The Princess of Las Pulgas (26 page)

In the bathroom I stare
into the mirror over the sink. “I’ve forgotten all of my
lines!”

“There’s a line out here
you’ve forgotten too,” Keith yells.

Sharing a bathroom with my
brother is more painful than having my wisdom tooth extracted, and
it’s going on a lot longer. “Give me a minute,” I tell him through
the door.

“You’ve got thirty-seconds.
I have to pee.”

“Grrr.” I yank the door
open. “I need it back, okay?”

Keith mimics me like he
used to when he was little, repeating. “I need to get back in
there.” He closes the door and snaps the lock. “Later!”

“You’re a creep, you know
that?”

“A creep who now controls
the toilet!”

I drag myself into the
kitchen and pour cereal into a bowl. Mom’s books and papers still
litter the table, so I decide to eat at the counter.

“Good morning, honey. I’ll
take Keith to Cal Works this morning,” she says. “That’ll give you
a break.”

This is good news. Now I
have an extra hour to go through my scenes again. “Another test?” I
point at the books and papers.

Mom sighs. “Of course, but
I’m on my last lap now. She picks up her book. Almost immediately,
I can see her mind leave the kitchen and she forgets I’m
here.

I’d love to be able to
focus like she does. But I just don’t have that kind of mind. I’m a
“here, there, everywhere” kind of thinker. Thoughts of Sean thread
in and out with others about Keith’s return to school next week,
then they merge with Othello’s dark face and Juan’s side-ways
smile. With all of that turmoil in my head, it’s no wonder I can’t
remember Desdemona’s lines or Doc’s chemistry lessons.

I get some milk from the
fridge, then I open the script to that first scene, when Desdemona
leaves her father. Since I’ve blown this scene every time in
rehearsal, all the actors on stage have memorized my lines and
whisper them to me. But I
know
them. I just can’t say them.

It’s all about the guilt
that I can’t shake—all those times when I wished the dying would
end because I couldn’t stand to watch it anymore. It’s about how I
feel sometimes when I look around this dump, knowing we wouldn’t be
here if Dad were alive.

I set the glass down with
a
thunk
, and say
“I’m going to study, Mom.”

“Don’t worry about it,
Honey,” she says without looking up.

Keith stumbles past my
room, smelling of fresh soap and shampoo. “Shower’s all yours.” I
drop my script and catch him in the hall. “How can you be so . . .
so . . . calm all the time?”

He shrugs.

“Chico’s still out to get
even when you go back to school, and I’m getting more than my share
of the heat,” I tell him.

“Just stay clear of him,”
he says.

“Ha! I’d really laugh if
you’d start being really funny. So, have you thought what you’re
going to do keep them from creaming you?”

Mom comes out of the
kitchen. “What’s this about creaming you?”

“Nothing.” Keith starts to
leave.

Mom grabs the back of his
T-shirt, and says, “Hold it. I want to know what Carlie’s talking
about.”

“The track team is on about
beating me up when I get to school Monday.”

“Beating?”

“Forget it, Mom.” Keith
pulls his shirt from her grasp. “I gotta get dressed for my date
with a garbage bag.”

“I’m calling the principal.
This is going to stop right now.”

“Calling Bins won’t make
any difference,” Keith says as he dodges back into his
room.

“What do you know about
this?” she asks.

“Just what he said, Mom.” I
can’t tell her Chico wants blood, and that he wants it where
everyone in school can see it. I can’t tell her about the creepy
run-ins I’ve had with the track team, or the times the hair on my
arms stands on end in social studies because Chico sits behind me.
Then I realize I don’t have to. She knows things are bad at school.
It’s all over her face. She just doesn’t know what to do about
it.

Once Keith and Mom leave
for the trip to Cal Works, the apartment settles into a quiet hole
again—depressing but a good place to go over lines. When the phone
rings I ignore it and sit on my bed, eyes closed, repeating lines
and cues. But the constant shrill sound is annoying, so I hurry to
the kitchen and answer the call.

“Carlie, it’s me,” Sean
says.

“It’s about time you
called. Where
are
you?”

“New York.”

“Oh.” I can’t keep
disappointment out of that monosyllable.

“I saw my mom and now
Michael’s here. We’ve been going around to the sights. You know—all
the places New Yorkers never go until someone from California
visits.”

“Michael.”

“Miss Lily’s son. We’re
rooming together at Elmhust, remember?”

I know who Michael is. His
name slipped out more from feeling the sting of rejection than from
trying to identify him. A trickle of jealousy hits my stomach as I
picture Sean and Michael enjoying the Statue of Liberty or Central
Park, while here I am, I’m crouched inside this crappy apartment in
Las Pulgas.

“I just remembered that you
open tonight and I wanted to tell you to break a leg.”

“I’ve got a serious case of
stage fright.” It feels good to confide in him. “I wish you were
here.”
I wish I were in New
York.

“Michael sends his best,
too. His mom told him about how knockout beautiful you are in that
dress.”

“You’re good for my ego,
Sean. Thanks.”

“Guess you’re excited. Play
almost over. The dance is next weekend.”

“Come home soon, okay? I
miss you.” I think I like having Sean as my friend.
Keep telling yourself that, Carlie, and stop
feeling sorry for yourself.

After the call, I can’t
settle back into studying my part. I punch up Lena’s
number.

“Hi, Lena. It’s me,
Carlie.”

“I know. Caller
ID.”

“Tonight’s the big deal.
Are you and Eric still coming?”
Say, no,
please.

“Of course. And Nicolas is,
too.”

I scream inside my head.
Part of me wants my friends there and part of me doesn’t. It’s very
complicated.

“I bought a ticket for
Nicolas today—from Juan at the Shack.” Lena says Juan’s name with a
hint of familiarity, as if she’d done more than buy a ticket from
him.

