Made glorious, p.12
Made Glorious, page 12
“Last semester,” I tell her, “was different.”
“How so?” Miss Keating removes her glasses, rubbing away the streaks with her soft green sweater. Convince me, she says without speaking.
Last semester, I hit rock bottom. Last semester, I was deep in the darkness, and all the doors closed behind me. Last semester, I was so disoriented, I couldn’t tell up from down, couldn’t claw my way to the light.
“Last semester, I needed help.” I can admit this without indignity, especially to Miss Keating. Everyone thrives with a little tribulation in their past. “I was in a very dark place. And I got help — thanks to you. And now I am healthy enough to be part of a show again. Yes, it means a busy couple months, but I can balance it all. I will.”
Nothing but the truth, so help me god.
I’m healthier than I’ve ever been in my life. No darkness, no shadows. I’m standing right in the sun.
Miss Keating is still not convinced. I see suspicion furrowing her brow. “Here’s my offer,” she finally says. “You get your grades back up and you keep working on your college plans, and I won’t intervene with your participation in the play.”
“That’s fair.” Ayn Rand, here I come. (It won’t be the most unsavory thing I’ve ever done. It’s not even in the running.)
“But I want you to go see the school counselor,” she adds. “I’ll make an appointment for this week. Think of it like a tune-up. I’m not saying your transmission’s got a problem. I’m just saying . . . let’s pop things open and see what’s going on under the hood.”
My heart clenches. I don’t want to do this. I don’t want to speak to anyone else about what happened last semester. I want the past to stay in the past, and I want to keep chasing after the future I was promised, the future I’ve built for myself —
You’re a performer, and she’s asking for a performance.
Put on a good show.
“All right,” I agree, adrenaline dissolving, my lungs relaxing. “Good idea. Yes, I’ll talk to the counselor. We’ll see if he thinks I’ve got everything under control.”
“We’ll see.” Miss Keating watches me as I retreat from her classroom; I head right to the library and check out The Fountainhead, because Miss Keating’s eyes tend to follow you long after you think she’s done watching.
Interior. An office on the first floor of Bosworth Academy. All walls are made of reflective glass, muted by a calming gray overtone. Bosworth Prince paraphernalia hangs from every corner: banners, posters, mission statements.
RORY sits in front of the massive desk, which is overtaken by files and office toys like Zen gardens and Slinkys. Her backpack is at her feet. Her legs are crossed at the ankles; her arms are placed on the armrests, wrists relaxed, fingers splayed. The epitome of open and relaxed body language. MR. RICHMOND enters, a thirty-something man in a black polo shirt with a Bosworth Prince monogrammed over his heart in red, and takes a seat at his desk.
MR. RICHMOND: Thanks for your patience. We had some student council business that ran a little late.
RORY: No problem.
MR. RICHMOND shuffles through his papers. RORY gets the idea he is trying to give her a certain impression — that he is merely finding the right file, the RORY file, which he has already studied and so knows very well, and not surreptitiously scanning it for the first time right now, as well as scanning Miss Keating’s note for much-needed context.
MR. RICHMOND: So, let’s see. Miss Keating encouraged you to come talk with me because . . . Well, why don’t you tell me?
RORY: (giving an “aw, shucks” smile)
She’s concerned because my grades have slipped a little.
MR. RICHMOND: Right. You’re in the home stretch of your senior year. It’s tempting to phone it in at this point, isn’t it?
RORY: (pretending to think)
Oh, I’m not phoning it in. I just turned in a Bio II lab that Mrs. Murdock thinks is up to university standards. She actually wants me to submit my findings to the Plutonian Society.
MR. RICHMOND: That’s wonderful news. Congratulations.
RORY: Thank you.
MR. RICHMOND: You’re a hard worker. There’s no doubt about that. Just looking through your file, your transcripts . . .
MR. RICHMOND scrolls through RORY’s electronic file, all the evidence of her time at Bosworth, all of it equally impressive.
RORY: I’ve fallen behind, but I’ll catch up. I always do. Look at my midterm grades from the first term of junior year. See? I get overwhelmed right around midterms, but a few late nights and weekends, and I’ll be right back on top.
