The Fat Lady Sings (8 page)

I skip dinner and work
until about 1:00, and then, when I'm sure Dad and Karl are asleep, I go downstairs and make myself a peanut butter sandwich and leave a note on the fridge: "Karl, I'm sorry. I love you, Aggie."

At 6:00 a.m. my alarm goes off and I'm back to work -- history, now. I have about 100 pages to read and an essay on the Protestant Reformation to write. Being scared to go downstairs and face your stepfather over coffee and bagels is a great motivator for getting work done, but at 9:30 Dad calls me and I go down to face the music.

I step meekly into the kitchen and there's Cameron, eating a bagel and talking to Karl like all is right with the world.

"Morning, Aggie," says Karl, as soon as he sees me. "Thanks for the note."

"What note is that?" says Dad.

"Just a note Aggie left me to remind me of something," says Karl, winking at me.

Is it really that simple? I just leave a post-it on a major appliance and Karl forgives me for being so horrible? Or is the cheery disposition for Dad's benefit? Or Cameron's?

But then Dad is pouring Cameron a cup of coffee and Karl looks right at me and smiles and I know we are OK. But I also know that I can never unsay those words. No matter how forgiving Karl is, no matter how much I dismiss them as said in anger, there will always be this tiny wedge between us that wasn't there before, and that makes me sad.

"You'd better get some breakfast," says Cameron. "We don't want to be late."

"What do you mean?" I say. "I can't go anywhere."

"Well," says Karl, "Cameron explained to us that Elliot set up a meeting with someone who might be a backer for your show."

"It's his grandmother," says Cameron.

"And apparently they think it would be good for you to be there to make the pitch," says Dad.

"Nobody could do it better than you, Aggie," says Cameron. "Elliot thinks you should do your monologue."

"But I'm grounded," I say, staring at the floor.

"Yeah, I heard," says Cameron.

"Your friend here is very persuasive," says Karl. "So we made a deal."

"You work on homework in the back seat all the way there and all the way back," says Cameron, "and Elliot and I drive in silence."

"Where are we going?" I ask.

"Roanoke, Virginia," says Cameron.

It's not exactly the most
thrilling ride in the world -- two and a half hours of reading AP European in the back seat while Cameron and Elliot whisper about who knows what up front (Suzanne is doing a group history project this afternoon, so she's stuck in the library). But I am glad to be out of the house. And I don't know if it's guilt or gratitude or both or neither, but right now Karl seems like the most reasonable parent in the history of the universe. Just thinking about it makes me study harder.

It's lunchtime when we pull up in front of this huge brick house with a wide lawn and a magnolia tree in the front.

"Now," says Elliot, "my grandmother thinks this is a social call."

"You didn't tell her?" I ask.

"Well, this won't be awkward or anything," says Cameron.

"Oh, and remember to call her Mrs. Baxter," says Elliot.

"No, really?" I say. "I was gonna call her Daddy Warbucks."

We ring the bell, and after about five minutes the door opens and there is this lady who looks like she just stepped out of a movie about debutantes in 1958. She's wearing a yellow tea dress and she speaks with one of those
Gone with the Wind
southern accents.

"Elliot, my deah, how ah yah? Y'all come raht on in, now."

I can't even write it, but you get the idea.

She gives Elliot one of those air kisses and he introduces us, and the next thing I know we're being seated at this dining table that must fit about twenty when it's full. There are four places set in the middle with silverware (and I mean
silver
), and this fancy china with gold around the rim.

Mrs. Baxter brings out this silver platter and serves us pimento cheese sandwiches on white bread with the crusts cut off. They stick in my mouth like paste and I have to wash every bite down with iced tea. I hate iced tea. The sacrifices we make for our art.

After lunch, Mrs. Baxter shows us onto the "sun porch," and after a few moments of awkward silence followed by a few minutes of awkward talking about the weather and the drive up, Elliot finally gets to the point.

"Aggie has written a play, grandmother."

"Has she?" says Mrs. Baxter. She looks at me like she's appraising livestock. "Is it any good?"

