the school year. When the city council's talking about it.”

“But isn't it—too far gone?” another tries. “The Avery?”

“Too far gone!” Ms. Drewery thunders. “What a sad way to look at it. What you believe is what you see. And I'll tell you that I do not in any way see a curtain that has fallen on the last act. Just imagine, ladies and gentlemen. We're going to do the Avery's final production. We're going to finish its run right here in our own auditorium! And we're going to put enough money on the table that the city council will believe something different, too. See the Avery in a new way. Don't forget to come by the classroom after school. Your jobs will all be posted on a sheet I'll hang in the hallway. The rest of the student body will be able to see it on their way out, as well. Think of it as our first announcement!
Anything Goes—
to be performed by Advanced Drama! Yes!”

I can feel abject hatred being tossed my way. Nasty looks. Already, they've formed an anti-Drewery group. Even nobodies can join forces—form their own hierarchy.

And at this point, it appears as though I'm on the bottom rung.

N
avigating the Verona High hallways has a decided upstream-salmon feel about it. Doesn't matter where I'm going—after all, Verona Consolidated High School was built for half its current population. And somehow, I'm always heading against the current.

Ever since Mom's fourth-period announcement, I swear the halls have also had a vicious feel. Between classes, elbow bumps have been hard enough to send me flying into all sorts of innocent bystanders. Swinging locker doors have jumped into my face, like pop-ups in a defensive-driving obstacle course. I've veered, I've lurched out of the way, I've kept my head down, trying to conceal my face.

By the time the three-o'clock bell rings and we're all back out in the hallway for the final time, I try to tell myself I'm
imagining things. Of course I am. Because a handful of the Advanced Drama nobodies are suddenly at my side, and we're pressing forward, which is completely uncharacteristic of us. Forcing our way deeper into the school, hurrying to check out Mom's announcement sheet. We're in this thing together, fighting the stream of students filling the narrow corridors, all of them trying to get out of the building.

Cass takes hold of her seventies-era maxidress, pulling it up so that the bottom hem doesn't get tangled in her sandals. That thing's probably like a sweltering polyester cocoon, with the school's air conditioning barely even limping along. But that's not the reason for the heat that rolls from her shoulders.

Cass is worried. Like we all are.

When we finally make it back to room 235, the majority of the class has already congregated around Mom's door, pointing at the sheets of copy paper she's taped together to form one long white strip. Her letters are as large as a neon sign. Everyone's grumbling. Nobody's happy. There's a chorus of “Why'd she do that?” bubbling through the air.

I push my glasses up my sweaty nose, letting my eyes land on the bottom of Mom's cast list. My eyes move one step up the list with each beat of my heart, and my heart gets a little louder with each thump—like footsteps climbing stairs, getting increasingly closer. Until I make it all the way to the top of the list. And find it. My own name: Quin Drewery. And the horrific title: Director.

My head spins. I'm falling now, tumbling down every step I just climbed. Bouncing uncontrollably.

How could she do this to me? Director? No way. Everyone's already complaining. “Her mother made her the director?” “Of course she did.” “Must be nice.”

I haven't been imagining anything. I bet those hallway elbow jabs have been coming from Advanced Drama nobodies all day. All of them anticipating this very thing.

It looks like favoritism, Mom. Surely you knew that it would. Why'd you do this?

I glance into the classroom, but there's no sign of Mom—er, Ms. Drewery. It's like she's left her bomb and run, avoiding any of the flying shrapnel.

In front of me, Liz Garrison is shaking her head. Liz is the senior class mother in training. The type to buy you a cupcake from the dessert line in the cafeteria because you seem a little down, or offer you her cardigan when you sneeze. And beside me, Cass is saying, “No, no, no, no. I knew it. I
knew
she'd do this to me.”

“What did you get?” I ask, afraid of her answer.

“Hope Harcourt.”

“The lead?” I ask.

“The lead.” Her hands fly to her head, her fingers weaving through her dirty-blond locks.