MR. RICHMOND: Oh, I’m sure you’ll do just fine. Your GPA for senior year is hovering right below the 4.0 mark, and I’m sure you’ll graduate with a splendid transcript. Plenty of colleges will be interested in you.
RORY’s foot twitches. She smiles again, waiting for him to excuse her, to write a note to Miss Keating clearing her from any and all mental health concerns. But instead, MR. RICHMOND leans back in his chair, away from the computer, away from her file, and studies her.
RORY: Mrs. Harris gave me an extension on my worksheets, and she always lets us turn in a report on a historical novel or movie for extra credit. I’ve already started The Fountainhead —
MR. RICHMOND: Miss Keating thinks you’re spending a lot of time on the spring musical. She’s worried that you’ll have another . . . You know.
RORY knows.
RORY: (her smile wide enough to elicit a compassionate chuckle)
I have been very busy lately. Pam’s needed help with some of the crew tasks, since we’re putting on a show with one of the largest ensembles in musical theatre.
MR. RICHMOND: The more time you spend with the drama club, the less time you have for schoolwork.
RORY: True, but I’m not that behind. A few assignments and I’ll be caught up. Besides, there’s only another month until the play opens.
MR. RICHMOND: Last semester was —
RORY: Awful. It was awful. I know.
MR. RICHMOND: Miss Keating and the other faculty here at Bosworth — and myself, of course — we want to make sure you have the support you need so you’re not — so you don’t —
RORY: It won’t happen again.
MR. RICHMOND: Well, Miss Keating and I both agree that you should have some safeguards in place, some systems so you can watch for red flags and get help before it’s an emergency. Let’s talk about what some of those safeguards and systems could look like.
RORY dons a serious expression. As always, she has come prepared. “It may feel impossible to recover from a self-harm attempt, but you aren’t alone.” So sayeth the mental health pamphlet she sneaked home from her mother’s ER waiting room long before this meeting. “There are steps you can take to get out of the cycle and heal your mental state.
“First, talk to someone about your attempt.”
RORY: I’ve been working with a therapist. She’s been great.
“Find new coping strategies for your stresses and triggers.”
RORY: I have some strategies for stresses and triggers. Those have been helpful.
MR. RICHMOND: Such as?
“Journaling.”
RORY: Journaling.
“Gentle exercise.”
RORY: Yoga, long walks.
“Baths, music, connecting with loved ones . . .”
RORY: When I’m overwhelmed, I put on some music and take a bath. Or I talk with my mom. She’s so easy to talk to — she’s my rock.
MR. RICHMOND: How will you know if you’ve taken on too many responsibilities? Will you be able to step back from the musical if you need the space?
RORY: Absolutely. Like I said, it’s really busy right now, but my schedule will have some breathing room once we get closer to opening night.
Beat. RORY sits up slightly taller in her chair.
Have you ever seen Good Knight! Sweet Lady, Mr. Richmond?
MR. RICHMOND: I’m afraid not. I have heard of it, though.
RORY: It’s such a good show, and working on it has been . . . so fulfilling. It’s not like last semester’s show. The Crucible was all about witchcraft and lying and secrets, neighbors getting neighbors jailed and killed. Such a dark play. But Good Knight . . . It’s a cheerful show. Affirming. It has a happy ending, and the characters are so funny and brave, and the music always puts me in a good mood. . . . I love it so much.
RORY laces her hands together, leaning forward to deliver her final line.
It’s the perfect show to go out with.
MR. RICHMOND closes RORY’s file and puts it away. He tells her he’s thrilled she’s found something so empowering to be a part of, and assures her he’ll bring his wife to the musical when it opens. After she leaves, he writes an email to Miss Keating, then gets started on some administrative work.
RORY, just outside of the counselor’s office, takes a long, luxurious bow, as if an audience is before her, rising to its feet.
EVERYONE HAS TO PUT IN TWO HOURS ON SET DAY. That’s the rule. That’s how Pam keeps it fair.