"Oh yes, grandmother, it's marvelous," says Elliot.

I'm starting to wonder what has possessed him -- I mean, when did Elliot ever say things like "Oh yes, grandmother, it's marvelous"? It's like he's speaking a foreign language. The next thing I know, Elliot and Cameron both are going on and on about how wonderful the play is and how talented I am, and I'm sitting there feeling super uncomfortable but trying to look modest, which is not as easy as you'd think when two guys are talking about how great you are.

"I assume there is a reason you are telling me about this -- play," says Mrs. Baxter. She says the word "play" like it's some exotic foreign disease.

"You see, grandmother, we want to stage Aggie's play and -- "

"And you need money," she says.

The room falls silent and she stares at Elliot. I'm just starting to wonder if this is one of those old families that has an unspoken rule about never talking about money when Mrs. Baxter says, "How much?"

"We originally thought about five thousand dollars, but we found a free place to rehearse and our technical director has been very creative about saving money, so we think now about three."

"Three thousand dollars," says Mrs. Baxter.

"Yes, ma'am," says Elliot.

"That's a lot of money."

"Yes ma'am," says Elliot.

"How good is the play?"

"Aggie has a monologue she could perform for you, to give you an idea."

"Go ahead, dear," she says, fixing her steely eyes on me.

OK, now I thought the School of the Arts audition was awkward, but it was a relaxing soak in the tub with lavender-scented bubble bath compared to this.

First of all, Mrs. Baxter is practically anorexic, so naturally I feel like a fat cow. Worse, she's scowling silently at me the entire time, and Elliot and Cameron are so intimidated by her that they don't laugh either. Then, because the room is crammed with furniture, I hardly have any room to act. I think my knees actually brush hers at one point. I mean, seriously, I'm giving my monologue in her lap.

When I finish Elliot and Cameron clap for about a nanosecond, until they see that the old lady isn't going to join in. I sit back down, my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I can't believe I sat in the car all morning just so I could experience this delightful humiliation.

Mrs. Baxter gets up and leaves the room without a word, so I figure something about the monologue must have offended her. Probably the word "naked." She does not look like the kind of person who ever says "naked."

"Is there a back way out?" I ask Elliot, but he just leans back in his chair, grinning. "Seriously," I say, "I need to get out of here."

"Sixty seconds," says Elliot.

So I sit on the edge of a chair and start counting to sixty in my head. On forty-nine Mrs. Baxter comes back into the room and hands Elliot an envelope.

"Make some of this back," she says, "and give it to the drama department at that school of yours."

"But the whole idea of the play is sort of to get back at the drama department," says Cameron.

"I suspected as much," says Mrs. Baxter. "And even though you're seniors, it would do you good not to burn that bridge. Promise me, Elliot."

"I promise," says Elliot, giving his grandmother a kiss on the cheek.

Fifteen minutes later, we're on the interstate shrieking with delight.

"Your grandmother is scary," I say.

"Your grandmother is awesome," says Cameron.

"She's both," says Elliot. "I could have told you that before we got there."

I've pretty much finished Act II, except for a few revisions, and I've been feeding Elliot new pages practically every day. Cameron showed me the cast list last Tuesday -- Melissa Parsons is playing Suzy, my best friend. She's not the sharpest tack in the drawer, but she's a good actress and she's a great singer -- much better than me, to be honest. So far they've been working on the scenes I'm not in and having music rehearsals, but as soon as I can come, we can start blocking my scenes and putting the show together. So I have to get this note from Mr. Donahue. And honestly, I have caught up in all the homework assignments, but I get the impression he's getting a little tired of being on the phone with me for an hour every night.

I'm walking down the hall after seventh period and I see Cynthia and Roger heading towards the theatre like the rest of the chosen ones, so I fall in behind them as nonchalantly as I can so I can eavesdrop on them. Cynthia certainly looks flirty, and I'm all ready to be outraged when I realize they're just running lines from the show. Roger is having trouble and I want to tap him on the shoulder and say that I can help him, that I know the entire show by heart, that I would sacrifice my precious free time to be his private tutor and work with him -- alone. But of course I don't say anything; I just slow down because they're about to turn a corner and if they see me I don't want to look like creepy stalker fat girl.