In front of me, Liz is still shaking her head. “Why would she pick me? For that? For
that
?” To emphasize her complete
frustration, she throws her arms into the air at the same time she spins on her heel, ready to stomp off. But her hand brushes Cass's cheek.

Liz draws her hands back into her chest, and her eyes swell and her pink frosty mouth curls into a shocked O.

Cass flinches. Tugs at her hair to let it fall like a curtain across her face. But it's too late. The damage has been done. Liz and I both know it has.

Because when somebody has a giant port-wine stain down the entire right side of her face—like Cass does—the polite thing to do is to simply ignore it. Not draw attention to it by smacking it. Or letting your face show exactly how surprised—and maybe even a little grossed out—you are by the rough feel of the red cauliflower bumps.

We all know that.

And now Liz is more than embarrassed. Her face is getting even redder than Cass's birthmark. She doesn't know what to say, and her eyes have turned into pinballs because she can't even look Cass in the face.

I know I should do something to make up for Cass's hurt feelings. She always says she's used to it, this shocked—or awkward—response to her face. But you never get used to knowing that people are secretly thinking that whatever that thing is crawling down your forehead and cheek is every bit as bad as the gobs of greasy grimy gopher guts kids are always singing about on playgrounds.

Me—I'd forgotten about it a long time ago. And I don't mean “forget” in the way some people say, “Oh, I've forgotten the whole thing,” when really, they're still carrying around a grudge. I mean it has slipped out of my sight, right out of my head. But isn't that what happens to unimportant things—like a graded math quiz from last semester or the receipt for a cash gas purchase? They fall out of your pocket or blow out the rolled-down window while you're driving. People are always losing their grip on insignificant things. The same way I always lose my grip on Cass's birthmark.

I don't see it. That is, until somebody—like Liz, who is still in the crowd hemming and hawing, her eyes darting around all over the place, rubbing the hand that had accidentally bumped into the birthmark—reminds me.

Dylan Michaels pushes me aside, just a few inches. He leans forward, squinting. But his squint turns into a full-on grimace when he finds his name. His hand flies to his forehead.
Musical Director.

“W-w-w-whatt-t?” he stutters. As he always stutters. Even though speech therapists have been knocking on classroom doors, telling him it's time for his daily lessons, ever since elementary school. Whatever those therapists have tried to do for Dylan has never worked; the stutter has gotten harder, more permanent over time. Like a petrified tree turning to stone.

That's actually how everyone at Verona High treats him. Like a tree. People recognize his presence and walk around
him, never expecting to have any real human interaction with him.

And now he's supposed to give musical direction? How?

I watch as Dylan's and Cass's eyes meet. The horrified looks on their faces show that they're picturing what their assignments actually mean. Cass is going to have to stand in the middle of a stage with a spotlight on her face. And Dylan is going to have to coach the cast through the songs, sending his voice across the auditorium every time we practice. And for the first time in their lives, they'll be forced to fully expose the one thing they feel the most insecure about.

Judging by the way everyone else is moaning, Cass and Dylan aren't alone. It's as though, after watching us for only a couple of weeks, Mom has zeroed in on the exact thing none of us would ever want to do and she's given it to us. Our new titles are all snakes jumping out of cans of peanut brittle. A gag gift that's not a gift—or funny—at all.

“Great,” Cass says, looking straight at Dylan. “We're stuck with each other.”

I know Cass means it as a way to commiserate with Dylan. The same way I know that she'll give a smile and wave to Liz the next time they bump into each other in the hallway.

Dylan hears it as disgust. She's hurt him. And like it's human nature to do, Dylan lashes out. He attacks back. A hurt for a hurt. He spits, “U-u-u-uuugly. Y-y-you're uuu-ggly!”

The word hits the air like a gunshot. It sounds mean. It is
mean. That was the intention. Only now, instantly, he's sorry. He shakes his head.

The rest of the students are making the same face that Liz wore a minute ago: round eyes, mouths curling into Os. No one knows how to smooth any of it over—least of all Dylan, who has already tucked his chin down toward his chest.

So we scatter.