Understudy (8 page)

I nod, but I’m not that intimidated. Had another teacher told me that, I’d probably be holding back tears like some kind of baby.

After the quiz, which judging by the defeated faces of my classmates was a total fail, Ms. Barlow sits at her desk and reads through the papers for fifteen minutes. Her frown deepens with each paper. She slaps the final one face down on her desk.

“Do you kids even care about theater?” The crow’s feet in the corner of her eyes crease deeper than I’ve ever seen them. “Why are you even here? Do you want to be a professional actor?” She stops pacing the room in front of Jason William’s desk. He swallows. “Uh, no?” he says.

Gwen stands up at her desk, and we all stare at her because this isn’t the kind of school where you stand up at your desk. “Ms. Barlow, I think maybe you’re overreacting a little bit. Everyone truly loves your class.”

Ms. Barlow’s eyeballs burst out of her head and her hair seems to stand on its ends. Every word she bites off sounds like its own sentence. “Honey you don’t even know what overreacting is!”

A stark white moment of silence fills the room for an entire sixty sections. Then Ms. Barlow’s head droops and she slumps over to the corner of the room where her FIVE RULES OF IMPROV poster hangs on the wall. She peels back the tape at each corner, careful not to rip the unlaminated poster. When it pulls free from the wall, she rolls it up gingerly, slips a rubber band around it and walks to the next poster.

After an agonizingly slow fifteen minutes, Ms. Barlow has taken down all of her posters and packed everything into three big plastic tubs with lids. No one has said a word.

A folded piece of paper slides onto my desk. In Greg’s teensy handwriting, in the very center of the page, are the words:
Is she quitting?

I write underneath it:
No. She’s being dramatic,
and then I fold it back over its square creases and hand it to him.

There’s sixteen and a half minutes left of class. Ms. Barlow drags all four of her plastic bins out into the hallway. She closes the door behind her.

“Should we do something?” Ricky asks. Everyone looks at me.

I shake my head. “She’ll be back tomorrow.”

Ms. Barlow isn’t back the next day. At the empty desk that used to be Ms. Barlow’s, sits Mrs. Buchanan. She looks like Betty White and has been a substitute teacher at Lawson ISD since I was in kindergarten.

And although I’m pretty sure it’s against the rules, she’s talking on her cell phone when class starts. After the bell rings we find our seats and sit quietly like the well-behaved class we should have been for Ms. Barlow. I expect Mrs. Buchanan will hang up and start passing out the busy work reserved for students when a teacher is absent, but after six and a half minutes, she’s still on the phone. Apparently her husband has been getting drunk before noon on Sundays now, and her neighbor’s dog likes to crap in her front yard.

Greg kicks my desk. I look over at him. “So she really quit?” he half whispers, half yells to me. Everyone within earshot turns to me, anxiously waiting my answer. “I guess,” I say.

“Well doesn’t she live with you?” he asks.

“Yeah but I didn’t see her. She locked herself in her room.”

“All night?”

I nod. “Yep.” He doesn’t need to know that I only checked on her once and was consumed with thoughts of Derek for the rest of the night.

Gwen, who sits three rows down, gets out of her chair and walks across the classroom. Our substitute teacher doesn’t look up from her phone call. Gwen sits on the edge of my desk, and everyone else takes this as their clue to gather around me.

“What are we going to do about the play?” she asks me. Before I can answer, she adds, “We can’t end the play! You have to get her to come back to school.” Her and Ricky’s eyes meet and I find it weird that she would give him such a depressed look, but then I remember that he’s her costar in the play. I guess they’re both desperate for the attention they will get as lead actors.

“Guys, I really can’t make her do anything. She doesn’t talk to me that much outside of school.”

Gwen touches my shoulder like we’re suddenly best friends. “You have to try. I need this play. I’ve already put it on my college applications.”

“Shit,” Greg says. “I did too.”

“You are already mailing out college applications?” I ask, counting the months in my head until school is out. All I’ve done so far is gather the applications and ask teachers for recommendation letters.

“Yes, Wren,” Gwen says as if she’s talking to a child. “We’re seniors. That’s what seniors do.”

Mrs. Buchanan clears her throat and everyone’s necks almost break as we spin around to look at her. “Your teacher didn’t leave any work for you to do,” she says, seemingly unaware that everyone is out of their seat. “But Principal Walsh said you were all in a play and could just practice that.” She takes a People magazine out of her oversized purse and opens the first page. “Also, if anyone has an idea of what I can do for the freshman theater arts class after this one, I’d appreciate the help.”

“Wow,” Gwen says, standing up and throwing her arms around Ricky, who blushes but returns the hug. “I guess the play is still on!”

Everyone claps and the room fills with excited chatter. A huge smile plants itself on my face and I couldn’t make it go away if I tried. All last night and this morning I’ve had a massive pain in my chest, a heavy weighted feeling of doom and I wasn’t sure why.