Yes, there are students who are on the technical theater crew, and they are the heavy hitters, the architects of Pam’s vision for Good Knight! Sweet Lady. But in the production of a musical, there is enough work to keep a whole construction crew busy, and Pam’s solution to share the load is brilliant.
Not only does it get the set built — cheaply, with free labor in the form of hyperactive teenagers itching to get out of their houses — but it also teaches every cast member about the behind-the-scenes operations of a show. Some kids never would have picked up a paint roller or a nail gun otherwise.
It instills a bit of pride in all of them, to look at their set and know that they built it, they did, together. One big bonded, boisterous, happy family.
Saturday is set day, and most of the students blow through the required two hours and continue to hang around, as eager to see the set finished as they are afraid to miss out on any jokes, injuries, or tantrums among the cast and crew.
If you don’t stay until the bitter end, you might be the person who left fifteen minutes before Preston rigged his dad’s old Taser and let Cole Tase him in the balls, to outrageous applause and laughter, sheer delight. You don’t want to be the person who was absent when Shock-Sack got his new nickname.
Rory arrives at the earliest possible hour, eight in the morning. She brings a packed lunch, a water bottle, and enough dimes to get a Mountain Dew from the vending machine, and ties her hair back into a low ponytail. She wears old paint-splattered clothes. (As she left the house, her mom commented, “I would have killed to have those jeans in high school! Messy and grungy was the look!” Rory had no response and gave none.)
“The list of jobs is taped right there.” Shandie, the stage manager, points to the proscenium, stage right. Three sheets of paper printed with all manner of tasks hang on the bricks. “Please do not mark the job as complete until it is one hundred percent complete. If you cannot complete it yourself, please come tell me and I will help you find someone who can complete it. Do not jump around from job to job. Choose something you can get done and then get it done.” Shandie, truly born with the talent and temperament of a chief of staff . . . or a preschool teacher.
“Any time spent standing around will not count toward your two hours. We are here to work. Understood?” Shandie directs this last announcement at the trio of senior boys currently seated on the edge of the stage, legs kicking back and forth, a postcard of nonchalance.
She’s right to be wary. The closer the cast gets to opening night, the more rambunctious everyone becomes. The stronger the friendships, the more likely that rehearsals will turn into frolicsome hangouts.
Pam is here to supervise, as an adult needs to be on the grounds supervising, technically, but her own list of tasks to complete is mysterious and intense. She flits in and out of her office, down to the faculty copy room and back, into the Elizabethan to inspect the student handiwork. She is, as Pam always is, blunt with her corrections and matter-of-fact with her rare praise. “The stones need more crackling.” “The roof is perfect. Done.” “We need it to fade to that dark blue much more smoothly. Blend that middle section up.”
This last direction is given to Rory, who peered at the list of tasks and chose to work on painting the back wall. It’s a huge concrete expanse, and Pam wants it to fade from a pale sky blue down to a deep, dark gunpowder blue. Onto this wall, they’ll project a starry night, a rich sunset, and a bloodred sky when the knights drag themselves home, defeated.
The job is repetitive, entrancing, and there’s not much room on the cherry picker, so Rory will be alone, cranked up twenty feet in the air, just a can of paint, a brush, and whatever Jake chooses to blast from the tech booth. Right now it’s a new album, non-Broadway, from guitarists with bangs in their mascaraed faces.
Rory only barely knows the song, but she hums along anyway.
At noon, several people break for lunch, heading out to Ruby’s or the taco place down the block. Below the cherry picker, Pam strolls across the stage on her way to her car, and Rory chooses to take her silent assessment of the wall as approval.
Stroke, stroke, stroke . . . So Pam saw her. She saw Rory there this morning at eight, and she saw that Rory is still here, four hours later. Double the requirement. Still working. Still fixing this wall.
Caring so much about this musical, she’ll give up every spare hour and weekend and her grades and even her sleep if she can somehow contribute to the production —
Rory King, senior year, and here she is, still paying her dues.
“That’s dangerous equipment, you know.” Ethan’s voice carries up to Rory.
