The Fat Lady Sings Read online

  “You know, not every guy judges girls by their weight.”

  “And Roger’s not every guy.”

  “No,” says Elliot, “he’s not. He’s a nice guy, and you know that. And he’s been perfectly nice to you.”

  Which is true, when we were in Godspell together and when I ran props for Picnic.

  “Being nice and going out are two different things,” I say.

  “I don’t think he’s going to be going out with Cynthia, either,” says Elliot.

  “Really?” I ask, with just a little too much desperation in my voice.

  “Really,” he says.

  “So how are rehearsals?” I say. “How is Cynthia doing?”

  “Do your monologue for me,” says Elliot.

  “Changing the subject?” I ask.

  “I just don’t see any point with talking to you about Cynthia Pirelli. It only makes you upset, and I don’t want to make you upset.”

  “How chivalrous,” I say.

  “Now seriously, do your monologue. I want to hear it, now that you’re not nervous about the audition.”

  “Yeah, ‘dejected because of’ is more like it.”

  “Come on.”

  So I do Aggie’s monologue for Elliot while we’re driving seventy towards home, and he laughs in all the right places and tells me it’s awesome and holds my hand until it’s time to exit, and I feel better until I get home and find Dad and Karl sitting on the couch and something that looks suspiciously like my latest math test laying on the coffee table.

  Scene 6

  “We need to talk,” says my dad. OK, I realize I’ve never been in a serious relationship with a guy, but even I know that “we need to talk” are four of the scariest words in the English language.

  It turns out that while I was at my audition, Mr. Donahue, my math teacher, stopped by for a little chat about my plummeting grade.

  “He came by the house?” I say. “Don’t you find that the tiniest bit creepy?”

  “He was concerned about you,” says Dad, “and frankly, so are we. He said you’ve stopped turning in homework assignments, and when we phoned your history and English teachers, they said the same thing.”

  “You phoned my teachers? On a Saturday? Dad, that’s so embarrassing.”

  “We want to know what’s going on, Aggie,” my dad says in his most serious voice. “Is it drugs?”

  “No,” I say, trying not to laugh — I mean, this is a moment for righteous indignation if there ever was one, but it is pretty funny. I mean, me, on drugs? Be serious. “Do you honestly think I would be taking drugs? I can’t believe you would even say that.”

  “Well, something is obviously wrong,” says Dad. “Are you going to talk to us?”

  I take a breath and think about what I should say. “I’ve been busy writing a play to get revenge on the evil Cynthia Pirelli and Mr. Parkinson and to win the undying love and affection of Roger Morton” doesn’t sound quite right. Dad certainly won’t buy it. I get a knot in my stomach whenever I have to have a serious conversation with him — luckily it’s not that often. I’ve just always felt more comfortable talking to —

  “Can I talk to Karl?” I say.

  “He’s right here,” says Dad, sounding defensive.

  I was afraid of that.

  “I mean, can I talk to Karl alone?”

  “And you’ll tell him everything?” says Dad.

  “Everything,” I say, quietly.

  “And you’ll agree to whatever solution he proposes?”

  It’s a scary deal to make, but it’s probably my best shot at not being grounded for the rest of senior year. The one thing Dad takes really seriously is grades.

  “OK,” I say.

  “She’s all yours,” says Dad to Karl, and he slaps the math test on the coffee table and leaves the room.

  “So,” says Karl, patting the couch next to him for me to sit.

  “You remember when I auditioned for Hello, Dolly!” I say, and then it all pours out — how Cynthia stole the part with her Poppin’ Fresh boobs, how we hatched the idea to put on our own show, how my first try at scriptwriting ended in disaster, and how I basically gave up school for two weeks to be a playwright.

  I guess that last part didn’t sound so good.

  “Why didn’t you tell me all this before?” said Karl.

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I guess it just seemed sort of — personal.” And I realize that sometime during the last few years I’ve gone from telling everything to Karl to telling everything to my friends. That’s growing up, I guess, but I kind of miss this — I mean, Karl was the one parent I always felt I could talk to.

  “You know, you can’t just stop being a student because you’re mad at your drama teacher.”

  “But you should see the script, Karl,” I say. “It’s really good. Maybe the best thing I’ve ever written.”

  “That’s beside the point, Aggie.”

  Beside the point! Beside the point! It is the point. It is totally the point. I thought at least Karl would understand, that after all those years going to the theatre he’d be excited that I’d actually written my own show. But he doesn’t even care — it’s like he thinks math is more important than theatre. Theatre is my life! He knows that. Math is — pointless.

  Of course I don’t say any of that, but I think it, and it makes me understand why now my confidantes are Cameron and Elliot and Suzanne, not Karl.

  “Look,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest in my best sulky-teenager attitude, “just tell me what you’re gonna make me do and I’ll do it.”

  “You don’t have to be like that, Aggie,” says Karl. “I want to help you.”

  “Then just let me go,” I say. “We’re having auditions tonight and I have to be there.”

  “You know I can’t do that,” he says. “You’re going to have to stay here until you get caught up on your math homework.”

  “But I can’t do it without help, and even with help it would take hours.”

  “Mr. Donahue said you could call him anytime you’re having trouble.”

  “You want me to spend Saturday night on the phone with my math teacher? That’s disgusting.”

  “It’s the deal,” says Karl. “And until you’re caught up in everything else, there will be no evening rehearsals and you’ll come straight home every afternoon.”

  “This is ridiculous!” I say. “Besides, I go to Mom’s this afternoon, so how will you know what I’m doing?” I’ve been at Dad and Karl’s for two weeks now, thanks to Mom’s week switching.

  “You’re going to be here a while longer,” says Karl. “Your mother called and said she’ll be out of town for a while.”

  “Out of town?” I say. “She never goes out of town.”

  “Just your luck, I guess,” says Karl.

  “Look,” I say, “I’ll come straight home from school, and work all afternoon — no phone calls or texting or anything — but I have to go to rehearsals.” I can feel the tears and desperation welling up inside of me, and I’m tensing every muscle in my body to keep from breaking down.

  “Not until every one of your teachers tells us you’re caught up.”

  And then I can’t stop it any longer. The tears explode out of me and I yell as loud as I can, “I hate you!”

  And the second the words are out I sooo want to take them back, because I know in that instant that everything Karl has said is right.

  “I’m sorry, Aggie,” says Karl quietly, and he lays his hand on my shoulder for just a second, then gets up and walks out of the room.

  And I can’t believe it. I’ve lost the one grownup in my life that I could really count on. I cry for a long time — as long as it takes to feel empty inside. Then I go to my room, call Mr. Donahue, and get started on my math. And as miserable as that is, as much as I wish it could be Cynthia’s voice on the line and that everything could be back the way it used to be, as horrible as it is to miss the auditions (“It’s OK,” Cameron says, “you�
�ve already got the lead”), even six hours of math and fourteen calls to Mr. Donahue doesn’t hurt as much as the memory of what I said to Karl.

  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 M
rs. 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.”

  Act II

  Scene 1

  It takes a week and a half, but by the next Thursday I have notes from all my teachers, except Mr. Donahue, saying that I have caught up on my work. I am dying to go to rehearsal because first of all, I’m the star of the show, and second, I want to hear other people saying words that I wrote. 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.