Understudy (16 page)

As I visualize myself as a crappy circus performer, I realize one more thing: that I’m acting exactly like Aunt Barlow.

Derek’s lips press into Gwen’s for what is the start of our third rehearsal with him filling in for Ricky. I’m convinced I deserve an award of the highest caliber for my own acting right now. Because I’m here, and I haven’t quit like my aunt, and I’m not making a big deal about anything. I’m being calm and collected, at least on the outside.

I’m sitting here holding back my vomit not even because I’d be too embarrassed to throw up right here in front of everyone, because I’m not, but because I had pizza for lunch and everything with tomatoes in it tastes absolutely horrid coming back up.

And it happens.

I get an idea. I can’t call it a eureka moment because it’s so much more than that. It’s the solution to my problem.

And no, it doesn’t involve accidently murdering Gwen.

“STOP,” I yell, shooting up from my seat. Several actors are on stage now but none of them notice me. I cup my hands around my mouth and use the proper director term to get them to break the forth wall and listen to me. “Cut!”

“Who knows which math teacher Ricky has?” I ask to everyone in the room. Gwen glances around as if waiting for someone else to say it, but when no one does, she takes out her cell phone. A quick text later and her eyes light up from the glow of the screen. “He said he has Math Models class with Mrs. Nolan.”

“Thanks Gwen,” I say, not really liking the words as they leave my mouth but knowing it’s not Gwen’s fault I’m totally jealous of her.

“Wait, Math Models?” Derek says, the disbelief in his eyes matching my same reaction to the class name. “He’s missing rehearsal because he’s failing Math
Models
?” He emphasizes the last word like it’s an insult.

“Hey fuck off,” Gwen snaps, giving an icy glare to Derek that sends a chill of delight up my spine.

“Sorry, but I don’t know how you could fail that class.” Derek is unfazed by her gutter mouth.

I shake my head a little to take my focus off their quarrel and back on the more-than-a-eureka-moment I’m having. Mrs. Nolan. Math Models. I gather my backpack and shove my directing equipment-a script, clipboard and video recorder—inside. Derek’s eyebrow goes up as he watches me prepare to leave. “You guys go on without me,” I say in my Authoritative Director voice. “I’m going to fix this.”

Classic rock plays at a dull volume in Mrs. Nolan’s classroom. She sits at her desk bobbing her head to the music as she grades papers. She’s wearing hot pink glasses and her acrylic nails are so sparkly, they are the first thing I notice when I look at her. I knock on the doorframe and clear my throat.

I don’t exactly know Mrs. Nolan, but I know of her. She’s the teacher with an M&M candy obsession and her classroom is decorated all over in every possible type of M&M souvenir ever made. Her son died in a drunk driving accident a few years ago and now she’s made it her mission to make sure that no students ever drive drunk. She puts her phone number on the bulletin boards and tells people to call her, no matter what time of night if they ever need a ride home. Someone like that is sure to want to help me out.

“Come in,” she says without looking up from her papers. The one she’s grading right now makes her frown. Her red pen slashes across the first few answers. The pen is polka dotted and topped with a green M&M.

“Hi Mrs. Nolan,” I say, stepping past an M&M coin bank and a shelf of M&M plush dolls. “I’m Wren Barlow, I’m not in your class but I’m—uh, directing the school play.”

She peers at me from the top of her glasses and quickly marks the last three answers with a big red x. “You’re Sophie’s niece. How is she? I haven’t heard from her in ages.”

“Oh, she’s fine,” I say. Fine seems like a decent word to use even though it has no tangible meaning in this context.

“Tell her to call me, will you? I miss our Tuesdays at the Greyhound Race Park.”

I nod. Mrs. Nolan seems nice enough and she’s one of the few people who voluntarily spend time with my aunt, so it should be no problem to get her help.

“What can I do for you?” she asks, right on cue.

I smile, holding my arms up like I’m about to ask the silliest thing ever. “Ricky has been missing rehearsal because he’s failing your class, and, well we don’t have a proper understudy for him.”

“Oh I know all about that,” she says, clicking her tongue. “The boy whines every single day about needing to get back to rehearsal.”

I feel a sense of pride when she says this. He’s been
whining
! About
my
play! I really am doing an awesome job at this directing thing.

“That’s exactly the problem,” I say, my chest automatically popping out confidently. “My—er,
team
needs him to come back. I was hoping you could help me with-”

“You mean Gwen needs him to come back,” she says with a snort.

My eyebrows crinkle. “What do you mean?”

She lifts the stack of papers on her desk and taps them on their sides, making them all neat. Her eyes look like she’s trying to decide on the right words to use. “I’ve taken the two of them home from three parties lately. They couldn’t keep their hands off each other.”

I guess I make some kind of noise because she looks up at me and slaps her hand over her mouth. “Opps, guess that was a secret.”

“Mrs. Nolan, this play means a lot to me. I know Ricky doesn’t deserve an easy grade but I don’t want to be punished for it. Is there anything he can do to make up his grade enough to get to participate again?”

Her eyes slowly roll in a circle as she lets out a long sigh. “Here.” She hands me a colorful workbook with the kind of pages that tear out. “There are a hundred pages in here. Have him do every page and I’ll use it as a test grade that will bring up his average to a C minus.”

I peek over her shoulder. “That says eight grade math,” I say skeptically. “Ricky is a senior.” Did she grab the wrong one?