She looks over the edge of the cherry picker; he’s standing center stage, hands in the pockets of his ripped black jeans.
“Only if you fall.” Rory puts the lid on the paint and lowers herself to the ground.
Ethan glances around at the empty Elizabethan. “Where is everyone?”
“Lunch.” There’s something about Ethan today. Rory’s trying to determine what, exactly, without staring too obviously. He’s not wearing any makeup, for starters. No glitter on his cheeks, no liner on his eyes, no gloss on his lips. One might assume that’s because today’s set day, a day for sawing and fitting and lifting and sweating, but Ethan would wear sparkle to a funeral.
His hair’s pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of his neck, and his clothing is all muted and simple. No kilts. No accessories. Nothing odd, nothing vintage, nothing that could start a conversation or make Ethan stand out in any way.
Anyone might look at him and think, Oh, Ethan simply took a day off from being Mr. Glamorous, the Phantom of the Opera, the Bard of Bosworth. Ethan simply decided to show up as a normal teenager.
Anyone except Rory.
Ethan always wears his feelings, no matter how over-the-top. This is the opposite of that. This is camouflage. This is Ethan stitching up some affliction, but Rory suspects he’s one loose thread away from coming apart.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
He glances at the half-finished villa facades on the stage, picks up a nail gun, and secures a beam. In his regular-person clothes, he looks smaller, slighter. Peter Pan’s shadow.
“I can tell something happened,” Rory presses. “So you can either spill now or we can wait until you inevitably get into your dad’s booze cart and call me crying after consulting with Cuervo —”
Ethan interrupts her with an exaggerated sigh, like a toddler who has decided, against all instincts, to finally fess up. “Brad and I. We’re — we’re done.” He reports this without snark, without an addendum that it’s for the best, without false strength.
When it’s Rory, he doesn’t have to.
He shrugs at her after he says it, but she’s not so easily fooled.
She notices that despite his best efforts at scrubbing it away, his face is ruddy. He’s already cried about it today. Yes, Ethan’s a guy who wears his plaid heart on his lacy sleeve, but he’s not quick to tears — which means his heart must be absolutely dashed.
“Oh, Ethan.” Rory opens her arms. Ethan walks into her, shuddering out a sob. She can feel his face scrunched up against her neck, disappearing from the rest of the world, finding solace here against the top of her shoulder.
Her shoulder.
The double doors at the back of the Elizabethan swing open. Like a parade, the cast and crew march back into the auditorium, remnants of their meal in takeout containers and doggie bags, and they bring their conversations with them, too.
Ethan releases Rory and moves beside her, sliding his arm around her shoulders as if they were just hanging out, nothing-doing, two buds chilling on the stage. Rory is strangely adrift and wonders if this is how a flotation device feels once the human is safely inside the boat. Too light. Cold from the sudden desertion.
“Now he shows up!” Cole, ever the jester, leaps onto the stage and gives Ethan a full-body rattle. “You just had to get your beauty sleep, didn’t you?”
Ethan tugs his hair out of its bun, shaking it loose. “Nah, I was hoping you’d be gone by the time I came around. But you’re still here.” He’s blinked away his anguish, and as he and Cole rib each other, Rory takes to her backpack and nibbles her peanut butter sandwich.
When Rory is finished with her lunch, Ethan jogs up to the tech booth to negotiate with Jake. A few seconds later, “Science Fiction/Double Feature” blasts from the speakers.
“Let’s get this shit built!” Ethan rallies the troops, whipping off his long-sleeved tee so he can work in his undershirt. Rejuvenated and ready to make a dream world come alive, the cast and crew spread out to their various tasks, taking up their hammers, their sandpaper, their hot-glue guns once more.
Rory climbs back into the cherry picker and is about to press the button for liftoff when Ethan rushes to her side.
“Want some help?”
She studies him. “Isn’t your job to dance around and make puns about getting drilled? Entertain us all and keep your hands pretty?”
He chuckles. But he is sincere as he responds, “I just feel like talking for a while. Is that okay?”