“Oh. Well, good. That’s
great.” I hope I deliver more convincing lines on stage
tonight.

“So did you need something
else?” Lena’s question surprises me. It implies I’ve interrupted
something important, taken her away from a more interesting
conversation.

“Uh, no. Just checking
in.”

“Then we’ll see you
tonight,” Lena says.

Click
.

“Bye . . . Lena.” I say to
dead air. I set the phone on the charger, thinking that my best
friend didn’t tell me to break a leg.

Chapter 43

Mom drops me at the
auditorium a little after six and leaves to pick up Keith and Jeb
at the orchard. She helped me with make-up and braided my hair, so
all I have to do is twist the braid into a knot at the back of my
head. But the extra preparation has made me a little
late.

When I check in, the rest
of the cast already has tic marks by their names—I’m the last to
show up. Dolores and the girl playing Bianca, the only other female
character, are putting on make-up when I enter the girls’ dressing
room.

“K.T. was getting ready to
take back her Desdemona part if you didn’t show,” Dolores says in
her soft voice.

“I’m not that that late.” I
hurry to undress, slipping into a creamy-colored under dress, then
getting into the dark red costume and hooking it together at the
side. The bodice lacing is the slowest part of getting into
Desdemona’s costume. When I finish, I turn to see myself in the
only full-length mirror I get to look into these days. The square
neckline of the costume is trimmed with lace, and the long sleeves
are soft and flowing. I add a silver chain-belt at my waist and
adjust the skirt so it doesn’t trip me.

A loud
bam, bam, bam
on the dressing room
door freezes the three of us, then K.T’s stage manager voice comes
from outside. “Cast back stage in five.”

Dolores shakes her head.
“She never should have any power. It just makes life miserable for
everybody.”

I appreciate Dolores’ quiet
humor more every day. “What would I do if you weren’t in this play
with me?” I say to her.

She smiles. “You’d have to
get cozier with K.T. I guess.”

“Come on.” I sling my arm
around her shoulder. “I don’t want to cross her and her Prompt
Script tonight.”

K.T. has carried that
script around, with all the scene changes, all the props and
lighting cues since we began rehearsing, until now it looks like a
permanent piece of her. When someone blows a line, or Jamal doesn’t
have the lights exactly where her book says it should be, she yells
out the line or thumps her way to the light panel and takes
control. I think about Mr. Smith’s word, “assertive,” and
grudgingly admit he was right. She does her job as if the pay is
good, even if she makes the cast and crew miserable a lot of the
time.

The three of us line up in
front of K.T. for a costume check, something she instigated after
reading an Internet article about putting on a school play. At
dress rehearsal K.T. gave me two minuses for hair braiding and
bodice lacing. Tonight I’ve done both right. She's about to move on
to inspect Dolores when she spies my Sweet Sixteen
bracelet.

“I thought I told you that
ain't period.”

“It brings me luck,
K.T.”

“Not tonight. Take it
off.”

I'm ready to scream
something when Dolores reaches out and grabs one end of K.T's
script. “It brings her luck.” Dolores says this in the same quiet,
even tone she says everything else, but this time, underneath that
soft tone, is a touch of steel.

For a minute I'm sure K.T.
is going to turn physical. She fixes Dolores with those hard eyes;
then as quick as a barracuda she snatches her script back and
marches away.

I do not believe she
buckled under to Dolores. “That was interesting.”

Dolores shrugs. Sometimes
she just can't have her way.”

“Not with you in charge.” I
hold up my wrist. “Thanks. I . . . I really needed this
tonight.”

She and Bianca go inside
the dressing and the murmur of the gathering audience becomes
gradually louder from the other side of the stage curtain. I
picture Lena, her arm linked with Eric Peterson’s. Next to Eric,
Nicholas Benz will be examining the dented metal seat back in front
of him or glancing overhead at the peeling paint, a repair that’s
supposed to happen with the proceeds from tonight’s
performance.

Why did I invite my friends
from Channing? I’m twisting my bracelet around my wrist, then
wiping the trickles of sweat from my neck, pacing.

Mr. Smith steps from the
wings and blocks my path. “A bit of stage fright? Good. That makes
for a splendid performance.” In a dark suit with a white shirt and
silver and blue-stripped tie he looks more like a successful banker
than a Las Pulgas English teacher. “It is almost time for me to
speak to our esteemed audience.” He takes both my hands in his.
“You will be wonderful, as will all the rest of your castmates.” As
he leaves I consider ducking out the back door and running
away.

I’m panicked. I make a
sound like someone gargling, and collapse in the nearest chair. If
I get through this, I will never act in a play again. I lean
forward and bury my face in my arms.

“Yo, Des. You’re not
getting ready to hurl are you?”

“Go away, K.T.” If Dolores
can tell her what to do, so can I.

“Be kind to the crew. They
can do mean things to you when you’re up on that stage. Know what I
mean?”

I’m having thoughts about
strangling her when her hand on my shoulder stops me
short.

“Don’t worry. You gonna do
good.” The expression on K.T’s face is hard to read. “Well, as good
as a Channing reject can do, anyway.” K.T’s smirky look is back.
She tucks her Prompt Script under one arm and stumps on her rubber
heel to the light panel, where she starts in on Jamal.

The sound of applause jolts
me to my feet, heart pounding. Mr. Smith’s on stage and he tells
the audience, “Thank you for coming to spend a night with Mr.
Shakespeare. This is an ambitious undertaking for our junior class,
and a brave one. But here at Las Pulgas, we know a lot about
bravery.”

The audience applauds
again.

K.T. and Jamal stop arguing
and cluster with everyone else backstage, listening to our
teacher.