But as soon as Greg says, “Looks like we’ll be seeing more of each other,” and gives me a knowing wink, it hits me. I hadn’t felt sad about Ms. Barlow quitting. I felt sad about not seeing Derek anymore.

But as they say, the show must go on.

I’m pulled out of History by a freshman office aide wearing a pound of makeup and a rosary around her neck. “What is this about?” I ask, trying to read the little green square of paper in her hand. The one with my name on it in a chicken scratch type of handwriting. Most women don’t write like that, so it’s probably not from the counselor.

“Like they would tell me,” she says. “The first day of school they made me take a stupid-ass test on confidentiality.” She makes air quotes on the last word.

I don’t remember the last time I’ve been called down to the office for any reason other than an early dismissal. My braces have been off for months, so there’s no more two-thirty appointments to have them tightened giving me an excuse to ditch class early once a month. I haven’t done anything wrong lately, so I’m not exactly nervous.

But an odd feeling settles in my stomach. Like what if something terrible happened to my parents? Or Aunt Barlow—what if she killed herself or something?

No. That wouldn’t happen.

Right?

The principal’s assistant waves at me when I walk into the office. She’s on her cell phone, talking about property taxes so she points to Principal Walsh’s office and knocks in the air. None of my family members are weeping in the waiting area, nor are there any cops, so my mind eases a little.

But only a little, because the principal wants to see me? Yeah, this is a first. My mind races through everything I’ve done in the last few days. Does he know I made out with Greg at school? Is there some kind of hidden camera in the auditorium?

What if it’s about Derek? What if I can’t hang out with him outside of school anymore? Wait, why would the school even care about that? I knock on the door.

Principal Walsh opens the door and I’m relieved when I don’t see a paddle in his hand although I’m not even sure if schools still paddle students or not. Plus, I haven’t done anything wrong. That’s my story, at least.

I sit in the stained chair in front of his desk as he sits across from me. “How are you today, Wren?” His breathing is heavy because of all that hard work he just did walking from his desk to the door and back. I tell him I’m fine. I hate how he uses my first name like we’re pals. The one and only time I’ve talked to him this year was when I asked for my recommendation letter.

His hand taps the papers on his desk. The top one is a letter with the school’s letterhead at the top and his signature at the bottom. It looks exactly like the other three that I have at home in my scholarship folder. My recommendation letter.

“I’ve been working on your letter,” he says, resting his hands on his gut. “It isn’t finished yet, unfortunately.”

My eyes narrow. “It kind of seems finished to me.”

He shoves it into a manila folder with my name on it. “Well it isn’t.”

“Is there anything you need from me?” I don’t hide the confusion from my voice.

He leans across his desk, with his hands flat on the metal desktop. “I’m going to be honest with you, Wren. Sophie’s unexpected resignation has put a lot of stress on the school. It’s the middle of the school year and we can’t find a replacement theater arts teacher.”

“Okay?” What does this have to do with me? If he thinks he can ask me to make her change her mind, then he has obviously never dealt with my aunt.

“We can get a substitute for the class, but they won’t know how to direct a play. This play can’t get cancelled. We’ve already sold out of tickets for the show, and unfortunately the school has spent that money.” He throws his arms in the air. “The show must go on, if you will.”

I nod. If the play isn’t cancelled then I still get to see Derek.

“You have the most experience in theater.” He clasps his hands together in front of his chest and waits for my reply.

“So what, you want me to direct?” I laugh at my ridiculous suggestion.

“That’s exactly what I want you to do.”

“I don’t know anything about putting on a play.”

“It’s your choice.” He runs his hand over the folder on his desk. He doesn’t have to say it, because I know what he means. If I don’t direct the play, then I won’t get my last recommendation letter. I won’t get the scholarship and I won’t go to AIL. I’ll end up working three jobs to pay for community college for their third-rate Introduction to Interior Design certificate and I’ll never get my dream job. I’ll have to work at a chain of BBQ restaurants picking out stuffed deer heads to mount on the walls. No one will want me to decorate their dream homes. No one will ever feature one of my rooms in a prestigious magazine.

I push myself out of my chair. I focus on the good things like how I’ll get to see Derek every day, and try not to think about the bad things like how I don’t know a damn thing about directing a play. “Yes, sir,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

I sit in the center of the stage, my legs dangling off the front carelessly as if the entire world isn’t resting on my shoulders. Like my future in interior design isn’t hanging on by a shred of hope that I can actually pull off directing this stupid play. I came in here right after school, fifteen minutes earlier than the time I had told the rest of the cast members in my carousel of text messages this morning. I wanted to be here early so I could prepare myself mentally.

I’ve spent the first two weeks of rehearsals slacking off with Greg backstage, sketching sets with Derek or ditching rehearsal altogether under the guise that I was working on sets from home. So when everyone starts to filter in from the back of the auditorium, my freak out meter goes from Mostly Freaked Out to Explosively Freaking Out. I have no idea what to do.