She shoves the book in my hand. “Honey you better take this before I change my mind. And it’s due on Friday, no exceptions.”

I ditch rehearsal and head straight to Ricky’s house. I’m sure Gwen and Derek have everything under control anyway. Ugh.

Ricky answers the door after my third time of ringing the doorbell. His eyes widen when he sees me. “Sorry, my music was loud.”

I hold up the workbook. “If you answer all these worksheets Mrs. Nolan will give you a passing grade. You have to do it by the end of the week.”

He takes the book and flips through all one hundred pages with his thumb. “That’s a lot of work.”

“It’s easy work.”

“Still a lot.”

I almost expect him to slam the door in my face, but to his credit, he doesn’t. “I can’t do this, Wren. It’s too much work.”

“If you can play video games all night you can do this damn work.”

He shrugs.

I resist the urge to dropkick him. “I can’t believe you. Look, I’ll do the work for you and you turn it in, okay?”

“Your handwriting is too neat. She’ll know I didn’t do it.”

“I’ll write with my left hand.”

He considers this a moment and then shakes his head. “Don’t bother. I don’t want to be in the play anymore.”

“Are you kidding me? You love the play!” He had his lines memorized before anyone else. What the hell is wrong with him?

He scratches his elbow. “Look. I can’t. I thought she liked me but she doesn’t. She’s not gonna get rid of that stupid boyfriend of hers. I can’t be around her anymore.”

Sudden realization hits me, followed by blind rage. He doesn’t want to be in the play because he can’t date Gwen? What the hell is wrong with everyone in this damn school? I grip the doorframe to steady myself.

“It’s just a play and it’s almost opening day. You can’t quit on me.”

“I—I don’t know,” Ricky says, his face softening when he sees my reaction. I seize the moment and force some tears to start in the corner of my eyes. With my state of mind lately, it doesn’t take much. He groans. “Okay. No. Well, I don’t know. I’ll think about it, okay?”

“I’m counting on you,” I say, staring him in the eyes. The more guilt I can lay on him, the better. “I’ll do all this math work for you and you will turn it in, okay? Even if you ruin my life by quitting the play, you should at least use this to get a passing grade. You don’t need to ruin your chances of graduation, too.”

His lips press into a thin line. “I’ll do the stupid play,” he says under his breath. “But I swear to god I hope her boyfriend drops dead. He treats her like shit, you know.”

I nod as relief falls over me. With any luck, Ricky will be back with us by the end of the week and I can go back to hating Derek without watching him make out with another girl every day. I jog to my car before he can change his mind, or worse—tell me more things about his pathetic crush on Gwen.

There’s only a few days to go until opening day. Next Friday night will be the biggest day of my high school career. The day after is prom. Funny, how I always imagined I’d be going to prom as a senior, and I never imagined I’d be a school play, yet my real life ended up being exactly the opposite.

My phone lights up as soon as I get home. It’s a text from Ricky.

Thanks for doing the math work. I don’t want to let you down, boss.

Mom sits up in bed watching an ancient Cary Grant movie in black and white. The oldness of the film contrasts with the newness of her LCD widescreen. Dad bought it for her as a peace offering when she complained of sleeping all alone since he started working the night shift. She smiles at me when I knock on the doorframe, so I take it as a sign to come in and plop next to her in bed.

My back rests against the headboard—plywood with beige paisley fabric covering six inches of thick foam I bought at the craft store with a fifty percent off coupon. Mom’s headboard is my prototype. It has curved corners that aren’t quite symmetrical thanks to my freshman rotary saw skills, and the fabric bunches at the sides where I grabbed and stapled it to the back of the plywood. It’s totally unprofessional but Mom likes it anyway. The foam headboard in my room is a thousand times better, built by yours truly with two years of woodshop under her belt.

Mom’s hand brushes through my hair. “What’s on your mind?”

“Nothing,” I say, just as the words Derek kissed Gwen, and Ricky is a moron float through my mind.

“Doesn’t seem like nothing.” The look on her face tells me she knows more than she lets on and I’m overcome with embarrassment at the idea that she could have heard me crying into my pillow earlier.

“I understand why Aunt Barlow had that nervous breakdown,” I say, leaning to the right so Mom will keep playing with my hair. “Directing the play is the hardest, most unrewarding thing I’ve ever done. I don’t blame her for quitting.”

“I wouldn’t call getting your recommendation letter unrewarding.”

“Whatever you say, Mom.” She’s right, but I refuse to acknowledge that because I still think that if we were in a big city I could find a lawyer to sue for my mistreatment by Principal Walsh. Students shouldn’t be coerced into extracurricular activities. But no one around here cares about that.

“If my college didn’t depend on this I would quit just like Aunt Barlow.”

“She won’t be jobless for much longer,” Mom says. She turns from me back to the television just in time for a kissy smooch scene that reminds me of Derek.

“What do you mean by that? Is she coming back to work?” At least one of my problems would be over if Aunt Barlow came back to school. Mom shrugs. “Her bills are piling up and she can’t find work anywhere she’s applied. If she doesn’t go back to work soon, they’re going to repo her car.”

“Excellent.” A smile spreads across my face as Mom gives me a disapproving eyebrow lift. I slide off her bed and rush toward the door, feeling lighter than I have in weeks. The Derek problem seems manageable now.

Mom stops me at the door. “Wren, you can’t wish ill will upon people. Especially family.”