Mr. Donahue is waiting for me in his office, a grim look on his face and this morning's quiz in his hand. I got a 79, which is not bad for me, but I kind of had this deal with Mr. Donahue that he'd write my note of freedom when I could show him "B" work, which means 80 in his class.

"But it's only one point," I say.

"I know it's only one point," says Mr. Donahue. "I'm a math teacher. I can subtract."

Great, just what I need right now -- a comedian.

"Listen," he says, "I'll write you the note tomorrow if you'll agree to work with a tutor -- every day during study hall."

"Fine," I say, "but I thought you had a class during my study hall."

"I do have a class. I'm not talking about me. I've asked one of your classmates, and she's agreed to help you out."

"Who," I say, as I feel a cold sweat break out on the back of my neck. And I see his mouth form the words even before I hear them.

"Cynthia Pirelli."

"Isn't there anybody else?" I plead.

"Cynthia is the teacher's assistant for this class," he says.

Of course
, I think.
Cynthia would find a way to get an extra half credit.
"But I thought assistants were just supposed to help grade tests and clean off the board and stuff," I say.

"They also assist with tutoring, and Cynthia's agreed to give up her study hall to help you. You should be honored."

"Oh yeah," I say, "I feel like I just won the freakin' Oscar."

"Agatha, this is serious. You are in trouble. One of your friends has offered to help you out. You should be grateful."

"She's not my friend," I say, more violently than I mean to.

"Then I guess we have nothing more to discuss," says Mr. Donahue, turning back to his desk like there's something real important he needs to do.

I stand there burning with anger for at least a full minute. How can I choose between giving up the play and enduring the company of Cynthia Pirelli for an hour every day? Then I think about Cameron and Elliot and Suzanne and Melissa Parsons, and all the other people who are rehearsing my play every night while I'm stuck at home doing math. I want to be there with them so much it's making me physically ache. And so I make a sacrifice for my art that's way bigger than eating those awful pimento cheese sandwiches with iced tea.

"OK," I say to Mr. Donahue's back. "I'll do it."

As soon as I'm out of the building
I call Cameron to commiserate (we have this stupid rule about no cell phone use in the school). It goes straight to voicemail, which means something is up, because he never turns off his phone. Elliot and Suzanne are both at
Hello, Dolly!
rehearsal -- Suzanne agreed to consult with the light crew so she would know exactly what equipment is and isn't being used -- so I can't call either of them. So I decide to go to Dad's (where I'm still staying because of Mom's mysterious "trip") and talk to Karl, who at least knows the whole sordid history of me and Cynthia Pirelli after Saturday night's confession session. He's working at the hospital tonight, so he'll be home all afternoon.

Luckily I'm walking home a half hour after classes have let out, but well before sports practices are over, so the journey is free of wolf whistles. I do my best not to think about Cynthia Pirelli and instead to concentrate on the fact that this time tomorrow I'll be walking home with a note from Mr. Dona-hue and tomorrow night I'll be at play practice in the world's sketchiest rehearsal hall.

When I get home Cameron's car is parked outside, which is weird, because he didn't say anything about coming over. Now that I think about it, though, Cameron's been acting kind of weird all day. He's been quiet -- which is very strange for him.

I step inside the front door
and there, on the couch in the living room, is Cameron, sitting next to Karl. And it looks like Cameron is crying. And Karl has his hand on Cameron's shoulder. I'm just about to ask what the hell is going on when Dad grabs me by the elbow -- which I hate, I mean, come on, I'm not four -- and pulls me into the den, closing the door behind us. Now I'm mad because first of all, my best friend is talking to my -- well, my Karl, and I'm not allowed to be a part of it, and second of all, Dad is still holding on to my elbow.

"What's going -- " I start, but Dad won't let me talk and cuts me off with this whisper he usually only uses when he's within a city block of Mom.