Which leads to me almost getting whiplash from turning my head toward the mirror so fast.
“What do you think?” she says, grinning behind me.
“I look weird,” I say.
It’s a little bit surreal. I’m barely used to my face without glasses anyway, and with the eyeliner, the overall impression is: EYES.
“Wait till Cal sees,” Abby says under her breath.
I shake my head. “He’s not . . .”
But I can’t finish the thought. I can’t stop looking at myself.
The first performance of the day goes surprisingly smoothly, though most of the seniors use it as an opportunity to sleep in an extra two hours. But the freshmen are pretty geeked to be missing first and second period, which makes them the most wildly awesome audience ever. The exhaustion from the week falls away, and I’m carried forward by adrenaline, laughter, and applause.
We change out of our costumes, and everyone is really happy and amped up as Ms. Albright gives us notes. And then we’re released for regular lunch with the non-theater civilians. I’m a little bit excited to be going to lunch with my stage makeup still intact. And not just because of my supposed ridiculous hotness. It’s just kind of awesome to be marked as part of the ensemble.
Leah is obsessed with the eye makeup. “Holy fuck, Simon.”
“Don’t you love it?” says Abby.
I feel this tug of self-consciousness. It doesn’t help that Cute Bram is looking at me.
“I had no idea your eyes were so gray,” Leah says. She turns to Nick, incredulously. “Did you know?”
“I did not,” Nick affirms.
“Like, they’re kind of charcoal around the edges,” she says, “and lighter in the middle, and then almost silver around the pupil. But dark silver.”
“Fifty shades of gray,” says Abby.
“Gross,” Leah says, and she and Abby exchange smiles.
It’s actually kind of a miracle.
We meet back in the auditorium after lunch so Ms. Albright can remind us how awesome we are, and then we head backstage to put our costumes back on for the first scene. It’s a little rushed this time, but I think I kind of like that. The orchestra warms up again, and chatter rises in the auditorium as the sophomores and juniors file into the seats.
This is the one I’m excited about. Because it’s my own class. Because Blue will be out there somewhere. And as pissed as I am at him, I still like the idea of him being in the audience.
I stand with Abby, peeking out at the audience through a crack in the curtains. “Nick’s here,” she says, pointing toward the left side of the auditorium. “And Leah. And Morgan and Anna are right behind them.”
“Shouldn’t we be starting soon?”
“I don’t know,” says Abby.
I turn to peek over my shoulder, where Cal is stationed at a desk in the wings. He wears headphones and a little microphone that curves down in front of his mouth, and at the moment, he’s frowning and nodding. And then he stands up and walks out toward the auditorium.
I look back out into the audience. The houselights are still on, and people are hoisted up onto the backs of their chairs, yelling across the room to each other. A couple of people have crumpled their programs into balls, and are lobbing them toward the ceiling.
“Our audience awaits,” says Abby, grinning into the semidarkness.
And then there’s a hand on my shoulder. It’s Ms. Albright.
“Simon, would you come with me for a minute?”
“Sure,” I say. Abby and I exchange shrugs.
I follow Ms. Albright to the dressing room, where Martin is flopped all over a plastic chair, winding the end of his beard around his finger.
“Go ahead and grab a seat.” She shuts the door behind us. Martin shoots me a look like he’s asking me what the hell this is all about.
I ignore him.
“So, something just happened,” Ms. Albright says, slowly, “and I wanted to talk to you guys about it first. I think you have a right to know.”
Right away, I get this sinking feeling. Ms. Albright stares past us for a second, and then she sort of blinks herself back into the moment. She looks completely exhausted. “Someone altered the cast list out in the atrium,” she says, “and they changed the names of both of your characters to something inappropriate.”
“To what?” asks Martin.
But I know immediately. Martin plays Fagin. I’m listed as “Fagin’s boy.” I guess some genius thought it would be hilarious to cross out a couple of “i”s and “n”s.
“Oh,” he says, putting it together a moment later. We exchange glances, and he rolls his eyes, and for a moment, it’s almost like we’re friends again.
“Yup. And there was a drawing. Anyway,” Ms. Albright says, “Cal’s taking it down now, and in a minute, I’ll step out there to have a quick chat with your lovely classmates.”
“Are you canceling the show?” asks Martin, hands on his cheeks.
“Would you like me to?”
Martin looks at me.
“No. It’s fine. Just—don’t cancel it.” My heart is pounding.
I feel—I don’t know. I don’t want to think about any of this. But the one thing I’m sure about is this: the thought of Blue not seeing the play is kind of devastating.
I wish it didn’t matter.
Martin buries his face in his hands. “I’m so, so sorry, Spier.”
“Just stop it.” I stand up. “Okay? Stop.”
I guess I’m getting a little fucking tired of this. I’m trying not to let it touch me. I shouldn’t care if stupid people call me a stupid word, and I shouldn’t care what people think of me. But I always care. Abby puts her arm around my shoulders, and we watch through the wings as Ms. Albright steps onto the stage.
“Hi,” she says into the microphone. She’s holding a notebook, and she’s not smiling. Not even a little bit. “Some of you know me. I’m Ms. Albright, the theater teacher.”
Someone from the audience whistles suggestively, and a few people giggle.
“So I know you’re all here to see an exclusive sneak preview of a pretty awesome play. We’ve got a great cast and crew, and we’re eager to get started. But before we get to that, I want to spend a couple of minutes reviewing Creekwood’s bullying policy together.”
Something about the words “review” and “policy” just shuts people down. There’s this drone of quiet conversation and denim rustling against seats. Someone shrieks with laughter, and someone else yells, “QUIET!” So then a bunch of people start giggling.
“I’ll wait,” Ms. Albright says. And when the laughter dies down, she holds up the notebook. “Does anyone recognize this?”
“Your diary?” Some asshole sophomore.
Ms. Albright ignores him. “This is the Creekwood handbook, which you should have read and signed at the beginning of the year.”
Everyone immediately stops listening. God. It’s got to freaking suck to be a teacher. I sit cross-legged on the floor backstage, surrounded by girls. Ms. Albright keeps talking and reading from the handbook and talking some more. When she says something about zero tolerance, Abby squeezes my hand. The minutes just drag.
I feel so totally blank right now.
Eventually, Ms. Albright steps back into the wings, slamming the handbook down on a chair. “Let’s do this,” she says. There’s this scary-intense look in her eyes.
The houselights start to dim, and the first notes of the overture rise up from the pit. I step out of the wings and onto the stage. My limbs feel really heavy. I kind of want to go home and crawl into bed with my iPod.
But the curtains start to open.
And I keep moving forward.
28
BUT LATER, IN THE DRESSING room, it hits me.
Martin Van Buren. Our eighth fucking president.